Satisfied, Taziar used his concoction to craft a claw-shaped mark on the back of his right hand, a copy of the scar which marred Astryd's flesh. His garnet-rank lover had told him the symbol appeared, naturally, on the skin of any person destined to become Dragonrank; it remained as an identifying feature for the remainder of the sorcerer's life. Taziar flexed and extended his fingers while the compound dried, maintaining the freedom of movement he would need to scale the walls. He studied his handiwork with a frown. Far from adequate, but it should pass a casual inspection in the dark. He headed back toward the Dragonrank school.
By the time Taziar arrived at the edge of the forest, the sorcerers were gone. He assumed they had returned home to eat dinner and rest after a long day of hurling spells at a wall. Or perhaps they're tearing through the woods seeking would-be thieves and unwelcome visitors. Taziar dismissed the thought. Surely, if they noticed me lurking about, they would have threatened or killed me by now. And the fact that most people believe it impossible to sneak into the school should keep such attempts rare. If I'm lucky, uncommon enough for their security to have become lax.
Taziar smoothed wrinkles from his shirt and britches. The sun had slid fully below the western horizon, leaving the clearing in darkness. The sliver of moon seemed a welcome friend; Taziar had undertaken nearly all his major conquests in its presence. It hid his black-clothed form better than any phase but the new moon and still left him enough light by which to see. In Cullinsberg, where most citizens had known him as Taziar the junk merchant and a few as a night-stalking thief called the Shadow Climber, Taziar had worn a hood to prevent cross-recognition. Here the extra precaution seemed unnecessary, a form of dress which could only draw attention for its oddity.
Taziar dropped to a crouch, awash in the euphoric mixture of excitement and restlessness which came to him whenever he undertook an impossible task. He savored the accompanying clarity of thought and action which made the remainder of the world seem to move at half speed. Dropping to his chest, he belly-crawled across the cleared ground, tensed for sudden bursts of magic or verbal challenges. He arrived at the base of the wall without incident and examined the massive structure of granite.
Moonlight flashed from chips of pyrite in the stonework, and Taziar's mind registered something out of place. He hesitated, considering. As yet unable to identify this new source of concern, he crept to the depression in the wall where he had seen the glass-rank apprentices grow remiss in their duties. The wall lay flat gray and featureless before him. At the edges of his peripheral vision, the stone still appeared to glitter, lit by the meager glare of the moon and stars. Now, Taziar realized what had bothered him. The reflections formed a pattern of jagged lines not quite random enough to pass for a work of nature. Magic. Taziar smiled. I can see it, so I can avoid it.
Glad he had taken the time to observe the glass-ranks at work, Taziar found handholds in the stonework of the hollow. Cautiously, he shinnied upward. The granite felt rough and cool against his skin, and the challenge of its ascent seemed, somehow, appropriate. Taziar felt a strange sense of belonging, as if he had been born solely for this climb. He reveled in the sensation until, at a level twice his own height from the ground, he caught a glimpse of silver on the stone upon which he was about the place his fingers. He recoiled, catching his balance on the remainder of his limbs. Hunching closer, he examined a spot on the wall. It appeared dull and benign in the darkness. Gone? Too certain of his eyesight to doubt what he had seen, Taziar avoided the site as he continued his climb.
Three quarters of the distance up the wall of the Dragonrank school, Taziar wedged his fingers into an irregular crevice. Sudden pain stabbed through his hand. Instinctively, he jerked away. The movement jarred his toes free. He swung, smashed flat to the granite, clutching desperately to his one remaining handhold. Magic seared his abdomen where it touched the wall. He bit back a scream; it emerged as an anguished whimper. He scrabbled for a toehold, fighting his natural urge to fling himself away from the pain. The sorceries stung his hand and body relentlessly, like the barbs of woodland nettles.
The seconds it took Taziar to secure his position dragged like hours. He squeezed shut his watering eyes, clung to the wall, and nursed his throbbing hand. A breeze swirled around him, cool, gentle, and soothing. He savored its mundaneness as the pain diminished to a steady ache. Visually tracing his path to the summit, he discovered three more of the glowing areas. He winced, wondering why he could see them so clearly now when he had been unable to discern them up close. Without an answer, he memorized the positions of the spells above him. They seemed to disappear as he came upon them, but he avoided their remembered locations and arrived at the top without further incident.
Pressed to the stone, Taziar examined the layout of the Dragonrank school grounds. The night sky turned the scene into a blur of gardens and dormitories. Through a drab curtain of gray and black, Taziar perceived a palatial structure at its middle. It sported at least one crenelated tower, and Taziar could discern globs of oddly-shaped masonry on its roof and walls. One-story buildings, each with its own garden, radiated from it, spiraling outward toward the walls. Nearer the central structure, unidentifiable ivory or metallic figures studded the gardens, and the crops formed straight rows. Nearer the walls, the buildings became squatter and longer, the gardens less ornate.
Taziar shifted on the summit, craning his neck for a better view. Apparently, the Dragonranks move closer to
the center as they advance in skill. It seems likely they use the gardens for practice and training sessions. The outermost quarters could house half a dozen glass-rank mages apiece. The more powerful sorcerers probably live alone. Taziar counted carefully. Assuming no more than three actually live in the castle, a maximum of seventy-two sorcerers could reside here at any given time, of which fifty-four would hold a glass or other low rank. Taziar considered. Not many, given the necessary maintenance and chores to keep a fortress like this one. That explains why they hire sentries for routine duties such as guarding the gate.
The area within the walls seemed larger than Taziar's walk around the outer perimeter implied. Magic. It only makes sense. The realization turned his thoughts back to his own predicament. Even with the proper tools, few men could have scaled that wall. Had I not seen them placed and misplaced, the glass-rank sorcerers' spells would likely have killed or, at least, deterred me. He shook his injured hand. The pain had subsided while he studied the grounds. Now I'll need to dodge whatever sorcerous defenses lie inside the school as well as the magical and common soldiers which inhabit it. And I still have to find Astryd. Memories of his lover fueled Taziar's desire, and the enormity of his task only made him more determined. He examined the inner side of the wall for telltale shimmerings of magic but saw none. Quickly, he shinnied down it into the Dragonrank school grounds.