Return of the Paladin

by Layton Green

  “You said only four people can go?”

  “That is all the item will bear.”

  With all eyes on him, Will slowly stood. On the beach, he had already been thinking about the Revolution and what they would ask of him. Even if Caleb was not the Templar, Will could not deny the Coffer might be their only hope.

  “I have to talk to my brother first. I won’t abandon him in this state.”

  Tamás gripped Will’s shoulder as the council looked on with expectant faces. “Fair enough.”

  -2-

  Val went back to the beginning.

  To the Minotaur’s Den in New Victoria, the same pub in which he had laughed long ago with his brothers and Lance, before a group of mercenaries had rolled them and stolen their inheritance, before Mala and Allira had agreed to take them to Leonidus’s castle to find a trio of magic items to kill Zedock.

  Helpless as babes, Val and his brothers had scurried behind the deadly adventuress and her companions, setting in motion the incredible string of events that had led back to the table at the Minotaur’s Den at which he now sat, completing the circle.

  Fate was a funny thing.

  Especially when it spanned worlds.

  The night before, Lord Alistair had asked him to recover the Coffer of Devla on behalf of the Congregation. If successful, Val would join the Realm’s powerful society of wizards not just as a full-fledged spirit mage, but as Lord Alistair’s apprentice. To Val’s great shock, the Chief Thaumaturge had even given his implied consent for Val to marry his daughter Adaira.

  It seemed appropriate to surround himself with memories as he considered the full implications of his decision. So much to process. So many angles and emotions. He did not find it distasteful—not at all—to agree to everything the Chief Thaumaturge was offering. He could not deny that he was falling in love with Adaira, though he had hardly considered marriage. He enjoyed being a wizard and the power it conferred.

  And becoming the apprentice of the most powerful spirit mage in the Realm? Possibly the heir apparent? The offer made being a partner in a New York City law firm pale in comparison.

  Val was not even sure, after the terrible things he had done on Urfe, that he belonged back home. Helping his brothers was still his first priority—it always would be—but rejecting Lord Alistair’s offer would not further that cause. Val needed training, knowledge, and resources to find Will and Caleb, and the best place for that was in the Wizard District. He could deal with everything else, the choice between worlds, when the time came.

  Mug of ale in hand, he stared into the fire whose smoking remains, buried deep within the cavernous stone hearth, gave off more atmosphere than heat.

  “That’s a lot of table for a lone bloke, eh? How about ye move aside?”

  The voice, coarse and challenging, had come from Val’s right. He swiveled to see a group of six ruffians, laden with weapons and armor, crowding his table.

  Moving with casual poise, Val rested his hand near the crescent moon of azantite topping his staff. “I’m fine right here.”

  The men took in his high-collared white shirt, the traveling cloak of fine wool the Queen had gifted him, his staff, and the glint in his green eyes as he leveled his gaze at them. The leader stumbled over an apology as the other men lowered their eyes and hurried to the next table over.

  A few things had changed, Val thought, since his first visit.

  As he continued pondering his decision, enjoying a meal of fire-crisped elk and wild boar called the Li’l Wolf’s Platter, he couldn’t help overhearing the subject of the men’s conversation. It seemed a member of the Wizard’s Council, an electromancer named Garbind Ellhorn, had been recently murdered, pierced through the heart with a sword. An unheard of event in the Realm.

  Val knew full well, even before he heard the lead mercenary say it, what sort of blade had the power to pierce the defenses of an elder mage. As far as he knew, there existed only one.

  Zariduke.

  Forcing himself to remain calm, he rose to approach the men’s table. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  The mercenary who had accosted him earlier, an enormous man with tattooed hands and a braided red goatee hanging down his chest, spluttered into his mug. “No, sir. Pleased if you do. Make yourself at home.” He threw the scrawny man next to him out of the seat by the scruff of his neck, then waved Val over.

  After taking a seat, Val placed the bottom of his staff on the floor and held it upright beside him, in case the mercenaries forgot their manners. He swept his gaze across the group. “I just arrived in town, and will be appearing at the Sanctum in the morning.” The mention of the headquarters of the Congregation caused a collective shiver to sweep through the group. “I’m curious about the rumors on the street about the death of Garbind.”

  One of the men spat on the stained wooden floor. “Got to be the gypsies, sir. The Black Sash.”

  “Aye,” another agreed.

  Val leaned forward. “But how? Even with a sword as powerful as Spiritscourge, how did the Black Sash penetrate Garbind’s stronghold?”

  He had used the common vernacular for Will’s sword, due to the rough nature of the men. They looked nervous at the question, wondering why a Congregation mage was asking for their opinion on the matter, perhaps seeking to entrap them. “Don’t seem likely, does it?” another man said. “I ’eard they had help on the inside.”

  “What do you mean?” Val asked. “One of the servants?”

  The red-bearded leader shook his head, keeping his eyes low. “Another mage, sir. Least that’s the rumor. One at the very top.”

  “Who?”

  The man swallowed. “Dean Groft himself.”

  Val was stunned by the answer. Dean Groft? He had to find Adaira immediately and find out what they had missed during their journey. “What’s the basis for that?” he challenged.

  “Dunno, sir, I just ’eard the dean’s working with the Black Sash. Everyone ’eard. Tis common knowledge, though, that ’e disappeared a few days back.”

  “Is this true?” Val asked, sweeping his gaze across the table. “You’ve all heard the same?”

  They all agreed.

  “Do you mean that Groft killed Garbind himself,” Val ruminated, thinking it through, “or just aided and abetted?”

  The men looked confused.

  He leaned forward, intense. “Have you heard about anyone else involved, besides Dean Groft? Someone who might have used the sword?”

  Someone like my brother?

  No one had heard of a description floating around. He didn’t hear anything else useful and returned to his table. Truth be told, if Dean Groft had gypsy sympathies, Val wouldn’t be shocked. The dean had seemed like a man with secrets. While he didn’t come across as a traitor or a murderer, one never knew how far a man’s beliefs could take him.

  Could it be true? Had someone wielding Zariduke managed to kill an elder mage? If so, how had his brother’s sword arrived in New Victoria? Were Will and Caleb close by?

  He tried to tell himself that Will would never have anything to do with such a thing. Yet he knew the youngest Blackwood all too well. Born with a hero’s complex, Will had always been quick to take the side of the underdog, and if someone had convinced him to take up the fight against the wizards, or if he thought he might be helping his older brother . . .

  Val pushed his plate away, his appetite ruined. If Will was involved, the Congregation would find him and crucify him. Val had no doubt about this. He no longer believed the Congregation was a force of evil, and in fact he thought it preferable to the murderous anarchy of common rule he had read about in the history books and seen firsthand in the alternate universe to which the Star Crown had sent him.

  Still, the wizards would act to protect themselves. Zariduke was a threat that had to be eliminated.

  He took a deep breath. This changed things. If there was any truth to the rumor, then Val had to find Will before the Congregation did.

  The next mor
ning, Val met one of Lord Alistair’s personal majitsu at the entrance to the hulking, midnight blue pyramid known as the Sanctum: the headquarters of the Congregation. Two colossi flanked the columned entrance, thirty-foot tall guardians made of living stone who never seemed to move. As always, they gave him the shivers.

  Val followed the silver-robed majitsu in flight high above the manicured gardens and pathways of mosaic tile separating the wizard compounds, weaving through the forest of colored spires that was even higher and more awe-inducing than the skyline of Manhattan. Only a rare few of the warrior-mages possessed enough magic to sustain flight, and Val could feel eyes from the towers of rival strongholds tracking their progress. He had the feeling Lord Alistair had orchestrated such a public performance in order to demonstrate his intention to usher Val into the inner circle. Soaring into the Chief Thaumaturge’s tower with a personal bodyguard would make an instant impression.

  Which made Val’s decision that much harder. He had no idea how Lord Alistair would react to Val’s rejection of his offer, and now it would embarrass him even further. He might send Val back to prison.

  Yet he didn’t think Lord Alistair would go that far. As the Chief Thaumaturge’s stronghold came into view, Val ran through his strategy in his mind. He planned to seek a grace period in order to tend to his ailing mother. Everyone believed he hailed from the far north, which should buy him some time to find Will and Caleb.

  If things went well, Val hoped to find his brothers and convince them to lay low until he could recover the Coffer, return to Lord Alistair’s good graces, and find a way to get them home. Whether or not he went with them, well, he could worry about that later.

  The wind rushed through his hair as he flew, but the real chill came from the knowledge that he was playing a very dangerous game, with one of the most dangerous men on Urfe.

  The majitsu angled towards Alistair’s graceful central tower, topped by a bluish-white needle that soared high above the sprawl of topiary and polychromatic fountains. Gothic bridges and archways linked a nest of beehive-shaped towers to the central one, a sprawling citadel of dun-colored stone flowing in fantastical patterns, dreamed up by a team of the Realm’s most talented artisamancers.

  He followed the majitsu through an open window near the top of the tower. Lord Alistair must have deactivated the wards for Val’s entry. Once inside, the majitsu returned to the sky, leaving him standing inside an observatory that took his breath away. Detailed celestial maps and astrological charts covered the walls, made of vibrant magical dyes which made the artwork look three-dimensional, as if Val could slip through the walls and enter a new dimension or realm.

  And maybe he could.

  A midnight-blue glass ceiling evoked the splendor and mystery of the heavens. Artistic renditions of other planes of existence—at least Val assumed they were artistic—wrapped the support columns and flowed onto the silver tiles covering the floor. Sumptuous bronze telescopes and other stargazing devices dotted the room. A trio of azantite cases with glass doors showcased a stunning collection of artifacts.

  His skin tingling from the power and knowledge on display, Val almost jumped when he noticed Lord Alistair observing him from beside a wizard chute in the corner.

  “Welcome, Valjean.”

  He tipped his head with just the right amount of deference. “Lord Alistair.”

  “I trust you’ve had a chance to consider my proposal?”

  Val looked him in the eye for a long moment. “I want you to know how flattered I am by your offer. It’s one I would be foolish not to accept. And I do plan to accept it. But first, there is something I have to do—”

  Lord Alistair raised a hand, cutting him off. Val tensed.

  Can he read my mind? Does he know the lie I have prepared?

  The Chief Thaumaturge clasped his hands behind his back as he bent to inspect a line of obsidian helms hanging above an ivory pew. It was an odd collection, and Val wondered at their purpose.

  “Before you say something that might be difficult to retract,” Lord Alistair said, “I have a question.”

  Val lowered his eyes. “Of course.”

  “Why did you not bring your staff today?”

  The floor seemed to shift beneath Val’s feet.

  “The one bearing the crescent moon of azantite,” Lord Alistair continued, still running his hands over the strange helms. “The staff of a spirit mage.”

  Val stood very still, wondering if these were his last moments as a free man. His true identity was a secret he had gone to great lengths to protect. Could Lord Alistair know the staff once belonged to Val’s father?

  Trying not to panic, he debated summoning spirit fire, but discarded the idea at once. Lord Alistair would incinerate him in an instant.

  “Queen Victoria inquired about it upon your return. She thought it looked familiar and wondered where such a young mage had come upon it.” He turned to face Val. “I have not been fully truthful with you. When I learned of the staff, which I recognized at once, I finally realized why you had always looked so familiar. I can’t believe I didn’t see it from the start. You’re Dane Blackwood’s son.”

  It was posed as a statement, not a question. Val didn’t bother denying it. Instead he listened in stunned silence, scanning the room for an escape route he knew didn’t exist.

  Lord Alistair approached to lay a hand on his shoulder. “I understand why you kept the knowledge from us. You grew up on a different world and were unsure whom to trust. I have to say, what you’ve accomplished in the time you’ve been here is nothing short of remarkable. Your father told you nothing, did he? Else your choices make no sense.”

  “No,” Val said truthfully. “He did not.”

  He felt Lord Alistair’s eyes boring into his, probing for the truth. Val forced himself not to flinch as he met the gaze of the elder mage.

  How much does he know? What game is he playing?

  Lord Alistair’s smile was wistful, faraway. “Your father and I were once very close. He was an amazing man. I never knew why he didn’t come back from his mission to find the sword—until I discovered the lies of Dean Groft.”

  “The Dean—I don’t understand.”

  Alistair looked at him sadly. “You’ve heard the recent news? Of the death of Jalen Rainsword?”

  “I heard talk of it last night.”

  “I’m afraid the rumors are true. Dean Groft conspired with the revolutionaries to murder one of our own. Unbeknownst to any of us, all those years he’s been after the sword himself, in service to the Revolution. It was Groft who killed your father and sent Zedock after the sword.”

  Val took a step back, reeling. He did not exactly trust Lord Alistair, but from Val’s years of interviewing clients and witnesses with his law practice, he had become an extremely good judge of liars. As far as he could tell, Lord Alistair appeared to be telling the truth. Val would try to verify the story, but why would Alistair lie? He had nothing to fear from Val. And apparently the whole town knew about Dean Groft’s connection to the Revolution.

  Ever since Val had learned his father was a spirit mage, he had doubted the accidental nature of his death. He was barely able to croak out his words. “Dean Groft killed my father?”

  “I doubt any other mage could have accomplished the feat. But the Revolution killed your father, Valjean. The ideas it represents. Do you see how dangerous it is?”

  Val felt a cold weight settling into the bottom of his gut. “If Groft killed him, why didn’t he take the sword the first time?”

  And how did he get it this time? Did he kill Will, too?

  “That I have yet to learn,” Alistair said. “My guess is your father arranged a spell to hide the sword and scramble the spirit pathways to your world. It must have taken all those years for Groft to find it again.”

  Val felt wobbly on his feet, nauseated and confused by what he was hearing.

  “Such a tragedy,” Alistair said. “All that promise lost. Not to mention the unnecessary t
rials of you and your brothers. You must have been through so much.”

  “My brothers?” Val said, his voice returning in a whisper.

  “Our spies tell us the Black Sash is in possession of a journal of your father’s, likely stolen by Dean Groft or one of his agents.”

  “Zedock,” Val said grimly.

  “This journal discusses the inheritance Dane left for his three sons, which confirmed my suspicions. They’re not like you though, are they? Not possessed of magic. Not meant for this world.”

  Val took a step forward. “Will and Caleb are alive? You know this for sure?”

  “At last report, yes. According to our spies, they have just left Freetown, bound for unknown destinations.”

  “I see.”

  “Unlike them, you inherited your father’s power. You belong here, Val, in this world.” His eyes flicked to a picture of Adaira on the wall near the wizard chute. “With us.”

  “How much does she know about this?”

  “I’ve told her nothing. I leave that to you, at your discretion.” Lord Alistair clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “Do you know your brothers have joined the Revolution, no doubt poisoned by lies?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “They’re alone on the Barrier Coast, embroiled in a mutiny that will only get them killed. We all know the history of the Age of Sorrow, but you’ve seen what happens with your own eyes when the superstitions of the common born are allowed to fester, haven’t you?”

  Val tightened as he thought of the villagers hustling Adaira through the village, seeking to sacrifice her in a misguided attempt to appease the demons outside their walls. This after Adaira had saved the life of a village child. “I have.”

  “You understand, then, why we take a firm hand in these matters?”

  “Yes,” he said, almost inaudibly, thinking only of his brothers.

  Lord Alistair steepled his pointer fingers. “My proposal to you still stands.”

  Val blinked when he realized what he was offering, stunned yet again.

  “You must be wondering why I did not tell you all of this before last night,” Lord Alistair said.