Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

Edited! I'm on a roll...

41

Reston Feen Tarandahl was the oldest son of Lord Galadin, a half-elf out of Lana Hightower, a wealthy cloth merchant's daughter. She'd caught His Lordship's eye as her father had intended, and ended up as part of Galadin's entourage on his long fight northward.

"An honor, and tremendous good fortune for the family," her father had assured the girl, while her mother just stood there and cried, helpless to alter the business transaction.

Lana had never seen them, or her home, again.

Not the most auspicious of beginnings, but Galadin was quite charming when he wanted to be; extremely attractive and patient. He gave Lana ample time and space in which to mourn. To be angry and frightened and homesick, merely requesting her presence at dinner, each night.

All her long life, she held onto that. That Galadin had been willing to wait for her to come around on her own. It helped, a bit, and the eventual birth of her son helped even more.

Reston vividly recalled camp life. It was paradise for a young boy. Living in tents and on horseback, constantly moving, watching his glorious elven father ride out to battle and come back victorious time after time. It had all seemed perfectly normal; good and right and the way things should be. The freest time of Reston's whole life.

He'd had younger siblings, twins born in due course. But Haldon had been taken by a reaver while still toddling about, and Sheera had been shot through the throat by a goblin arrow, fired from a thicket that Galadin burned to scorched, twisted glass in revenge.

There were no more children after that… but Mum celebrated the twins' spring birthday in private, forever afterward. Reston still did the same, in her honor.

He'd been there, on the saddle in front of his mother, when they came at last to the edge of a high granite cliff overlooking a beautiful lake. Gazing across those blue, sparkling waters, the warband had seen a mighty fortress. Gigantic in scale, tremendously ancient and seemingly carved from a single vast outcrop of jet, it looked like a mountain, but wasn't.

Even to Reston's young eyes, the fortress crackled with magic. From the paired, floating islands that circled it, to the shimmering force gate in front and the magically up-falling watercourse, the citadel thrummed with deep, untapped manna.

Reston had twisted about on the saddle to glance at his father, whose horse, Traveler, was just a little ahead of mother's.

"There," said Galadin, as a golden fire-lizard shifted and preened itself on his armored shoulder. "Tonight, we camp there."

Skipper-the-first had barked excitedly, Reston recalled; dashing out to the edge of the cliff and then racing back to his usual spot between Traveler's forelegs.

Mother had sighed, murmuring something about "Sleeping under a real roof, for once,'' which wasn't exactly fair. They always bivouacked in winter, building walls of felled timber, setting powerful wards and constructing a stout wooden hall. There'd been feasting and hunting and tales by the fire, all season long, with Turn-of-Dark presents as the Serpent's power waned and full daylight came back, at last.

…But mother would grumble about keeping house and family while out in the wilderness. She'd filled her surviving son's head with stories of Karellon, but what could be better than horses and hounds and new sights, always around that next bend in the trail? Than truly believing that they were a family, and that nothing need ever change?

They'd had to camp outside the fortress that night, anyhow, because it was filled on the first level with goblin altars and worship detritus. Bones, ashes, old bread and the like wretched trash.

His mighty father, glowing like Firelord, had invoked the god, calling upon Alaryn's power to blast and cauterize that vast and echoing space. When inhabited by Firelord, Galadin was almost too bright to look upon, but Reston had forced himself not to flinch or cover his eyes. That proud of his sire, he'd been.

After that, little by bit, everything fell apart. It was mother who'd thought up the name "Starloft", after the single pale light that shone through the force gate. That was the name father used, when he slashed his own palm with a spelled knife, then ground the resultant fire and blood into the citadel's stone.

"Starloft," he'd announced, in more than just Galadin's voice. "High seat of the Tarandahls. This is the blood that you shelter. This is the line that you serve, forever after."

Something inside of Reston had tingled and sparked at that, though mother and most of the warband had not felt a thing.

Life in one place did not much suit Reston, but that was the least of his troubles. It turned out that father had an elvish wife; a great and sorcerous lady, back in Karellon. That, as soon as Starloft was made ready and the goblins pacified, she would be coming north to join her long-absent lord.

"Matters between us must change, boy," said Galadin, that final night by the campfire, when they'd last gone hunting together. "I have allowed too much familiarity. That was poorly done, and I regret the pain its cessation must cause. Please believe that I am sorry, and that I will miss you as my son. I will provide for your mother. She, and you, will not be without honor or sustenance… but the Lady Alyanara is my wife, and hereafter, I am your lord."

Words that cut terribly deep. To this day, the sound and sight of a campfire, a certain cast of the stars and scent on the wind could bring it all crashing back.

It might have helped if he could have hated Alyanara, but she was bewilderingly, stunningly lovely. Handmaid of the Dawn, having been wed to Galadin straight from the end of her childhood service at Oberyn's temple.

Mother was given to Sigismund Thain, the first shire-reeve of Starloft's growing village, whom Reston politely hated. And he… was no longer noble. Was no longer acknowledged as Galadin's son. Caused trouble in Starshire for which he could never be punished, because everyone knew, and no one could say.

Being a half-elf, he aged and matured more slowly than a human, but far swifter than any elf (except under tremendous stress, when… like their godly ancestors… elvish children had been known to shoot up and flower in heartbeats).

His mother mourned, but did not grow bitter; excusing Galadin all of her days. And Reston…

Began writing things down in a magically expanding journal. The book had been left for him on his name day by a hooded and cloaked silent figure that everyone else pretended not to see. Reston had wanted to rush forward. To force a confrontation. But his mother's slim hand on his trembling shoulder, her whispered…

"Please,"

…locked him in place. Over the years, until his father's death at sea, there was always a present. Always a briefly appearing, cloaked figure. No matter where, in angry rebellion he'd wandered off, Reston could not escape father's silent visit and gift.

One year a clasp knife, one year a fine colt, eventually a sword of good quality, if not noble lineage. From someone who plainly cared, but would not alter a decision, once made. Not for sorrow or love or regret. Not for anything.

Time after time, Reston went back to the journal. Father, he recalled, had always written the day's thoughts and activities, the next day's goals, in a book of his own. There, by mage glow and firelight, out of his armor for the night, Galadin would work out his spells and strategies.

Reston had learnt his runes and his letters sitting on father's lap as the elf-lord wrote. Often, the boy had been allowed to scribble, draw stick figures and practice his own writing there, adding his childish bit to father's record of events. Writing brought comfort and something like peace.

Still, Reston left home for a time, driven out past the Talon Mountains and into the poisoned waste by the birth of his brothers. Keldaran was born to Lady Alyanara and declared heir. But (maybe worse) mother gave birth to an utterly human scrap of a boy whom Sigismund proudly named Kristof.

Amidst all of the celebration, Reston stole off, taking only his horse, sword and journal. Thought of provisions, as well, taking great pleasure in side-walking through the locked doors of Sigismund Thain's storehouse and seizing as much as his faerie pockets would hold. Including his stepfather's hidden pipe leaf and brandy-wine stash.

That first night away, he made himself sick on pipe weed and liquor, but rose up stronger and more determined to leave, anyhow. He traveled far, surviving some harrowing brushes with goblins and trolls and the dark things that haunted the woods beyond Galadin's borders. Stayed for a time in Lobum. There was a wood-elf lass, there, with tawny skin and hair of thick, springing green. Andara, daughter of one of their druids. There was, at eye-contact, that rushing together of hearts. That increased pulse and altered breathing, in tandem, that meant: This one. This is the one you've been seeking.

Not at first, of course. Reston had spent many nights in a cell. Comfortable enough, if terribly bored… until the suspicious woodlings decided that he wasn't a threat. Was, in fact, "Just passing through."

Andara was beautiful, if not much given to talk… but Reston left, anyhow. He wanted no family. No woman and child to love and betray.

He turned his back on her and on Lobum. Scaled the high mountains. Spent some time at the Constellate among the paladins of Oberyn, but their stern, chilly brotherhood could not hold him, either.

Honestly would have died, lost and wandering the poisoned waste, had Ashlord not come to him. Rising from the embers of the last fire he'd strength and fuel enough to kindle, a tall, smoky figure had taken shape. Seemingly formed out of glittering ashes and smoke, grey-haired, pallid and gaunt, the Silent One had gazed at, then healed, young Reston. Hunger, thorn-venom, thirst-craze had all vanished with a gesture, leaving the half-elf alive, hale and clear-headed.

The healing was free. A gift, Reston sensed. The god of waiting, of patient strategy and long-game revenge did not demand service. He merely offered, wordlessly, something that would not break or betray. Someone whose mind and heart would not change throughout all of time.

As further inducement, the Silent One drew a party of desert rangers to his campsite. Good folk; mostly human or half-breeds like Reston, himself. They neither knew nor cared about his past. Gave him the nickname "Scrivener" over his incessant writing.

Raedmund the Apostate was their leader. 'Be the good you keep praying for', their motto. Made up of those who'd turned their backs on something or someone, forever, they patrolled the wastes, saving whomever they could.

Reston joined them, learning to battle the darkness and find those wandering lost in the desert. Stayed with the rangers for several years, feeling almost as free as he had on the campaign north with mom and his father.

Then, one night after patrol, as he sat near the fire, recording the day's events, a sentence wrote itself out in Galadin's bold, flowing script.

'Your mother lies dying,' it read. Then, underneath, 'If you would see her, come soon.'

It was then and there that Reston the Scrivener… later the Grim… gave himself to Ashlord, entirely. Wrote the sigil, cut the tattoo and seared it with smoldering embers, asking only,

"Get me there, Silent One. Lord of the Aftermath, let me reach Mother in time!"

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Cycles later, in the great court of trial, Reston's young nephew prepared to face his first real opponent. Murchison's tricks had been thoroughly practiced and learnt, the spells preset and ready to fire with gesture and thought.

Valerian's contest was not first or last. He was up third, after Nalderick and then Maissa. Both of the other apprentices won their engagements, which were meant to be mostly formality; a chance for the senior apprenticeship hopefuls to display what their master had taught them.

Solara Alfrit had planned something different, though. Partly through malice, somewhat in genuine strategy, she intended to make a laughingstock of the younger apprentice; meaning to boost her family's standing at court. They were new to Karellon, hailing from somewhere over the ocean, and hadn't many connections. Thus, the big show.

All of the junior apprentices waited together in the tiring chamber, listening for the long, rolling tone that indicated a predecessor's success, of the sharp whine of fumble and failure. Either sound meant that the next candidate's turn had arrived to head through the door and into the great amphitheater. Invited guests and the entire Council of Mages were gathered to watch, as one after another, each junior apprentice strove with a patient journeyman wizard.

There would be three trials. One, a fight with enchanted weapons. Two, a spell-war. Three, a treasure hunt for each other's hidden most cherished possession. Safe and traditional, proof… it was thought… against serious harm to the candidates.

Naldo had bidden him "Luck". Then they'd performed the Imperial Team's complex handclasp and parted. In the tiring room with five waiting others, Val could see and hear nothing of what passed, outside. He sat through two contests in silence, too tense to eat or drink, obsessively reordering his faerie pockets and pre-loaded spells. Promising life-debt to Firelord, even.

First Nalderick, then Maissa won, announced by their victory chime. Then it was Valerian's turn. The other apprentices were not Sherazedan's, having been taught by lesser mages. They offered good wishes, though, which Valerian accepted, returning the luck with a brief, nervous smile. Out through the eastern battle-door, then, and into a structure that altered in shape and dimension at need. Broadly hemispherical at the moment, it had its root in the chaotic fey wilds, where nothing was quite what it seemed.

Valerian cleared his throat, cycled one more time through his spells and his items, just to be sure they were ready. Then he strode along the candidate's path across what seemed empty space, to the floating disk where Solara stood waiting.

She was formally dressed, which surprised the younger apprentice. He'd played to his strengths at Murchison's suggestion, wearing a fresh and unmarked version of his court-ball attire. Black and gold, still, but without the dragon-in-glory emblem, his number (3) or spiraling, mage-lit team name.

Solara wrinkled her slender nose, pretending that he stank.

"Did you not at least wash before coming hence from the athletic yard, Rustic?"

That was ill done. They were meant to show courtesy, always. Before, he'd have grown angry. Now, after much tutoring, the younger elf simply bowed.

"Lady Solara, I greet you, and hope that our match honors those who are gathered to watch."

"Not likely," she sniffed. "But do let's get on with the thing. I have plans with my family, once you've been quashed."

A sort of slow-burn resentment enkindled itself down deep in Valerian's gut, but he managed to stay polite.

"As you say, Milady. I wish you luck."

…but not too much of it.

As challenger, Val got to choose their first setting. Again, he played to his strengths, saying,

"Mixed-platform playing field, variable time-flow and gravity."

At once, the dark, hollow amphitheater converted itself to an open sphere containing many small, floating platforms on helical orbits. Four drifting goal rings appeared; one above, one below and two more at north and south. Waves of eldritch time-shift pulsed away from an orb that spun at the sphere's exact center, as did ripples of altered gravity.

If you knew what you were doing… had played this game from early childhood… the setting was more familiar than far-away Starloft. If you were new to the field and smothered in stupid, starched robes, you might be very much out of your depth. Or, so Valerian hoped.

He waited until Solara snapped, "Swords!" Then he vaulted onto a passing high platform, drew Nightshade and released his first spell."Sword in the sheathe," he said, inscribing a complex sigil that expanded to fill the whole arena before fading to motes. By changing his stance, he caused the platform he stood on to reverse its orientation.

From his point of view, the sphere rotated around so that the floor was now overhead; the long, curving struts and mage glows, underfoot. Old stuff, for one who played court-ball, and not at all disorienting.

He was now directly over Solara, who was struggling and cursing as she fought to unsheath her weapon. It was a crystalline-hilted, needle-fine rapier. More shining toy than real sword, and he'd seen it before. Bee-sting, she called it.

Given time, the flustered journeyman might have unraveled his spell and freed her blade, but Val didn't give her the chance. Upside down and above, armed where she was not, he had a tremendous advantage. Could have played, but did not.

"Get in, get out, get the job done. No grandstanding, no boasting, no excess." Murchison had told him. "Strike fast, while your opponent's still flexing, and they'll never see you coming." Advice he intended to follow.

Wielding Nightshade very carefully, Valerian lifted and slashed a lock of Solara's sculpted blonde hair. As those sparkling strands drifted and twirled through the air, Val said,

"Point," then rode his platform's spiraling path well out of her physical reach.

Magic pulsed from the arena's fey wild root, converting it back to its neutral rest-state and returning the combatants to their original positions. Val felt a surge of elation, but ruthlessly squashed it. Celebrate victory with the crown in your hands and your teammates pounding your back, not before.

Solara's face had gone white as scraped bone and rigid with badly-suppressed rage. All to the good, because unchecked anger (as he knew from painful experience) made it very much harder to think.

Resheathing Nightshade, he bowed to the journeyman sorceress, rubbing salt and live coals in the wound with,

"I thank you for the match, milady."

It was now Solara's turn to choose their setting. Determined to win this one, she went for something surprising.

"Fey wild enchanted glade," snapped the beautiful, hard-eyed sorceress.

Again, the arena converted itself, placing the two at opposite poles of a truly magical clearing. Surrounded by whispering trees and their towering shepherds, the glade was a high crag crowned with opaline standing stones, beneath a fast-changing sky.

Like everything else in the fey wild, each stone and tree had a visible, indwelling spirit that flowed and pulsed like gem-colored blood. Small shining motes rose from the ground, forming whirlwinds of manna. The air was so pure, so rich, that just breathing it topped up and fed those who dwelt here.

The sky overhead was striped in deep, cerulean blue; pocked with wandering stars and the low-hanging fruit of bright planets. So close that it seemed a good leap would have put him on Charr or Aqualia.

…But Val had no time to gape at the sights like a changeling. Beyond a swift and wondering glance, he stuck to the plan. Warded off Solara's lightning blast with strong shielding, then inscribed and thought, "Babble".

Doubly insidious because, not only did the spell confuse the mage-speak of its target, but it disguised itself, preventing Solara from realizing what had gone wrong. As far as she was concerned, her sigils and key-words were flawless. Only, none of them landed.

Again, given a few free moments to think, she might have worked out what he'd done… except that the sigil was entirely original, contained in no grimoire, and utterly foreign. Also, Valerian gave her no peace.

Conjuring a gold coin, he thumb-flipped it into the air, caught it on the tip of one finger and set it to spinning, then uttered the momentum-transfer spell (larded with safety features, per Murchison).

As that courtball had done, back in the classroom, the coin turned white and stopped moving. Solara, on the other hand, rose into the air at his gesture and began to spin violently; a screaming dervish of satin skirts and loose, golden hair.

He stopped her motion before she could reel like a top into the nearest standing stone. Used mage-hands to catch her as she collapsed to the velvet-green lawn. Even murmured a cleansing and healing spell, for she'd been ill, and was clearly out of the fight.

"Point," he announced, shifting their setting once more back to neutral. Did not remove 'Babble' until they were on their floating disk and facing each other, again.

"That is two out of three, milady," said Valerian, keeping the gloat out of his tone with all the self-discipline he could muster. "Will you yield the last contest?"

"No!" she snarled. "This one, for all."

"As you will, Lady Solara," he said, adding, "Starshire village, the Sacred Grove," as his choice of setting. Not according to plan. He'd been supposed to choose the Imperial flower gardens in upper Karellon; a place he was allowed, but that Solara had never been. Only…

…Only he very much longed to see home, and here was his chance, so he took it.

The sun was well up overhead, pouring gold onto workshop and croft, field, pasture and lowing herd. The water wheel churned along by the mill in its spell shifted stub of broad river. The perfect place to hide… folded into a clam shell… a few of his personal treasures.

Geese and ducks sailed like leaves on Lake Irilan. The air was warm and soft, perfumed by mown hay, ripe fruit and late flowers, all woven into a tall, graceful harvest mannikin; effigy of the goddess.

Over it all towered Starloft. Mighty, impregnable. A stone giant fortress adapted by elves, it fairly crackled with ancient magic. The massive transport gate out front was quiescent, displaying its lone glowing star.

People came and went on their various errands; riding or walking or crossing the lake in ships that could steer themselves, piled high with tribute and food for Karellon.

Home. Or, close enough to it to steady the nervous young elf.

At his back lay the sacred grove, that twin row of giant oaks which held the great altar. The place where Val and Sandy had long ago been betrothed. It was bustling, now, as folk brought their good-harvest offerings. Another fine place to hide treasure, and maybe Solara would think so, to.

She did not bother to conceal her scorn at the countrified setting; lifting her skirts from the ground and levitating as though afraid to step in a pile of manure. She'd recovered her composure enough to lift her dainty nose.

"I suppose this explains a great deal, Rustic… but exposing your humble past shall gain you no mercy."

At her back, a tower of mithral and pearl shot from the suddenly boiling lake, shedding water and magical steam as it thrust at the sky. Waterfowl took to the air in sudden wild panic, honking alarm calls. All through the village, people stopped in their tracks to point and stare at this (to them) translucent apparition.

Valerian wrestled his temper, casting the briefest of glances at Starloft to help mislead his opponent. Let her think that he'd hidden his treasure within the great fortress. Let her waste many candle-marks searching its chambers and passages. It was what she'd expect, having chosen tricks and traps over concealment, herself.

Val bowed politely, getting a snort and a frigid nod in return. 'This time for all,' she'd said, meaning to crush him somehow in the last third of their contest. Well, he'd been lucky so far, and very well coached.

As Solara whisked herself off to the fortress, looking neither right nor left, Valerian strode to the northern jetty. Here were tied up a number of small, open boats. Built for fishing or pleasure, they were spelled not to cross the sorcerous ban that defended Starshire. No problem for Val, as he didn't intend going that far.

With gesture and word, he loosed a boat then leapt lightly from pier-side to thwart. Made of silvery wood and painted with eyes at the bow, her name was Wind-on-the-Water, and she quickened to life at his touch. There were oars and a tiller, but Val didn't need them.

"To the tower, Wind-on-the-Water," he told her. "But stop short about twenty feet out."

Solara had surely set snares, and he did not wish to risk the small boat. They set off at once. Water churned and foamed at the bow, casting sparkles of light as Wind darted forward. She skimmed and bounced on the wave tops, Valerian shifting his stance with the ease of one who loved being out on the lake.

The breeze kicked up by their passage was bracing and brisk, drawing a smile from Val despite his stretched nerves. It died down when he ordered a halt, well enough out from Solara's conjured tower to not (he hoped) spring any traps.

Levitating smoothly up and off of the boat, he said,

"I thank you, Wind-on-the-Water. Return to your place, with my blessing of fleetness and strength."

The small boat obeyed, turning smartly about and heading back to the jetty. Valerian hovered some twenty feet out, about ten feet over the water; its unstable surface causing him to bob in the air like a cork.

The tower was conjured and therefore impermanent, but impressive, even so. Lady Solara was powerful, and she despised him. Reason enough to be very cautious.

Looking like crystal and silver and pearl, the tower was an airy creation without obvious entry except for a lone, narrow opening near its lacy top. A slender staircase candy-striped its way up the tower, but Val wasn't stupid. As well kneel at her feet and say "Kick me".

He levitated further instead; rising ten feet at a time, as he did not yet know how to fly. Came a bit closer, too, watching as one deadly surprise after another was sprung by his nearness.

Poison gas, blade wall, laughing death, outer banishment, all exploded to life as he rose through the air… and that was just one side of the wretched construction. Firelord alone knew what he'd have tripped had he tried walking his way up those very hazardous stairs.

She'd put a lot of thought into this trial, placing only the lightest of reins on the spells' severity. They wouldn't have killed him. Quite. Mostly. But, he'd have been injured or terribly crippled; needing immediate healing.

Coming level with the apparently innocent opening, Valerian studied the tower's filagreed top. There had to be another way, as only a blind, trusting fool (having made it this far through all that) would accept Lady Solara's wide open welcome.

"You're not that clever, and I'm not that stupid," he muttered, rising the rest of the way to hover over the shimmering spire. The opening, an illusion, simply winked out of existence, leaving nothing but poison-spiked stone in its place.

Nice. Lerendar never had troubles like these. Females fairly threw themselves at Val's older brother, who seemed to have something that the younger Tarandahl very much lacked. Problem for another time, though. Here and now, he had to gain access to the murderous hag's greatest treasure (some potted demon or rotting ancestral corpse, he was willing to bet).

Noises from Starloft indicated that she'd triggered a few of the fortress defenses, which warmed his heart. Smiling, Valerian decided to make his own way inside rather than subjecting himself to the rest of her bloodthirsty arsenal.

So, channeling manna from the arena's fey wild root and from Starloft, both, he inscribed the sigil 'Stone Waldoes' and linked himself to the tower's lacy roof.

Instantly, his perspective changed, from hundreds of feet in the open air over water, to the ceiling of a smallish stone chamber. He was now a bas-relief figure shaped like Valerian, formed of the tower's own substance. In this guise, he did not see with light, but detected changes in density; solid stone, fibrous wood, hollow air all standing out in his golem-sight.

There was no door. No access at all on walls, floor or ceiling. She hadn't meant to let him get in. Right. So, Val just took off the roof.

Extruding great arms of crystal and pearl, he peeled back the tower's top floor like a dead-walker shredding its grave. Chunks of conjured stonework went flying to strike the water below with loud, gouting splashes.

Light streamed into the chamber. Fallen rock thudded and crystal shards chimed. Things that he felt rather than sensed directly, until he dispelled Stone Waldoes and brought himself, blinking, back to midair.

Had to dodge a number of last-ditch horrors… banshee's kiss and killer frost chief among them… but finally drifted down into the cracked-open chamber, landing amid all the rubble.

There were treasures piled everywhere, Valerian saw, many of them regrettably flattened by great chunks of fallen stone.

"Should have put in a door," he said aloud, shrugging. He had.

Started looking around, walking here and there picking up this and that glistening object. Trying to think like a handmaid of death.

"Now, if I was evil and twisted, subsisting upon the blood of slaughtered puppies, what would I cherish?" he wondered aloud, just in case she could hear him.

Jewelry, heaped coins, animate tapestries… These felt too obvious, and to choose incorrectly was to lose the match. Irresolutely, Valerian turned a full circle, looking with regular vision and mage-sight, for Solara was a mistress of tricks and illusion.

On the bright side, at least there was food. A peach, blushing gold and enticing beside a flask of bright-tinted wine. He was hungry, anyhow, having skipped breakfast and refreshment from sheer, tangled nerves… but he honestly couldn't have resisted the fruit if he'd wanted to.

Nothing inside here was dangerous. He sensed no more traps and only the lightest veneer of illusion, intended to misdirect, rather than cover, say, a puddle of toxic goo.

She was probably hiding her treasure as wadded-up vellum, or something. In the meantime, wandering through the sunlit chamber, Valerian scooped up the peach, bounced it once in his hand and then took a bite, suddenly hungrier than he'd ever been in his life.

If there was a divine ancestor of fruit, a model from which all other peaches took lesser form, this was it. The first bite went down like mildly stimulant honey, spiked with manna and life-force. He was instantly energized. Bite number two made him subtly glow, dredging out all the mid-world physical silt that turned an elf solid and mortal.

It was at this point that Valerian figured out what he was holding, and why it was here. He stopped walking around and stared at the peach, which had already begun to regenerate, erasing his bite marks and filling back out.

"Oh. Erm… Right," he whispered, seeing past the illusion of peach-ness to the truth. He was holding one of the seven last apples of life, plucked from Pomona's tree before Andrax the Reaver burned it to cinders. A genuine treasure, and surely the most valuable thing that Solara's family could own.

"Point, I think," he said to the air. "I believe I have found milady's most cherished possession."

(And eaten half of it, like an idiot.)

A long, mellow tone sounded at once, as Starshire, tower and bright summer day vanished like smoke. Val stood on his candidate's disk, facing Solara, in a once more empty and dark amphitheater.

Then the lights came on and sounds were let through, revealing the council of mages and dozens of gathered observers.

Solara stood holding a slime-coated clam, but she hadn't got into it, yet; much less found a certain, very poorly embroidered old shirt. Clearing his throat, Val bowed first to her, then to the council, who observed all this from an ornate balcony.

"I have been tested three times," he said, "in contests of weapons, spell-craft and wit. I… believe I have won through each of my trials, Master and worthies. I await your decision."

Then, as he was still holding that softly-glimmering peach… which had probably been intended as a princely gift to the emperor… Val approached Solara. Bracing himself for a scathing attack, he wafted the treasure back to its rightful owner.

"Milady," he said. "I believe this is yours."

The immortal fruit blinked out of sight halfway between them. Whether spelled into a faerie pocket by Solara or taken by someone of higher rank, Val couldn't say… but he'd seen kinder expressions on the demon masks of the Night-folk (among whom he would have felt safer). She was rigid and white, her eyes suddenly all glowing iris. Like it physically hurt her to do so, she hissed,

"I find you worthy, apprentice." Then she bowed very slightly, turned and melted away. Sherazedan spoke next, saying,

"I concur. You are hereby raised to the rank of senior apprentice, Valerian. However… there is some feeling that your victory involved unknown spells and outside tutelage. By the council's decree, you shall have no further contact with this Murchison, else he shall be stripped of his access to manna, and left to die. Do you understand?"

Valerian jammed down a whole awful flood of emotions, and nodded.

"Yes, Master. I understand, and will neither seek out nor contact the wizard Murchison." But he did not add 'forever' or 'ever again'.

"Then leave here victorious, for there are candidates waiting their turn," said Sherazedan, to which the other mages added mostly kind smiles and encouraging nods.

"Thank you, Your Highness," said Val. He would have sought out Solara, maybe even offered to teach her a few of those spells, but the journeyman sorceress had vanished from ken, and he wasn't much driven to seek her. Instead, he bowed once again, turned and left through the victor's door.

The first to greet him outside was his brother.

"Lerendar!" Valerian blurted, overcome with surprise and delight. "You're here!"

His brother smiled broadly and hauled him into a rough, fond embrace.

"It was meant to be all of us, Halfling. Dad and mother would have come, too, but there's been the normal unrest in the usual quarters, so they sent me with money and gifts."

Lerendar was unfashionably dressed, his long golden hair in a simple warrior's plait, almost without ornament. Serviceably armed rather than elegantly so, but then, Val himself was still in his modified game wear. A few quick spells saw to all that, rendering both of them passable.

Lerendar stepped away to examine his sized-up new finery.

"I'm beautiful," he remarked, with a contagious laugh. The brothers embraced once again, but didn't get much chance to talk.

The Prince-Ascendant, Korvin, spelled himself onto the walkway beside them, looking intense and alert.

"Lord Lerendar," he exclaimed, interrupting Val and his brother before they could kneel. "Never mind all that. I'll take it as read that I have your everlasting love and respect, etc. Let's talk about Starloft. It is a stone giant citadel, I believe? In excellent repair, as well? What secrets the place must hold, and how I would love to see it, myself. Alas, that only my mind is free to explore. My lord, will you walk with a prisoned scholar and indulge his tiresome questions?"

Lerendar's blue eyes were very wide, his expression stunned, but he managed a nod, saying,

"Yes, Your Highness… of course."

Got hauled away to the gardens by dark-haired Korvin, who'd already conjured vellum, scribers and ink to record their conversation. Then Nalderick showed up, along with the rest of the team.

"You'll have to forgive father," said the Prince-Attendant. "Giant archeology is one of his ruling passions, along with moldy old legends and myths. He may let your brother go by suppertime. If not, my condolences… And what in Oberyn's name was that stone-arm spell? Or the spinning one? And did you really eat half an immortal fruit?"

Val was hustled off, too, but not to the gardens. When Naldo decided to celebrate, the wise locked up their doors, their wine and their women, as the saying went.

As for Solara, her family's bid for fame and the emperor's favor had crashed to ruin, thanks to one simple northern apprentice. She and they couldn't do anything about that. Yet.