Chapter 42

No matter how you looked at it, the broken manor was a broken manor.

The building had eleven rooms—or it would have, had they had the time to clean up and repair half of them.

The manor had an attic large enough for Marcus to do all his work in.

Below that was the first floor, which they had gotten Gael and the other filthyings to clean up. It had three rooms, one of which had a broken roof open to the elements and cold, musty air of Srok. The other two were divided among the boys and girls.

The ground floor—this is where the changes happened. This and the lower basement floor.

Soldiers of the Driftspire company filled up all five rooms. A table Clara had bought from the market had been put in the entry hall, and the room that neighboured it had its broken wall kicked in and cleared to make enough room for the large tent that took up the space where all three rooms would have been. Thankfully for Clara, the living room had been left intact, but it had also been turned into a barracks—along with the bedroom next to it. That accounted for all five rooms.

The basement, which they had not taken time to clear, was also emptied by the soldiers of Arlath’s company, leaving a kitchen, cellar, and what seemed like a servant chamber, which the few serfs working with the company began to use and settled into with uncanny familiarity.

The group of former filthyings were left and ordered by the head maid to use the back door and the smaller back compound, where the rest of the filthyings would make camp, light small fires, eat, train with Ivor, and sleep.

That all happened in the first two days, during which he learned about enchanting and the layers necessary for the runes to hold.

He had to learn how to set a containment layer, and then he had to learn how to set a channelling path for the affinity of the enchantment.

He did this all while keeping in mind the way the sword of Arlath, the Goliath lord, worked and how he would have to carve a three-dimensional rune on a flat surface.

All he had were ten long claws of the quaggoth, each measuring from a foot and a half to two feet long. He had plans for them as well.

When he got time, he trained with Ivor, and he could tell that Ivor wanted to talk about his affinities, but the presence of Marquis’ shadowy friend prevented him from broaching the subject.

When he woke the next day—the third day—he was busy practicing his runes with an arcane spell Penrin had shown him when a creature with leathery reptile wings and a head that looked like a dragon’s cast a shadow over the window in his room.

There was a screeching roar that came from the compound that woke Marcus.

By the time he was dressed and ready, he rushed outside, and by the time he reached the back of the manor, he watched the small draconic creature fly off into the sky, towards the Baron Manor to go down.

He looked to the side and found a clearly anxious Clara walking ahead of Ivor.

“What was that?” he asked.

“That was a messenger from the Baron on behalf of House Deimos. He has invited Lord Arlath and other nobles to a feast before the Tides,” Clara said, looking at Marcus, a question on his mind.

“You look disturbed. What’s the problem?”

“The Lord has invited me to join him at the feast.”

“Oh, you think he’s playing at something?”

“Yes. Not only that—I have nothing to wear. I need to hurry and go to the market and get something good,” she rumbled on as she walked in a rush and left the compound.

“Was that some sort of dragon?”

“Boy, speak nothing of those things.”

He looked up at him, a clear question that prompted Ivor to continue.

“If a dragon appeared against one of the city walls, it could—it may mean the end for us all.”

“Can the King not fight the dragon?”

“He probably could, but it could mean his end as well.”

“It’s not like the King will be fighting alone. It would be foolish, wouldn’t it?”

He looked around the small compound in the back of the broken manor. He looked at the shadows. “Are there watchers?”

Marcus looked at the shadows. “No watchers.”

“I see. You can’t understand what I’m trying to say. The King is one of three people who can use old magic, and they are the only ones with strength enough to fight such a beast.”

“Who are the other two?”

“I am looking at one of them. And old magic has a way of shifting the magic ley lines, preventing most others from casting spells.

So you see, in this matter, he would face a dragon mostly on his own.”

“Oh.” Marcus fell into deep thought.

Here Ivor tossed him the wooden practice sword.

Ivor had not had time to breathe. It had been one thing after the other, and he had not had time to process what he had seen on that Katch paper. Even now, speaking openly about the boy’s old magic was dangerous with one of the high lords around—

And with one of the most respected Goliaths sleeping less than a building away.

He had become responsible for Marcus and whatever he would become. It was like he had seen the truth, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get himself to forget what he saw.

Marcus was someone capable of great good or great evil—and it was up to him.

Ivor grabbed his wooden sword and went through some of the fighting motions with Marcus, as he had fought him before.

They went through some stances and attacks. The spar between them was not too serious, allowing them to use their magic in small bursts.

“How many spells are you holding right now?”

“Four spells from the grimoire.”

“With Goliath Duskguard and the company around, you will use two—and only two—in every spar.”

“You don’t want them finding out that I can use three spells at once.”

“Yes.”

Marcus nodded. “I was thinking of doing the same.”

“Good,” Ivor said and swung down, then up, all in one fluid motion.

Marcus stepped back, dodging the downward swing. As he stepped inside for his attack, the old half-Goliath swung his sword back up, causing him to dodge the strike by a hair.

“Any slower and you would have hurt the boy,” a deep voice said, surprising both of them.

“Please continue. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Lord Arlath,” Ivor said, going down to one knee and bowing.

Unlike Ivor, who stood behind, Marcus did not bow, causing Arlath to raise an eyebrow.

“Forget formality. Warriors trying to better their swordsmanship.

Is there anything we can do for you?”

“I noticed the boy has enough bloodline aether to form a magic of his own, and yet he doesn’t. It’s rare to find one of the weaker races gifted by the aether of our people—and yet, you’re of neither race.”

“I am human, just as any other human—and a person, just like any other person, no matter what anyone thinks.”

“Hah!” Arlath barked a laugh. “The Aasimar would think you tainted rather than let you dismember their honor, and the human lords have so many secrets—if you guessed at one, you would probably be right,” he said, looking at Marcus.

Marcus did not have any answers for that. He did not know what went on with the politics of the three races.

“If you ever wish to leave the Lower City, I would take you on as one of my aides. Think on it. You have a month after the Tides are over.”

He said this walking away, back to the manor where his tent took up most of the entire ground floor.

“When you held his sword, what did it feel like?”

“Powerful. It felt powerful—like I had all the power in the world. I think he was testing me.”

“Yes, he was. And men like that always get what they want.”

Marcus raised his hand abruptly, silencing Ivor, his eyes fixed on the shadows.

A moment later, he lowered it.

“Whoever it was, they’re gone.”

“I guess you were right. I will have to be careful with how much I reveal. I think they sent him to watch us.”

“Focus on enchanting with Penrin till the end of the Tide. Then we’ll keep up with your warcrafts.”

——

Starting that evening and moving into the next two days, Penrin had begun teaching Marcus more extensively about enchanting.

“That’s good. Learn to curve the runes before you enchant them. It’s a safer way to do it,” Penrin said.

He did not consider himself a smart man, but he could tell the boy was different. With his arcane talent, any lord would have picked him as an artisan. Even then, there was a practiced way he did things—organizing the runes only in the way a practiced rune master could. To be honest, it frightened him. What was someone so gifted in the arcane, with rare mage sight and such skill in runeworkings, doing in a place like this?

Only two elements were capable of teleportation from what he gathered from the books. The runes were there, most specifically the runes describing how the five portal gates were made. The books Henry had brought—like an encyclopedia of knowledge—told of the different runes and enchantments, allowing Marcus to reach many conclusions.

The first was that all affinities were connected in some way or another. There were obvious ones, like light and dark, opposites of each other—one warded, another hexed. Similar effects, but different workings. Or light and bloodline affinity, which both rejuvenated and enhanced the body. And psychic with its similarity to the arcane: where moving objects with one required delicacy, the other used raw energy to achieve the same action. Then psychic and bloodline, which both enhanced the mind in different ways, and so on.

The runes all acted like different languages. But if he could find the rune that meant “push” in the elemental affinity, it would correspond to the arcane push rune in the ring. It might not act the same or work the same, but the idea was there.

As he curved runes into wooden boards with the different chisels, a thought struck him: if he could study and understand what the runes of his old magic did and how they worked, he could make up an arcane spell similar to them. If he had an eight in shadow affinity, and that was what was needed for the spell, then he should be able to use a familiar spell of arcane nature.

On the second day, Penrin allowed him to create his first enchanted item. The man had begun giving him his own time and space to experiment. Had he known it was thanks to computer and math logic classes, Marcus did not doubt Penrin would have been questioning him instead of teaching him.

He made ten wands from sticks, and Penrin asked why. There were many things Marcus wanted to try out now that Penrin had given him a chance to create his own enchanted tools. Coming from a world where most things were automated, he wanted to enchant one of the carving tools to move on its own.

It took him two hours, and the best he came up with was a floating stick that didn’t even float when he was not in contact with it and channeling arcane aether into it.

“You did good work with the enchantments, but the purpose still eludes me,” Penrin said, watching the stick stand upright on his open palm as he scrutinized it.

“It’s supposed to move on its own. All the runes are there, it’s just not working.”

“As I said—pointless. Anyone with psychic and arcane affinities can do that. And besides, in order for an enchantment to work, it must be held by a caster.”

And there went all his plans for self-moving pencils, teacups, and trays Clara had started buying and putting into the manor.

“If you want things to fly,” Penrin said as he curved circles of runes on the table, “enchant the table.” When he was done, he grabbed Marcus’s arm, placed it on the table, and told him to channel aether. Everything on the table rose a foot into the air, and when Marcus pulled his hand away, they all dropped back onto the table.

“See? Not that useful. Unless you want a table to hold your chicken eggs. Even then, you’ll have to hold onto the dumb thing.”

Marcus shelved that idea for the moment and moved on to the next: making wands. Penrin, his teacher, had more words about this as well.

“You’re straining yourself. Just use a bigger stick. There’s a reason staffs are more powerful—you can carve as many runes on them as you want, instead of this smaller version you’re trying to make,” he said, squinting at the runes on one of the sticks.

“They are called wands,” Marcus said, snatching it out of the old man’s hands.

“Seen and heard of the likes of it before. But if you are carving runes that small, putting them on a ring is a lot better.”

That day, leading into the next, Marcus made seven wands. He enchanted six of them, and with Penrin’s help, enchanted the last one with an elemental affinity since he lacked the aether.

Wand of Healing

This wand allows for channeling of Light aether to heal wounds.

For this wand, he had literally copied the exact rune spell formation of the ring and put it on the wand. He did this because it gave Clara another way to heal the group.

Wand of Weakening

This wand inflicts a curse of weakness on its target.

The spell he used for this wand had been inspired by Orlando’s innate magic, which created black smoke from his mouth and weakened his enemies.

Wand of Fire Darts

This wand launches darts of fire at targets.

He got this spell from Ivor’s grimoire and hoped it would be useful.

Wand of Force Wall

This wand creates a wall of arcane force.

This was a spell he created by looking through the rune books enchanters used. He figured he needed a spell to protect himself. He had also used some runes from the arcane push spell in the ring.

Wand of Thought Echo

This wand allows you to listen to a target’s last active thought.

This wand was made specifically for Geneve. Since her psychic affinity was one of the highest among their group, and she was in charge of taking care of the filthyings that had joined their house, Marcus guessed it would give her the edge in any arguments.

Wand of Lesser Strength

This wand allows the user a minor boost in strength when held.

This was the last wand. He made it for Zek, since he always had to give him the serpent grimoire to revise the spells every morning. This way, Zek had all he needed in his pocket.

“These are all good. Had I not seen you working on them, I would have thought a seasoned enchanter made them.”

The next day, Marcus planned on starting to turn the monster claws of the quaggoth into something useful. What that would be, he didn’t yet know, but he had an idea for a weapon—that would be his arcane trickster’s mark, much like the many enchanted items Penrin, the old enchanter, wore.

That evening, when he got the chance to talk with Penrin, he asked a favor.

“I have a drawing here. I need a craftsman to turn these”—he unwrapped the cloth with the two monster quaggoth hands the hunter had given him for his help against the beast—“into these different items. I put the sizes and how to make them.”

“Had you not been so talented, my boy, I wouldn’t have considered it. But I am interested to see what you are planning to do with them,” Penrin said as he looked at the ten claw bones, which ranged from a foot long for the smallest to two feet long.

There was a knock on the door, and Clara walked into the room. One look at him and her eyes went wide. He knew he was missing something, and a minute before she could speak, Marcus said, “Is it time for the Baron’s feast?”

“Yes. Get dressed. Lord Arlath has been waiting for us,” she said, her tone layered with a bit of impatience.