The Order: Book 1 E-Book

A.C. Donaubauer

• Herausgeber: Papierfresserchens MTM-Verlag
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

A clumsy step, the wrong branch to hold on to and a bump on the head to leave her unconscious – no more than that causes Eryn’s life to turn upside down and to suddenly find herself in the capital city as a prisoner to the king. She is determined to keep her magical abilities a secret in a kingdom where magicians have only ever been male as long as anyone knows. That doesn’t work out that well, though. The Order, the governing body for magicians, and the king seem to have their own plans with her, none of them caring in the least that she just wants to leave that blasted city behind and return to the peace and quiet of her profession as a healer. And then there is Enric, a high ranking magician in the Order thanks to his considerable strength, who seems to find watching her struggles an amusing diversion.

Leseprobe

Contents

Imprint

Chapter 1 - Eryn

Chapter 2 - Enric

Chapter 3 - Handed Over

Chapter 4 - The Testing

Chapter 5 - Combat Training

Chapter 6 - Desperate Measures

Chapter 7 - Vern

Chapter 8 - The Protection

Chapter 9 - Sightseeing

Chapter 10 - Pointed Sticks

Chapter 11 - Exhaustion

Chapter 12 - Junar

Chapter 13 - Vern's Talent

Chapter 14 - Teaching Vern

Chapter 15 - Caught in the Act

Chapter 16 - The Freedom Night

Chapter 17 - Saving Vern

Chapter 18 - Making Money

Chapter 19 - Learning About History

Chapter 20 - Fighting Them All

Chapter 21 - The Trap

Chapter 22 - Experimenting

Chapter 23 - Training with Enric

Chapter 24 - Escape

Chapter 25 - The Offer

Chapter 26 - The Apothecaries

Chapter 27 - Moving

Chapter 28 - The Ball

Chapter 29 - Membership Negotiations

Chapter 30 - The Execution

Chapter 31 - Confrontations

Chapter 32 - Joining the Order

Chapter 33 - An Unpleasant Surprise

Chapter 34 - The Delegation

Chapter 35 - Being Diplomatic

Chapter 36 - Foreign Magic

Chapter 37 - More History

Chapter 38 - Breaking the Barrier

Chapter 39 - Talking to the Apothecaries

Chapter 40 - Orrin's Secret

Chapter 41 - Magical Medicine

Chapter 42 - Learning Dancing

Chapter 43 - A None-Too-Subtle Warning

Chapter 44 - Ram'an's Questions

Chapter 45 - The Assistant

Chapter 46 - Departure

First published in August 2015

2nd edition

Copyright © 2019

Astrid Donaubauer-Grobner

Waltenhofengasse 3/3/3302

1100 Vienna, Austria

The author online:

www.ac-donaubauer.com

www.facebook.com/acdonaubauer

Cover: Biserka Design

Editing: Jürgen Donaubauer, Hannes Ohrlinger

Proofreading: Philip Scott

Video trailer: imageIn Media

ISBN 978-3-9504058-0-4

* * *

To Jürgen - my friend, my lover, my partner.

Thank you for giving me wings and roots.

CHAPTER 1

Eryn

The air was chilly and smelled of the snow that was yet to come. This winter was already harsher than the last few she could remember, even though it was only beginning.

Eryn watched her breath condense in pale clouds before her face and looked up at the star-strewn night sky. Though it was a sight to behold on such a clear, cloudless night she looked forward to returning home to a cosy fire and a warm drink. She hated the cold, always had. Her time of the year was the hot summer months, no matter how exhausting many tasks became in the heat. It certainly was preferable to this chill.

Hugging her bag of roots close to her side, she hurried through the dark main street of the little town. She was supposed to have been back before dark, but the roots were hard to find this year. She suspected that some of the villagers went out themselves to look for them to sell on the markets.

Her father would already be waiting impatiently and be looking out the window every minute or two. He kept pointing out how dangerous being out in the darkness alone was for a fifteen-year-old girl, and Eryn always suppressed a sigh when he started one of his tirades about the many hazards that lurked around every corner. Her late arrival would earn her another one, she was absolutely sure.

Just two more houses and she would reach the narrow path that led to the secluded little house she shared with Treban, her father.

Treban was the town healer, an excellent one, whose reputation had spread all around. The ill and injured came from remote places to seek his help, hardly ever in vain. He took great pride in his work and had never sent anyone away because he or she didn’t have the means to pay.

However, those he treated nevertheless were always eager to find a way to compensate him, even if it took them a while to do so. It was not wise to make a bad impression on somebody like her father; it might be they had need of his services again one day. Sometimes packages arrived with written notes that thanked him, blessed his generous heart. Her father never kept any records who had paid and who hadn’t. He simply didn’t care about that.

He said that healing was not just something he did to put meat on the table, but to serve and take care of people who would in turn take care of him. While to some his altruism seemed rather naïve and they sneered at him for it, his attitude did not keep him from seeing people the way many of them truly were. He just had made the decision himself not to be like them. He was a man who wanted to believe the best, but was very well aware of human nature at its worst.

And Eryn knew that this was exactly why he kept trying to impress on his daughter the need to keep herself safe.

A twig snapped somewhere behind one of the houses, but this was just one of the noises that accompanied life in the countryside. She told herself it might have been a small animal or just somebody who was taking in some chopped wood for cooking.

Nothing to be nervous about, she assured herself, cursing her father for making her see danger in every shadow, portent in every noise around her.

The next sound was closer, behind her.

She swallowed, took a deep breath, turned around – and sighed with relief when she spotted Krion, the baker’s son. He was a few years older than her - a tall, good-looking young man who always had a smile and a wink for Eryn when she came into his father’s shop for bread.

He had started flirting with her some time ago and Eryn felt flattered by his attention. Some of the other girls her age and older had tried to catch his eye, and she was very pleased that he had singled her out. At least, she hoped she was the only one he flirted with… Finding out that this was just how he talked to all the girls as soon as he had a quiet moment with them would devastate her.

A few other boys had started noticing her, but none of them left her stomach feeling tied in knots like Krion.

She beamed when he came closer, as she always had to when she beheld him. “What are you doing out in the cold? Shouldn’t you be home?”

He smiled, bright teeth glinting in the darkness. “I could ask you the same, little Eryn. It’s dangerous out here in the darkness.”

She rolled her eyes. “You sound like my father!”

He laughed. “Why don’t I accompany you home so nothing happens to you that would upset your father?”

She felt her palms starting to sweat. He was offering to escort her home! She would walk with him all the way to her house, having him to herself! This meant he liked her, surely? He wouldn’t walk with her if he didn’t care for her, would he? Or did he do it because this was the kind of chivalrous thing that was just like him?

He waited for her answer. “You are not afraid of me, little Eryn, are you?” he teased her.

Afraid? She was almost dizzy with happiness and smiled. “No, of course not. Thank you, I would like that very much.”

They walked in silence until they had left the town behind them and reached the little path that led to the healer’s house.

“How do you like working with your father? The healing? I mean; your father is teaching you to be a healer, isn’t he?”

She nodded. “Yes, he is. I like it a lot. Sometimes it’s really hard to stay up all night to help somebody who needs to be cared for and watched over and then after only two or three hours of sleep to carry on with your daily work - though luckily enough, that’s not too often. But seeing people come in and feeling really bad and then watching them leave looking so much better is really great.” Don’t babble, she warned herself, you’ll just drive him away.

He stopped before the curve that would bring the house into sight. He came very close, putting his hands on her shoulders and pulling her even closer. Her heart skipped a beat. Would he really kiss her? Her face felt hot despite the cold. What a shame that she could only see his silhouette in the dark.

His lips were cool as they met her own, cold lips, but his tongue was warm. She slipped her arms around his middle and leaned into him, melting.

When she felt his hand on her breast, she pulled back and brushed it aside firmly. He put it back and made to pull her close again.

“No,” she said breathlessly, shaking her head in the dark.

“Why not? You do like me, don’t you?” She could hear the smile in his voice.

She pushed harder when he grabbed one of her wrists to stop her from retreating. “I don’t want this, let me go!”

“All of a sudden you’re playing hard to get? We both know that’s what you are doing!” He sounded irritated, as if he had not really expected any resistance. He seemed to consider it a personal insult.

Instead of answering she tried to kick him where her father had shown her. He barely avoided her foot and cursed when she kicked his thigh. When he grabbed his leg with both hands, Eryn turned towards the house and started to run.

She felt his clutch at her elbow after only a few steps… it almost made her stumble backwards.

“Let me go, you brute!” she screamed, fervently hoping for her father to hear her and come to her rescue.

He slapped a hand over her mouth and pulled her down onto the cold, hard ground, fumbling with one hand to pull up her skirts. She squirmed and writhed under him, kicking, trying to bite his hand, to get him off her. She felt his cold hand on her stomach, working its way down, and felt tears running down her temples. Tears of betrayal, of anger at herself, of utter despair at her helplessness.

Then suddenly his weight on her was gone from one moment to the next. She heard him yelp in surprise and heard what sounded like somebody being hit. There was a sickening crack of what had to be a broken bone and then she heard Krion’s voice retreating, wailing curses.

She didn’t see the man, but recognised her father’s scent of herbs before she felt his warm hands close around hers to pull her up and back on her feet.

“Father,” she snivelled, “he wanted to…”

“I know exactly what he wanted,” her father’s disconcertingly calm voice interrupted her. She recognised the barely contained wrath in it and pushed closer when he put his arm around her shoulders to lead her back to the house with him.

“The roots…” She stopped, trying to see where the bag had landed. Her father saw it first and bent down to pick it up before he put an arm back around her shoulders to pull her close again.

“Come, girl,” he said. “You need to get inside. You are cold as ice.”

Cold was exactly how she felt, chilled through and through. It went deeper than outside temperatures could reach. Not even the welcoming fire she could soon see through the windows of the house promised any relief.

She expected him to reprimand her, scold her for her carelessness in walking alone with a boy in the darkness, but her father said nothing. He merely took the cloak from her shoulders and neatly hung it on the hook at the door beside his own. He had not worn one when he had come for her.

Then he took her hand and led her to his comfortable chair in front of the fire. He went away again and she heard the clinking of earthenware. When he returned to her side, he crouched in front of her, pressing a cup with a clear, dark, sharp-smelling liquid into her hands and brushing away the tears that kept running down her cheeks as she sat, wordless, in the chair.

She made no move to drink, so he lifted her hand with the cup until she took a sip. The sweet liquid burned its way down her throat and made her cough. She almost instantly felt the warmth spread in her stomach.

She looked up into her father’s face that swam in and out of focus between tears. She didn’t speak, still waiting for his tirade that must begin.

For a few long moments they just looked at each other, then her father finally spoke, but to her surprise not to reproach her as she had expected. “I am sorry, child. This is my fault.”

She stared at him, feeling as if she was trapped in an absurd dream. “What?”

He shook his head. “I should have warned you. I should not have sent you out for the roots when it gets dark this early. I should have gone instead. I…”

She grabbed his hand, finding it unbearable that he of all people was blaming himself for what had happened. Or rather, for what he had prevented from happening.

“You have warned me!”

“No.” He freed his hand to rake it through his greying but still full hair. “I did not warn you about him in particular.”

She had not thought that she could freeze even more inside. “Him in particular?” she repeated almost inaudibly.

“Last year I was called to a young girl in town. She had been waylaid and…” His voice drifted off. “She said it had been the baker’s son,” he continued after a while. “I’ve kept my eyes and ears open since then to learn about it in case something like that happens again. And now you, youwere almost…” He broke off again.

Too stunned to speak, she sat rigid, only one thought circling in her head: the young man she had been falling in love with was no more than an animal who made a habit of forcing himself on helpless young women. Every last bit of regard that might have survived his assault dissolved, evaporated to be replaced by something hard and cold.

“I will make him pay for this,” Treban hissed out from between clenched teeth.

She looked up at her father, surprising him when she said, quite calmly, “No.” The tears were still drying on her cheeks, but the glimmer in her eye had turned from injury to cold steel hardness. He was about to object, when she just said, “I will.”

* * *

When Eryn rose the next morning, she was surprised at how late it was. The sun was well up already, and normally her father would have woken her quite some time ago. She was grateful that he hadn’t. The night had not been a peaceful one; it had taken her hours to fall into a restless sleep, despite her father’s nightcap.

When she dressed and went downstairs she saw him sitting in his chair, staring into the fireplace. He had let the fire burn down - only a few glimmering bits of wood remained to give off a little warmth. He looked up when she approached him.

“Sit, Eryn. There is something I want to talk to you about.”

She turned around and fetched a chair from the table to sit opposite him. Then she waited for him to speak.

“I should have done this some time ago already, but I have always deferred it in these last few years, not wanting to see that you are growing into a woman instead of continuing to be my little girl.” He sighed. “But still, knowing what kind of people are out there I should have been keener to do it when you were little.”

Eryn frowned, not having the slightest idea what he could be talking about.

“I see I am confusing you,” he smiled. “You know how the internal organs of a woman work. I showed you several times, you have even healed minor problems yourself. You are blessed with the gift, my dear girl, and this makes it possible for me to do something that will make sure that nobody can ever do to you what this beast tried yesterday.”

She looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Don’t be afraid, Eryn. I am talking about a magical protection that prevents any man or object from entering your body unless you wish it. I can place it there without any pain and it will never be a burden to you. You alone will decide who may pass beyond it.”

Unlike other girls her age, she had no problem talking about matters such as this with her father. The human body was nothing mysterious or shameful, for her it was like an open book. The magic she could perform enabled her to just close her eyes and look around, to see how everything worked, find out what didn’t and administer whatever was needed, either a nudge of healing energy or a herbal cure.

“What happens if somebody tries it without my permission?” she asked curiously.

“It would be a rather painful experience for whoever tried it,” he smiled thinly with a slightly malicious glint in his eyes.

“Anything that would leave permanent damage?” she asked hopefully.

“You know very well how I think about using our abilities to harm people,” he said with an undertone of warning.

She sighed. Of course she knew. It was that just sometimes it would be so much more satisfying to be allowed to cause a little discomfort at least. An itch here, a rash there… Where was the harm?

When they moved here about five years ago, after migrating from one place to the next for about the same length of time, she had needed to adapt to a completely different life from the one she had known. She was the awkward new girl that the other children had teased and called names. A little revenge every now and then would have been nice - especially as they wouldn’t have guessed where it came from.

She had been confused when her father had told her that in this country there were no women with the gift, only men. When she had asked him why, he had told her that he didn’t know.

The next unusual thing had been all these people with the same light hair colour. She dimly remembered that her own natural colour was a lush, dark brown. Here one didn’t find a single person with dark hair. Her father had magically altered their hair colour from a rich, shimmering brown to one of the many shades of blond here.

Keeping it blond, however, had not been so easy. The change was not permanent and as soon as her body did not actively provide the magical energy, the hair changed back again to its original colour. It had taken them weeks to train her subconscious to keep supplying the necessary stream even when she was asleep. She had been and still was too young to learn how to do it herself. It was a highly complex technique.

But the memories of life before coming here had faded so much in these last ten years that she remembered hardly anything now.

“Do you agree?” he father spoke impatiently into her thoughts when she didn’t respond.

“Yes.” She didn’t really need to think about it. Her father wouldn’t propose it if it were dangerous or unnecessary. “How does it work?”

“I will place some protection around your lower abdomen that will remain as long as you have life force in you to power it. All your fluids will still be able to leave your body without any problems.”

“Nobody can remove it?” she asked.

“Only a magician stronger than myself. And there shouldn’t be many of those around,” he added, with a confident smirk.

Eryn wouldn’t know, she had never seen any other magicians, but he himself knew that he was extraordinarily strong. Which was why he had lost his companion to a stupid game of power and had to flee with his daughter into another country where he lived a simple life, hiding his and his daughter’s abilities, passing as no more than a well-educated apothecary. The fact that Eryn was beginning to show the first signs of being an apt healer herself didn’t pose any danger, even if, thanks to her hidden abilities, she did turn out to be uncommonly good at it.

Everybody here knew that women didn’t have any magical powers, after all.

* * *

Eryn took a deep breath when she looked out the window and saw Prowel, the baker come down the path that led to their house.

“Father,” she called out urgently, “Prowel is on his way here. He doesn’t look happy.”

Her father went to the door and opened it abruptly before the baker had a chance to bang the fist he had lifted against it. He all but stumbled inside.

“What do you want?” her father asked calmly.

“You!” Prowel pointed a finger at the healer, “You have broken my son’s arm!”

So that had been the cracking noise, Eryn mused. She smiled, knowing that carrying bags of flour would really hurt for a while.

“He attacked my daughter.” Still no sign of emotion.

“He told me all about it – kissing her is no justification for your breaking his arm, you ignorant fool!” The baker had started shouting.

Not a good move, Eryn mused. Her father did not respond well to loudness. That he was dead set against harming people with magic didn’t stop him from doing so physically if necessary. He might seem bookish in his grey robe and long hair, smelling of plants, but he chopped his own wood, did all repairs in and around the house. He was in very good shape.

“Kissing is not what I saw. How could he when his hand was covering her mouth to keep her from screaming?” Now she could hear steel in his voice. “You know very well what he was trying to do and what he’s done in the past. If you do not put a stop to this, nobody in your family will ever receive any medical help from me again.”

Prowel’s entire head had gone completely red. “I demand that you come at once and take care of that arm that you broke!” It clearly was an immense effort for him to keep himself from screaming.

“I just told you that you and yours are no longer entitled to any healing from me. Leave now. Don’t come back before you have taken care of this.” He made to close the door but the baker drew back his fist. As he made to punch the healer in the face, he felt himself dragged forward and then a sharp pain erupted in his back where he hit the floor. When he was able to move again he staggered to his feet and out the door.

Stumbling on unsteady legs, he turned back to the house and raised his finger. “This is not over, healer!” He spat out the last word and wobbled back to the town.

* * *

People talked, of course. The baker’s son had his broken arm in a sling around his neck, telling everybody who wanted to hear it, as well as those who didn’t, that he had obtained the injury when he had jumped out of the way of a cart that would otherwise have surely killed him.

But the reason for the gossip was rather why he had not seen the healer to tend to it. The baker could surely afford to pay for medical treatment for his son, especially as Treban’s rates were more than reasonable and he generally accepted payment in kind. But Krion declined with a depreciating snort, declaring it was just a scratch and that the quality of the healer’s services was grossly overrated anyway.

That made people’s ears prick up. Talking about their healer in a derogatory way was not something that was done. It was an unwritten law. Not only was there hardly ever a reason for it, but it was also a great stroke of luck for the town that the man had decided to move there and provide affordable, high quality medical services when he could instead easily have made a fortune in a larger city.

It was further noticed that neither the healer nor his daughter seemed to come to the baker’s shop any more to buy bread. When they tried to get some information out of Treban he would just reply in his usual good-natured way that Eryn had developed a liking for baking, and thus he indulged her by letting her experiment. And now they had so much bread and cake at home all the time that there was no more need to buy any.

Many were satisfied and, just as he had intended it, amused by the little story. Others, however, knew Eryn a little and not entirely unjustly hardly took her for the baking kind.

Whenever Eryn saw Krion somewhere in town she forced herself not to avert her eyes but meet his coldly and steadily. First he had sneered when he encountered her somewhere, clearly confident in the knowledge that he had done something punishable and had got away unscathed, but after a while his bearing seemed to be confused. She wasn’t acting as he was expecting her to: no sign of timidity, anxiety or even hatred. Just coolness.

For many weeks, ways of punishing him were coursing through her head, some of them public, others in a private setting, some which left no visible marks, others which were bloody and for everyone to see, some dealt with the aid of magic, others with nothing more than a heavy object hitting his easily harmed places.

Her father would object to her using magic, she knew. She understood his philosophy of not using a powerful advantage to harm others, but it was not as if Krion had the same scruples that kept him from using his physical strength against somebody weaker than himself. Why did he deserve any lenience – especially when he had already got away unpunished with hurting a woman before?

She almost bumped into Krion when she crossed the road lost in thoughts of how to torture him. He was with a group of boys the same age, most of whom she knew.

“If it isn’t the healer’s daughter,” he drawled. “I have heard that you have discovered a liking for baking. Not to compete with my father and me, I hope?” His companions looked uncomfortable when he laughed. One didn’t mess with the healer’s family, it just was not prudent. But while they didn’t join him, neither did they try to make him move along.

“Well, what can I say?” she smiled sweetly. “The bread has just not been up to standard lately.” Touch me, she thought. Give me an opportunity to harm you while you are trying to harm me.

But he merely ground his teeth together and glared at her through narrowed eyes. She wondered how she could ever have found him appealing.

“Forgive me, my high-born Lady, that our humble country baking is not to your distinguished taste.”

She saw that he had clenched his fists. Good, she thought gleefully. Just a little further now…

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I know you try as hard as you can,” she cooed patronisingly. Krion quickly cut off a boy’s snicker with an angry glare.

“How is that arm of yours doing?” She made her voice ooze with a delighted malice, this being the last thing she could think of that might provoke him enough to lay a hand on her in bright daylight.

Triumph surged through her when she suddenly felt the fingers of his intact hand dig into her upper arm. It was no direct skin contact, but better than nothing. A few thin layers of fabric were no trouble. She could work with that.

She stretched her inner senses and used the diagnostic skills her father had taught her to look inside his body, following the weak pulse of energy she had sent up the arm that held her. Concentrating on his forearm she slowly instructed his body to reduce the substance of the healthy, strong bone inside at one particular point. Not entirely, nothing he could feel, but enough to cause the next extra strain to make it snap.

It was the exact reverse technique for healing a bone, yet worked a lot more quickly. Funny, she thought, how doing damage was so much easier than mending it.

His friends had finally decided that he was going too far and had grabbed his shoulders to pull him away from her.

“What are you doing?” she heard one of them whisper. “Are you totally mad?”

Krion just freed himself from their grasp and turned around to stalk away wordlessly.

She hid a smile when she watched him disappear into the tavern, closing the door behind him none too gently.

* * *

The door to the little house was pushed open violently and banged against the wall with an ear-splitting crack. Eryn flinched and looked up from the dried herbs she was sorting on the table.

Treban looked furious. He was beyond angry, she could tell it from the way the blood pulsed through the bulging blood vessel at his throat. That did not bode well and there was only one reason she could imagine that might have put him in such a mood.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” His voice had taken on a threatening, forced calm that barely contained the rage that she could see in the eyes glaring at her. He still stood in the door frame. It didn’t even occur to him that she might not know what he was talking about.

So Krion had finally broken his other arm as she had intended. And now she had to pay the price for her revenge: facing her father.

She covered the herbs on the table with a clean cloth to stop the cold breeze that came in through the open door from whirling them around. Then she swallowed and rose. Better to do this standing up.

“He has received what he deserved,” she said quietly, knowing for sure that he would not take this well.

“What he deserved? What he DESERVED?” He flung the door shut with a forceful movement of his hand, making the little picture frames with the dried herbs on the walls tremble slightly. “You should be glad I don’t bestow upon you what you deserve! You are no better than that animal! You used your power to harm somebody who was helpless to defend himself against it! I am ashamed of you.” The volume of his voice had subsided with every sentence until he had almost reached his usual pitch.

She flinched at his words, even though she had expected them almost word for word. The lessened volume had not made them easier to listen to. Quite the opposite. She waited silently for him to continue. He didn’t look as if he was finished yet.

“I told you of the dangers of misuse, of how power like ours can corrupt souls. How people who think they are superior thanks to their abilities can cause immense misery for themselves and those around them. You just made the first step towards that abyss.” He sounded empty, resigned. She was almost relieved when his anger flared up again.

“Did you listen to nothing I have told you?” He had stepped close to her and accompanied his words with smashing his fist down on the table hard enough to make the herbs jump. And Eryn.

She swallowed hard and remained standing in front of her father, lowering her gaze under his furious one. This was not the first time she had seen him this incensed, but never before had she been the target. She wondered if he was going to hit her for the first time.

He took a step back as if to keep himself from doing just that. Then he turned around. “I can’t look at you just now,” he said and opened the door again. “We will talk later.” And he was gone.

Eryn stared after him feeling her mouth dry. She wondered if she should run after him to apologise and beg him to forgive her. She decided not to for two reasons. Firstly, he was certainly not in any mood to accept an apology right now and secondly, it would be a lie.

She was positively not sorry for what she had done and she was convinced that she had not set foot on a dark path that would lead to perdition and damnation. But she was sorry about her father’s grief and felt the rejection burning inside her.

She would make up for it somehow. Maybe cooking him a good dinner would be a start. She put on the cooking apron and started cleaning vegetables.

* * *

Eryn kept glancing towards the door whenever she thought she heard a noise from outside. Her father had been gone for many hours and it was already dark outside. Was he angry enough at her to stay away from home for the night? She hoped not.

Trying to keep herself busy she continued working on medicines, decanting herbal concoctions into small glass vials, grinding herbs into a fine powder to be mixed with hot water directly before use and tipping it into small leather pouches.

Her father would be pleased with her efforts, she knew. She had saved him several hours of work, after all. And she hoped that would make him better disposed towards her and forgive her more easily. Of course he would see right through her reason for working on the herbs, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t usually one to spurn a sensible attempt at bribing him when it was done well. He had that kind of humour.

She was almost finished when she saw torches emerge from behind the hill that hid most of the path to the town. She counted five of them. Her heart started beating harder in her chest and she felt unease creep up on her. Where these men from the town bringing her drunken father home? The thought was dreadful, but the nearer they came the more she hoped that this was all it was about.

When they were close enough for her to recognise the men’s faces, she opened the door. Her father was not among them.

They looked at her, their pale expressions masks of grim misery. She could read in their eyes that something was terribly, horribly wrong, and tears sprang to her own even before the oldest of them, the glass-maker who supplied them with vials for their medicines, began to speak.

“Your father is dead, child.” His voice sounded rough and sad.

Her vision blurred behind tears and the sudden pain in her chest forced her to her knees. She felt two pairs of hands at her shoulders, lifting her up and guiding her back inside the house into her father’s chair in front of the fire place. Fighting for air, violent sobs burst from her.

Gone! No - this couldn’t be. He couldn’t be lost forever when they had just talked a few hours ago. The last words between them… His had been that he was ashamed of her, and her last words were spoken in defiance of his beliefs. Never again a chance to set it right, she would have to live with this burden.

She didn’t know how long she had sat there with the men trying to talk her into sipping the strong drink they held to her lips.

When her sobs had lost most of their force, the glass-maker exchanged a look with the others before he spoke again. “Your father was killed, Eryn. Prowel stabbed him in the back with a knife. He accused your father of breaking Krion’s other arm. He must not have been right in the head.”

She stared up at him, hardly comprehending the words she heard. When the full meaning of the message sank into her consciousness, coldness gripped her and slid deep until it had reached the very core of her being, deeper than warm blankets, fires and potent drinks could ever reach.

Her father had warned her that nothing good could ever come from using magic against the unprotected, the ones unable to defend themselves. He had been right, she realised with a dreadful, numbing clarity.

Her actions had cost him his life.

CHAPTER 2

Enric

He sat on the roof of the bakery nearest to the palace, watching the sun rise. That was not typical for him. He usually avoided rising before the sun unless there was no other choice. He wondered if today’s exception might have something to do with what awaited him in a few hours, but dismissed this quickly. He blew a strand of his slightly overlong hair out of his blue eyes. Not wearing it the way he was supposed to was a minor act of rebellion he delighted in. One of many, in fact.

A few passers-by looked up at the young man in his early twenties who had chosen such an unusual spot for staring up at the sky, but moved on when they recognised the robes the young man wore. Magicians. It was best not to interfere with whatever they were up to.

All his fellow magicians who had finished their training with him this year would be tested to gauge their magical strength and then apply for a suitable position in the Order. In an institution where hierarchy was defined by the amount of magical strength a man could wield, this was practically an evaluation of personal worth, Enric mused. He had never been a friend of evaluations, be they magical or intellectual.

And thus he had never been a particularly attentive student. He had enjoyed the comfort his status as magician conferred. He came from a family of wealthy merchants and had not exactly been raised as a pauper, but joining the Order had still been a step up in living circumstances.

His parents were thrilled when they discovered his abilities and had sent word to the Order immediately. He was twelve years old then. Amazing, he pondered, how mind-numbingly tiresome the ten years since then had been. Not that he would have preferred spending them with his father, though.

His parents’ excitement and pride had quickly turned into anger and frustration when they kept receiving reports of his less than productive attitude. His father, a merchant through and through, had tried hard to sell to him the idea of being an important man with important duties, making his family proud, accomplishing great things. Which was all to no avail.

The Order of Magicians was dedicated to the defence of the kingdom, even if only history teachers knew about the last time there had been an actual need for that. The fighting skills training had been fun, Enric had enjoyed it even if Lord Orrin, his teacher, was not exactly thrilled with his laziness and lack of respect.

The rest of the lessons from the last years merged into some kind of blurred sphere of information. He graduated one year late, as his approach to learning had not exactly been an ambitious one and he’d needed to repeat several exams.

Today was the day when his place in the Order’s hierarchy would be decided. He was not tense as such - more curious. He knew that he was stronger than most – if not all – of this year’s graduates, but it would be interesting to see how far up he could make it. Not too far, he hoped. The more responsible positions came with requirements. He was not a great fan of requirements, rules and the like.

Most of his teachers had reprimanded him for his laziness when it was apparent that he had a talent for magic and its use, but didn’t want to bother with spending the time and energy that would have made him proficient. They tried to impress on him that magic without the knowledge of when and how to use it would hold him back, but he had never planned on going far.

A nice position as a clerk or assistant in the Order would suit him just fine. Something that left him enough spare time to pursue his interests: hunting and spending time with his friends.

* * *

He stood together with a group of young magicians his age. Most of them were edgy. Some of them admitted it openly, others were trying to hide it with grandstanding or rudeness.

“Not much to be afraid of, eh, Enric?” his good friend Kilan asked. “You are pretty much the strongest one this year, I imagine. Maybe there is a nice place waiting for you in the upper ranks?” He spoke the last words with a smile, knowing fully well that this was not at all what Enric was striving for.

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice,” Enric replied without enthusiasm.

Kilan was the next who was called in to be tested. It didn’t take him very long to return. He looked pleased.

“Category D. Not too sloppy,” he grinned. He had known that there was no way for him to make it any higher than C, and he had hoped not to be classified lower than E. So the golden middle was absolutely fine.

“Congratulations, mate.” Enric turned when the double doors were opened again and his name was announced. “See you in a moment.”

He walked into the hall and bowed before the assembled magicians who in turn inclined their heads.

Enric let his gaze wander over the ten men. He knew them to be selected from the different strength categories, the strongest one of them Lord Poron, a B as far as he knew and the second strongest magician in the Order and thus the kingdom. He fit the picture of second in command nicely, Enric had always thought. He had to be in his sixties, his thinning hair bound together in a short tail at the nape of his neck, his eyes intelligent and sharp as if he was constantly analysing the world around him.

Several of the magicians were known to him by sight only, a few were his former teachers.

Their expressions were not exactly enthusiastic when he entered. With the exception of Lord Orrin, his fighting instructor, who had been the only one who had never taken any cheek from Enric, none had very fond memories of him.

“Shield yourself,” Lord Poron’s instruction echoed off the high stone walls.

He did so and moments later the first bolt of energy hit his barrier. Two more were sent his way without any effect. A second magician, his old history teacher if he remembered correctly, joined his colleague and started attacking Enric’s shield. Nothing happened.

More magicians joined them, one after the other, until seven of them shot strikes in quick succession. Enric saw them frown. Then Lord Poron lifted his arm to stop them. He breathed in, pointed the palm of his outstretched arm at him and fired a clear bolt at the shield.

It didn’t penetrate the barrier. Lord Poron looked pale and troubled and motioned for the scribe who was there to note down the category of each magician. He whispered something into the young man’s ear, who then went off at a swift pace.

Enric waited, still holding his shield in place. This playing around was a waste of time - why didn’t they start the real thing so he could join his friends for a cool drink?

“Am I finished? Can I leave? What category am I?” he called out to the assembled magicians that had started whispering amongst themselves and occasionally gave him an apprehensive glance.

Lord Poron walked towards him. “We must ask you for a little patience, young man. We need to wait for somebody. I am sure he will arrive soon.”

Enric frowned in puzzlement. “What is this about? The others before me were in and out in a matter of moments. I am not in any kind of trouble, am I?” He couldn’t remember having done anything recently he ought to feel guilty about.

“No.” Lord Poron’s smile seemed rather forced. “No trouble, rest assured.” Then he returned to the other magicians, leaving the young man standing alone in the centre of the great hall, waiting.

Not much time had passed before the double doors opened again and the man who came in caused Enric’s brows to shoot up in surprise. It was Lord Tyront, the big man in the Order. What was he doing here?

Lord Tyront was in his mid-forties, a tall, formidable looking man with first streaks of grey visible in his beard. His pale blue eyes darted to Enric instantly and stayed there when he approached him without talking to the other magicians first.

When he was only a few paces away he stopped and raised his booming voice, “Shield yourself, boy.”

Enric did so hastily and took a step back, whereupon a volley of strikes was sent from Lord Tyront’s palm at his barrier. They were stronger than what had been thrown at him before, very much so. The older man continued to send bolts towards him, increasing their strength with every salve. Soon his shield started to waver and he quickly poured more energy into it to keep it intact.

Lord Tyront stopped, looked at him thoughtfully and then without warning unleashed a white flash that cut through Enric’s barrier and threw him on his back.

The young man swallowed an exclamation of pain. It wouldn’t do to show any sign of weakness in front of the Order’s mighty leader. He struggled back to his feet and frowned at the man who had struck him. Surely that had not been necessary.

When he looked at the magicians in the back, he saw a few mouths hanging open, others were pressed into a thin line. One thing they all had in common: stony silence.

“Am I done now?” He demanded from no one in particular.

Lord Tyront smiled without humour. “Oh no, my young friend. You are not done. In fact, I think you will not be done for quite a while.”

Enric stared at him in puzzlement. “What?”

“Category A,” the leader announced loudly for everyone in the hall to hear. “We have a new second in command.” Then he turned around and left the way he had come.

Enric stared after him uncomprehendingly, even after the heavy doors had closed behind him with a loud boom.

He shook his head. Something had to be wrong with his ears. Category A? What nonsense. Nobody was that strong, apart from the Head Magician, of course.

But the way the magicians gawked at him in disbelief let the truth dawn on him gradually.

They had called for Lord Tyront because Lord Poron, the second-strongest magician in the Order, had not been able to break Enric’s shield. All colour drained from his face when he started to grasp the full impact of what had just happened.

“Oh no,” he moaned, closing his eyes.

* * *

Tyront sighed and felt how the tension was slowly building behind his forehead when he read the reports about his future second in command. The boy had been causing him headaches for weeks now.

Considering Enric’s past education it was hardly a surprise that he had not responded very well to the training plan that had been assigned to him and cooperated no more than was necessary to avoid the accusation of outright disobedience. It had been nearly one month now, and it didn’t look as if his attitude was about to change anytime soon.

Not only did he have to learn a whole lot of new things and improve sets of skills, but he was also meant to repeat every single test he had passed barely or in which he had merely scored average marks during the years of his magician training.

In his new position he was supposed to be a role model, a respected pillar of the Order, a well of wisdom and knowledge and, if need be, a strong commander to lead others into battle. He needed to leave behind him the lazy scallywag image he had cultivated in these last years.

Orrin was the only one who had something remotely positive to report about him. So at least the fighting was going comparatively well. Unfortunately, that was only a minor comfort and by no means enough to consider the training in its entirety a success.

His thoughts wandered to Lord Poron, his current second in command. As was to be expected, he was anything but thrilled about being displaced in general and particularly by somebody like Enric. He was not the vengeful type, Tyront mused, and wouldn’t make life harder than necessary for his successor. Pity, he thought. A reason to fight, even if only against a disgruntled predecessor might have provided the motivation for finally making an effort. It seemed like he would have to take care of that himself.

It was time to have a little chat with Enric.

* * *

Enric swallowed when he read the note on the soft, expensive looking light brown paper a servant had delivered only a minute before. It didn’t say much, only My quarters, nine o’clock. Lord Tyront.

That was in less than one hour. Not enough time to prepare sufficiently, but enough time to become really nervous. Which was probably the idea, he suspected.

There was not much doubt as to the reason for this summons. His progress, as he was very well aware, was anything but satisfactory, which was fine for Enric as he had never wanted the honour that was forcefully bestowed upon him.

The Order’s leader would hardly be pleased with how things were going. Being called upon to justify his poor performance had really only been a matter of time.

So far Lord Tyront had not shown any interest in him since the day of the testing. This message was the first time he had seen or heard anything from him. Obviously the great Lord only gave his attention when something was amiss. Like now.

Enric looked around in his new quarters in the King’s palace, still feeling a little lost. They were to his former abode what a sapling was to a tree. Four large rooms, all to himself. And a lot more than he really needed. But being high up in ranks was not about only having what was required, was it? His quarters were supposed to reflect his importance, be representative.

Representative they were, he sighed. Yet the question was what they represented. Certainly not his personality.

The apartment was furnished elegantly and luxuriously, leaving nothing to be desired. The parlour alone was larger than the two rooms he had lived in before. And he was assigned his own servant who cleaned, fetched his food from the palace kitchen and took care of his every whim.

Enric had always been one to enjoy luxury, but not to a degree to motivate him enough to make the effort they expected. There was too much attached that he simply didn’t want. All this responsibility, the consequences if he failed, the hard work to get there… No.

That was not what he had planned for himself. What he had wanted, and still did, was a nice, uncomplicated, comfortable life with none too hard work, enough time for his friends and being more or less left to his own devices.

His friends. That was another matter that worried him. Most of them had kept away from him since the big announcement. And even with those that still met him, the frequency had decreased considerably. Even his closest mate, Kilan, who was used to dealing with influential people thanks to his father’s position, had started withdrawing noticeably.

Enric stared out of the window unseeingly.

How was it possible that he of all people had turned out to be the second-strongest magician in the kingdom? What a joke.

* * *

The door opened after Enric had finished knocking. An elderly male servant bowed slightly and stepped back to let him enter the parlour - a room that looked very much like his own apart from the clearly visible female hand that had been at work here.

Lord Tyront rose from his seat by the window and looked his guest up and down. He didn’t bother with a greeting of any sort but motioned to a dark red settee in front of a small round table.

“Sit.”

And a good evening to you, Enric thought, annoyed, but did as he was told.

“Please leave us alone now,” Tyront addressed the servant and waited until the man had retreated. Then he turned back to Enric and scowled at him.

He remained standing and began without introduction, “Your performance keeps falling short of my expectations. Justify yourself.” Even though the words were harsh, his tone was not.

Unconsciously Enric sat up a little straighter, an ingrained habit from his days as a boy when he had been expected to show respect when he was scolded.

“I'm sorry, Lord Tyront.”

“No, you are not. I didn’t ask you to lie to me, I asked you to give me a reason.”

“I… I have to admit, My Lord, that I am not very happy with the current situation.”

Lord Tyront sighed impatiently. “Stop pussyfooting around, boy. Say what's on your mind.”

The young man lifted his chin defiantly when he said, “I do not want to be forced into this position. Neither have I asked for it, nor am I interested in it.”

“A clear statement, finally,” the other one commented dryly and finally took a seat opposite his reluctant guest. “What is it that puts you off?”

Enric sighed and lifted and dropped his arms several times in search for words before he replied, “All of it.”

“Would you care to elaborate? This is not exactly helpful,” the older man said patiently.

“The responsibility. I mean, what exactly qualifies me to take a position to command much older, more experienced magicians than myself? This doesn’t make any sense! What if I do something wrong or make a wrong decision? The consequences!” His voice had become agitated.

“What qualifies you is firstly your superior strength, as it serves the Order’s primary purpose of defence and secondly, the knowledge and special training you are receiving.” Lord Tyront’s voice was calm. “What else?”

“The work. I want to be independent, not being told what to do and work all night long for nothing, no time for myself and…” He stopped himself.

“And your family? Like you father, the successful merchant, who always worked almost around the clock to chase the next business opportunity? Who left you and your siblings in the care of an unhappy companion unless he had demands you had to obey?”

Enric stared at Lord Tyront. How could he possibly know about that? He had never told anybody about it, not even his closest friends. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if his private life had been trespassed on by this man whose face was of course known to everybody in the city, but who was basically no more than a stranger to him.

Lord Tyront continued while he remained silent, staring gloomily at the carpet. “And you just contradicted yourself. If commanding other, older magicians is such a great issue for you, why would you worry about being told what to do yourself? You can't have both, positions of neither giving nor receiving orders are not in accordance with the nature of our institution. Or of our society, for that matter. Though being high up in the hierarchy considerably reduces the number of people that may order you around.”

“There is you. And the King,” he replied sullenly. “There might not be as many above me, but the ones that are left do not respond well to having their orders questioned.”

A problem with authority, Tyront thought. But that was no surprise after insights which recent and older reports had given him. “True. There is not much room for questioning the King’s orders. But I assure you that I will listen to what you say and might even act on it if it is halfway sensible. It is, in fact, your duty to advise me.”

“Me, advise you?” Enric shook his head in desperation. “How can I advise you?”

“You will start by growing up and working hard to meet the Order’s and my expectations.” His words contained only a hint of threat. “You will learn to think before you speak and act. You will show respect and demand it in return. Before that you will have to turn into somebody who deserves respect.”

“I don’t want this,” the young man whispered.

“The trouble is that nobody asks us what we want,” Tyront replied sympathetically. “But let me tell you something: Men who strive for great power are usually the ones least suitable to wield it. Hunger for power is not a requirement for this position, quite the opposite. This is the great thing in your favour, my boy.” He leaned closer and caught Enric in a penetrating stare. “Dealing with your issues is something that you will have to come to terms with by growing up quickly. You might consider the upper ranks as a bunch of harmless old men, but let me tell you that weaklings do not survive long among us. The air is thin up here, as you will learn soon enough.” And then he uttered what he was confident would work: a challenge.

“Are you weak, Enric?”

CHAPTER 3

Handed Over

12 years later

Eryn climbed up the steep, for want of a better word, path and pulled a cloth out of the canvas bag she had slung over her shoulder across her chest to wipe her perspiring forehead. Collecting herbs was usually a task she enjoyed but not when it was that hot and there was no shadow in sight.

Unfortunately, the plants she needed were rather high up and required a lot of direct sunlight, so there would not be a cool spot coming along anytime soon.

She stopped to pull out the sturdy leather drinking pouch filled with water and took a generous swig. It was lukewarm and not exactly refreshing, but served well enough to moisten her dry throat.

Judging from the receding tree line to her left side the rest of the way would only take her another hour. She walked a few steps to a nearby boulder and sat down to rest for a short while. She knew better than to overexert herself in this heat.

The memories of the first time she had walked this way more than fifteen years ago came suddenly and unbidden. Her father had been with her that autumn day, constantly asking her to identify this tree, that flower, testing her as to the procedures of turning them into medicines, correcting her if she got a detail wrong or supplying bits of information that had slipped her mind.