Jean Johnson - The Guild

“I doubt it,” Hansu muttered.

His companion glared at the youth. “Aren’t you done building up the fires, you lackwit?”

“Sorry, sir,” the boy mumbled in a light tenor. “Gotta git more coal.” He lugged the empty pail out of the room, head ducked in a servile hunch.

“If he had a lick of magic, I’d have plugged him into the God ages ago. That’s all the little fart is good for.”

“That’s all any of them are good for,” Hansu agreed. “The Servers Guild takes in the idiots and foists the worst of them on us, but the magicless are of no use. Still, as long as they’re in a guild, we don’t have to feed and clothe them.”

“Heh, or train them. Remember the temple in Bordastowne?” the other priest chuckled. “They thought they could make things cheaper by hiring non-guild orphans. Burned food, stained robes, dust in the corners . . . The archbishop there finally agreed to hire from the Servers Guild again. I’ll admit the boy is slow and stupid, but he does the job thoroughly.”

Torven rolled his eyes again. If only I could speak! They’re wasting my time with these trivialities. The taller priest caught that eye twitch. He stroked his beard, then placed his hand over Torven’s mouth and muttered something. From the tingle of magic, the Aian mage guessed something had changed, though the web didn’t vanish. His guess was confirmed in the next breath.

“I’ve given you the power to speak normally, though you still will not be able to spellcast, mage,” Hansu told him. He poked Torven in the chest with one bony finger. “If you think you have something to tell us to get you out of your predicament, now is your chance to try . . . and I do mean try. It would have to be of miraculous proportions to avert your fate. Mekha hungers, and you’re next on His plate.”

“A fat, juicy pig like that should have an apple in his mouth,” the other priest muttered. “And should not be allowed to squeal.”

Listening to them muttering, Torven suppressed an impatient sigh. Instead, he asked pointedly, “ Why are you wasting your time siphoning magical energy from mages?”

“Because our God demands it, you fool! Or have those Arbran lackwits you were dallying with not explained it to you?” Hansu scorned.

If Torven had believed in any one particular God, he would have prayed for patience. As it was, he saw Them as nothing more than leeches on the rights of mortal man. Glaring at the bald-pated priest, he clarified himself, using crisp, biting syllables because he didn’t have much patience for idiots. “Not that , you imbecile. Why are you piddling around with mages when there are far greater sources of power available for your God?”

Hansu scowled at him, and the unnamed gray-haired priest moved over to frown down at the captive Aian as well. “What do you mean?” Hansu demanded. “There are no other sources! Gods get their powers from mortals, which means the energies must come from mortal mages!”

He rolled his eyes. “Gods spare me from the uneducated,” Torven muttered. Raising his voice, he countered the older man’s arguments. “There are singularity points, commonly called Fountains, which spew masses of energy into the world. Get your hands on one of those , and you can make Mekha a God of Gods.”

“We’re not ignorant of such things,” the other priest snapped. “We have none of those within Mekhana’s borders, and our neighbors fight with such ferocity, we cannot gain more than a finger length of land in a generation! Your advice is as useless as you are. Only your magic is of any value. For as long as it lasts.”

“It is not the only source of vast power, though it is the easiest, which is why I suggested it first,” Torven countered. “If Mekha is a God, then summon up and enslave a demon to Him! The underprinces of the Netherhells have almost as much power as a Fountain—and you can enslave a whole host of the lesser kind to equal that kind of power with a minimum of risk. It’s actually easier to summon and bind a demon than to find a Fountain. The only trick lies in binding it thoroughly and in knowing how to tap into whatever passes for its life-energy.”

Hansu scoffed, folding his velvet-robed arms across his chest. “And I suppose you just happen to know how to do this demonic energy stealing?”

“Of course I do. I’ve made it my life’s work to study how to gain vast power in numerous ways.” He knew they didn’t believe him, could see it in their eyes, but Torven wasn’t lying. “Bring me a Truth Stone, and you’ll see the pure white of my words for yourselves.”

Hansu looked at the other fellow, who sighed and dug into his robes. The gray-haired priest pulled out a white marble disc and pressed it into Torven’s hand. “I’m sure you know how they work, foreigner. First a lie, and then a truth.”

“I am in love with you,” Torven stated.

He uncurled his fingers, but the angle at which he was pinned to the altar didn’t allow him to see what color the marble was. From their satisfied looks, the cold stone had been striped in black wherever his flesh had touched it. Waiting a few seconds to let the marks fade, the Aian mage gripped it again.

“I am Torven, a mage of great power and greater knowledge, and I hold the secrets of how to summon, bind, and drain a demon of its magical energies. Mind you, this is a dark form of magic, almost as bad as blood magic,” he warned them, pausing to flex his fingers a couple times to show he spoke the truth, “but since you’re already stealing life-energies from your own citizens, which is a worse ‘sin,’ I sincerely doubt you’ll quibble at using a demon’s energies.”

The two stared at the stone in Torven’s hand, then retreated to the doorway for a whispered conference. Torven relaxed, knowing that he had at least been given a shot at freeing himself. The distant Threefold God of Fate—well, not so distant, now that he was just two kingdoms away from Fortuna—gave chances and opened doors of opportunity to the wicked and the good alike.

Of course, Torven didn’t consider himself all that wicked. Selfish, oh yes, quite, but then why shouldn’t he be? Every single person in the world was after whatever he or she could get in life, and he was merely determined to be very good at getting whatever he wanted. At the moment, he wanted his freedom. His ultimate goal was always power, however. Stealing the Fountain at the heart of the Tower had been one possibility, but there had been many others buried in the dusty, forgotten tomes of the Tower archives. Demonic enslavement and power-draining were simply another way to achieve his goal.

Eventually, Hansu and the other priest had to break up their little conversation as the boy came back, cheek smudged with coal dust and arms struggling with the now heavily laden bucket. Letting him pass, the priests waited for him to reach the next brazier and begin tending it, then Hansu led the way back to Torven’s altar table.

“If you really can do what you say you can do, we’ll presume you want your freedom. For both you and for this other mage?” Hansu asked him, flicking a hand at the still unconscious Healer.

Torven didn’t even glance at Crastus. Most Healers tended to be selfless twits who bleated on and on about having some sort of stupid obligation to use one’s powers for the good of many. Before their exile from the continent of Aiar, Crastus had been more interested in being paid for his services, as a sensible person should be. After their exile . . . the older mage had expressed occasional doubts, even feelings of remorse, as if a simple bad turn of luck, losing that stupid fight in the banqueting hall and then being tossed out onto another continent to live or die, was some sort of holy wake-up call. Bad luck was simply Fate’s way of saying, find another path toward your goals or be stuck in stagnation like an idiot.