Raven's Strike (Raven #2)(94)

"I didn't finish the story of the Stalker yesterday," said the Scholar's voice as soon as Jes was gone.

Seraph looked up from her book to see the illusion standing in front of Hennea.

"Nor did I tell you why the wizards were forced to sacrifice this city," he said.

"No," agreed Hennea, reshelving a book she'd taken out. "I wondered why you didn't."

The Scholar stared at her with that half smile that seemed more of a mask than an expression. "Make yourself comfortable, and I will tell you."

Seraph set her book aside and sat down on the other end of the bench where Hennea was sitting down.

"The Weaver created a binding that would keep both him and his twin from interacting directly with his creations. But he could not completely isolate them, because eventually their power would build and destroy his bindings. Instead he created six gods who would control the power of the Weaver and of the Stalker."

The Scholar paused.

"The Orders," said Hennea hoarsely, though Seraph couldn't see anything in what the Scholar had said that ought to have bothered her. "The Raven, the Owl, the Falcon, the Eagle, the Lark, and the Cormorant. Magic, music, the hunt, the guardian, healing, and storms."

"Magic, music, hunt, war, healing, and wind," corrected the Scholar.

"The Guardian is not an Order of soldiers," Hennea argued.

"No," agreed the Scholar, but he did not elaborate upon his answer.

"Something broke the bindings on the Stalker," said Seraph. "The Elder Wizards sacrificed the city to bind the Stalker. Not because they created the Stalker, but because something they did loosed the god of destruction." Or so she'd been taught.

"The gods ruled this world for a very long time," the Scholar said, and Seraph couldn't tell if he'd even noticed what she'd said. "Long enough for a small village to become a town, then a great city. Long enough for the wizards to become arrogant and fall away from the worship of gods. 'What good praying to the Cormorant who might or might not answer?' they asked themselves. 'If you bring your gold to Korsack or Terilia or one of the other wind witches, they will do your will as long as you are the first or most generous with your gold.' "

The Scholar reached out as if he might touch Hennea, but then pulled both hands behind his back.

"It didn't help that the gods no longer granted the gifts they had once freely given. The great city had no desperate need for a legendary warrior or a gifted healer. They did not depend upon their crops to survive, and so they needed no god-gifted weather mage. So the gods gave less, were worshiped less, but they were not unhappy with Colossae - perhaps just indifferent."

The Scholar closed his eyes. "Except for the Raven, for Colossae was Her city. The city of wizards."

No matter what her magic told her, Seraph was having increasing difficulty in believing that this was an illusion - or at least just an illusion.

"Children were taken to the Raven's temple on their name days," he said quietly. "The Raven's priests would tell them if they were mageborn or not. If they were, then the oracle would tell them what areas of magic would be their specialty. Sometimes, the Raven herself came and blessed them with a gift of her own magic, which the child could use without need of study or ritual."

"Like the Raven's Order," said Seraph.

"Yes."

There was a long silence.

"What happened?" whispered Hennea intently, and she leaned forward. "Something terrible happened."

"Yes." The Scholar took a half step away from Hennea. "Something terrible happened. There was a boy. He had the power to be a successful wizard, having been blessed by the goddess herself, but he had no dedication. He would not study - he had no need to earn a living because his father was a great wizard and so had accumulated great wealth."

He turned his back to them and stared at the great rows of books. "This boy fell in love with a maiden who loved him in return - so long as his father's gold was more than that of any of her other suitors. The day came when she found another, richer, man. When the boy reproached her, she told him that she preferred a man adept in the fighting arts rather than a half-trained wizard."

The Scholar sighed. "The boy could not bear the rejection. If she wanted a fighting man, he would become one. Remember though, that he was a lazy young man, used to buying his way through life. So instead of hiring an instructor and learning, he went to the war god's temple."

"The Eagle," said Seraph.

"Aythril, the god of war," agreed the Scholar, his back still toward them. "The war god's priestess laughed at the boy's plea for the gift of martial arts. The war god would never have given his gifts to a man so obviously unworthy. She told the boy that if he trained for a year and a day, she would petition the war god on his behalf. The boy was angry and offended, for he was proud."

The Scholar bowed his head. "He went to his father, an old wizard and powerful. People walked softly in his presence because he was quick to take offense - and the priestess's words offended him greatly."

"Hinnum?" asked Seraph.

The Scholar turned back and met Seraph's eyes. "No, not Hinnum, though there are sins enough to lie on his shoulders. Ontil the Peacock was the wizard's name. He saw the priestess's words as an attack on his standing, and so he vowed to take the gifts that the priestess would not willingly give. He hid himself here" - the Scholar waved a hand around the library - "and for a year he studied and buried himself in obscure texts."