Jack Campbell - The Dragons of Dorcastle

The Mage Guild Hall of Ringhmon lay a fair distance from the caravansary, but after days of riding and being given adequate food and water by the traders, Alain was grateful for the chance to stretch his legs. He walked steadily through Ringhmon, the commons shying away from him to leave a clear path. The commons feared Mages. None of them would knowingly block the progress of any Mage. They averted their faces as well, fearing what a Mage might do to them if eye contact was made. He might now be walking down a crowded street, but he was still alone.

A few times Alain noticed girls on the street ahead being hastily shoved through doorways or otherwise removed from where he might see them. He knew the reason for that. The elders had advised him and the other acolytes to satisfy their physical needs on commons, who would not dare to resist. He had never done that and never would, because any thought of it brought to mind the mother he could no longer admit any feelings for.

She would not have approved. Though he could remember little of her, that impression remained strong. And I remain her son, though I can never admit that to any other Mage. I could not admit to the Mechanic my reason for not assaulting her. I cannot even admit it to myself .

Finally the blank, windowless face of the Mage Hall loomed before him. Only a doorway marred that façade, the one begrudging acknowledgement that a world did exist outside. The massive hall occupied the center of a large lot, wide expanses of gravel separating it from any other structure on all sides.

Alain knew there would be no lock on the doorway, for who would dare to enter a Mage Hall except a Mage or someone needing their services? Inside, an acolyte sat in meditative stance but yanked herself awake at Alain’s arrival. “Sir Mage.” Her eyes went from his robes to his young face, and it was obvious her training at not showing emotions was being stressed.

“I am Mage Alain of Ihris,” he said, sensing a dark burden inside now that he had to report his failure. “I have just arrived in Ringhmon. I must report to the elders on the outcome of my contract.”

“Yes, Sir Mage.” She led the way deeper into the Hall, through dim passages whose coolness was a welcome relief after the bright, scorching heat of the lands around Ringhmon. Bowing him into a room almost bare of furnishings, as were most rooms in the Hall, she left to return to the entrance.

Despite his well-buried worries about the way his report would be received, still Alain welcomed being safe inside the walls of Ringhmon after spending days on constant lookout for bandits. A middle-aged Mage assigned to receive new arrivals greeted Alain without any meaningless courtesy or trace of suppressed surprise at his youth, and then took down his report. Alain, reciting without outward feeling the destruction of the caravan he had been contracted to protect, found himself grateful that the other Mage did not display any emotion.

But even the experienced Mage facing him had trouble keeping his expression controlled when Alain laid out his escape with the Mechanic and their journey together through the waste.

By the time Alain’s report had been completed to the satisfaction of the record keeper, the sun was setting over Ringhmon. Alain picked out a small guest room to sleep in, cleaned up quickly in the cold water offered at the rudimentary bath facilities, then got some food. Unseasoned boiled meat. Plain boiled grain. Bread. A mash of fruits and vegetables using whatever was available. Watered wine. A meal designed to feed the body but not to distract the senses, just like every other meal in a Mage Guild Hall.

No other Mages took notice of him, but that was to be expected. For any other Mage to greet him without purpose would have been a shocking act. Returning to his room after a silent meal, Alain found that acolytes had already cleaned his robes. Feeling physically drained and disturbed by the tugging of emotions once safely buried deep within him, Alain lay down to his first decent sleep in too many days.

But though he closed his eyes, his mind stayed awake, perversely dredging up memories long suppressed. He would not think on the separation from his parents, but the first night at the Mage Guild Hall stood out clearly. So many things had changed after that. He had clung to the details until realizing how they were misleading him, but now they were with him again.

A room full of young children, many of them with eyes red from crying, their clothing replaced by the thin, unadorned robes of acolytes. The children, Alain among them, shivered in the cold room, not yet having learned to ignore physical discomfort. Each child sat or lay on a sleeping pallet which was little more than a threadbare blanket on the stone floor. Next to each pallet rested a loaf of stale bread and a cup of water.

A very pretty girl on the next pallet looked at Alain, trying to force a smile despite the tear-stains on her face. Her blond hair was tangled and uncombed. “At least we know they don ’ t want us to die,” she had said in a hoarse voice as she picked up her bread. She had brushed some strands of hair from her face, looking very weary. “Did you want to be a Mage?”

“No. Did you?”

“No. We don ’ t have any choice, though. I have an uncle who is already a Mage. If he could survive this, I can.”

“I ’ m not sure I will.” Even across the years, Alain could remember the despair which had filled him then.

The girl had forced another smile. “You ’ ll make it.”

“Thanks.” That was when he had last said that word. “You ’ ll make it, too.”

“I ’ m Asha.”

“I ’ m Alain.”

Two Mages had entered the room then, watching everyone, their presence making every child fall silent even before one of them spoke. “You are alone. Do not speak to shadows.”

The Mages had still been there, watching the shivering, silent acolytes, when Alain finally fell asleep that night.

He and Asha had spoken only a few times after that, growing distant first from fear of the Mage elders and later from knowledge that neither mattered, that nothing was real.

Now Alain kept his eyes closed, but he could still see the acolytes’ room, still recall something of what he had felt that night. The long suppressed memories were troubling him again.

This, too, must be the work of the Mechanic. What had she done to him?

As their horses plodded into Ringhmon, Mari studied the Mechanic weapon openly carried by one of the guards they passed, seeing that it was another standard model repeating rifle. The arms workshops in Danalee had found more than one customer in the area of Ringhmon, it seemed. It was unusual for such a valuable weapon to be entrusted to gate guards, leaving Mari wondering who Ringhmon was trying to overawe. From the subdued behavior of the commons using the gate, she guessed they might be the targets of that threatening display.

Mari searched the crowd around the caravansary, hoping to find a representative of the Mechanics Guild Hall of Ringhmon awaiting her. She saw no one, though. She had not had any privacy once they got close to Ringhmon and so had not been able to call ahead using her far talker. Still, she was overdue. Why hadn’t the Guild Hall tried to call her? Why hadn’t they posted anyone here, even an apprentice, to watch incoming travelers and demand any news of the late caravan?

The group of traders clattered to a halt and Mari dismounted, wincing as her muscles protested. Her horse had been docile enough, but days of riding had left Mari wondering if her thighs would ever stop aching. Give me a seat in a locomotive any day.