 
THE TESTING

The Third Soul, Part I

Jonathan Moeller

***

## Description

Rachaelis is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul...

***
Copyright 2011 by Jonathan Moeller

Cover image copyright Elena Schweitzer | Dreamstime.com & Alessandro De Leo | Dreamstime.com

Ebook edition published August 2011

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

***

## Chapter 1 - The Ring

They would come for her in the middle of the night.

Rachaelis stared at the moonlight on the ceiling. She had not been able to sleep for a week. Not since they had come for Riza, and not since they had come for Isabella the next night.

Neither one of them had returned.

Rachaelis rolled onto her side. In the moonlight she saw two beds against the far wall, both stripped of their blankets and pillows. Two wooden wardrobes, both empty, and two desks bare of papers and books. The slaves had come and cleared everything away a few days ago.

That didn't help Rachaelis sleep, either.

She rolled over again, her mind running through the calming and centering exercises she had been taught, exercises that she had used every day for the last twelve years. That helped, a little. The fear dimmed.

But still she could not sleep.

At last Rachaelis sighed and rolled out of bed, the stone floor cool against her bare feet. She had not been close with either Riza or Isabella, had barely known them, in fact. But it still shocked her. Both of them had been so confident, so skilled. Now they were dead.

And Rachaelis might join them soon enough.

The thought made her shiver. She paced to the window and stared into the night. The Initiates' rooms honeycombed the Ring's outer wall, and she had a fine view of the city and the ocean beyond. A thousand towers rose from Araspan, home to the city's Adepts and lords, and the moonlight transformed the sea into a rippling field of silver. The air carried the faint tang of saltwater, and the Ring was high enough that the stench from the harbor and the slave markets didn't reach here.

Convenient, that.

The red glows of the crematoriums flickered here and there in the city. Burning the dead so that demons would not enter into the bodies and transform the corpses into ghouls. Riza and Isabella had gone to the crematoriums, their ashes interred in the columbarium for failed Initiates.

Perhaps Rachaelis would soon join them.

She couldn't sleep now. Perhaps she should get some work done.

Rachaelis clenched her fist and gathered her will. The spelllamp on her desk flared to life without sputtering or flickering. Despite her fear, that pleased her. She had spent long hours in study, had constructed and enchanted over a hundred spelllamps during her training. Twelve years ago, igniting a spelllamp left her exhausted and trembling. Now it required only an instant of concentration.

She opened her wardrobe, drew out a robe, and pulled it over her shift. A gray robe, with a gray collar and black trim upon the sleeves, the robe of an Initiate of the Conclave. Heavier than Rachaelis would have liked, but she had gotten used to it. After all, she had worn such a robe every day for the last twelve years.

After tying the sash she crossed to her desk and sat down, searching through the piled books. The Conclave had the largest library in the world, and Initiates could read anything they chose, though Rachaelis's studies kept her too busy for light reading. Mornings went to the practice of the High Art. Afternoons to the study of languages, mathematics, and history. Evenings to whatever duties the full Adepts or the Magisters might assign her.

Rachaelis opened a book, intending to study.

Except there wasn't all that much left to study.

Only rarely now did the Magisters question her about the Conclave's history, or the proper way to greet a noblewoman of middling rank in the High Imperial tongue, or to derive an equation. The practice of the High Art consumed her days, her hours filled with gaining finer control over her magic. That meant that the Magisters thought the time for formal study was over.

That she was ready for the Testing.

Of course, they had thought Isabella and Riza ready for the Testing.

Rachaelis stared at her right hand. It wasn't shaking. That was good. But strange. How could her hands remain so steady when she was so frightened?

When the Magisters could take her for the Testing at any time?

One might remain an Initiate for anywhere from eight to twenty years. But in the end, the Magisters came in the middle of the night and took the Initiate away to face a trial of strength and skill. The Initiate returned as a full Adept.

Or not at all.

And no Initiate knew what happened during the Testing. Neither the full Adepts nor the Magisters ever spoke of it to Initiates. But Rachaelis had seen some of the Adepts flinch at the mention of the Testing, as if it summoned up terrible memories.

She stared at her hand some more.

It did not shake.

So very strange.

Rachaelis closed the book in disgust, threw on her shoes, and got to her feet. She could neither rest nor study this night. Perhaps a walk would clear her head. For a moment she hesitated. She would have to wake the senior Initiate on her floor for permission, and that might get her into trouble...

The she realized that she was the senior Initiate. Only Isabella and Riza had been Initiates longer, and they were both dead. There was no one left to ask for permission.

Rachaelis went to the corridor, closing the door behind her. A flight of steps and a door took her to the rampart atop the Ring's outer wall. The view here was even better than her room, with Araspan spread out below her, the high towers of the inner Ring rising up behind her, and the dark bulk of the mountain looming over everything.

"You got permission to be out this late, Initiate?"

A man stood in the shadows of the doorway, grizzled and gray. He wore a coat of black mail that hung to his knees, and a black cuirass emblazoned with the sigil of the Conclave. A spear rested in his right hand, and a crossbow hung over his shoulder.

"Marvane. I thought captains didn't pull duty this late," said Rachaelis.

She liked old Marvane. Most of the Swords of Araspan held the Initiates in contempt, or in terror. Marvane had seen too much to be frightened of anything. And unlike some of the Swords, he did not try to seduce the female Initiates.

Marvane grunted. "Can't ask a man to do something I wouldn't do myself. Besides, the lad who's supposed to be here has a broken leg. Someone has to take his rotation. Doesn't explain what you're doing here without permission, though."

Rachaelis shrugged. "There's no one left to ask. Isabella and Riza were more senior. And they're both dead now."

"Fair enough," said Marvane. "Guess if you're the senior Initiate you can give yourself permission." He scratched his jaw. "Can't sleep?"

"No," said Rachaelis.

Marvane grunted again. "I don't know anything about magic. But I suppose it's like standing in the battle line, watching the enemy come over the hill. Can't run, can't hide. Just pray and hope you're ready when they come."

"The Testing, you mean," said Rachaelis. "Have...you ever been certain you were going to die?"

"Couple of times," said Marvane. "Worst was only a few years ago. The big battle at Dark River. All those damn Jurgur savages. I thought that was it." He shrugged. "It wasn't."

"What did you do?" said Rachaelis. "When you thought you were going to die?"

"Couldn't do anything," said Marvane. "It was coming for me if I liked it or not. All I could do was keep a grip on my sword and my shield and face it without running. All anyone can do, I suppose."

Rachaelis nodded.

Marvane watched her for a bit. "You aren't thinking of running, are you? The Conclave's hard on runaways."

"Of course not," said Rachaelis. The thought had occurred to her more than once. But where could she go? She had lived in the Ring since she was eight. She had never left the city of Araspan.

Her father was here.

"I'm not running," said Rachaelis. "But I am going for a walk. Good night, Captain."

"And to you, Initiate," said Marvane, touching the edge of his helmet. It was a gesture of respect, one he didn't have to make to an Initiate.

She walked along the rampart atop the Ring's outer wall, the breeze tugging at her gray robe. The outer wall was over four miles in circumference, and she walked half of that before descending to the grounds, to the gardens between the outer wall and the massive inner towers. The gardens were lovely, with trees and bushes dotted about, stone paths winding their way through the flowers, bubbling ponds and fountains here and there.

And all of it, Rachaelis remembered with a twist of her lip, maintained by slave labor.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she heard a shout, a scream of pain, and the crack of a fist striking flesh. Rachaelis whirled, her hand coming up in the beginnings of a spell before she caught herself. The Magisters might not care if a senior Initiate wandered about the grounds at night, but they would punish her if she worked a spell without leave.

She hurried around to the base of the nearest tower. A handcart lay on its side, cured hams spilled across the path and into the bushes. A scrawny boy of eleven or twelve, wearing the orange tunic of a slave, lay next to the cart, his pale face covered in blood. Over him stood a stout woman in the blue dress of a freeborn servant, expression twisted with rage.

"You stupid boy!" she shouted, kicking the slave. "Pick these up!" When he failed to comply, she kicked him in the ribs, and he crumpled against the side of the cart. "Pick these up!" He flopped onto his back, shuddering. "Pick these up!"

Rachaelis felt something snap.

"Enough!" she bellowed, striding towards the slave and the overseer.

The woman turned, flinched as she saw Rachaelis. "Adept! I...I forgive me for disturbing you. It's just that this clumsy fool spilled the cart, and the kitchen wants the hams in time for breakfast..."

She stopped halfway through a curtsy. No doubt she had seen the color of Rachaelis's robe.

"You're just an Initiate!" said the overseer, sneering. "You can't order me about!"

"You will stop striking that boy, and you will clean up this mess," said Rachaelis.

The woman spat and stalked closer to Rachaelis. "Shut your mouth, girl." She poked Rachaelis in the chest with a meaty finger. "Or else I'll let the Magisters know you were wandering about without leave, and ordering the servants around." She grinned. "What do they do to whelps who misbehave? Thirty swipes with the cane? I'll watch and laugh when you start blubbering. Or maybe they'll let me swing the cane, eh?"

Rachaelis looked up at the taller woman. The Testing could come any day, and this blustering bully thought to frighten her?

Rachaelis started to laugh.

The overseer blinked.

"You really want to take that chance?" said Rachaelis. "I'm a senior Initiate. Any day now the Magisters will take me for the Testing."

The woman's sneer returned. "You won't survive it. Thirty years I've worked in the Ring, girl, and I've seen the Initiates come and go. The weak ones like you never make it. You're going to die screaming. On your knees."

"Perhaps," said Rachaelis. "But suppose I don't? Suppose I come back from the Testing as an Adept? Do you think I'll forget you? Do you think I won't find you, that I won't make you regret this every day for the rest of your life?"

The woman flinched.

Rachaelis kept smiling.

At last the overseer stepped away with a snarl. "Bah! I'll have nothing to do with this. And I'll report you, girl. The Magisters will hear about this."

"Yes," said Rachaelis. "I'm sure the Magisters will appreciate being disturbed over a cart full of hams."

The overseer stalked away, muttering under her breath.

Rachaelis sighed.

She was going to get into trouble over this.

She sighed again and looked at the cowering slave boy. He stared up at her with terrified eyes. What to do with him? She couldn't leave him here, but Initiates did not have the right to command the Conclave's servants or slaves. And no doubt that overseer would take her frustrations out on the poor boy.

"Listen," said Rachaelis. "Do you know Magister Nazim? He lives in the inner Ring, in the northern tower?"

The boy managed a nod.

"Go to him. Now. Right now. Wake him and tell him...tell him that Rachaelis Morulan sent you. He'll tell you what to do next. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded.

"Go," said Rachaelis. "Now!"

The boy staggered to his feet and half-ran, half-limped off.

Rachaelis stared after him in frustration. Initiates could not enter the inner Ring, save by express order of an Adept or a Magister, but she could think of nothing else to do. Rachaelis could not take the boy herself, and to send him anywhere else would mean his punishment and likely his death.

There was going to be trouble over this.

But what else could she have done?

Rachaelis rubbed her face for a moment and resumed walking.

###

Her walks, as they always did, ended in her father's chamber.

Aramane Morulan had his own room atop one of the Ring's outer towers. Windows lined the circular room, presenting a view of the Ring's grounds and the rugged mountainside. The only furniture in the room was a single bed, a stool, and some flowers in heavy stone pots, flowers that Rachaelis tended herself.

Her father lay in the bed. His eyes were closed, his skin waxy. His chest did not move, and no breath came from his lips. No heartbeat pulsed in his neck or wrists.

He wasn't alive.

Nor was he quite dead.

For twelve years he had been like this. No one knew what had happened to him. He had been among the Magisters who had gone to fight Paulus, an Adept who violated every law of the Conclave, who made allies with demons of the astral realm and used their power to augment his own. Afterwards her father had been found lying amidst the shattered ruins of Paulus's tower, in this...state. At first the Adepts had thought him dead. But his flesh stayed warm, and no demons came to inhabit him, as happened to a corpse left unburned for a sunrise and a sunset. Eventually the Adepts came to the conclusion that something during the fight had...ripped his soul away, leaving his body alive but inanimate. A living husk.

And so he had lain like this. For twelve years.

Rachaelis tried to visit him every day. As a girl she had visited in the vain hope that he would awaken. As a grown woman she did so because she had always done so, because he was her father and she could not abandon him to lie alone and forgotten in this tower.

"Father," she said.

He did not respond. She didn't know if he could hear her or not. The Adepts thought not. But Rachaelis didn't care.

"I think...I think the Magisters will call me for the Testing soon," said Rachaelis. "They called Riza and Isabella last week." She stared at his motionless face. "Neither of them made it." She looked up. "I...wasn't close to them, not really. But...they were not cruel to me. They deserved better. It was harder for them than it was for me, I think. You were always an Adept, and I always knew I would follow you. Riza and Isabella were taken from their families when their talent manifested. They hadn't seen their families for years."

And now they never would.

She sat in silence for a moment.

"I might be in trouble," she said. "One of the freeborn servants was beating a slave." She laughed in memory of the overseer's shocked expression. "I bluffed her into backing down, and I sent the boy to Magister Nazim. He'll know what to do, I hope. I'm going to get into trouble over this, I know. Well, it won't be the first time I've gotten into trouble." Her laugh turned hysterical. "But if they take me for the Testing, maybe...maybe it'll be my last."

The hysterical tone in her voice frightened her, and she forced herself to calm down.

"I hate this place," Rachaelis said. "The slaves. Why must we keep slaves? Why must the Adepts take children with talent from their families? To guard the world from the demons of the astral realm, I know, to guard humanity from the dangers of dark magic. But...why must we be so cruel? They're training me to be hard, to be cruel." How easily she had frightened that overseer. How much easier would it be if she lived to become a full Adept. "This...isn't right, some of the things the Conclave does."

That bothered her almost as much as the prospect of dying in the Testing.

The things she might be forced to do, if she became a full Adept.

A silver flash illuminated the room.

Rachaelis knew that silver flash. An astraljump, the spell the Adepts used to whisk themselves around the city in a heartbeat, produced a flash of silvery light. Rachaelis stood from the stool, expecting to see Mauriana, the Magister of Initiates, come to chastise her.

Instead, Thalia Kalarien stood in the doorway.

Thalia was only a few years older than Rachaelis, but taller, with bright green eyes and elaborately arranged black hair.. She wore the blood-colored robes of a full Adept, with a close-fitting black collar and black trim on the sleeves and hems. A sword hung from her right hip and a long dagger from her left. The sword was a cortana, the formal sword of Araspani nobility. The curved dagger was a sicarr, a dagger worn only by the Adepts.

Thalia's face was grim, and she walked to Rachaelis's side without speaking. That was so unusual Rachaelis found herself at a loss.

"Thalia," said Rachaelis. "Did Master Nazim send you about the slave? I can explain." She paused. "You did worse when you were an Initiate. I helped you, remember."

Thalia sighed and put her hand on Rachaelis's shoulder.

Rachaelis frowned, and her eyes strayed to Thalia's belt. Thalia only wore the cortana and the sicarr on formal occasions. Like meetings of the Council of Magisters. Funerals. The raising of a new Adept.

Or a Testing.

Rachaelis's stomach twisted into a knot.

"I greet you, and I bid you to hear me. Are you Rachaelis Morulan, Initiate of the Conclave of Adepts?" said Thalia in formal High Imperial.

Thalia never spoke in High Imperial. Thalia hated High Imperial, and preferred to speak in Callian. Callian had better curse words, she claimed.

"Yes. I am she," said Rachaelis in High Imperial. Her voice, like her hands, did not tremble.

"The Council of Magisters has bid me to speak to you on their behalf," said Thalia. "You are summoned. For twelve years you have been an Initiate of the Conclave, and now the Magisters command you to face the Testing. Prevail, and you shall take your place as an Adept of the Conclave. Fail, and you shall surely die."

Rachaelis closed her eyes for a moment. Then she squeezed her father's hand, and turned to face Thalia.

"I will come," she said.

"Then the Magisters await you," said Thalia, laying a hand upon Rachaelis's shoulder. She gestured, the power of an astraljump spell enveloping Rachaelis, and the room dissolved into silver light.

***

## Chapter 2 - The Hammer of Dark River

It had taken twelve years, but Corthain Kalarien came home again at last.

He stood on the prow of the ship, watching the harbor, the breeze catching at the tails of his black coat. Choppy white waves slapped against the ship's sides, and beyond he saw the forest of masts filling the harbor, and then the city of Araspan itself.

Home again.

A thousand stone towers rose from the city, each more ornate and elaborate than the last. Beyond, upon an outthrust spur of the mountain, the Ring loomed over towers and masts alike. The fortress was a relic of the Old Empire, built in ancient days, and in the fifteen hundred years since the Conclave had fled to the Isle of Aras, the Ring had never fallen.

Corthain watched it in silence.

Twelve years. He had come home.

The last place he wanted to be.

He turned. Two men waited for him. One was middle-aged and grim, face and hands marked with a soldier's scars, a mail coat over his chest and a sword at his belt. The other was shorter, and never stopped smiling, and had the sort of face that made the fathers of unmarried virgins reach for their axes.

"That is a great bloody lot of towers," said the smiling man.

"They call Araspan the City of a Thousand Towers," said Corthain. "The Adepts build the towers, and so do the nobles. They spend oceans of coin trying to outshine each other. A pity you're not a stonemason, Luthair. You could make a fortune."

Luthair snorted and spat over the rail. "Honest labor? Pah! That's a fool's game. The clever live by their wits." He looked at the city and grinned again. "Though I wondered if they're compensating for some...shortcoming, aye?"

The man in the mail coat snorted. "Of course you'd think that." He faced Corthain. "Your wishes, my lord domn?"

"Tell the others to bring the casks from the hold, Rikon," said Corthain. "We'll rent wagons once we arrive, and proceed from there."

Rikon bowed and marched away.

Luthair leaned against the rail, still grinning to himself. "Coming home again, eh? Must please you to no end."

Corthain shrugged. "No. I was only too glad to leave."

Luthair shook his head. "But home again after ten years."

"Twelve, actually," said Corthain.

Luthair lifted an eyebrow. "Begging your pardon, my lord domn," he always made that sound sarcastic, "but I thought you said that you had been banished for ten years."

"I was," said Corthain. "Twelve years ago."

Luthair blinked. "So...you didn't want to come back."

"Your wits remain keen as ever," said Corthain. "And I am only here now because of necessity. My domnium is filled with vineyards. Selling wine to Araspan's factors would bring a great deal of coin to my freeholders."

"But there's something else, isn't there?" said Luthair. "Some girl, I bet. That's it, isn't it? Some comely lass who captured your heart, and you've been pining for her ever since." He snorted. "It would explain a lot, actually."

"Hardly," said Corthain.

"Or a married woman!" said Luthair. "That was it. You seduced a married woman, the wife of some powerful Adept, and he had you banished from the city." He grinned. "I wager she'll be glad to see you now, coming back as the great and mighty Hammer of Dark River." He frowned in sudden concern. "Unless she's gotten fat, of course."

Corthain laughed. "As ever, I shall heed your counsel."

"So how did you get banished, begging your pardon," said Luthair.

"It's hardly important," said Corthain.

"I've been in your service for years now," said Luthair. "Haven't I shown myself to be trustworthy?"

"No," said Corthain, "but I didn't take you into my service for that reason. And there are men who have been with me for longer who don't know why I was banished."

"True, true," said Luthair, "but none of them have my charm or wit."

Corthain snorted. "You truly cannot abide an unanswered question. Like an itch for you, isn't it?"

"No, my lord domn," said Luthair. "It's much worse. It's like...it's like seeing some naked lass, all eager and willing, and she's just out of reach..."

Corthain laughed. "Perhaps I'll tell you the story someday. In the meantime, I suggest you make yourself useful and keep the sailors from sampling the casks. I did not bring you along to endure your stale attempts at wit."

"You wound me, my lord, you wound me," said Luthair, but his grin never wavered. With that, he swaggered in the direction of the cargo hold.

Annoying man. But useful.

Corthain watched as they passed other ships, all of them laden with trade goods. Araspan could feed itself; the Isle had enough farmland for that, but everything else had to be imported. The foul smell of human waste hit his nostrils. and Corthain gazed across harbor with sudden anger.

"Name of the Divine," growled Rikon, stepping to Corthain's side. "What is that reek?"

Corthain pointed across the harbor. "You see those ships? Those three, over there by that Orlanish galley?"

Rikon squinted. "Khauldish, I think."

"Slave traders," said Corthain. "From Khauldun. They sell their own countrymen, and raid the surrounding lands for slaves. Any land that falls into civil war, the slavers descend upon it like vultures. Quite a few Jurgur slaves, I suppose, after Dark River. They'll be stacked in the holds like cordwood, drowning in their own filth. Each one of those ships will hold five hundred, maybe six hundred slaves."

"Name of the Divine," swore Rikon again, and he spat over the rail. "I've no love for the Jurgur dogs, that's true. But to end crammed into a slave ship...that's a cruel fate, one I'd wish on no man."

"This is a cruel city," said Corthain. He made a decision. "Rikon. Go find Luthair, have him gather all my people on the deck. I want to speak to them before we go ashore."

"My lord." Rikon bowed and marched away.

Corthain scowled at the slave ships. He had no reason to return to Araspan, to the city of a thousand towers and a hundred thousand slaves. But he was responsible for more lives than his own. After the Battle of Dark River, he had sworn to protect and defend the people of his domnium. And the men of his domnium relied upon the wine trade to sustain themselves, to support their wives and their children. The Isle of Aras had no vineyards of its own. The people of his domnium could secure great prosperity in trade with Araspan.

If their domn had the wits to seize the opportunity.

"My lord domn." Rikon's gruff voice cut into his thoughts. "Your retainers await your command."

Corthain climbed down to the middeck. He had taken seven sworn guardsmen with him, including Rikon, all of them veterans of Dark River. A half-dozen porters and three maids, overseen by Rikon's wife, a terrifying matron named Morwen. And Luthair, who had expertise in a surprising array of fields.

"Listen to me," said Corthain. "You are all of Callian blood, raised on Callian soil. And there are laws in Callia. A peasant may go before the King's court and levy charges against a domn. He may not win, but he has that right. Araspan is different. Here a lord may strike a commoner or a slave dead on the street, and no one will gainsay him. You must beware the nobles. Avoid them. They will wear finer clothes than anyone else in the city, and every noble, man or woman, carries a cortana...a sort of ceremonial sword worn on the right hip. Do not cross them, and do not antagonize them.

"Second, beware the Adepts. They wear red robes with black collars. Some of them are Magisters, masters of the Conclave, and wear black stoles in addition to their robes. Avoid them both. The Adepts are the true masters of Araspan, and the law gives them the right to do as they please. An Adept may murder you over a copper coin, and no one will stop him. Stay away from the Adepts.

"Finally, the slaves. You will recognize them at once. By law all slaves must wear orange clothing. Most are too beaten down to be dangerous, but some will think nothing of murdering and robbing a few foreigners. Do not go into the streets alone. There are countless slave traders in Araspan, and some of the bolder ones might try to snatch a lone outlander from the street. And that would be ill for them, since then I would have to go to war against the slave traders."

His people laughed at that. And, Corthain thought with some bitterness, why should they not? He was the Hammer of Dark River, the man who had smashed the Jurgur horde and saved the gathered armies of a dozen nations. If any man could wage war upon a slavers' guild, it was Corthain Kalarien.

The weight of their trust made him weary. It had at Dark River, and it did now. But he was their domn, and he took his oaths seriously. He had led them here, and he would see them safely home.

"We shall not disappoint you, my lord," said Rikon.

"Aye," said Morwen. "Any man doesn't pull his weight, I'll strip the skin from his hide with my bare hands."

"Now, that would be a sight," said Corthain. "I expect nothing less from you. Keep your wits about you, all of you."

They went about their tasks, and Corthain turned to watch the harbor once more. The ship slid into its proper pier, and Corthain's people piled the casks of wine on the deck. At last the sailors tied the mooring lines, and Corthain strode down the ramp, the stone of the pier hard beneath his boots.

So. Home again. After twelve years.

The captain, a stout man in weather-stained canvas, joined him.

Corthain turned. "Luthair has seen to your final payment, I trust?"

"Aye, my lord," said the captain. "It's just...I wanted to speak to you. I had four sons at Dark River."

Long experience kept Corthain from flinching. "Did they make it?"

The captain shook his head. "Two of them fell. But the other two...they would have perished, if not for you. I just wanted to say...it was an honor to have you aboard my ship, my lord."

"Thank you," said Corthain, "but there were many brave men at the Battle of Dark River, your sons among them. I was just in the right place at the right time."

Yes, he thought, the right place at the right time. A quarter of a million men from a dozen different nations died on that day because of his decisions. The dead had lain unburied for so long that thousands of them rose again as demon-possessed ghouls, and it had been another battle to deal with them. Uncounted thousands of women became widows on that day.

And they called him a hero for it.

But he thanked the captain again and went to the docks. In short order he found teamsters available for hire, and led them back to the ship. The porters loaded the four wagons, and they rumbled into the city, Corthain's guards keeping a watchful eye on the casks of wine.

"Where to, sir?" said the lead teamster, a gray-haired man with muscle-knotted arms and a gut like one of the wine casks. He seemed scandalized that Corthain had chosen to walk, rather than take a horse, a carriage, or a palanquin like a proper noble.

"Is the Silver Coin Inn still open?" said Corthain.

"Aye, it is," said the teamster. "Decent enough place for a merchant, though not fine enough for a lord."

"Well, I am here as a merchant," said Corthain, slapping one of the casks, "so it will serve."

The wagons rolled up the street, the horses snorting and grunting with the load. Crowds thronged the docks, sailors and laborers going about their business. Quite a few Jurgurs, remarkable for their red hair. No doubt refugees from the horde had wound up here. And slaves, Jurgur slaves and slaves from every other nation, slumped in their ragged orange clothes. No nobles or Adepts, but Corthain supposed they rarely came to this part of Araspan. Corthain looked towards the towers, and one caught his eye, a two-hundred foot fortress of gleaming red stone. The ancestral tower of House Kalarien.

Corthain didn't know whether his father still lived.

"Tell me," said Corthain. "Who is First Magister now?"

The teamster blinked. "Magister Talvin, sir. Three years now, with two left on his term."

"What about Arthain Kalarien?" said Corthain.

"Oh, him, sir?" said the teamster. "He's the Lord Governor this year. Deals with all the matters of the city, oversees the law courts and such. Keeps the slaves in line, he does. A hard man, but fair, I think."

"Yes," said Corthain. "I'm sure." His father was many things, and hard was certainly one of them.

His sister...Corthain wondered what had become of Thalia. She had been thirteen when he had left, an Initiate in the Conclave. Was she even still alive? She would have gone through the Testing by now, and assuming that she had survived, she would be a full Adept. Not that it mattered. She hated him for what had happened to Solthain, and he doubted that twelve years had softened her feelings.

"You're familiar with the city, sir?" said the teamster. "Not many outlander lords would known about the Silver Coin Inn, or Magister Arthain, begging your pardon."

"Yes," said Corthain. "You could say that."

The Silver Coin Inn was four stories of stone and timber beneath a roof of clay tiles. It catered to outlander merchants, and offered warehouses for guests to store their goods. And as an added bonus, the Inn owned no slaves, but employed freeborn servants. After some haggling with the innkeeper, Corthain rented the top floor for his retainers, and one of the warehouses to store his casks of wine. As his porters started to unload, he circled around the back of the warehouses, intent of observing their security for himself.

And stopped.

Four men lounged against the back wall of the warehouse, watching him with narrowed eyes. They were Jurgurs, tall and pale, with thick red hair and blue eyes. Ritual scars covered their cheeks and jaws. Warriors, then; every Jurgur of the warrior caste marked his face with scars to show that he had no fear.

Or at least they had, until Corthain had shattered the Jurgur horde at Dark River.

"Well," said one of the men in Jurguri. "What have we here?"

"Some Callian lordling," said a second man. "Probably with a fat purse."

Corthain snorted. He had warned his people against wandering about alone, and here he had disregarded his own orders and blundered into a band of robbers.

"Let's take his gold and dump his corpse in the harbor," said the first man. "No one will care if another dead man washes up with the tide."

"Until a demon enters into the corpse. But you are correct," said Corthain in Jurguri, and the robbers looked at him, startled. "One corpse in the harbor will not draw attention. Nor will four, for that matter."

"You speak our tongue, dog?" said the first Jurgur. "It is dishonored coming from your filthy lips."

"I suggest we go our separate ways," said Corthain, flexing his hands. "I will give you this one chance."

The Jurgur sneered. "You'll squeal, before we're done with you."

They came at him a sudden rush, clubs in their hands.

Corthain drew his sword.

The hilt was new, under a year old. The blade was much, much older. Over fifteen hundred years older, in fact. The dark gray metal was a relic of the Old Empire, forged using secrets of metallurgy now lost. Lighter and harder than any other metal, it never lost its edge, and it never cracked or splintered. He had taken it from the corpse of a Jurgur chieftain after Dark River, and the Divine alone knew where the dead man had found it.

Then the Jurgurs were on him.

It had been four years since the battle, but Corthain had not let his sword practice lapse. Every day he performed the Forms of the Sword, and they had been etched into the muscles of his wrists and arms and legs. His blade blurred through the Noblewoman's Fan, and he blocked the swings of the Jurgurs' clubs. He pivoted, his arms moving through the Falcon's Dive, and one of the Jurgurs fell to his knees, gagging, blood spurting from his throat. The other three kept after him. They were not used to fighting in a group, and their attacks got in each other's way. Corthain's blade licked across another Jurgur's arm, and the man fell back with a howl of pain. And that gave Corthain the opening to step closer and stab, sinking his blade into another man's stomach. The Jurgur folded with a groan of pain, and Corthain kicked the man off the sword, bringing the bloodied blade up.

The surviving Jurgurs had seen enough. They flung down their clubs and sprinted, vanishing into the maze of dockside alleys behind the Inn's warehouses. Running boots caught Corthain's attention, and he turned to see three men in the black armor of the Swords of Araspan running towards him.

"What's this?" said the lead Sword. "We heard the sound of fighting. I'll not have scum like you brawling on my streets." He took in Corthain's sword and fine clothes, and his attitude changed. "Er...are you wounded, my lord?"

"Hardly," said Corthain, cleaning his sword on a dead Jurgur's ragged shirt. Perhaps the Swords had mistaken his blade for a cortana. "Four men with clubs against an experienced swordsman is hardly a fair fight."

"Indeed not," said the Sword. He looked at the bodies and scowled. "More of these Jurgur scoundrels. Ever since the battle, they've infested the city, robbing honest folk. The Lord Governor ought to put the lot of them in orange and sell them on the block."

Corthain sighed. "See to the bodies. I suspect you don't want ghouls rising to terrorize the streets."

"Of course," said the Sword. "I'll have them sent to the crematorium at once."

Corthain nodded, slid his sword into its scabbard, and walked back to the Inn. Araspan had not changed, he saw. Still choked with slaves and fear and violence.

He wished he had not come home.

Home...

Home wasn't Araspan any more, was it? Home was Moiria, his domnium, with its hills and vineyards and streams, its tough and independent people, so different from the slaves of Araspan.

Once his business was finished, Corthain could leave Araspan and go home.

The thought cheered him as he walked back to the Inn.

***

## Chapter 3 - The Conclave

The astraljump ended, and it took Rachaelis a moment to regain her balance. Astraljumps always left her dizzy and disoriented, and the terror clawing at her stomach hardly helped. After a moment her head stopped spinning, and she looked around.

She stood next to Thalia in a large stone hall, gloomy shadows pooling in the vaulted roof. The only light came from spelllamps on iron stands. Clammy, cold air washed over Rachaelis, and she realized that they were in the vaults beneath the Ring.

Men and women in red robes and black stoles waited on the far end of the hall.

The Magisters of the Conclave.

"Come with me," said Thalia in High Imperial, and then she switched to Callian. "And...good luck, Rachaelis. You can do this. I know you can do this."

Rachaelis took a deep breath and followed Thalia to the Magisters.

One Magister stepped towards them, a tall man with close-cropped gray hair, bright blue eyes, and an aquiline face. Unlike the other Magisters, he carried a black staff of office in his left hand. He was Talvin, First Magister of the Conclave, leader of the Adepts and ruler of Araspan.

"Who comes before the Magisters of the Conclave of Adepts?" said Talvin in High Imperial, his stentorian voice booming off the walls.

Thalia bowed and answered in the same tongue. "I am Thalia of House Kalarien, an Adept by the Conclave by right of the Testing, daughter of Arthain of House Kalarien, a Magister of the Conclave."

Thalia's father stood to Talvin's right. Arthain Kalarien had the same bright green eyes as Thalia, but his grim face held not a hint of cheer or mercy. The Magisters tended towards plumpness as they aged, since they used astraljump spells to travel from place to place, but Arthain Kalarien, like Talvin himself, remained fit and lean.

"And who do you bring before us?" said Talvin.

"Rachaelis, of House Morulan, daughter of Aramane of House Morulan, a Magister of the Conclave," said Thalia. "Before the Magisters of the Conclave, I declare that I have found her of worthy mind and skill, and do sponsor her for entry into the Conclave."

"An Adept has sponsored for the Initiate," said Talvin. "Will a Magister speak for her?"

"I shall," said a soft voice with a Khauldish accent.

Magister Nazim hobbled towards Talvin, his cane rapping against the stone floor, white hair and beard a marked contrast with his dusky skin. "I have tutored the Initiate in the ways of the High Art, my brothers and sisters, and I have found to be keen of mind and strong of will." He smiled. "And more, she has a kindly heart, and has mastered her fear."

"That remains to be seen," said Arthain, voice as hard as his face.

Talvin ignored the interruption. "An Adept has sponsored the Initiate, and a Magister has spoken for her. Then by the laws of the Conclave, I, Talvin, First Magister of the Conclave, do summon Rachaelis Morulan to undergo the trial of the Testing. Succeed, and you shall join the ranks of the Conclave as our beloved sister. Fail, and you shall surely die."

"I am ready, First Magister," said Rachaelis, her voice calm. She would not show fear before the Magisters. She would not.

"That is well," said Talvin. "You will need that confidence. Remove your clothing."

Rachaelis blinked. "Your...pardon, First Magister?"

"Each Initiate must face the Testing alone, armed and armored with nothing but your will and your magic," said Talvin. "And nothing else."

"And some Initiates have tried to hide enchanted objects in their clothing," said Arthain, "in order to cheat."

"Here," said Thalia, stepping to Rachaelis's side. "I'll help you." Her voice dropped to a murmur. "We all did this. We survived. So will you."

Rachaelis managed to nod, and began to undress. She untied her sash, tugged out of her gray robe, and handed it to Thalia. The chill air raised goose bumps on her arms and legs. She stepped out of her shoes, the floor icy against her bare feet, took a deep breath, and then tugged her shift over her head.

It was freezing down here.

Thank the Divine, no one leered. The Magisters remained impassive.

"The necklace as well, Initiate," said Talvin, his voice almost gentle.

"What? Oh, of course," said Rachaelis. She had forgotten about it. With stiff fingers she tugged it over her head and gave it to Thalia.

Arthain's frown deepened. "That is a silver rose, is it not?"

"Yes," said Rachaelis.

"A symbol of the Temple of the Seeress?" said Arthain.

"It is," said Rachaelis.

Arthain grunted. "It hardly seems meet to me, First Magister, for the Conclave to admit an Initiate with such...superstitious religious convictions."

For a brief, desperate moment, Rachaelis hoped the Magisters would send her away.

"We have discussed this, Arthain," said Talvin, a hint of irritation in his voice. "An Adept may believe whatever he chooses. So long as he survives the Testing."

"Very well," said Arthain, still frowning.

Talvin turned back to Rachaelis, his voice resuming the stately cadence of formal High Imperial. "You will now undergo the Testing, Initiate. But to understand the Testing, you must know of the purpose and history of the Conclave of Adepts." He lifted his ceremonial staff. "Of our purpose, and our founding."

He rapped the butt of the staff against the floor, the echoes booming, and Arthain stepped forward.

"Know this, Initiate," said Arthain. "Fifteen hundred years ago, the mages of the Old Empire embarked upon folly. For they sought to reach into the astral world, to summon the demons that dwell there, to use the powers of the demons to augment their own."

Talvin rapped the staff against the floor, and Nazim stepped forward.

"Know this, Initiate," said Nazim, leaning upon his cane. "In their folly, those mages shredded the border between the mortal world and the astral world, and loosed the demons upon mankind. The Old Empire fell in blood and horror, and even to this day, if a corpse if left unburied for a sunrise and a sunset, a demon will enter into that corpse, and raise it up as a ghoul."

Talvin rapped the staff, and a woman stepped forward. Mauriana, the Magister in charge of Initiates.

"Know this, Initiate," said Mauriana. "But not all mages joined in this folly. Some fled westward before the doom, and settled at last upon the Isle of Aras. Here they formed the Conclave of Adepts, to stand forever vigilant against the powers of demons and dark magic."

Talvin struck the staff against the floor, and a blocky man with an oft-broken nose stepped forward. Magister Jonas, who commanded the Swords of Araspan.

"Know this, Initiate," said Jonas. "The Conclave alone guards the world of men from the powers of the demons. The Conclave alone stands vigil against the darkness beyond the world. The Conclave alone can defeat those who turn to dark magic, who loose their powers against their fellow men. And it is the Conclave alone that has mastered the High Art, that preserves the secrets of magic passed down from the first days of the Old Empire."

Talvin himself strode forward, stopping a few paces from Rachaelis.

"As an Adept, you must master the High Art," said Talvin. "As an Adept, you must stand vigilant against the forces of dark magic, against the forbidden powers. And as an Adept, you must defeat the demons of the astral realm. You must prove that you are strong enough to bear this responsibility."

"Or I will die," whispered Rachaelis.

"Or you will die," said Talvin. "And you cannot turn aside from this Testing, Initiate. You have magical talent. You may either master it, or it shall destroy you. If you feel you cannot face the Testing, then we will kill you here and now. The death shall be quick and painless. You may choose this, if you wish."

Rachaelis lifted her chin, her teeth chattering from the cold. "I...I will go, Magister. I will take the Testing. Let's...let's get on with it already."

Thalia nodded, and Nazim smiled, and Rachaelis thought she saw a glimmer of satisfaction in Talvin's eye.

"As you will," said Talvin. "Follow."

He beckoned, and the rows of the Magisters parted. Beyond them, against the far wall, stood a curved stone arch. Within the arch Rachaelis saw the pale, silvery flicker of a waiting astraljump spell. If she stepped into that arch, the astraljump spell would take her...elsewhere.

"Pass through that arch," said Talvin, "and the Testing shall begin."

Rachaelis nodded, shivering.

"Pray to your god," said Arthain. "If you think that will help."

Rachaelis took a deep breath, let her arms fall to her sides, and strode towards the arch, looking neither left nor right. She would not show fear. She would not show fear.

She prayed anyway.

Then she stepped into the archway, and the silver light reached up to take her.

***

## Chapter 4 - The Banishment

Corthain awoke before dawn.

He had gotten into the habit while still a homeless mercenary, guarding caravans and petty merchants as they traveled from city to city. Even now that he had wealth and power, he still awoke before dawn. There was no reason not to, after all.

He walked to the window and threw open the shutters. The docks bustled with activity in the predawn gloom. The loading and unloading of cargoes never stopped in Araspan. He could not see the Ring, but he remembered how it looked at dawn, strong and grim. How some mornings he had hidden, hoping to avoid his father. How he and Thalia had played games, before their father had taken her to the Ring to become an Initiate...

Corthain blinked, shook his head.

Enough. He had more important things to worry about than the ghosts of his past. The people of his domnium, for one. He had sent Luthair to speak with the seneschals of the city's lords and prominent Adepts. Soon he would negotiate with them.

But first, he needed to clear his head.

His sword leaned next to the bed, within easy reach. Corthain drew the blade, both hands around the hilt, and moved into the Lion At Rest. Then into the Striking Serpent and Opening The Veil. A shift in his stance, and he moved to Harvesting The Wheat and the Tailor's Needle.

He had practiced his sword work every day for over twenty years, ever since his father had earmarked him for a career in the Conclave's Swords. After his banishment, he had practiced with veteran mercenaries, with Callian knights and peasants, with Khauldish masters and Saranian courtiers. Finally he had met an Orlanish swordmaster who had taught him the Forms, the swings and thrusts and parries used by the swordmasters of the Orlanish court.

Even now that he was a domn, he kept up the practice.

As the fight with the Jurgur thugs had proven, only a fool let his skill with the blade lapse.

After an hour, Corthain had gone through every Form three times, and his face and chest dripped with sweat. The Silver Coin Inn had pipes and hot water, and Corthain scrubbed the sweat away. Afterward he dressed himself in his usual black coat and white shirt. No doubt his father would have been scandalized. A proper Araspani noble did not dress himself, but relied upon a body slave.

Corthain smiled at the thought of his father's displeasure, buckled on his sword belt, and left the bedroom. The rooms he had rented included a dining room, and some of his guards and porters sat around the table, eating breakfast. Morwen saw him coming, and hurried over with a plate and mug.

"Breakfast, my lord," said Morwen.

"Thank you, Morwen," said Corthain, sitting down.

"These Araspani," said Morwen, shaking her head. "Beer for breakfast. It is most inappropriate. Mixed wine is better."

Corthain shrugged and took a bite of bacon. "It's not surprising. There's enough farmland on the Isle of Aras for wheat and pigs, but not for grapes. So there's bread and beer for breakfast, but not wine." He took a drink of the beer. He had not had Araspani beer for years, and the taste brought back a welter of memories. "We could have whiskey for breakfast, if you'd prefer."

Morwen sniffed at the thought and walked away.

"She'll be in a foul mood all day," said Rikon. He sat nearby, tearing at a loaf of bread.

"For a woman who started as a camp whore, she's developed a remarkably sharp sense of propriety," said Corthain.

Rikon snorted. "Women do, after they get married. You'll understand, once you find a wife."

Corthain shook his head. "The first time I met her, she was chasing a pig outside of our camp. Do you remember? When we were in Orlanon, chasing off those raiders."

"Aye," said Rikon. "It made for a fine roast, as I recall."

"My point is," said Corthain, "the woman once followed a mercenary company around the countryside, and she's now worried about the propriety of beer for breakfast?"

"But she's the domn's steward now," said Rikon, flashing one of his rare smiles, "and you're the domn now, not just a mercenary captain. Things are different."

"Perhaps you're right," said Corthain. "But the wine we've brought is to impress the seneschals and the merchants, and not for us. So, beer for breakfast."

"Sensible," said Rikon.

"Is Luthair back yet?" said Corthain.

"No, my lord," said Rikon. "No one's seen him since yesterday."

"I expected that," said Corthain, finishing up the food. "I need to write some letters. Keep an eye out for Luthair, and bring him to me at once if he shows up. Also, keep watch over the warehouse. The locals might try to steal our wine casks. The porters and maids have leave to do what they want today. But don't let them go wandering in the city alone. No one is to leave the inn without a guard."

"Aye, my lord," said Rikon. "It shall be as you say."

Corthain finished the beer and returned to his bedroom. He dug paper, pen, and ink out of his baggage and settled down to write. Yesterday he had sent Luthair out with twenty-five letters, addressed to the seneschals of the various lords and Adepts he thought might prove amenable to his wines. Now he started to write the same letter, over and over again, to different seneschals. His domnium produced some of the finest wines in Callia, indeed in all of the West. Both rare wines to sate the most refined palate, and cheaper wines of the highest quality...

"You ought to hire a secretary, my lord."

Corthain looked up to see a grinning Luthair walk through the door, a mug of beer in hand.

"The Araspani nobles consider it an insult to write a letter of introduction in something other than one's own hand," said Corthain.

"Ah," said Luthair. "Well, outlanders have all sorts of queer customs."

"You were speaking of letters?" said Corthain.

"All twenty-five are delivered," said Luthair. "And all twenty-five factors have agreed to meet you tomorrow for a sampling."

"Really?" said Corthain. "All twenty-five? I'm impressed. How did you manage to pull that off? I hope you didn't pay too much in bribes."

Luthair laughed and held a bulging coin pouch. "Actually, they paid me."

Corthain frowned. "They did?"

"You underestimate your own notoriety, my lord domn," said Luthair. "Araspan sent a deputation of Swords and Adepts to Dark River, you'll recall."

"Yes," said Corthain. "The Jurgurs had blood sorcerers among them. That was why the Conclave joined the alliance."

"So all these Swords and Adepts came back to Araspan with stories about the Hammer of Dark River. You're something of a celebrity. The banished son of House Kalarien returning as a hero after twelve years? It makes for quite a story, wouldn't you say?" said Luthair. He sipped at his beer and sighed. "So all those seneschals are curious to meet you."

That made sense, though Corthain hardly liked it. "And the bribes?"

"Well," said Luthair, jingling his coin pouch. "I may have hinted, ever so subtly, that I am a longtime friend and confidant of the Domn Corthain, and that he often heeds my counsel. So for a suitable...gift, I could make sure the young domn looks upon a petition in a favorable light."

Corthain laughed. "Well done."

Luthair gave a bow. "Thank you, my lord. Though one thing hampered my efforts."

"Oh?"

"The...ah, circumstances surrounding your banishment," said Luthair. "I can spin a tale when I feel the need, as you well know. But the details...ah, with the details, I could have told a tale that would have help my listeners rapt. The young man banished for his forbidden love, returning at last to the city of his birth. Or the young lord unjustly banished from his home, returning to claim what is rightfully his. Without those details, I can only...conjecture."

Corthain snorted. "You never give up."

"My lord!" said Luthair. "You wound me. I have only your best interests at heart. My curiosity is wholly irrelevant to the matter."

"Oh, very well," said Corthain. "You can hear it."

Luthair leaned out the doorway. "Rikon!"

Corthain lifted an eyebrow.

Luthair grinned. "I bet Rikon five crowns I couldn't get the story out of you by tomorrow."

Corthain sighed.

Luthair spread his arms. "I'm getting older, my lord, and I've got to start thinking of my retirement."

"As you will. Close the door," said Corthain, as Rikon entered the room. "And pay Luthair his five crowns already. His smugness is becoming intolerable."

Rikon sighed and handed over five coins to Luthair, who added them to his pouch. Corthain set aside his pen and walked to the window.

"Why do you think," said Corthain, "that I was banished?"

"A woman," said Rikon and Luthair in unison.

"Why does everyone always say that?"

"Well, begging your pardon," said Rikon, "but...you don't exactly exert yourself with the ladies. In the time I've known you, I think you've taken only three lovers."

"Four," said Luthair. "There was that woman in Orlanon."

Rikon nodded. "I'd forgotten about that. And you've been domn for three years. Most men in your position would have married by now. Morwen thinks you secretly have a wife in Araspan."

"I think you seduced a married woman," said Luthair.

"That's your game, not mine," said Corthain. "The truth is actually much worse."

Both men watched him in silence. Rikon had been with him for nine years, Luthair for seven, and both had stayed with him through some very dangerous times. Dark River had only been the worst of it. He trusted them as much as he trusted anyone, and he supposed they deserved to know.

"My father," said Corthain at last, "is Arthain Kalarien, Lord of House Kalarien and a Magister of the Conclave. House Kalarien is one of oldest in Araspan, and its members have almost always been Adepts as well. I am the only Kalarien to be born without magic for generations." As a child it had been a crushing embarrassment. But after seeing the horrors magic could wreak, he thought it a blessing. "I was something of a disappointment to my father, who wanted another son with the talent. But he still made use of me. At fifteen I joined the Swords of Araspan, and by eighteen I was a captain, with my own company. It was my father's influence, not any skill on my part."

"So what went wrong?" said Luthair.

"You remember Dark River?" said Corthain. "How the Jurgur shamans used blood sorcery to call demons into the bodies of living men, to turn them into monsters?"

Luthair's smile faltered, something that rarely happened. "It's...not the sort of thing a man forgets, my lord. Even if he wants to."

"The Conclave considers guarding mankind against demons to be its chief responsibility," said Corthain. "The Adepts will kill any man they find practicing blood sorcery, or worshipping demons, no matter his wealth or rank or power. But there was an Adept, a Magister, named Paulus. He considered the Conclave's rules outmoded, antiquated. He summoned a high demon, bound it to augment his own power. And it worked. Though it drove him horribly mad in the process.

"His depredations came to light, and the Conclave declared him a traitor. Adepts and Swords were sent to hunt him down. My older brother was given command. Solthain Kalarien. His name was Solthain."

Even now, twelve years later, speaking Solthain's name threatened to bring a lump to his throat.

"Solthain was everything I was not. A powerful Adept, more powerful than many Magisters twice his age. My father loved him, as much as he loved everyone. You'd think we would have been rivals, but no. I worshipped him. So when he asked for my company of Swords to join the attack, I jumped at the chance."

Rikon frowned. "I can see where this is going."

"We went to Paulus's tower," said Corthain. "He was ready for us. He had slain all his slaves, every last one of them, and bound demons into their bodies, raising them as ghouls. There were hundreds of the damned things. I...told Solthain that we were overmatched, they we should return to the Ring and get reinforcements. But Solthain told me not to worry. He said that he could handle Paulus, that we only needed to keep the ghouls away from the Adepts. He said that we would win. And I trusted him. So...my men attacked."

"What happened?" said Luthair.

"They were slaughtered," said Corthain. "Almost all of them, Adepts and Swords alike. Paulus annihilated them, and any that Paulus missed the ghouls claimed. It was a massacre." He shook his head. "I've seen a lot of battles go bad. But that was still the worst."

"How'd you survive?" said Luthair.

"By accident," said Corthain. "I was on the third floor of Paulus's tower, near a balcony, trying to rally what was left of my men. Paulus cast a spell at us. There was an explosion...it threw me out the balcony door. I broke my leg on the street, and passed out. Only pure chance that I'm still alive.

"The entire Council of Magisters attacked Paulus after that. His tower, and everything for about three blocks in all directions, was blasted down to slag. And it was only luck that I lived through that, too." He pulled back the right sleeve of his coat. "Those burns? The last explosion ripped off the top of Paulus's tower, and almost killed me. And that was that."

Rikon frowned. "So why did they banish you? It seems they would have been glad that someone lived through that mess."

"They wanted someone to blame," said Corthain. "And I was the only survivor of the first attack. My father was...half-mad with grief. Solthain's body was destroyed in the explosion. They found his cortana in the rubble, but that was all that was left of him. My father said that my cowardice had led to Solthain's death, that Solthain would have been triumphant, if I hadn't sabotaged him."

"That's absurd," said Rikon.

"It was," said Corthain. "But my father swayed the Council, and I was banished for ten years. As soon as I was well enough to walk, they gave me a sword, put me on a ship, and dropped me on the coast. And that was that."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"Now that's quite a tale," said Luthair. "Though it would have been more exciting with a woman."

Corthain gave a bitter laugh. "That's your solution for everything. Find a woman."

"A pity about your brother," said Luthair.

Corthain shrugged. "He was a fool."

They seemed surprised at that.

"He was," said Corthain. "I loved him, of course. But he should have listened to me. He shouldn't have ordered the attack. If he had...perhaps he would still be alive. And all those other men. But he did not."

"You've...no other family?" said Rikon.

"A sister," said Corthain. "If she's still alive. But she was an Initiate when I left. She'd be a full Adept now, assuming she survived the Testing...that's the trial Initiates undergo to become full Adepts. It kills about half of the Initiates. But she blamed me for Solthain's death, and I doubt she's changed her mind in the last twelve years."

"So you won't see them at all?" said Rikon.

"No," said Corthain. "My father already hates me, and the fact that I'm a Callian domn now would only enrage him. And my sister...no, I'm only here for business. Not to dig up the ghosts of the past. Speaking of which, we ought to get to work. Luthair. Tell me more about the seneschals."

Luthair rubbed his hands together, and began to speak.

It was the future that concerned Corthain now. Not the past. And his family was part of the past.

***

## Chapter 5 - The Summons

"Well, then," said Corthain, lifting his goblet. "To...opportunities, shall we say?"

He sat at a table in the Great Market, where the foreign merchants came to do business, and where the Conclave's seneschals came to sell the enchanted objects manufactured the Ring's foundries. Stalls and booths crammed the vast square, and the hubbub of a thousand negotiations filled the air. It was said that you could buy and sell anything under the sun in the Great Market. Corthain had passed a man selling spelllamps, another selling scrolls, and another selling virgin girls who had never known the touch of a man, or so he claimed.

In Callia, Corthain would have hung him for that.

The man on the other side of the table lifted his own goblet. He wore a fur-lined black coat and a golden chain of office around his neck, and his gray hair and neat-trimmed goatee gave him a look of shrewd respectability. He was Salorin, the chief seneschal of the Ring, the man responsible for clothing, housing, and feeding the Adepts.

And provided them with wine.

Salorin drank, swished the wine around his mouth for a moment, and sighed. "This is indeed very fine, my lord. Very fine. Where did you say your domnium was?"

"Moiria," said Corthain. "In the hill country of southwestern Callia. Quite a lovely place."

"Rather different from Araspan, I imagine," said Salorin.

"Easier to grow grapes, for one," said Corthain.

Salorin laughed. "A source of constant vexation to me, my lord. The Adepts have an insatiable thirst for wine, yet the Isle's climate is ill-suited to the growing of grapes. So we must import wine from Orlanon and Saranor. The expense, as I'm sure you can imagine, is considerable."

"Perhaps the vintners of my domnium may be of service in that matter," said Corthain.

Salorin gave a thin smile and set aside the goblet. "I will be frank with you, my lord. I am here mostly out of curiosity. Everyone in the city knows the story of your banishment. You should have died in obscurity on some distant shore. Instead, you rallied the armies of the West to victory at the Battle of Dark River, and you've become a renowned hero. And now you are here, selling wine."

Corthain shrugged. "It's hardly remarkable. When I was banished, I had to make my own fortune. And captaining one's own mercenary company can be quite lucrative. As for Dark River...I was in the right place at the right time. I did what was necessary. After all, if the Jurgurs had won at Dark River, they would have sacked Callia and Orlanon and Saranor and every other nation of the West. You'd have a rather difficult time purchasing wine then."

"True enough," said Salorin, taking another sip of wine.

"As for selling wine, the King of Callia rewarded me with a title and lands after the battle," said Corthain. "And that may be an honor, but it comes with responsibilities. The people of my domnium require a domn who will look after their interests."

"A strange attitude from an Araspani nobleman," said Salorin.

"I was banished, remember," said Corthain. "Now I am a Callian domn. And in Callia they do things differently. The individual freeholders expect their domn to defend them and see to their interests, and may withdraw their support if he fails."

"What a curious notion," said Salorin. "Here the Adepts claim to protect us from demons, and therefore have the right to do whatever they wish." He sighed and set down the goblet. "This is indeed very fine wine. However, there are some...difficulties in purchasing it."

Corthain smiled. He had been expecting this.

"Oh?" he said.

"We already have contracts with vintners in Orlanon and Saranor," said Salorin.

"For wines of inferior quality, I am sure," said Corthain. "When I was still a mercenary, they said if you had a choice between drinking horse piss or Orlanish wine, go with the horse piss."

Salorin gave a brief smile. "Indeed. And the Orlanish wine must be mixed to be palatable in any case. But it is cheap, and plentiful. As for fine wines, for special occasions...Saranian wine is the finest in the world, no question."

"You mentioned difficulties," said Corthain. "There are others?"

"Well...forgive me for mentioning what may be a sensitive matter, but there is your father, the Magister Arthain," said Salorin. "I assume that you and he are not...amicable?"

"We haven't spoken in twelve years," said Corthain.

"I suspect he would not be pleased if he found the Conclave purchasing wines from you," said Salorin.

"Indeed? Have you ever spoken with my father?" said Corthain. "When has he ever concerned himself with the management of a household? That is the business of slaves and seneschals, not of a lord and Magister."

"True enough," said Salorin. "But this almost certainly the finest wine you have to offer, and the Saranian wines are better. Which means that your common wine is little better than the Orlanish horse piss you mentioned. So, alas, my lord, I fear that we have little to discuss."

"Your cleverness does your credit," said Corthain. "Still, there is one other thing I would like you to taste before we conclude. Consider it a parting gift."

Salorin gave him an indulgent smile. "If you wish."

"Luthair." Luthair stepped out from behind Rikon and the other guards, bearing another goblet of wine. Salorin took it and peered into its depths.

"What's this?" he said at last. "Another wine?"

"Taste for yourself," said Corthain, leaning back in his chair.

Salorin shrugged and took a sip.

At once his eyes grew wide. He sloshed the wine around in his mouth for a moment, and then swallowed.

"This..." he said.

He took another sip, tasted it, swallowed.

"This is exquisite," he said at last. "Where did you get it?"

"Why, from my domnium, of course," said Corthain, smiling. "I fear I may not have been entirely clear. The wines you tasted earlier were the common ones from my freeholders. They drink those wines every day. This wine...this wine is the choice wine, the rare wine. Saved for special occasions only."

Salorin stared at him, blinking.

"I should point out," said Corthain, "that I can offer the common wine, the wine you thought almost as good as the Saranian vintages, for the same price as that Orlanish horse piss. Perhaps for even slightly cheaper, if you are particularly persuasive."

Salorin laughed, and lifted the goblet in salute. "My lord. Shall we turn our discussion to more...substantive matters?"

They got down to business.

###

"The look on his face," crowed Luthair, walking next to Rikon. "I thought his eyes were going to pop right out of his head. I swear it was all I could do not to laugh."

"It's just as well you didn't," said Corthain, stopping next to the wagon. Two more of his guards stood watch over the casks. Corthain would not have put it past some of Araspan's bolder thieves to snatch the entire wagon, horses and all. "It would have rather ruined the effect."

"My lord domn!" said Luthair with an air of injured pride. "You wound me. I was swindling noblemen out of their money when you were still learning which end of the sword was the pointy one, begging your pardon." His grin returned. "Though that was cleverly done."

"It will help," said Corthain. "Noble-born Adepts are the most influential men and women in Araspan. If they take a liking to our wines, the other Adepts and lords will follow suit, sure as night follows days."

"Or as stink follows shit," grumbled Rikon. The more he saw of Araspan, the less he liked it. Corthain could hardly blame him.

"Come," said Corthain. "We've more meetings yet today."

###

Corthain spent most of the day talking to seneschals. Some ignored him altogether. Some wanted bribes, which Corthain refused to pay. Some were resistant, and some simply enjoyed elaborate verbal fencing. Fortunately, the contract with Salorin gave Corthain a strong bargaining chip. By the end of the day, out of twenty-three separate meetings, he had secured eleven contracts, all of them lucrative. And he might yet secure more. When Salorin's decision became public, more seneschals might change their mind and decide to purchase wine from Moiria, just to hedge their bets.

"A successful day, my lord domn," said Rikon as they walked alongside the wagon. "Truly, I did not think we would do so well."

"Bah," said Luthair. "You forget. Our lord domn is almost quite as clever as I am."

"Now there's a compliment," said Corthain. The last visit of the day had taken them to the wealthiest district of Araspan, located at the foot of the mountain spur supporting the Ring. Dozens of towers crowded the space, each more ornate and ostentatious than the last. The sun was slipping down behind the mountain, and shadows lay thick across the entire district. Orange-clad slaves hurried back and forth, doing their masters' errands.

Quite a few Jurgur slaves, come to think of it. Not surprising, given how the slave traders had descended upon the shattered remnants of the Jurgur horde after Dark River...

"Huh," said Rikon, looking to the side. "You'd think they would clean up the rubble."

"Rubble?" said Corthain, snapping out of his reverie.

"Aye," said Rikon. "That tower, over there. It's fallen to pieces."

"Not fallen," said Corthain, memories welling up. "Blasted."

The broken tower stood some distance away, jutting from the earth like a lightning-struck tree. Most of the towers had lush grounds, with bushes and trimmed gardens circling their base. This tower had gardens of blackened rubble, twisted steel, and scorched ground. It had been twelve years, Corthain thought. Twelve years, and still no living thing grew on the broken rubble of Paulus's tower. It was as if his magic had blighted the very ground itself.

Luthair frowned. "Is that..."

"It is," said Corthain. "That was Paulus's tower."

Corthain noted that the slaves took care to avoid the place. No doubt it still had an evil reputation, even after all these years.

"Right there," said Corthain, pointing at the street. "I tried to dissuade Solthain. He wouldn't listen. And there." He pointed at the steps leading to the rubble-choked archway. "Solthain called for Paulus to come out and surrender himself. Paulus answered by loosing his ghouls upon us. We fought our way into the tower. The balcony...there..." Corthain frowned. The balcony was gone. No doubt it had been destroyed with the top two-thirds of the tower. "When I woke up, I was lying on the ground, over there. The Magisters struck then. They ripped the tower to pieces. It would have killed me, if that boulder hadn't landed just so." He gestured at a boulder jutting from the barren ground. The side facing the ruined tower looked as if it had melted. "It shielded me from the fire."

The memories tore at him, sharp as any knife. The screams of his men as the ghouls and Paulus's spells ripped them apart. Solthain shouting in defiant challenge, his voice disappearing in the roar of magical flames. Lying in agony amidst the rubble, waiting for a death that never came. His father's rage and contempt, and the tribunal before the Magisters. And the Swords escorting him to a ship.

"My lord?"

Corthain blinked. "What?"

"Perhaps we should move on," said Luthair. "I'm sure you have better things to do than to stare at some old ruins."

"Yes...you're right," said Corthain. "Let's go."

The wagons rumbled back into motion, and Corthain walked alongside them, hand squeezed into a fist. It had been twelve years. He had seen a lot of things since then, some of it worse than the horrors Paulus had unleashed. Yet sometimes, when he thought of Solthain, the grief came anew. If only he had gotten Solthain to listen. If only.

He thought of Thalia then. They had been close, once, though she blamed him for Solthain's death. But what had happened to her? Had she died in the Testing?

He made a decision.

"Rikon," said Corthain. "Take the wagons back to the warehouse. I'll be along shortly. Luthair, come with me. The streets of Araspan aren't safe at night for one man alone."

Luthair grinned. "More memories, my lord?"

"Something like that," said Corthain.

###

He came to the tower of House Kalarien as the twilight became night. Spelllamps lit the street, at least here in the wealthier parts of Araspan, and illuminated House Kalarien's ancestral tower. It was one of the oldest in the city, two hundred feet of polished red granite. Statues stood in niches in the walls, depicting Kalariens who had done great things in centuries past. Acres of trimmed gardens surrounded the tower, and Swords in Kalarien cloaks of green and black patrolled the grounds.

"So," said Luthair. "We're just going to drop in for a visit with your father?"

"No," said Corthain. "I'd prefer not to see my father at all. I...merely want to know what become of my sister."

"To pay her a visit?" said Luthair.

"No," said Corthain. "She blamed me for Solthain's death. I doubt she wants to see me. Besides, if she became an Adept, no doubt she is as cruel and arrogant as the rest of them. And if she didn't survive the Testing...I simply want to know what happened to her."

He stopped before the gates to the grounds. A Sword stood there, hand hovering just near the sheathed blade in his belt.

"Aye?" said the Sword, eyes glinting behind his helm. "You have business here?"

"This is the tower of House Kalarien?" said Corthain.

"So you're new to the city, then?" said the Sword. He seemed to puff up a little. "Aye, this is the tower of Arthain Kalarien, Magister of the Conclave and Lord Governor of the city. You must indeed be new, if you don't know the name."

"Does Lord Arthain have any children?" said Corthain.

"He does, two sons...or he did, I suppose," said the Sword. "The eldest fell in battle some twelve years ago. The second was banished for cowardice...but have you heard the name of Corthain Kalarien?"

Luthair's lips twitched. "You know, I think I have."

"I was at the Battle of Dark River," said the Sword. "Part of the deputation the Conclave sent to fight the barbarians. The Jurgur scum smashed our host, and would have won, but Lord Corthain took command, and won a great victory." The Sword shrugged. "Hard to see how such a man could be a coward."

Corthain swallowed. "You mentioned only sons. Does Lord Arthain have any daughters?"

The Sword nodded. "Just one. Thalia. An Adept of the Conclave, like her father."

"She is?" said Corthain. He was astonished at the relief he felt. Thalia had not perished in the Testing. She had survived.

"She is. And...just between you and me, she's something of a...character," the Sword, grinning behind his helm. "Drives her father wild, she does. Not a bad sort, for an Adept. Though it's not my place to say so, of course."

"Of course," said Corthain. "That's all I wished to know. Thank you."

He turned to go.

"Divine have mercy," said the Sword, sudden awe in his voice.

Corthain grimaced.

"You're...you're Corthain Kalarien, aren't you?"

"That he is," said Luthair. "Shouldn't you be saluting or something?"

"My lord," said the stunned Sword. "It...let me just say it is an honor to meet you. We would have all perished at Dark River, if you had not taken command."

"Many brave men perished at Dark River," said Corthain.

"Have you come to claim your inheritance?" said the Sword. "You are Magister Arthain's heir, now. And...whatever happened in the past, surely the Hammer of Dark River would be welcome among the lords of the city."

"No," said Corthain. "I am here on business, nothing more, and I wish to leave in a few days. I would prefer if you mentioned my presence to no one."

The Sword gaped at him. No way the man would keep quiet after this.

Corthain sighed. "You may mention my presence to my father, if you wish. Whether he wishes to speak to me or not...that is up to him."

"Aye, my lord," said the Sword, banging a fist against his armored chest.

Corthain nodded, thanked the man, and left.

"That was a mistake," he muttered as they walked back to the Silver Coin Inn.

Luthair blinked. "You don't think your father will have you arrested, do you?"

"No," said Corthain. He hesitated. "I think."

Luthair sighed. "Ever the optimist, my lord domn."

"But he hated me twelve years ago, and I doubt his enmity has wavered in the slightest," said Corthain. "Once he realizes why I am here, he may forbid Salorin to buy the wines of Moiria simply out of spite."

"Ah," said Luthair, scratching at his jaw. "I can relate."

"You can?"

"Well, my father was a drunk."

Corthain blinked. "Was he?" Luthair never spoke of his family.

"And a mean drunk, too," said Luthair. "Liked to smack us around when he was in his cups. Well, one day when I was twelve or thirteen, I decided that I'd had enough. So I waited until he passed out, then I tied him to the pigpen fence. Took all his clothes, too, and then I left. Never once looked back."

"I see," said Corthain. "You robbed him, too, didn't you?"

"Of course!" Luthair looked offended. "A man's got his pride, my lord domn. Besides, it wasn't as if I would stick around to collect my inheritance, anyway. So I took it with me." His tone grew thoughtful. "I wonder what happened to him, sometimes. The farm was near Tarrenheim, and the Jurgurs sacked that country good and hard. He's probably dead, along with all my kin." He spat on the street. "Not that I ever cared a damn about them, the grasping scoundrels."

"So you're saying I should put my father behind me, is that it?" said Corthain.

"What? No, no," said Luthair. "I'm saying you should rob the old bastard and leave him tied up to a pigpen."

Corthain snorted. "I confess, I had never thought of that."

###

The letter arrived at dawn the next morning.

Corthain had just finished the Forms when a knock came at his door. A messenger wearing the colors of House Kalarien entered, bearing a scroll imprinted with the seal of Magister Arthain.

The note was written in High Imperial, and curt. It requested Corthain's presence at midday, and offered no other details.

Corthain sighed. He scribbled a brief response, indicating that he would come, and handed the note back to the messenger, who bowed and departed. Corthain stared after him, hand twitching to his sword hilt.

He doubted the meeting with his father would be pleasant. And there was no telling how the old man would react once he learned that Corthain had become a Callian domn.

The people of Moiria needed this wine trade with Araspan. He hoped he had not just destroyed their chances.

***

## Chapter 6 - The Testing

The astraljump ended, and Rachaelis found herself in a circular chamber with no doors and no windows. Niches lined the walls, and in each niche stood a mirror. Rachaelis turned in a slow circle, saw herself reflected over and over again.

Did she really look so scrawny and pale?

She completed her circle, and Magister Mauriana stood before her, expression stern.

"The first trial of the Testing, Initiate," said Mauriana. "Use the magic of illusion. Disguise yourself as me. Perfectly."

That didn't seem so hard. Or dangerous.

Rachaelis lifted her hand, blue light flaring around her fingers. She held an image of the Magister in her mind, precise in every detail. Then she released the spell, and the energy crackled around her. She shaped it with her mind, forcing the power into the image she desired.

When she looked into the mirrors, Mauriana's face stared back at her. The same hair, the same eyes, the same black-trimmed red robe with the black stole. A pity the clothes were only illusionary. It was cold in here. Rachaelis frowned, adjusted her hair, and faced Mauriana.

The older woman walked in a circle around her, examining the illusion.

"Adequate," said Mauriana. "You may release the spell."

Rachaelis did so, and the image of the stately Magister in the mirror vanished, replaced by a pale, shivering young woman.

"You pass the first trial," said Mauriana, pointing. One of the mirrors vanished, revealing a stone arch. "You may proceed to the next."

Rachaelis nodded and walked to the arch.

Again an astraljump spell took her, and the silver light devoured her.

When it cleared, she found herself in another domed chamber, identical to the first. Instead of mirrors, though, in each of the twelve niches stood a red-robed Magister.

In fact, the same Magister.

Rachaelis turned in a circle. Every last Magister in the niches looked identical, the same gray hair, the same close-cropped beard, the same narrowed eyes. Illusion, then. An image fashioned out of magical power and nothing else.

"The second trial of the Testing, Initiate," said each of the identical Magisters, speaking in unison. "I am projecting eleven images of myself. I stand in one of the niches. Determine what is illusion and what is real. Find me."

Rachaelis bit her lip, thinking. To simply walk up and touch the illusions would do no good; a skilled Adept could fashion illusions capable of fooling all five senses. But an illusion was only a spell like any other.

She lifted her hand and worked the spell to sense the presence of magical energies. She swept her hand in a circle, her magical senses probing, searching. The illusions in the niche brushed against her senses, and she turned, seeking out the real Magister...

But every Magister in the niche was an illusion.

Rachaelis frowned. All of them were illusionary? Perhaps the Magister had disguised his presence somehow, made his real form register as an illusion to Rachaelis's spell? But that would take a complicated spell, one even a Magister's skill could not conceal. Or...

A tight smile came over Rachaelis's face.

Or it was a simple trick.

She recast the spell to sense magic, this time widening the focus to include the entire chamber. Again she felt the spells powering the illusionary images in the stone niches. But this time she felt another spell, towards the center of the chamber, one subtler and fainter.

She walked to the source of the spell, put out her hand, and touched a man's shoulder. An instant later the images in the niches vanished, and the Magister appeared before Rachaelis as he released his spell of invisibility.

"I found you," said Rachaelis.

"Very good," said the Magister. "Most of the Initiates assume that I am standing in one of the niches. How did you know?"

"You lied to me. An illusion is only a spell to trick the senses. A lie is an illusion to the mind," said Rachaelis.

"Yes," said the old man. He seemed pleased. "You have passed the second trial." He pointed, and silver flight flickered in one of the niches. "You may proceed to the next."

Rachaelis strode into the niche.

Again an astraljump took her.

When the silver light cleared, she stood in a vast stone hall, dimly lit by scattered spelllamps. A low stone dais rose in the center of the room, and upon the dais stood a rough-hewn pillar. There was a metallic smell in the air, something familiar and unpleasant...

Blood.

Rachaelis came to the dais and shivered from something other than the cold.

Three dogs lay upon the dais, blood pooled around their slashed throats, eyes glittering and lifeless. The blood was still wet, and Rachaelis had the feeling that if she touched the fur, they would still feel warm.

But why? Why kill the dogs like that?

A silver flash, and Magister Jonas appeared before her, his blocky face solemn.

"The third trial of the Testing, Initiate," said Jonas. "Often an Adept must defend himself, whether from demons, those pursuing paths of forbidden magic, or from the violence of ignorant men. Our weapon is fire drawn from the astral world itself, fire against which nothing can stand."

Rachaelis nodded.

"Blue astralfire can destroy material objects," said Jonas, pointing. "The pillar. Destroy it."

Rachaelis took a deep breath, drew in her power, and thrust out her palm. A snarling crackle, and a bar of azure flame erupted from her hand. It slammed into the pillar, drilling into its core. There was a thunderclap, and the pillar split in two, collapsing into a pile of shattered fragments.

Jonas lifted a single eyebrow.

A wave of dizziness went through Rachaelis. She had hit the thing harder than she wanted. She had to conserve her strength. The Divine only knew how much longer the Testing might last.

"Good," said Jonas. He waved his hand, and a shimmering halo of silver light appeared around him. "The silver astralfire can pierce magical protections and unravel spells." He beckoned. "Pierce my protections."

Again Rachaelis summoned the power and gestured. A column of snarling silver flame leapt from her hand and crashed into Jonas's ward. For a moment the ward shuddered and hissed, power struggling against power. Then the ward collapsed, and Jonas stumbled back a few steps, astonishment on his face.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" said Rachaelis.

Jonas barked out a laugh. "No. But you're a strong one. My own fault. Talvin warned me." He looked at her, and the amusement drained from his face. Then he gestured again, and vanished in the silver flash.

Rachaelis blinked. There were three kinds of astralfire, and she had only used the first two. But why had Jonas left? Had she failed somehow?

She looked towards the dais, and saw the dead dogs move.

Her breath seized in her throat. The dogs climbed to their feet in jerky, halting movements, as if manipulated by unseen strings. Blood still dripped from their slashed throats. As one their heads rotated to face her, and she saw a hellish glare in their eyes, as if hot coals burned within their skulls.

Demons. The dogs had been possessed, had risen again as ghouls.

The dead dogs stalked towards her in eerie silence, still moving with that ghastly jerking motion.

Rachaelis wanted to run, to find someplace to hide, but the stone hall was bare. She heard the dogs' claws tap against the stone floor as they drew closer, muzzles peeling back from fangs, the stink of blood growing overwhelming...

Wait. The Testing. Three kinds of astralfire, blue, silver, and white. Blue harmed material things. Silver destroyed magical spells. And white harmed immaterial creatures, things from the astral realm.

Like demons.

The ghoul-dogs were almost upon her. Rachaelis screamed, flung out her hand, and loosed the power. A sheet of white flame shot from her fingers in a fan, slamming into the dogs. The ghouls shuddered, limbs flailing, and the red glare in their eyes vanished in a searing white glow. They collapsed the floor as the white astralfire devoured the demons, reducing the ghouls to dead flesh once more.

The fire winked out, and Rachaelis stared at the dogs, breathing hard, watching them for any trace of movement.

Instead she saw a silver flash, and Magister Jonas reappeared.

"You have passed the third trial," said Jonas, and an ornate stone archway appeared out of nowhere on the dais. "You may proceed to the next."

"That was," said Rachaelis, still looking at the dead dogs. "That was cruel."

Something flickered in Jonas's eyes. "You may proceed to the next."

Rachaelis walked around him and entered the arch, taking care not to step in the puddles of blood.

When the silver light cleared, she felt sand beneath her bare feet, coarse and gritty. She stood in a small arena, similar to those that hosted gladiatorial games in the city. Rows of tiered seats rose over her, stretching away into a colorless black sky.

Arthain Kalarien stood in the overseer's box, hand resting on the railing.

"The fourth trial of the Testing, Initiate," said Arthain, his voice booming over the sands. "Mastery of astralfire is well and good, but often you will need to defend yourself in situations of life and death, in trials that will wrack your mind and body alike."

He gestured at iron gates below the railing.

"When those gates open, you will be attacked by twelve gladiators. Eleven are illusionary. One is real. And he has been promised his freedom, should he rend you from your life."

Rachaelis blinked. The Magisters wanted her to kill a man?

"Defend yourself!" said Arthain, and the iron gates swung open with a clang.

Men rushed out, wearing the masked helmets and spiked shoulder plates of gladiators. Each carried a short sword and a round shield. And each man looked perfectly identical to the other.

They sprinted towards her, and there was no time for sensing spells, no time to think. Rachaelis threw out her hands and called forth silver astralfire. Silver flame lashed out in a cone, billowed across the sandy ground, and struck the charging gladiators. All but one vanished as the silver astralfire collapsed the illusion spells. The last gladiator, the real gladiator, charged at Rachaelis, sword drawn back to kill her with one mighty blow.

Rachaelis swung her fist to meet him, blue astralfire seeping between her fingers.

But the gladiator pivoted at the last moment, and lashed out with his shield instead of his sword. Rachaelis's astralfire blasted away the top half of his shield, but the rest slammed into her torso, sent her stumbling back a half-dozen steps to land hard in the sand.

The gladiator sprang after her, sword plunging down.

Rachaelis flung herself sideways, and the blade plunged through the space her neck had occupied a heartbeat before, burying itself in the sand. She rolled to one knee, hand coming up. The gladiator wrenched his blade free and lunged at her, sword stabbing for her heart.

But Rachaelis was faster this time. Azure flame blasted from her palm, hammering into the gladiator's face and chest. She heard him scream as the fire ripped away his helmet and sent him tumbling to the ground. Rachaelis scrambled to her feet, ready for another spell.

But it was over. The gladiator lay on the ground, smoke rising from the livid burns on his chest and jaw. The smell of burned flesh was horrible. Rachaelis felt her gorge rise. Good thing she had been too nervous to eat for the last few days.

She looked down at herself and flinched. Bruises covered her hip and side, and blood trickled from scrapes on her belly and breasts.

A silver flash, and Magister Arthain appeared on the other side of the wounded gladiator.

"Finish him," said Arthain.

Rachaelis shook her head.

"Finish him," repeated Arthain. "He dared to lift his hand against an Initiate of the Conclave. Such impudence must be punished. Kill him, now."

"No," said Rachaelis.

Arthain's lip curled in contempt. "Those who would strike at you must die, Initiate. You are too soft. Those who attack an Adept must perish."

Rachaelis glared at him. "This man did not attack me of his own will. You told him he would have his freedom if he struck me down. So it seems that you struck at me, and he was only your tool. Does that mean I should strike you down?"

Arthain's cold green eyes narrowed, and for a moment Rachaelis thought that he would attack her.

"You have passed the fourth trial, Initiate," said Arthain. "You need only defend yourself, not kill your attacker. Even if slaying your attacker is the path of wisdom." He gestured, and the ornate stone archway appeared before the iron gates. "You may proceed to the next trial."

"What about him?" said Rachaelis.

Arthain's voice was iron. "Proceed, Initiate."

Rachaelis glared at him for a moment longer, then stalked through the archway.

When the astraljump ended, she stood in a narrow stone corridor, the walls meeting in an arch twenty feet over her head. Magister Arthain stood fifteen paces away, his cortana ready in his hand.

"The fifth trial of the Testing, Initiate," said Arthain, gesturing with the cortana. "You have demonstrated mastery of astralfire." His lip curled. "If barely. But an Adept must be able to defend himself, as well as to attack." He lifted the cortana. "Defend yourself from steel. Now."

He raced at her, blood-colored robes billowing, cortana drawn back for a slash. But Rachaelis had seen the test coming this time. Even as he moved, she cast a spell. A shimmering halo of blue light appeared around her, a ward to guard against material objects. A heartbeat later Arthain's cortana came crashing down, only to rebound from the ward in a spray of sparks. The old man recovered his balance and swung thrice more. Each time Rachaelis felt the strain upon her will as the blade struck against her spell, but each time she held the defensive ward in place.

"Well enough," said Arthain, returning his cortana to its scabbard. "You may release the ward, Initiate."

Rachaelis did so, and Arthain backed away a dozen steps, flexing his fingers.

"You will also need to defend yourself from magical attack," said Arthain. "Ward yourself from blue astralfire, Initiate. Now."

Even as he spoke, his hands came up, blue fire crackling around his fingertips.

Rachaelis cast her own spell, and an aura of silver light appeared around her. An instant later Arthain struck with his own spell, azure astralfire hammering into Rachaelis's ward. She gasped and stumbled back a step, agony shooting through her skull. Arthain was strong, hideously strong; trying to block the Magister's astralfire was like trying to stop a charging bull with her thoughts alone.

But she did it.

Again Arthain struck, and again, his astralfire filling the corridor with dazzling blue light. Rachaelis gritted her teeth, sweat pouring down her face. Her ward flickered and crackled, but held against Arthain's attack.

At last Arthain lowered his hands. "It seems you are as strong as Talvin thought."

Rachaelis said nothing, blinking sweat from her eyes. Arthain had done his very best to kill her. She wondered how many Initiates Arthain had killed, if he had tried to kill Thalia when she had undergone the Testing.

"You have passed the fifth trial, Initiate," said Arthain, and the stone archway appeared between them. "You may proceed to the next."

She entered the arch.

When the astraljump ended, Rachaelis found herself sitting in a stone chair, the marble chill against her thighs and back. Magister Nazim sat across from her in an identical chair, his lined face tight with concern. Rachaelis swallowed as she looked at him. Magister Nazim had been her favorite teacher? Would he try to kill her now, as Arthain and Jonas had?

"The sixth trial of the Testing, Initiate," said Nazim, leaning forward. "An Adept must have a disciplined mind, one able to defend itself from attack, whether from demons or practitioners of forbidden arts. I shall invade your mind. You must repulse me. Do you understand?"

Rachaelis nodded.

"Then we begin," said Nazim, his black eyes staring into hers.

At once Rachaelis felt the presence of his mind digging into her thoughts. It was as if an invisible hand sifted through her brain, clawing its way into her mind and body. Rachaelis shuddered, gritted her teeth, and fought back. She visualized her mind becoming a fortress, her thoughts becoming towers and battlements and walls, and they did so. Nazim's will battered against her mental fortress, like tides crashing against a rock, and sooner or later he would break through.

Then a different approach occurred to Rachaelis.

She changed her thoughts from a fortress to a hand, reached out, and caught Nazim's will in her own. The Magister's eyes went wide, and through their mental connection she felt his astonishment. She pushed, driving his will back, and suddenly she was in his mind. Images from his memories filtered into her thoughts; a dark-eyed woman, weeping in grief, a child in chains, the reeking hold of a ship...

"Enough," croaked Nazim, gesturing. A burst of silver astralfire washed over Rachaelis in a tingling chill, disrupting both of their spells, and the mental connection vanished. "Enough." He chuckled. "Ah, but I told Talvin you were capable, child."

"Did I hurt you?" said Rachaelis.

Nazim smiled. "A little. But it is my own fault. I should have been better prepared. You have passed the sixth trial, Initiate." The archway appeared next to the stone chairs. "You may proceed to the next."

Rachaelis rose. Another wave of dizziness washed over her, worse than before. She was pushing herself too hard, using too much magical power. Sooner or later her strength would fail.

"A moment," said Nazim. "Listen to me, child. You are doing well. Many Initiates do not make it this far. But the worst is to come. Do you understand? Keep your wits about you, and your guard up. That is all I can say."

Rachaelis nodded.

"Good luck," said Nazim, "and may the gods of my people watch over you."

She stepped into the archway.

The silver light vanished, and Rachaelis stood in another domed chamber. Three blocks of stone stood in the center of the room, rough-cut and unfinished. Besides the blocks stood Talvin, the First Magister himself. His blue eyes focused upon her.

"The seventh trial of the Testing, Initiate," said Talvin. "You have demonstrated how to defend your mind from magical attack. However, your thoughts can be used as a weapon in a cruder, if a no less effective, sense. You will now defend yourself from this weapon, or you shall die."

He gestured, and one of the blocks floated into the air. It hovered for a moment, and then Talvin gestured. The massive stone hurtled towards Rachaelis, heavy enough to smash her to a bloody paste against the wall.

But she had realized what was happening the moment Talvin began speaking, and her own spell was ready. Her thoughts focused, as if a her will had became a third hand, and she bent her mind upon the block. It was too heavy to stop by main force. So her will slapped it instead, altering its course enough that it smashed into the wall with a tremendous crash. Rachaelis felt the vibration in her teeth, and dust fell from the ceiling, but the block missed her.

Again Talvin flung a block at her, and again, and both times Rachaelis deflected the stones with her will, smashing them into the walls.

When the last echoes died away, Talvin spoke. "You have passed the seventh trial, Initiate. Proceed to the next."

The usual archway appeared next to Talvin, and she walked into it.

The astraljump released her, and Rachaelis shrieked in sudden surprise.

She stood on a narrow pinnacle of wet stone, barely two feet across. The pinnacle jutted out of a vast chasm, its depths disappearing into blackness. Yawning voids opened up all around her, and Rachaelis felt dizzy, and not just from exhaustion. Wind whipped out of the black depths, tugging at her hair and chilling the sweat on her skin. In the wall of the chasm, nearly a hundred yards away, Rachaelis saw the lighted outline of the stone archway.

Her feet started to slide, and for an awful moment Rachaelis thought she would go hurtling into the black abyss. She dug in her toes and strained, and the movement stopped.

"The eight trial of the Testing, Initiate," said Talvin's voice, booming from nowhere. "Adepts can use astraljump spells to transport from place to place, a skill that requires great precision and fine control. Astraljump to the archway."

He didn't say what would happen if she failed. He didn't have to. She wondered how many shattered bones lay at the bottom of the chasm. It looked like the ledge before the archway was barely a yard across. That could be a problem. Rachaelis had plenty of magical strength, but her fine control had never been quite as fine would have liked...

No. Don't think about that.

She focused upon the far archway, held its image in her mind. Astraljumps worked by forming a sort of shortcut across the astral world, letting the caster move quickly from one spot to another, and it was imperative that she maintain an accurate mental image of her destination.

Otherwise she might miss.

She concentrated, and held the image in her mind for a full minute. Then she summoned the power and cast the astraljump spell. Silver light enfolded her, followed by a wrenching sense of dislocation. The light cleared, and Rachaelis found herself on the narrow ledge.

Or, at least, almost on the narrow ledge. Her heels jutted out over the edge, and she started to fall. Rachaelis threw her arms forward, and her feet went out from beneath her. She grabbed the archway, landing hard on one knee, and pulled herself forward as the wind from the deeps howled around her.

She slumped against the archway, panting.

It was a very long way down.

"You have passed the eighth trial, Initiate," came Talvin's voice. "You may proceed to the final trial."

The final trial? Rachaelis wondered what else they could throw at her.

She paused for a moment, waiting for her head to stop spinning. Deep breaths. Her mouth felt so dry. By the Divine, she wanted something to drink.

One trial left in the Testing. In the next few moments she would either become an Adept, or she would die. That made things simple.

Rachaelis heaved herself back to her feet, keeping well away from the edge, and stepped into the archway.

When the silver light faded she found herself in another vast stone hall, similar to the one with the dead dogs. But this hall was empty. There were no dead dogs, no stone pillars, no Magisters in their red robes and black stoles. A faint silver glow came from the dais, pulsing like a heartbeat, but that was the only sign of life.

Rachaelis hesitated, and walked towards the silver glow. As she drew closer, she saw that the glow came from a symbol drawn in lines of silver astralfire across the dais. A man stood in the center of the symbol, gazing at the far wall. As she approached, the symbol winked out, and the man turned to face her.

Rachaelis froze.

"Father?" she whispered.

Aramane Morulan stood facing her, his gray hair tangled, his beard matted and filthy. His red robes hung in tatters, and he looked half-starved.

"Who are you?" he said, stepping closer. "Another fool who fell afoul of Arthain Kalarien, I suppose." He stopped, horror coming over his face. "What...no, this...this cannot be? Rachaelis?"

Rachaelis nodded.

Aramane's face crumpled. "No. No. Oh, by the Divine, no. Arthain trapped you, too. I was hoping to spare you this."

"I don't understand," said Rachaelis. "What's happening?"

"Arthain has kept me imprisoned here for the last twelve years," said Aramane, despair in his eyes. "I wanted the slaves freed, I wanted the Initiates treated less brutally, and he finally had enough of me. During the battle with Paulus, he tricked me and kept me imprisoned here. For all this time. Arthain told me...he told me that he had killed you."

"No," said Rachaelis, trying to think past her shock. Something was wrong here. "The Testing...I'm here for the Testing."

"Then Arthain must have made a mistake!" said Aramane, desperate hope in his eyes. He was only a few feet from her now. "Astraljumps can sometimes go amiss. He must have accidentally astraljumped you here. Rachaelis, listen to me. This chamber is warded. I cannot use an astraljump spell to escape. But if you lend me your power, let me into your mind, I can astraljump both of us away. Arthain will pay for his crimes, and...we can be together again."

Rachaelis blinked. This couldn't be happening. And yet she wanted it to be true, wanted it more than anything.

But something was wrong.

"My daughter," said Aramane, his voice choked with emotion. "You were a little girl the last time I saw you. And now look at the woman you've become. Strong enough to survive the Testing. I'm so proud of you."

"Father." Rachaelis closed her eyes, opened them again. "But...this cannot be. I saw you tonight. I see you every day. You've been in your bed for the last twelve years, caught between life and death. How...how can you be here?"

"You saw a decoy," said Aramane. "A thing created by illusion and trickery. Arthain fashioned it, to trick you. He didn't want you to come looking for me."

"Wait," said Rachaelis. Something dark started stirred in her thoughts. "You...said that Arthain had told you that he killed me."

"He...did," said Aramane. "His story would change. Just to torment me, you see."

Rachaelis stepped back from him. "I don't think I'm here by mistake. I think this is still part of the Testing."

"Rachaelis," said Aramane, his voice full of anguish. "Every day for twelve years I have thought of you, thought of how I failed you. Don't leave me here in this dark place. Lend me your power, let me into your mind. Help me to escape..."

"If you really are my father," said Rachaelis, lifting her hand, "then you won't mind if I prove it?"

Silver astralfire lashed from her fingers, washed over her father.

"Rachaelis!" he screamed, his tone ripping at her heart.

And then he vanished. In his place stood a long-dead corpse, rotting skin stretched tight over yellowing bones. A red glow flickered in the empty eye sockets, and a horrible sense of malevolent hatred radiated from the thing like heat from an inferno.

A ghoul, a demon-possessed corpse. Worse, a greater demon, one powerful enough to cast illusions, and to pluck the details of Rachaelis's father from her mind.

"It would have been easier, fleshling," hissed the ghoul, its voice echoing inside her skull, "if you have given me your body voluntarily." It stalked towards her. "But what you will not give, I shall take."

Rachaelis should have felt terror.

Instead, rage enveloped her. She had visited her father's beside almost every day for the last twelve years. And this creature, this miserable thing, had stolen his face.

And even worse, it had made her feel hope that she might speak with her father again.

Azure fire blasted from her clenched fists and slammed into the ghoul's chest, throwing it the base of the dais. Blue astralfire could not harm the demon, not really, but it would damage the corpse. The ghoul howled in rage and sat up, its hands moving in the beginnings of a spell. Rachaelis was faster. White astralfire lanced out, stabbed into the ghoul's chest. It flopped back against the dais with a tearing shriek of agony.

"Mercy!" wailed the ghoul, white astralfire crackling through it. "Release me and shall return to the astral realm, to trouble you no more."

"No," hissed Rachaelis, and threw all her power and all her rage into the spell. The astralfire redoubled, burning like a shaft of molten steel. The ghoul's body ripped apart as the astralfire rebounded against the demon's power. The demon's form itself rose from the shattered bones, writhing in agony, a hooded shape of smoke and red light.

And then the astralfire tore it to shreds. A final scream echoed inside Rachaelis's skull, fading to nothingness.

She dropped to one knee, panting, fresh sweat pouring down her face. Her head throbbed and spun. She had pushed herself too hard. That was it. She had no power left.

Silver light flashed, and Thalia Kalarien appeared next to her.

She was smiling.

"You did it!" she said, and she almost bowled Rachaelis over in a sudden hug. "I knew you had it in you. Didn't I tell you that you could do it? You did it, you did it, you did it!"

More silver flashes. Magisters Arthain and Nazim appeared, followed by First Magister Talvin. Nazim was smiling ear to ear, Talvin looked impressed, and even grim Magister Arthain seemed thoughtful, as if reconsidering his opinion of Rachaelis.

"I," said Rachaelis, as Thalia helped her to stand. "I...that was a trial? Part of the Testing?"

"It was," said Talvin. "To face a greater demon is the final trial of the Testing. Skill with astralfire and telekinesis is well and good, but a demon is the most terrible foe any Adept must face, both in might and guile. The ultimate purpose of our Conclave is to guard the world of men from the demons. An Adept must be able to overcome a demon. And you have done this."

"And you have done it amazingly well," said Nazim. "Most Initiate only banish the demon, or destroy the ghoul it inhabits. You...destroyed it. You actually destroyed it." He smiled. "An auspicious start to your career as an Adept."

"It...that was a cruel test," said Rachaelis. She was shaking now, whether from exhaustion or pain, she could not say. "It took the guise of my father. I thought...I thought for a moment that I might speak with him again."

"That is how a demon operates," said Arthain, voice grave. "It offers you what you desire most, so you will let it into your body. And then your body and your magical strength belong to the demon, to do with as it pleases."

"But you have shown yourself able to resist these temptations," said Talvin. "Tomorrow, you shall take your rightful place as an Adept of the Conclave."

Rachaelis bowed her head, still shivering. The Magisters had wanted her to kill that gladiator. The Magisters had summoned demons to kill her, even if it was part of the Testing.

What would they want her to do, she wondered, once she was an Adept?

THE END

_Thank you for reading The Testing. Turn the page to read an exclusive preview chapter from the next volume in THE THIRD SOUL series,The Assassins_ (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1540) _(also available inThe Third Soul Omnibus One_ (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4021) _)._

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***

## "The Assassins" Bonus Chapter

The morning after the Testing, Rachaelis put on the gray robe of an Initiate for the last time. The ordeal had left her exhausted, with a headache that would not go away. But her hands still did not shake, and she felt...lightheaded. Surreal. As if this were a dream, perhaps. For so long she had been certain that she would die during the Testing.

And, yet, here she was.

What would become of her now?

She left her room and went to the grounds within the inner Ring. Marvane and a deputation of black-armored Swords waited for her, along with Thalia and Magister Nazim.

"Well," said Marvane, a faint smile on the old soldier's face. "Guess you didn't run after all."

"I suppose not," said Rachaelis.

"Good morning," said Thalia, a smile on her face. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I spent all night hitting my head against the wall," said Rachaelis.

Thalia laughed. "It could be worse. I couldn't walk for two days after my Testing."

Rachaelis shook her head. "I don't understand how you can be so cheerful. I almost died, several times. I assume the same thing happened during your Testing."

"We all almost died during the Testing," said Nazim, leaning on his cane. Strands of his white hair floated in the morning breeze. "There are many things about the Conclave that are cruel, but the Testing...is a necessary cruelty, I think. An Adept who voluntarily joins with demons can wreak terrible harm. Remember Paulus."

Rachaelis did. And she remembered her father, lying for twelve years in that tower, rendered neither dead nor alive by whatever spell Paulus had used.

"And think of how much pain would have been averted Paulus had failed his Testing," said Nazim. "We Adepts must use our strength responsibly. At least the Testing can show whether or not an Initiate is strong enough to resist the lures of demons."

"And why shouldn't I be cheerful?" said Thalia. "You're my friend, and you didn't die. If that isn't a cause to be cheerful, then nothing is. Now come! Your ceremony awaits."

So Rachaelis let them lead her to the towers of the inner Ring, followed by the Swords in formal escort. In the center of the Ring stood the Great Hall, where the Council of Magisters met, and the formal ceremonies of the Conclave took place. Marvane thrust open the doors and led them inside. The arched roof rose two hundred feet from the polished marble floor, and sunlight poured through the high windows. Magisters and Adepts lined the walls, watching in silence, and the First Magister himself waited on the dais at the far end of the hall. The Swords led them to the dais, and Thalia stepped forward.

"First Magister," said Thalia in High Imperial, her voice ringing off the walls. "I am Thalia, of House Kalarien, an Adept of the Conclave. And it is with great joy that I announce that Rachaelis, of House Morulan, whom I sponsored, has survived the Testing."

Nazim stepped forward, his cane rasping against the floor. "I am Nazim, Magister of the Conclave. And it is with great joy that I announce that Rachaelis, of House Morulan, for whom I have spoken, has survived the Testing."

Talvin lifted his staff and smote it against the floor three times. "Then by the authority of the Conclave of Adepts, and by my office as First Magister, I will administer the Oath of the Conclave to the Initiate. Will you take the Oath, Initiate?"

Rachaelis lifted her chin. "I will."

"Do you swear to abide by the laws of the Conclave, as set down from the days of the first Adepts?"

"I, Rachaelis Morulan, so swear."

"Do you swear to guard and preserve the tradition of the High Art, that future generations may learn of it?"

"I, Rachaelis Morulan, so swear."

"Do you swear to forsake forever the forbidden arts, the paths of necromancy, pyromancy, oneiromancy, and blood spells, and to oppose whosoever might wield these arts?"

"I, Rachaelis Morulan, so swear."

"And do you swear to the first responsibility of any Adept, to guard the world from the demons of the astral realm, and to oppose them wherever they might appear?"

"I, Rachaelis Morulan, so swear."

"Then you are welcomed into the Conclave as a new sister, Rachaelis Morulan," said Talvin, "with all the rights and duties of a full Adept. Take up your robes and sigils of office."

"Your robe," murmured Thalia. "Take it off."

"What?" hissed Rachaelis. "In front of...everyone?"

Thalia grinned. "Tradition."

Rachaelis sighed, pulled off her gray Initiate's robe, and handed it to Thalia. At least she got to keep her shift on, this time. Thalia set the robe aside and helped Rachaelis into the robes of an Adept; blood-colored, with a tight black collar and black trim on the sleeves and hem. Thalia also presented her with a sword belt and a cortana in its scabbard.

"What's this?" whispered Rachaelis.

"Your father's cortana," whispered Thalia back. "Technically, you are the Lady of House Morulan now, so you are entitled to wear it. Besides, it goes well with the robe."

Rachaelis nodded, a lump in her throat. Her father's sword. Not that she knew the first thing about using a sword; if she drew it she'd probably slice off her hand. But it had been her father's. She let Thalia buckle the belt around her waist without protest.

"And this is well," said Nazim, passing something to her.

Rachaelis took it. It was a sheathed dagger, a sicarr, the blade carried by all Adepts. And it was enchanted. She could feel the thrum of magical power when she touched it. But she had seen this blade before...

"I made this," said Rachaelis, turning it over in her hand. She had labored over it for hours, carefully working the spells that would make the weapon strong and sharper and lighter than normal steel.

"You did," said Thalia, still grinning. "I remember you complaining about it."

"It is a traditional gift," said Nazim. "The successful enchantment of a sicarr is one of the last tasks an Initiate must complete, before he is ready to undergo the Testing. Should the Initiate survive the Testing, he receives the sicarr back, as a sign of his role as an Adept."

"Thank you," said Rachaelis, and hooked the sicarr to her belt.

"Adepts of the Conclave," said Talvin. "I present your newest sister."

The assembled Magisters and Adepts applauded.

###

"What happens now?" said Rachaelis. She was glad they could speak Callian again. Twisting her tongue around High Imperial grammar made her teeth hurt.

She stood with Thalia and Magister Nazim on the lawn outside the Great Hall, watching the Adepts and Magisters depart the ceremony. Some stopped to congratulate her, but most ignored her. Some walked away, while others vanished in the silver flashes of astraljumps.

"Tomorrow, you shall have a banquet," said Thalia. "It's more tradition. The sponsor always holds a banquet for the new Adept. Fortunately, I happen to enjoy throwing banquets, and yours shall be the best of the year."

"Thank you," said Rachaelis. "But I meant...what happens next? To me, I mean? I know Adepts have freedom to do as they wish, but...I'm not sure what I should do."

Thalia shrugged. "Generally, during their first year new Adepts receive duties from the First Magister himself. They spend some time in the foundries. Some time testing children for magical talent. Some time in the library and the scriptorium. To see where your talents and interests best lie."

"And then," said Magister Nazim, "you will pick a College."

"A College?" said Rachaelis. "What's that?"

Thalia laughed. "It's one of those little secrets that we don't learn until we become Adepts. The Conclave insists upon presenting a united front to the outside world. But within the Conclave...there is sniping, backbiting, petty politics. The 'Colleges' are merely the pretty name we give to our factions."

Nazim snorted. "You are too cynical, Thalia. A College is an informal society of Adepts who share similar views on the best use of the High Art."

"How many are there?" said Rachaelis.

"Fifteen," said Thalia. "Some of them overlap."

"Which College do you belong to?" said Rachaelis.

"Thalia and I both belong to the College Liberia," said Nazim. "Our main goal is to see the ending of slavery, and to end Araspan's reliance upon slaves." He smiled. "Needless to say, we are small and unpopular. Though we do frequently ally with the College Excorisia, which devotes itself to fighting against the demons, and the College Maleficia, which focuses upon hunting those who practice forbidden arts."

"The College Liberia," said Rachaelis. "I would like to join the College Liberia."

"You don't actually decide until the end of your first year," said Thalia.

"Still, we would be pleased to have you join us," said Nazim. "You were a skilled student, and very strong in the High Art. And, more, you have a compassionate heart," he glanced around, "something that many of our brothers and sisters lack. But enough of such talk for now. Today is a day of celebration for you, and you should enjoy it."

"Yes," said Thalia. "Come, let's head to my rooms. We have a banquet to plan, you know."

"In a minute," said Rachaelis. "I...just want to stop by my father's room for a moment."

"Of course," said Thalia. "Take your time."

Magister Nazim bowed. "I'll leave you ladies to your business. Rachaelis, feel free to call upon me at any time."

"Thank you," said Rachaelis. "For everything."

Magister Nazim smiled and limped away, his cane rasping against the gravel path.

"You know," said Thalia. "You could just astraljump to your father's room. Since you're an Adept now, you won't get in trouble for it."

Rachaelis hesitated. It was nearly a mile walk around the Ring from here. "Maybe I will. I'll meet you in your rooms, Thalia."

Thalia nodded, clapped Rachaelis on the shoulder, and walked off. Rachaelis brought the image of her father's room to mind. Then she summoned the power and astraljumped.

A silver flash, a moment of wrenching disorientation, and Rachaelis found herself in Aramane Morulan's tower room. A wave of dizziness shot through her, and she leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing hard. She hated astraljumping. Adept or not, she decided, but she would keep walking from place to place within the Ring. And the exercise would do her good. Most Magisters astraljumped constantly, and they tended towards corpulence.

The dizziness faded, and she walked to the stool besides the bed.

"Father," she said. "The Testing. I survived. I'm an Adept now. Like you." She laughed a little. "They gave me your cortana."

He did not respond, his chest and throat remaining motionless. "Maybe...maybe it won't be as bad as I think," said Rachaelis. "Nazim and Thalia told me about the Colleges. I think...if I could spend my life working for something good, that wouldn't be so bad. To end slavery in Araspan. Or to stop men like Paulus. So more people don't suffer the way you have."

She wondered if her father still suffered. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe his soul had moved on to the light of the Divine, and his body had only been preserved by some twist of magic. Or perhaps he heard every word she had spoke to him.

"I'm still afraid," she said, gazing at his face. "I...have all this power now. They'll want me to use it. And I'm afraid I'll use it badly. Or it will change me, and I'll become like Arthain Kalarien. He did his very best to kill me during the Testing. I wonder if he tried to kill Thalia." She stared into space for a moment. "I wonder how many Initiates he's killed during the Testing."

She stared at her father's face, lost in thought, and so heard the rasp of leather on the stone floor.

"Thalia?" said Rachaelis, turning. "I'll..."

Her voice trailed off in surprise.

A man in slave's orange tunic stood in the doorway, something clutched in his hand. He had a wild shock of red hair and bright blue eyes, ritual scars covering his cheeks. A Jurgur, then. No doubt one of the new slaves that had flooded the city after the Battle of Dark River.

"You should go," said Rachaelis. "If the seneschal or his men find you here, they'll have you beaten."

The Jurgur stared at her, mouth working. There were fresh cuts on his jaw, she saw, cuts that had only just scabbed over. Rachaelis had the strangest sense that he had been trying to sneak up on her. But what on earth for?

Then his expression hardened, and he lifted the thing in his hand to his lips.

A blowgun.

Rachaelis shoved off the stool. She hit the floor hard, landing on her already sore hip, and an instant later something blurred over her head, burying itself in the side of her father's bed. A dart, she saw, its head smeared with some sort of yellowish paste.

The Jurgur gaped at her in consternation, and she realized that the man was trying to kill her.

He sprinted into the room with a yell and seized her by the arms. Rachaelis struggled, but he stood a foot taller and outweighed her by a hundred pounds, and his grip was like iron. He threw her against her father's bed, reached into his tunic, and drew out a sponge dripping with some sort of fluid. The smell made Rachaelis gag; it was a medicine that surgeons brewed up, to put their patients to sleep. She tried to twist free, but the Jurgur held her pinned in place as he lowered the sponge towards her face.

Then Rachaelis's shock and terror vanished, replaced by cold clarity. To survive the Testing, only to get killed by a Jurgur slave?

Was she an Adept or was she not?

She slapped her palm against the man's chest and summoned power.

Azure fire erupted from his back and lashed against the wall.

###

A few hours later Rachaelis sat in a couch in Magister Nazim's study, arms folded tight about her.

The windows had a fine view of the Ring's grounds, and Nazim decorated the room with objects from his native Khauldun. Curved daggers adorned the shelves, their blade inlaid with intricate patterns, resting alongside scrolls covered in ornate calligraphy. Carpets hung from the walls, woven in dizzying patterns.

The slave boy Rachaelis had rescued from the overseer sat huddled in one corner, nose buried in a book. Nazim had been teaching him to read. Arthain would have been scandalized.

The door opened, and Sword-Captain Marvane walked into the room, helmet under one arm.

"Well?" said Nazim, looking up from his desk.

"His name was Mabignon," said Marvane. "A Jurgur, like you said. The seneschal bought him six months ago. No useful skills. Truculent fellow, too; he'd been whipped three times in the last month alone."

"What about that dart?" said Rachaelis.

"There was poison on the tip," said Marvane. "Not lethal, though. A paralytic. Crooked innkeepers use it, sometimes; they'll spike the drinks and rob a man blind when his limbs freeze up."

"So he wasn't trying to kill Rachaelis," said Nazim, "but capture her."

"Capture?" said Marvane, blinking. "If you say so, Magister."

"What do you think this was about, Sword-Captain?" said Nazim.

Marvane shrugged. "I don't rightly know. But rape, if I had to guess. Forgive my bluntness, Magister, but Lady Morulan is a pretty young thing, and a man gets it into his head that he wants a certain woman...well, he's liable to do stupid things. Especially if the woman's out of his reach."

"Like a slave and an Adept, for instance?" said Nazim.

"Aye," said Marvane.

"Thank you, Sword-Captain," said Nazim. "Please let us know if you discover anything else."

Marvane bowed and left them room.

"What do you think?" said Nazim.

"I don't know," said Rachaelis. "I'd never seen this Mabignon before in my life, I'm sure of it." She hugged herself tighter, thinking it over. "Marvane's right. He must have wanted to...to force me. But...he seemed terrified."

"Facing an angry Adept can frighten the bravest of men," said Nazim.

"He was trying to sneak up on me," said Rachaelis, voice distant. "Which meant he knew that I would be there." She blinked. "Someone told him that I would be there?"

"He may have been lying in wait," said Nazim. "It's well-known that you often visit your father alone." He sighed. "This is troubling. Marvane's explanation makes the most sense. And yet...no. There must have been something else going on."

"I think you're right," said Rachaelis. "I'm not a child. I know what it's like when a man stares at you." Not the she had ever been with a man, but she knew what it was like to be stared at. "And I didn't get that impression at all. He didn't...he didn't want me. He was too scared of me for that. He was forcing himself to face me. I thought he was going to run away." She remembered the corpse sliding to the floor, chest a charred crater. "It would have been better if he had."

"Do you think he had any grudge against you?" said Nazim. "The Jurgurs have – or had, anyway – a brutal code of honor."

"I can't see how," said Rachaelis. "I'd never seen him before."

"What about a relative of his?" said Nazim.

"Possibly," said Rachaelis. "But...I avoid the slaves whenever possible. I won't use them. If I did offend his family, it must have been something I didn't even realize."

Nazim sighed. "This is...a very strange business. Perhaps Marvane was right. But I do not think so. A slave attacking an Adept with a paralytic and a sleeping drug? Very strange. I doubt Mabignon could have planned this on his own. For the next few weeks, I would like to have some Swords accompany you. Sword-Captain Marvane, I think. At least until I can get to the bottom of this."

Rachaelis nodded. "What should I do now?"

"Now?" said Nazim. "Now you go to Thalia's rooms. She is most eager to plan a banquet in your honor, after all."

_Continue readingThe Assassins_ (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1540) _, orThe Third Soul Omnibus One_ (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4021) _,_

***

## Other books by the author

The Third Soul Series  
The Testing (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1538)

The Assassins (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1540)

The Blood Shaman (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1542)

The High Demon (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1544)

The Burning Child (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2756)

The Outlaw Adept (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3341)

The Black Paladin (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3343)

The Tomb of Baligant (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3345)

The Third Soul Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4021)

_Computer Beginner's Guides_

The Ubuntu Beginner's Guide (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1818)

The Windows Command Line Beginner's Guide (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1820)

The Linux Command Line Beginner's Guide (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1851)

The Ubuntu Desktop Beginner's Guide (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2485)

The Windows 8 Beginner's Guide (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2797)

The Linux Mint Beginner's Guide (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2969)

The Ghosts Series

Child of the Ghosts (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1057)

Ghost in the Flames (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1265)

Ghost in the Blood (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1383)

Ghost in the Storm (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1931)

Ghost in the Stone (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2520)

Ghost in the Forge (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3181)

Ghost in the Ashes (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3932)

Ghost Dagger (World of the Ghosts novella) (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2371)

Ghost Aria (World of the Ghosts short story) (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3243)

Ghost Claws (World of the Ghosts short story) (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3930)

The Demonsouled Series

Demonsouled (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=880)

Soul of Tyrants (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=911)

Soul of Serpents (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1287)

Soul of Dragons (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1727)

Soul of Sorcery (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1845)

Soul of Skulls (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2808)

Soul of Swords (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3599)

The Dragon's Shadow (World of the Demonsouled novella) (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2635)

The Wandering Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story) (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3073)

The Tournament Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story) (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3677)

The Tower of Endless Worlds Series

The Tower of Endless Worlds (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2073)

A Knight of the Sacred Blade (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2076)

A Wizard of the White Council (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2078)

The Destroyer of Worlds (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2080)

_$1.99 Dark Fantasy_

Driven and Other Stories (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1689)

The Devil's Agent (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1249)

Angel Sword and Other Stories (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1691)

***

## About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

<http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed>

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on his Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189).

***
