Free Herald of the Storm by Richard Ford Page A

left.
    When Rona fell ill with the Sweet Canker, Nobul only flung himself into his work still further.
    Only when he found her corpse lying in bed, her blue eyes staring at the ceiling, her body eaten away by sickness, did he realise just what he had missed … what he had lost.
    All he had left was Markus, and now it seemed he had managed to drive the boy away. He needed Rona, needed her sweet touch, her careful words and her kindness, but she was gone.
    Now he had nothing.
    Nobul picked himself up from the chair, pulled on his boots and walked the short distance to the forge. He was pleased to find the embers of the fire still burned.
    With a heavy heart he picked up his hammer and began the song of steel anew. Perhaps, with luck, he might lose himself in it once more.

SIX
    T he chamber was on the north side of the Tower of Magisters, its single window looking out onto the Storway and the Old Stone Road where they both began their long journeys. It was far from the highest room, only at the mid point of the vast citadel, but the view from its window still rivalled that from any other spire in the city of Steelhaven.
    At one end of the chamber stood a pitch-blackened chalkboard covered in sigils, ciphers and runes, arranged in a web-like pattern of equations. To any man literate enough to read it would have seemed like a random scrawl, a pretty pattern of outlandish characters that might represent some ancient and forbidden language. To the members of the Caste, those within the Free States who were given licence to practise the arts of magick, it represented the source of their power, the meaning behind the Veil, a way to tap sorceries from the diabolical storms that raged unseen throughout the lands of men.
    To Waylian Grimm it was all nonsense.
    He had been such a promising student back in his home province of Ankavern. The college he had attended in the town of Groffham had lauded him as their best scholar, heaping praise on him, apparently delighted that his intellect was far in excess of any of his peers. Waylian had even been considered more able than some of his tutors, and it was only natural that he be recommended to the Tower of Magisters for advanced study. His parents had been eager too, even his mother, who had treated Waylian like a helpless infant until he was well into his teenage years. They were only too happy for him to travel the road west to Steelhaven – the promise that their son might one day become a magister clearly outweighing their need to protect him.
    Unfortunately, since his arrival, Waylian had found that the vast intellect and excellence at study which had made him so remarkable back in Ankavern seemed quite ordinary amongst his new peers. He was beginning to feel like something of a failure. That was not to say he hadn’t learned much since starting his apprenticeship. Indeed, he had consumed knowledge voraciously.
    In the few months since his schooling began he had learned the basics of seven different languages, from the distinct clicks and sighs of the differing Equ’un tribes to the lilting singsong dialects of the Elharim. He had mastered histories both ancient and modern, from the many campaigns of the Kaer’Vahari Dragon Wars to the military strategies of the Sword Kings, and the migratory routes of the early Teutonian tribes. He had studied the origins of the Old Gods and their eventual demise before the rising veneration of Arlor and Vorena. Waylian had become an accomplished theologian with expert knowledge in the pantheons of a dozen polytheistic cultures, from the various Khurtic death cults to the Aeslanti sky gods and their relevant constellations. His knowledge of eastern manners, rituals and customs was second to none, and had he so desired Waylian could easily have become a valuable envoy to the East in the court of King Cael.
    All of no use though, if he couldn’t even grasp the basics of magick.
    The Magistra stood beside the board, speaking in her rapid monotone.