Deep magic second coll.., p.6
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 6
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
“I know, which is why I told you. Gervase, he’s here. The one I told you about who attended the lecture yesterday.”
“Hmmm?”
Her brother was of the same height. He had dark brown hair instead of red, and it was spiked and askew. He hadn’t shaved in days and a scrappy beard covered his cheeks and chin. His doublet was unbuttoned, revealing a lean chest beaded with sweat. He had a silk shirt and leather bracers that sparkled with inset gems the size of walnuts. Brandis felt his own attire paled next to both of theirs.
“He’s the one I told you about,” Estenna said coaxingly. “The prince from Hennland. I wanted you to meet him.”
“I don’t recall you asking,” Gervase said, shrugging. He gave Brandis a dispassionate look. “So, you’ve come to see the wolf baiting?” He waved his hand to the balcony rail. “See it, then. Watch the populace gorge their senses in blood.”
As if to bolster his words, another roaring cheer went up from the audience. Roshaun hurried to the edge of the balcony to witness the spectacle.
Estenna took Brandis by the arm to escort him. “It can be gruesome. Up this high, the details are difficult to see. The lower seats are the most popular ones. The closest to the fighting.” Her touch, even gentle, sent a thrill through him.
He was hesitant to look, afraid of what he might see—the sight of blood had always made him a little squeamish, although he’d faced his disgust and had learned to master his reactions. Roshaun’s eyes were bulging already, a look of euphoria on his face.
Brandis gazed down at the sandy bit of the arena floor. There were twelve gladiators battling fiercely below. Three had already gone down. One was dragging himself away with a spear stuck in his shoulder.
The gladiators were of various sizes and strengths. Some had whips. Some had axes. One hefted an enormous halberd. They wore armor on their shoulders and ragged loincloths that appeared to be wolf hide. Brandis squinted as one of the warriors struck down another from behind, earning a loud “Booo!” from the crowd.
“Those are the lycanthropes?” Brandis asked her, squinting in confusion. “I thought . . . I thought they’d be wolf men.”
She laughed richly. “It’s high noon, Prince Brandis,” she said. “This is when their power is the weakest. This is when they are allowed to fight. When it is safest for them and for us. Can you imagine a full moon? They would all go mad with bloodlust. The walls are too tall to scale, but imagine if one did! The devastation they’d wreak in the crowd!”
Brandis was confused. “But how do you . . . what I’m saying is, how do you know they are really wer—lycanthropes. Have you seen them change?”
Gervase had wandered up and stood next to his sister. “You only believe that which you see?” he asked sternly. “How limited.”
“It’s not that. Where I am from, this disease is considered quite rare. No one has actually seen a transformation. We’ve only seen the evidence of it.”
“The claw marks, the drool, the torn clothing,” Gervase said dismissively. “It’s not a disease, good sir. It is a magical curse. It is within the domain of Metamorphistry. Do you know what this means?”
Brandis bristled but he did not want to offend. “It is the art of transubstantiation. Turning one thing into something else. Like a caterpillar into a butterfly.”
“Or a worm into a beetle,” Estenna said approvingly. She squeezed his arm. “My brother is the expert of this art. He knows more than the chancellor at the university.”
Gervase shrugged, but Brandis could see in his laconic smile that her praise pleased him.
“So you have seen the transformation yourself?” Brandis pressed, looking away from the battle raging below.
“Hundreds of times,” Gervase answered flippantly. “I study it closely every moon cycle. I’ve documented the patterns starting from initiation to weakness that occurs after the regression. I know how long it lasts until madness, and I’ve measured its effects in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”
Brandis’s interest was more than piqued. “What have you written on your findings? I would very much wish to learn more.”
Gervase turned to him, arching one brow. “It doesn’t interest me to write it down.”
“Why not? Such a work would be invaluable. Every university from here to Sangrall would want to know it, surely!”
Gervase scratched the corner of his mouth. “I care nothing for that.”
Estenna’s eyes gleamed. “He is trying to discover the cure, Prince Brandis. Would that not be of more use to your people in the Black Forest? Would that not be of greater use to the world?”
From the moment Brandis had met her, he had been entranced by her passion, by her determination. He had attended a lecture discussing the slavery conditions among the gladiators of the arena. She felt it was unfair that people inflicted with such a condition, lycanthropy, should be arrested and confined for the remainder of their lives to fight the blood sport of the city. She had believed that with treatment and precautions, those inflicted with the . . . the magical curse could live freely, despite the mass prejudice against those who suffered from it.
At the time of the speech, he was not certain whether the malady was one of the mind—a sign of insanity. He had come to Vaud at his father’s behest to learn more.
“Do you think it is even possible to cure it?” Brandis asked. “The legends say that once one is bitten, the doom is eternal.”
“That’s just a myth. If anyone can discover the cure,” Estenna said proudly, “Gervase will find a way.”
Brandis looked at the brother who smiled at his sister. Then Gervase turned his gaze on him. “You still don’t believe.”
He held up his hands. “It won’t take much to convince me. The stories about the arena are that the gladiators use fake blood. The deaths are staged and then the warriors are brought back in different costumes or disguises. It’s to entertain the masses.”
Estenna’s expression darkened. “I hate the gladiator trade,” she said. “What they do to these victims defies conscience. They were people once, and now they’ve turned them savage.”
“Or was it their savagery that made them transmute, Sister?” Gervase said, tapping his temple.
“I don’t know what causes it,” she said, turning back to Brandis. “But it is wrong to pen up these people and make them fight each other. Lycanthropes can be wounded, but they cannot die from their wounds unless the injury was inflicted with silver. They suffer, poor creatures, every time they perform in the arena.”
“Surely you don’t condone their execution?” Brandis asked.
“No! Of course not! For many it was no fault of their own. They were bitten. For some reason, a lycanthrope chooses a victim to carry on the curse. They are not killed as others are. We don’t know why. No one does. My brother is closer to the truth than anyone has ever dared become because they have been afraid of being infected.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” Brandis asked Gervase.
The sorcerer shrugged. “I experience mild discomfort, but have hardened to the effects over time. A suitable series of precautions, in my view, has made it perfectly safe to work with lycanthropes. I’m not here for the sport, Prince Brandis. When the battle is done, I inspect the wounded and study the regeneration of their health. I assure you—the blood in the arena is not fake. So did you invite this prince to join us, Sister?”
Brandis glanced at Roshaun, who was still enthralled by the spectacle happening below. Brandis’s ears were ringing with the sustained excitement. “May I?” he asked with growing interest.
Estenna beamed. “I did, Brother. He’s come all this way from Hennland. You will see for yourself, then, Prince Brandis. These are pitiable creatures. We should help them, not fear them.”
Gervase snorted. “But they represent our darkest fears,” he said. “They embody it. So you do wish to join us? Do you dare it?”
* * *
Brandis was not sure what to expect as they descended into the bowels of the arena. Roshaun was edgy, his eyes darting to the sides as they entered the cavernous ground beneath. The stairs were wide and heavy, and there were scratch marks in the stone itself. Brandis stopped and traced his fingers in some of the grooves, imagining the strength it would take to leave such marks. He heard rattling noises, like hammers banging on well pipes, coming from different locations. The air was heavy and smelled of oil and iron. At the bottom of the steps, they reached a long corridor made of arches that shouldered the bulk of the massive weight of the coliseum.
Within the corridors, they saw servants wearing livery bearing stretchers, on which were the fallen gladiators. Some were groaning in pain.
“Can they transform down here?” Brandis asked, feeling his nerves growing more taut in anticipation. One of the pillars had a huge gouge in it.
“Those are marks from days past,” Gervase said dismissively. “This coliseum is centuries old. Occasionally one of the lycanthropes would escape confinement and try to flee. The panic that would cause! The people are terrified of these beasts. But there is a battalion of guards stationed here to prevent an outbreak, each man armed with silver-tipped spears and short swords and trained in subjugating their fear.”
“Master Gervase!” one of the sentries called while carrying a stretcher. “Come see this one!”
Gervase quickened his steps, causing his sister and the others to hasten as well. When they reached the pallet being carried, the sentry looked excited.
“This is the one that was stabbed through with the spear. Nearly pinned him to the floor of the arena. Look, the wound has already closed! Nary a mark on him now.”
Gervase squinted, looking at the man’s back. Brandis saw that the fighter was heavily muscled, his skin a thatchwork of scars. “Of course it is. They cannot be killed save with silver. He will be walking in two days at the most. Even with such a wound. I’ve seen worse.”
Estenna shuddered, her face twisting with sorrow and sympathy. She turned to Brandis. “Then he’ll be compelled to go back into the arena again and again. It’s brutal. It drives some of the poor fellows mad.”
“Is it more merciful to kill them in the streets?” one of the carriers said. “Is it merciful to the poor families who lose loved ones due to their evil natures? The laws are strict to protect us.”
“Yes, but if we can cure them,” Gervase said, wagging his finger.
“Then no more coliseum?” answered the man with a snort. “I think not. The people will have their carnage. They must have it. They crave blood as much as these beasts do.”
“Take him to his cell and I’ll examine him later,” Gervase said, waving dismissively. “My sister and I wish to show our guests some of the older ones.”
The man chuffed and shook his head fearfully. “You couldn’t get me down there. Not for thirty pieces of silver.”
“How apropos,” Gervase said with a cynical grunt. He turned to Brandis to explain. “The price of a slave. That is the reward when someone turns in a man who bears the curse.”
“Are those who are turned in always guilty?” Brandis asked. They started walking farther down the corridor.
“What a terrible thing to say,” Estenna said, looking at him with disapproval.
“He’s honest, Sister. Do not fault him. As a student of human nature, I agree with the intent of your question. Let me answer it. There are simple tests we perform that can verify whether one is cursed. The captains of the night watch have all been trained to verify a lycanthrope. If someone is accused maliciously or falsely, there are consequences for the accuser. If it is an honest mistake, there is no harm.”
“Are all lycanthropes men?” Brandis asked, trying to redeem himself in Estenna’s eyes. He could see he had upset her and that made him anxious to appease.
“Not at all,” Gervase said in annoyance. “Ah, here we are.”
They reached another arched corridor, although this one was barred with silver. Gervase tapped one of the gems on his bracer and the gate began to life on its own or through some magic. Smoky torchlight wafted out from down the corridor.
“In we go,” Gervase said eagerly.
Brandis turned to Roshaun who was visibly trembling with fear. Brandis gestured toward the gate, inviting him to remain behind, but his valet would never abandon him and quickly shook his head no.
Past the gate, they descended another series of stairs. They were in the catacombs now, the walls more rugged and containing rings with torches. The smell of pitch was thick in the air and it mixed with an earthy smell. Somewhere in the distance, Brandis could hear water running, like a brook.
“How deep do the caverns go?” Brandis asked.
“Farther than we will ever go,” Gervase said. “We are nearly to the howling place.”
Estenna sidled up closer to her brother, her mood even more somber now. The corridor narrowed.
A strange smell was in the air, the cloying smell of rancid meat. Brandis wanted to tug loose his collar. He was soaked with sweat beneath his jacket, and he gripped the handle of his sword nervously.
Gervase caught the gesture. “Little good that piece of steel would do you down here,” he said with a smirk.
“Don’t tease him, Gervase,” Estenna scolded.
Some scuttling noises could be heard ahead. Then the echo of a mad laugh.
“What is this place?” Brandis asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.
“This is the lair, the howling place,” Gervase said. “This is where they are confined after they’ve gone mad. It takes some time for that to happen. We’ve learned to feed their minds as long as we can. Inside, you’ll see they revolt against any form of civilization. They rip apart any book that we send. They will no longer eat cooked meat. They’d drink blood if we let them.”
Estenna looked back at Brandis encouragingly. “Don’t be too frightened. They are behind silver bars.”
“Silver bars,” ghosted a voice from ahead. Estenna went quiet, her look darkening with sadness.
Brandis screwed up his courage and hastily wiped the sweat from his lip. As they turned the corner into another corridor, the way ended abruptly with another gate made of silver bars. There was a man posing there, leaning against the bars, gripping them hard. Little gusts of steam came from his hands.
“Good afternoon, Dracchus,” Gervase said, stopping well away from the bars.
The man had feral eyes, unkempt hair. His tunic was slashed and ripped apart, nearly dangling from him. He twisted his head sideways, gazing at them hungrily, greedily, with all the ferocity of something savage.
“Is it afternoon, Sorcerer?” Dracchus asked, rattling the bars. “How should I know? There is no moonlight down in the howling place.” He grunted and shook the bars.
There were more in chambers. Brandis saw smashed furniture, broken pieces of glass strewn everywhere. Books had been shredded and mangled, with bits and papers covering the floor.
“You don’t need the moonlight anymore to transform, Dracchus,” Gervase said simply. “This is a prince from the Black Forest. He’d like to see your form.”
“From where?”
“The Black Forest. Do you know it still?”
The man shook his head, leering at them all. Roshaun was trembling, stepping back cautiously. Brandis’s attention was riveted on the mad one. He reminded Brandis of the miller who had been bitten from the village. His insides twisted with disgust and intrigue.
“You wish to see my true form?” Dracchus asked him, grinning menacingly.
Brandis’s voice was lost, but he nodded, swallowing, trying to keep his courage.
There was no convulsion, no gradual twisting, only an explosion of fur and fang and slavering jaws. Brandis’s mind closed in terror as he heard it raving and snapping, trying to squeeze its massive bulk beyond the bars to rip his throat out. His mind went black, he was gibbering on the floor, and all reason and intelligence abandoned him in the urgent desire to flee. He whimpered and cowered in place.
He couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his pulse, the mind-blasting terror. And then Estenna was kneeling before him, soothing him, bringing him back to himself with tenderness and sympathy.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. “They cannot hurt you. They cannot escape this place. It’s all right. Gervase, drive him away.”
As Brandis trembled like a frightened child, feeling humiliated at his reaction, Gervase grunted and snatched a torch from the nearby wall.
“Shallic,” he said, and the tip burst into smoky flame. He pressed the brand toward the silver bars, and the wolf fiend backed away, snarling and ravening, at the force of the flame.
“Come back to the surface,” Estenna said, gripping Brandis’s arm and helping him stand. “Now do you believe?”
Brandis trembled. The sound of Roshaun’s steps faded into the distance. He nodded, still unable to speak. So it was real. It was very real.
* * *
That moment in the underground cave changed Brandis. Some might have run away in terror and fled to another city, never to return. For him, it opened vistas of possibility he had never considered. The Keltin siblings brought him to their mansion in Vaud, although Gervase and Brandis ended up spending most of their time at the coliseum where Brandis began to be tutored by the rich young man who had mastered the arts of Metamorphistry at a young age. Now it was Gervase’s obsession to not only master them but to heal them.
Estenna was pleased by Brandis’s ardent interest in the study and would participate in the discussions long after midnight. A fire had been lit inside of the young prince from the Black Forest. His valet, Roshaun, grew more and more worried.
Gervase and Brandis walked swiftly down the dark subterranean corridor, side by side. “So is the curse transmitted by the bite or not?” Brandis queried.
Gervase waved his hand. “Is that even the right question to be asking? A werewolf, as you still insist on calling them, eats prey of beast and man. Yet what stops them from slaying the victim that will transform? What about them is chosen to seed the curse into another generation?”
