near-miss from a sword or knife? An accident with magic? He ran his finger over the little ridge of flesh, and frowned. Had someone tried to slit his throat? It was the right angle, but too high to slice through the jugular or carotid. A garrote? Would he ever know? He ran his gaze over the rest of his face, looking for other scars, other suggestions that he had had a past before waking up in Voltari’s practice chamber so many months ago.
But there were none. There were never any clues to his past, his identity.
His beard and moustache were new; they were symbols of who he is, not who he was. They were little more than shadows in his reflection, but he had painstakingly nurtured them, cultivated them, trimmed them. Had he ever had a beard before? He didn’t think so—at least, he didn’t have one when he had first awoken. But how would he know? He could remember nothing from before the accident. Voltari didn’t have a beard. Angus thought a wizard ought to have a beard, a long flowing one that tickled his belly. But his barely escaped his chin. Still, it was a fresh start, a new face for a new life. If only he could convince himself of it.
But was it really a new face? If his memory came back, would he recognize it? Was it the past looking back at him, or the future?
The most striking part of his appearance was his age. He had to be in his early thirties, maybe even older, but wasn’t that a bit too old to be an apprentice? He felt much younger than that, though, and here he was in Voltari’s tower trying to relearn the magic Voltari said he had already mastered. Why couldn’t he remember any of it? Even the most basic aspects of magic had eluded him completely until Voltari’s remedial instruction. He hadn’t even been aware of the magical threads permeating everything around him and within him until Voltari had shown them to him. Still, some of what he was learning did seem natural to him, and he was advancing rapidly in his studies. At least, he thought he was; Voltari never seemed to be satisfied with his progress.
And what about his clothes? They were far from the typical garb of a wizard’s apprentice. His under-tunic was simple enough, but not the tunic covering it. It was sewn from supple leather reinforced with a thin layer of chain links and padding. It had nearly a dozen loops for securing who-knows-what (he didn’t know) to it. Hidden pockets…. It had been repaired many times, by the look of it. His trousers were also oddly constructed for a wizard. They looked like normal trousers, but when he put them on, they were skin-tight and the fabric stretched and flexed with every move he made, no matter how slight it was. Though they were light-weight, they provided ample warmth and protection—and more pockets, most of them hidden and empty. The few that weren’t empty held a handful of gold coins and a small collection of garnets, which he knew would come in handy if he left. Still, why did he have only one outfit of this sort? Where had it come from? It didn’t fit in with all the dingy, gray, homespun wool robes of a wizard’s apprentice that he had found waiting for him in his chambers. And why did this peculiar outfit appeal to him so much? Why did it feel so…natural? And why did the black robe Voltari had given him a few days earlier feel so wrong? It was beautifully crafted, woven from black silk just like his master’s, and the threads of the cloth intermingled with the magical threads contained within him when he put it on. While he wore it, it gave him an acute, spider-like awareness of his surroundings and an uneasy sense of invulnerability. It was a perfect wizard’s robe, replete with copious pockets positioned in all the right places for casting spells, but it made him uncomfortable, as if he were wearing someone else’s skin. Voltari will be angry when he sees I’m not wearing it today.…
He reached out for the image and let his fingertip slide down the smooth stone reflection. His nose had been broken at some point, perhaps several times. It started out narrow, bulged out where the breaks had occurred, and then narrowed again to a softly rounded point. Someone had set it, though, and it didn’t impede his breathing. “Who are you?” he whispered to the image. “What did you do?”
But the image didn’t answer him. He shook his head and sighed. It did no good to speculate, and Voltari wasn’t going to provide him with any answers. The wizard was completely dismissive, aloof, and uncaring. “How long have I been here?” he muttered, thinking back through the months since his rebirth. “Voltari tells me I’ve been his apprentice for years, but he treats me almost like I’m a complete stranger. Which one am I?” Both, his image seemed to answer. A frown caused his reflection’s moustache to protrude. The one he knows and the one he doesn’t.
Angus sighed. “There’s no point dwelling on it,” he muttered. “I’m his apprentice, and that’s all that matters now.” To Voltari….
3
“You have progressed at an acceptable rate, Angus,” Voltari said one day, his voice crisp, lacking his normal tone of impatient derision. “Soon it will be time for you to leave.” A hopeful upturn of tone? A bit of pride for having turned an empty mind into a finely honed weaver of magic? Or a touch of gladness for finally getting rid of an unworthy burden?
It didn’t matter. Praise of any sort from Voltari was a rarity, and Angus felt a gentle warmth rising up his neck, threatening to become a crimson cascade. But it turned and buried itself in his beard, as if it were uncertain of its presence. He was not ready to leave. Despite the rapid progress he had made over the past year, Voltari and Blackhaven Tower were the only things he knew, the only things he could remember. His memory of everything prior to his training was still a complete blank.
At first, he had often asked Voltari about who he had been, but his master only waved away the questions and said, “The past means nothing; only the present and future matter. Focus on them.” Whenever he pressed the issue, whenever he demanded answers, Voltari would turn his stony gray eyes upon him, an icy fury raging deep within them, and punish him. Or disappear, if he were feeling particularly generous. Angus knew the answers were there, but Voltari simply refused to provide them. And Angus was not nearly powerful enough to risk truly angering his mentor, so he focused his mind and energy on the magic. He delved deeper into it, striving to gain a better understanding of it. But he never stopped wondering about his lost past, and rarely a day went by when he didn’t have the thought: Magic caused my loss of memory, and magic can restore it. He was certain Voltari knew that magic—or at least where to find it—and when Angus left there would be no more chances to get it out of him. If—
“Now,” Voltari said, interrupting his thoughts. “You must perfect this spell.” He held a scroll out to Angus.
“What is it?” Angus asked, reaching for the scroll. Perhaps later…. He cordoned off the thought to focus on the scroll and the magical threads surrounding him. It would be a challenging spell, a powerful spell, one that would require all of his attention. He unrolled the scroll carefully, his excitement tempered by the healthy sense of dread that every new spell brought with it.
Voltari’s gray eyes narrowed as he ordered, “Tell me.”
Angus gulped—another test, another opportunity to disappoint him. He examined the runes and sigils drawn from spider-thin streaks of burnt umber ink streaked with a deep, almost black shade of red. “It’s obviously a complex, powerful spell from the spheres of flame and earth,” he said. Knowing Voltari would demand a more detailed explanation, he looked more closely at the order of the runes, the pattern of the sigils, how each line had been sketched, and the interconnectedness of the threads of ink with the threads of magic. “This is strange,” he muttered. “It seems to be a spell that produces balls of flaming earth rising up to the sky. But,” he paused and shook his head.
“Yes?” Voltari demanded.
Angus did not look up from the scroll as he replied, “I would expect there to be runes and sigils related to the sphere of air, but there aren’t any. It’s as if the flame is bubbling up from the earth like—like geysers of molten rock. I’m not sure, though, since the nuances are beyond me.”
Voltari held his hand out for the scroll and Angus handed it to him. “I disagree,” he said, his voice level, impartial
. “You understand the nuances far better than your training would suggest.”
“Thank you, Master,” Angus said, lowering his gaze and fighting back the urge to smile.
Voltari hesitated a long moment, and then said, his voice uncompromising, “Tomorrow, Angus, you will leave. Your apprenticeship is at an end. Come to my chamber at dawn.” Then he tweaked a nearby strand of carefully modulated magic and vanished.
Angus stood still for several minutes, his breathing barely noticeable, his thoughts paralytic. He wasn’t prepared to go outside, into a world he couldn’t remember. What was it like? Where would he go? Who would he talk to? He had read a great deal about it, of course, but reading and being are quite different things. Who am I? he wanted to scream as his fingertip went unconsciously to the scar on his neck and traced its outline, feeling the fluttery pulse raging beneath the surface. And who wants me dead?
4
Darkness.
Silence.
They were his friends.
Light and sound were his enemies. He fought against them, an endless battle that he could never hope to win. But the struggle was important. He didn’t need to be perfect; he only needed to try to be perfect.
He took a slow, deep breath, and held it. He stepped forward, gently lowering the toes of his right foot into place. The heel settled soundlessly behind them, and he exhaled softly over a fifteen count before shifting his weight. He inhaled slowly and picked up his left foot, moving it forward, toward the shapely silhouette of the young woman lying on her side. Another breath, another step.
There was a half moon. Half moons were better than full moons. A little before or a little past the new moon was best. The dim glow provided ample lighting for him to see the shadows within the shadows, to know what they were. A quarter moon would be better than a half moon.
He took a third step—four more to go. The maids-in-waiting sprawled about the floor around the bed, sleeping on pillows and cushions, but there was a path. If he was careful. If he stepped with perfect delicacy.
His foot fit snugly between one maids’ rumpled hair and another’s dainty ankle, her shiny silver anklet glistening where the moonbeams struck it a glancing blow. There wasn’t room to lower his heel, but that didn’t matter; he could balance precariously on the toes of one foot for many minutes if he needed to. But he didn’t need to.
He took a fourth step, placing his left toes in the space between another maid’s forearm and bicep, barely avoiding her nose, her elbow. He was glad he had cleansed himself and his clothing, ridding them of their normal subtle pungency….
Then the path was clear.
He stepped rapidly, silently up to the side of the bed.
She turned toward him in her sleep. Her eyes fluttered, opened. She smiled.
His hand snaked out. The stiletto—
Angus burst upright, a muffled scream clinging to the back of his throat. His breathing was rapid, sharp, almost painful. His heart was pounding like a woodpecker trapped in his chest. He closed his eyes and mouthed the silent mantra that would calm his body, his mind.
Still the mind.
Still the body.
Still the mind.
Still the body.
He couldn’t recall when he had learned the mantra, but it worked; within seconds, his breathing and heartbeat had calmed considerably, almost stopping altogether.
He opened his eyes and looked around the dark room, wondering at the fleeting impressions of the nightmare, wondering why it had been so potent, so real. It was as if he had actually been there….
Then it faded to less than a memory, less than even a forgotten memory….
He frowned. It had been months since his last nightmare, and it troubled him greatly that they had returned on the eve of his departure….
5
Angus woke before dawn. He was far from rested but found it impossible to return to sleep. He got up and dressed in the outfit he felt most comfortable in: the padded leather tunic; the strange, form-fitting trousers; and the high, soft-soled black boots. He filled his pockets with spell-casting paraphernalia—the mnemonic fragrances that enhanced his recall—the gold coins, and the garnets. He slid his dagger into its scabbard on the belt and the stilettos in their boot sheaths. He filled his backpack with the rest of the gear he would take with him: tinder and flint, candles, quill and inkwell, a handful of loose-leafed parchment, the scrolls containing his spells, a few days worth of food, fishhooks and string, and the strange, ill-fitting black robe Voltari had given him. There was still room, so he put two of the apprentice robes on top of what he had already packed. Then he focused and tugged on the strand of magic that would transport him to Voltari’s antechamber.
Voltari rarely allowed him into his antechamber, and never unsupervised. It was a small room with a desk, robes, boots, water basin, and other amenities. Angus had never been in Voltari’s living chamber, and he didn’t expect to be asked in now.
Voltari was waiting for him at the desk, a pile of scrolls carefully stacked before him.
“Master?” Angus said, his voice catching in his throat.
Voltari looked up at him, nodded, and picked up the pile of scrolls—there were about a dozen of them. “These are yours,” he said, holding them out.
Angus hesitated for only a moment—he had long ago learned the painful lesson of obedience—and set his backpack down on the floor. He accepted the scrolls and began unrolling one of them. “Thank you, Master,” he said, a touch of reverence in his voice.
“Not now,” Voltari said, putting his hand on Angus’s to prevent him from opening the scroll. “Stow them in your pack.”
Angus frowned, bent to his pack, opened it, and unceremoniously pulled out the extra robes. When it looked like he might pull out the black robe, Voltari put his foot on his hand to stop him.
“You should wear that robe at all times,” he said. “It is not a gift I gave lightly. Its magic will provide some measure of protection—much more than that getup you’re wearing now.”
“Yes, Master,” Angus said, reaching for the ties of his tunic.
Voltari sighed and shook his head. “The choice is yours, Angus,” he said. “Stow the scrolls for now. You will have time to change later if that is what you wish to do.”
“Yes, Master,” Angus said, carefully securing the scrolls in his backpack. Once he had done so, Voltari uncharacteristically held out his hand and helped him to his feet.
“Here,” Voltari said, pointing at a map spread out on his desk and weighted down with smooth, walnut-sized black stones. “You should travel here,” he pointed to a spot on the map labeled Hellsbreath Pass. “There will be many opportunities for wizards of your ability there.”
“How far is it, Master?” Angus asked, trying to memorize the contours on the map.
Voltari shrugged and slid the stones aside to let the map roll back up into its natural position. He handed it to Angus.
“Thank you, Master,” Angus said, putting the map into his backpack.
“Your gratitude is unnecessary,” Voltari said, his voice surprisingly soft. “It is customary for the Master to bestow a gift of spells upon his apprentice when he completes his training. These scrolls contain those spells, both ones you have mastered and others you have not. The latter spells are selected by the Master with the expectation that the student will be able to learn them without further guidance. This gift is intended to assure the survival of the magic and, indirectly, the apprentice. One day you will continue the line of wizardry I have taught you by passing this knowledge on to your own apprentices. These spells are the foundation of that tradition, one on which you will build your own repertoire of spells.”
“Yes, Master,” Angus said.
Voltari nodded. “From here on, you will be on your own,” he said. He gestured at Angus’s backpack and waited for him to pick it up. His voice was stern and unrelenting as he finished, “My service to you is over. Do not return here.” Then Voltari’s anteroom disappeared a
nd Angus found himself standing outside Blackhaven Tower for the first time.
Blackhaven Tower was a single twisted spire faced with smooth, curved obsidian blocks that captured the dawn and sprinkled it about in all directions. It was fairly narrow—perhaps twenty feet in diameter—and rose only about thirty feet above the ground, tapering as it rose until it curved sharply inward near the top. Angus frowned; the interior was much larger than the exterior. Was Voltari’s complex underground? Was it somewhere else, entirely? With Voltari’s penchant for teleportation, it wouldn’t surprise him. Still, there was a large wooden door in front of him with a towering figure standing in tall, deep recesses at either side of it. Does it open? he wondered, taking a step forward. He stopped abruptly and sighed. Do not return here….
The sentinels guarding the door were draped in shadow, but the morning sun flickering on the dingy yellow-white of old bone. A pair of simmering red orbs near the top of each form shone like eyes held in a silent, deathless vigil. Did they move?
Angus gulped and concentrated until he brought the magic into focus. Blackhaven Tower and the surrounding hillside faded into the background—still visible as a shadow world at the periphery of his attention—and a maelstrom of writhing strands of magic erupted in the foreground. The magic centered on the guardians and the door, which looked like it had been carved from wood but was wrapped with the pulsating strands of sienna and brick red—a powerful, explosive earth- and fire-based magical trap. Anyone attempting to breach it without magic would almost certainly be killed by the blast, while the door would remain completely intact.
Beside the complex braids woven through the door, the sentinels oozed black tendrils of death magic, its power fluctuating as the tendrils came into contact with their surroundings, sometimes advancing, sometimes retreating. The sentinels were dead, the animated dead Angus had read about while he was exploring Voltari’s library for a way to regain his memory. But Voltari hadn’t taught him very much about that aspect of magic; he had merely let him know that it existed and described the basics of how to draw upon the consumptive energy when necessary. He hadn’t taught him anything about death magic, the kind of magic that draws heavily upon the gray and black strands to animate the dead and destroy the living. He hadn’t even taught him how to defend against such magic; Angus had had to find that out for himself, and he wasn’t entirely sure he understood it.
One of the sentinels lowered its flickering red gaze and fixed it upon Angus. A gigantic poleax grated as it dipped downward and pointed at him. “You are unwelcome,” the sentinel said in