To Catch A Sorcerer

Gray leant against the row of lockers outside Longwark’s study that afternoon, carefully crossing his arms and legs to appear calm.

He would not let Longwark see him care.

He’d been bang on time for his detention, fifteen minutes ago, and as time kept ticking onwards and Longwark didn’t open his office door, foreboding settled deeper and deeper into his stomach.

Usually, Longwark was pedantically on time.

Longwark was inside his office – Gray could hear him moving around inside, talking to a man with a sonorous voice that contrasted with Longwark’s soft, sarcastic one – but he was making Gray wait.

All the kids had left the school grounds, and most of the teachers too; they’d disappeared through the iron gates that barred them from the rest of Krydon and into the mess of scribbled alleyways.

The door creaked open. Longwark wore one of his set of glasses, his wild hair nesting his other pair. His blue rune tattoos were less pronounced in the failing light.

His intense ice-grey gaze flickered over Gray. Swept right and left. He saw Gray and no Alistair.

Something in his face hardened.

He jerked his head. ‘Go.’

Gray stared at him. He’d never reneged on an opportunity to have Gray serve detention before.

‘Go,’ said Longwark.

Gray took one halting step away. Hesitated. This had to be a trick.

‘I know you struggle following instructions, Gray, but surely even you can’t fail to-‘

From behind him, muffled, came the sonorous voice. ‘Who is it, Phineas?’

‘A student,’ said Longwark. ‘He’s leaving.’

‘Is this why you’re trying to throw me out?’

A man with black eyes and elaborate black robes sidled up behind Longwark.

Judging by the intensity of his eyes – black as currants and surrounded by withered skin – and the long length of his greasy black hair, and the wand stuck into his belt, he was a mage.

Probably a colleague of Longwark’s.

Sometimes strange mage men and women from the mage guild in Dierne visited him – sometimes staying at his house, sometimes staying at The Tipsy Stag Tavern.

Usually Gray took care not to cross paths with them.

Gray flickered a glance at Longwark. ‘Er, I’ll go, then, Mr Longwark?’

‘No need, lad.’ The strange man gathered his layered robes. ‘I’ll wait for you at your home, Phineas.’

Longwark thrust a set of house keys into the man’s hands. And then, so fast Gray almost missed it, a large, ugly jar that prickled with magic. ‘Go straight there.’ Then, to Gray, ‘In.’

Longwark made no room for Gray to pass him, so Gray had to squeeze past, hugging the row of lockers. Longwark stalked in after him and the door creaked as he shut it behind him.

Being alone with Longwark always made Gray’s skin break out into goosebumps. Gray breathed in slow. Slower. Carefully pushed down his discomfort, and reminded himself that he wouldn’t let Longwark see him care.

‘Where’s Alistair?’ Longwark said.

‘Must be home, sir. He didn’t know about this – I couldn’t find him.’

Longwark’s office was crowded but neat. One wall was lined with books on alchemy and metals and history (The Alphabet Outside AU; The study of Backwards Alchemy by Raif Runcorn, The Rise of the red X; How a Sorcerer Turned Necromancer by Weiss and Windlass; Weightless Iron and its Importance to the Kingdom by Gilda Butcher).

Dried ingredients, his gnarled magic wand, and strange stones were displayed like trophies over a blackened fireplace.

He sat down behind his desk and smoothed his wild hair away from his face, surveying Gray with an ice-grey gaze.

‘You know why you’re here?’ he said.

‘I didn’t handle the fierilion essence properly. I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Sorry? You almost exploded the lab.’

Gray winced.

‘You didn’t follow the criteria set out on the exam,’ said Longwark.

‘I - no, sir.’

‘If I choose to mark you by the same standards as I set for the advanced seniors,’ Longwark said, ‘you will not be progressing in my class.’

Gray’s tongue was thick in his mouth. He stood there stiffly, feeling like the world was ending.

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, don’t say anything - ‘You’re kicking me out?’ said Gray.

‘This is a really tough decision,’ Longwark said, examining his fingernails. ‘Because you can’t follow directions. You’re completely disrespectful. You turn up to my class scruffy and tired. And you just failed.’

Gray’s insides were turning into ash. Collapsing. ‘Mr Longwark ...’

‘I’ll be speaking to Barin and the headmaster. I told him you’re too young for that class. Both you and Alistair have failed.’

Gray glanced up at Longwark through a panicked haze.

Barin would not care about Gray being sent home with a reprimand and a fail. Barin would care about Alistair, though. He nursed a soft spot for Alistair, no matter what Alistair insisted. Alistair would be in real trouble.

This wasn’t happening.

Gray silently urged himself to defend Alistair. Alistair was smart, smarter than Gray. Just unfocused. The numbers of Alistair’s stat papers were bullshit. He deserved to be at fifty already. If he’d gotten an A today, he probably would’ve gotten there.

Longwark looked on edge, though, and Gray didn’t want to be the one to nudge him over the line.

Now wasn’t the time to argue with him. If - if Gray could wait for the right moment, maybe -

‘You’ll do your detention, now,’ said Longwark. ‘You can clean my royal awards.’

Words tangled around Gray’s mind.

He glanced at Longwark’s row of royal awards. Longwark’s damned pride and joy.

The awards were heavy silver shields, elaborately engraved and covered in a layer of dust. Longwark kept them propped up on the floor by an ornate timber chest.

He had one extraordinary valour, one for the aid in the capture of criminal Oscar Hawk, one for his contribution in the take down of the kingdom’s most hated sorceress, D’Oncray. And one, of course, for the Griffin vs Wilde battle in Hobbtown.

The most famous duel.

The one where Wilde had killed the entire Griffin family. The five brothers, the elders, all of them, except for the two kids.

Wilde’d done this right after a huge massacre right in the mage guild itself, after he’d stolen from the catacombs there. People hated him. So, when the Griffin mages weakened Wilde enough to send Wilde running for cover, licking his wounds, they’d been hailed as heroes.

Posthumously.

And Gray guessed that hero status had extended to anyone else involved. Like mage soldiers like Longwark.

Gray wrenched his gaze away from the awards.

‘Yes, Mr Longwark,’ he muttered.

Longwark opened a desk drawer and ferreted around before pulling out a cloth and silver polish. He thrust them at Gray.

Gray stared blindly at the offered cloth and polish. Reached for them with numb fingers.

Gray swallowed hard and dropped to his knees in front of the awards. He fumbled to unscrew the crusty lid to the polish.

He started with the biggest one, the one for the battle that had pushed the dark sorcerer Krupin out of Lismere’s borders - back from when, nine years ago, sorcerers had been a real problem and they’d wreaked havoc down south.

Then, Gray moved onto the smallest one, the one for culling fifty reborns (Krupin had gotten some of his followers onto a rebirth loop. You’d slay one then whoop they’d rise back up weeks later, clawing out of the ground like some kind of swamp-vampire, or sometimes they’d come back in another’s fallen body).

This was Longwark’s favourite detention for Gray. Normally, he’d just go into the zone and get it done. But, Gray’s internal control was hanging by the barest thread.

Gray carefully pushed his thoughts down as he polished the awards.

Failing alchemy didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter.

Longwark didn’t matter.

Gray polished the grooves around the letter W for Wilde.

Then, the G for Griffin.

There was a misfiring in Gray’s brain, as he fought to distract himself from the thoughts of how the heck he was going to keep learning alchemy, and instead, thoughts of his family hissed through him, as though through a crack in a dam wall.

Gray would lie in bed at night, wishing, wishing, wishing to wake up as anyone else’s son.

But, it never worked. The best he could do was push his magic so far down, it was barely there anymore.

He’d feel it, though, sometimes. Whispering and curling delicately up, when he looked at the annual Wanted and Missing posters sent up from Dierne.

There was always a poster with Conor Griffin’s imagined likeness.

Conor Griffin - the missing son of the sorceress D’Oncray and mage Ryan Griffin.

He’d disappeared with his cousin during the Griffin vs Wilde duel nine years ago, and despite the kingdom’s best efforts, he’d never been found.

Taken by Wilde.

Collected, perhaps, on behalf of Krupin.

But, there were a bunch of other rumours.

The Augustes had ordered Conor Griffin assassinated, after the death of the Griffin brothers, because he was from the D’Oncray bloodline.

Conor Griffin had been sent for special military and magic training in Foix, because he’d shown unprecedented control of his magic from a young age.

Conor Griffin was living underground with rebels, he was rallying an army of sorcerers, he had been sighted flying over the Goli Islands, he had started the volcano eruptions in Othoa …

The southerners that passed through the tavern would often drunkenly argue about the mystery of Conor Griffin and his cousin, where they’d gone, and if they’d ever resurface. And if they wanted Conor Griffin to resurface.

Half sorcerer.

Perhaps a new dark sorcerer, like Krupin, laying in wait.

Or, perhaps the only hope Lismere had at fighting sorcerers, like Krupin, if they became a problem again.

A mage’s magic stats, the southerners would say, were no match for a sorcerer, no matter how hard they trained. And their strength stats? Sorcerers were far stronger. More aggressive. Mages were peace-loving hippies that took special training and years to become anything resembling a soldier.

Longwark believed Gray was one of the Griffin family’s illegitimate kids, because - well, because that’s what everyone thought, and everyone knew everything about everyone in Krydon - but also that was what was on his false stat papers when he registered for school when he was in first year.

The northerners in Krydon didn’t talk about it, they didn’t really care.

Not like the southerners.

The Wanted and Missing posters sent up from Dierne were usually only up on the notice board outside Krydon Hall for a day or two before they were covered up with graffiti and northerner news and festival banners.

Through a quirk of linguistics, the northern words for chosen one were a double entendre for watch out for this one or dangerous one and this often would be scratched over Conor Griffin’s poster. Especially over the eyes.

But, Gray didn’t look like the image of Conor Griffin in the Missing Posters. Well, a little, but Gray’s features were too childish and the image of Conor Griffin was growing sharper-jawed and more and more like Ryan Griffin by the year.

Gray didn’t look like a mage much at all, his long hair aside. Even then, a lot of the northerners wore their hair long, twisted, or stylistically shaved.

Gray’s eyes weren’t overly bright. He didn’t have sharp cheekbones, or ethereal good looks or allure. He looked ordinary.

And being a mage’s bastard didn’t guarantee being a mage yourself.

It took two mages to make a mage, and even then, sometimes, it wouldn’t work.

The fact that Gray was a Griffin had long since faded into the background, and rarely got brought up anymore.

Except by damned Longwark.

An illegitimate child of a mage offended Longwark - offended mages in general - because of the tight laws around mage marriages and relationships.

Apparently the Griffins had done whatever they liked. A lot. Under the protection of the Augustes. Meanwhile, every other mage was strictly following the law, and if they didn’t, the punishments were severe.

Seducers, Longwark had called the Griffin brothers, once.

The Captain of the Krydon Guards had twice, under the influence of too much ale, told a story about her friend who’d spent two days in a bed with one of the Griffin brothers.

Three times there had been reports of other Griffin bastards, only for them to disappear, weeks later.

Longwark stood close when Gray was part way through polishing the awards, inspecting his work. Gray kept his gaze firmly away from Longwark. Longwark’s closeness was like a nettle about to sting his skin; Gray could see a thick layer of chalk dust coating the toes of Longwark’s boots, and hear his clothes rubbing as he shifted.

The bottoms of his trousers were scratched up. A blue, mottled lavender weed was stuck in his shoe laces.

Those lavender weeds grew mostly in the graveyard.

‘You missed a spot,’ Longwark said sharply.

Gray scrubbed at the spot Longwark had pointed out, trying to push his curiosity away. Longwark would not take kindly to Gray peppering him with questions about his pants.

Longwark grunted and walked back to his desk.

Gray was practised at polishing the awards and it didn’t take him long to finish, after that. He straightened up, clearing his throat to get Longwark’s attention.

‘Finished?’ Longwark said, taking the cloth and polish off Gray. He eyed his glittering awards, his chin tilted up.

‘Yes.’ Gray waited in silence, but after a long moment, he said, ‘Can I go now, sir?’

‘No. Wait.’ Longwark scribbled a note, using an unusually short quill in his huge hand. ‘Get Barin to sign this, and bring it back tomorrow.’

Gray nodded. Then Longwark kept hold of the scribbled note, refusing to let Gray tug it from his hand.

‘Alistair has missed an entire afternoon of exams,’ Longwark said. ‘He’s missed a detention with me. You tell him he’s in for a world of trouble.’

Gray’s fists were curled and hot, his ink-stained fingernails digging into the note he was still trying to clasp from Longwark.

‘Isn’t that what you wanted, sir?’ Gray said.

‘Another detention, I think,’ said Longwark softly.

Gray tugged the note from his hand.

Footsteps outside Longwark’s study pounded towards them.

A young voice barrelled through the door, ‘Mr Longwark!’

The office door crashed open. The whole room shuddered with the force of it.

The new tomb guardian stood silhouetted in the doorway, trembling head to toe, her sword drawn. Her usually carefully coiled hair hung loose. Her lips were pale. She wore leather pants and what looked like a nightshirt. She’d been off duty.

‘Long - Longwark,’ she gasped.

She stepped inside, traipsing grass and earth. Her chest heaved.

‘Gods,’ said Longwark, slowly standing. ‘What on sweet -’

‘The Captain sent me,’ she said. ‘We need a mage. A mountain griffin - it's in town - you need to come.’

She sank, trembling and pale, to a crouch. She clutched a stitch in her side.

‘A mountain griffin?’ Longwark snatched up his wand from the mantle, and chalk and some strange stones. ‘I can’t do much with a mountain griffin, Riverlyn. Have you warned the town? Where is it?’

‘Town square,’ she said, clutching a stitch in her side. ‘I need to go - Captain said to sound the warning bell -’

‘No,’ said Longwark, strapping an axe to his back with military precision. ‘Go to my home first. My friend Emeric is there. He’s a skilled mage.’ He turned to Gray. ‘Stay here.’

‘I should check on -’

‘Mountain griffins are three times the size of a horse, and they’ll disembowel you with one swipe,’ he said, tightening a holster around his arm, and sticking a dagger into it.

Then he locked Gray in his office.

-

Longwark’s windows refused to open, no matter how hard Gray pushed, and he didn’t dare smash one. The lock on the door had an enchantment on it, which prickled and zapped when Gray tried to pick it.

Thirst was becoming an issue. So was needing a bathroom. Horrible thoughts began chasing through Gray’s mind.

Methodically, he pushed them down. He didn’t need stark mental images of a monstrous half-lion, half-eagle prowling over dead bodies, and stalking the streets.

Desperately, Gray attempted to distract himself.

The first hour, Gray went through all of Longwark’s books.

The second hour, he went through Longwark’s desk.

The bottom drawer had students' contraband. Gray spotted Alistair’s slingshot in there. Alistair loved that damn thing. He’d hand-carved it himself. Gray pocketed it.

The third hour, the town bell stopped tolling. Silence fell.

When Longwark eventually walked back through the door, Gray was in the middle of setting up a small dragon stone explosion, thinking it might expel the enchantment on the lock.

Longwark froze on the threshold, his blue rune tattoos masked with blood. Something dark and thick dripped from the knife in his belt. He was limping.

His voice, usually soft and controlled, was hoarse. Exhausted. ‘What the gods, Gray?’

Gray had set up a cauldron on the floor between his splayed legs. It was bubbling and bright, emitting an ashy scent and a soft red glow. Gray had ingredients around him within easy reach.

Nil to one hundred, with zero warning.