“He is no longer here,” Godewyn said to Aelia. “His spark has joined the Holy Flame and while we sorrow, we rejoice in his everlasting life.”
“Who did this?” Aelia cried, spittle flying from her mouth even as tears rolled down her face.
“We do not know yet,” Bordan said. “We will find out.”
“I want them found,” Aelia spoke with a rasping voice that tripped over the line between rage and grief.
“We will find them,” Bordan assured her.
“And then I want them crucified,” Aelia spat.
Bordan almost took a step back in surprise. There was a heat rising from the young woman’s skin, almost too hot to touch and Bordan could feel the heavy pulse of blood running through her arms. Grief tore at your mind, he knew that, and gave free rein to base emotions.
Some raged and spat their anger at the world. They would shout, fight, attack with words those closest to them. Eventually, they would calm, and reality would come crashing down with a hot wave of crushing sadness. Later, they would raise their heads, emotions spent, and carry on, the hole in their heart scarring over but never truly being free of the pain.
Others took the news in silence. Retreated into a world built within their own mind. A place of sanctuary and safety, a castle with thick walls to protect them from the reality which wheeled around them. Some never emerged, and those that did never healed, the open wound of loss weeping forever in their heart.
In soldiers, Bordan much preferred the former. They gained a new perspective on life, a deeper understanding of existence. Now they fought for each other, protected those alongside them, and understood the true purpose of battle was not to kill, but to live.
The latter, if they emerged, were broken and dangerous to their comrades. Spurred to feats of bravery and recklessness, they could turn the tide of battle, but too many who had yet to be tested would follow them into the fray and would die. Upon that mountain of bodies, the broken hero would stand.
Aelia was now sobbing, her rage extinguished by sorrow, the way it should be. Bordan, with Godewyn’s help, guided her to the door.
“Let us investigate, Princess,” Bordan said. “We will find what we can. Your mother needs you and you need her. Be strong for both your sakes and the Empire, Princess Aelia. I will tell you the moment we find anything.”
“Bordan, I…” Aelia’s words were choked off by another sob.
At the door, the Empress took her daughter’s head in her hands and drew the young woman to her. The sobs increased in volume and Bordan saw the Princess’s shoulders shake.
“Escort them to a room and get them wine,” Bordan ordered the soldiers. “Find some trustworthy staff to look after their needs and return here. Speak to no one else.”
“There is little you can do here, surgeon,” Godewyn said, his deep voice breaking the silence which followed the imperial family’s departure.
“What?” the surgeon blurted.
“You’ve done all you can,” Bordan said, a gentle tone taking the sting from the High Priest’s words. “We’ll make arrangements for the body. I think it would be best if you and your apprentice went somewhere to get cleaned up and rested.”
“We will go back to the hospital,” the surgeon said. “There are soldiers who need treatment.”
“Your other surgeons can handle that today,” Bordan answered, his tone hardening. “I insist that you rest first and after write down all you can remember. We may need those records in the coming days as we investigate.”
“General,” the surgeon said, catching the wide-eyed look of fear his apprentice’s face currently wore, “there are still some tests we can carry out.”
“Not today,” Bordan snapped. He took a breath. “My apologies once again. This situation has been trying on us all and it is important we act correctly from here on. I’ll have some guards escort you and keep you safe while you write up your account.”
He stepped to the door, swung it open and beckoned a guard over. It was a moment to issue the orders and a heartbeat later the surgeon was leading his apprentice out of the room and disappearing down the corridor with the soldier guarding their every step.
“Well?” he asked of the High Priest as he closed the door.
“You think I know something?”
“Godewyn, you were always more intelligent than any man has a right to be, and you have hinted at something,” Bordan said. On the bed, the body of Alhard looked smaller in death than he had in life. The spark, the flame of life, gave presence, an indefinable sense of weight. Extinguished, the muscles and skin sagged in upon the skeletal frame.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Godewyn said.
“And are you going to hedge around it for much longer?” Bordan waved around the room. “We are the only two here. Speak plainly. I would much rather listen to your guesses than another man’s facts.”
“All priests are,” and the priest paused, his eyes flicking around the room as if searching for something he could not find, “trained to recognise certain aspects of magic. It is to keep us free of the taint and to protect others.”
“Go on,” Bordan answered, intrigued.
“There is something here,” Godewyn said. “Something about the body, or the room. I’m not entirely sure.”
“You think magic killed the Prince?”
“Yes,” Godewyn said after a moment and the breath caught in Bordan’s chest, “and no.”
Bordan sagged, the breath rushing from his lungs. “Can you speak more clearly? If magic killed the Prince, then all at the Gymnasium are suspect.”
The thought and the implications caught in his chest, a hooked dagger tugging at his innards.
“I cannot,” Godewyn said. “For that you would need a magician.”
“You want to bring one here?” Bordan asked.
“Much as it loathes me to admit, there are some I would trust, some whose loyalty I would not question,” Godewyn said. “The most trustworthy is with the Emperor, but Master Vedrix is another in whom I would place my trust. I would rather he was not made aware of my assessment. It is important that he and I are seen as opponents across the council table.”
“I will have him summoned,” Bordan said, though the mention of the Emperor had stilled his heart once more.
XXIV
The Magician
Nine years ago:
He ran. Ducking around the stall owners, their customers, and the servants who carried the purchased goods. Shouts rang out after him, but he ignored them. The winter storm had come and gone, leaving the cobbles slippery and he struggled to turn. He had learned his only advantage over Linus and the others was speed. The rain had stolen that from him.
A reaching hand grabbed the neck of his tunic and he was jerked off his feet.
“Offer their chief my greeting,” Borus said to Emlyn after the two groups had spent long moments staring at each other, waiting for the other to give way first.
Kyron was unsure who had won the first exchange, as he had been focused on movement in the trees to his left. Flashes of bright green and blue flickered between the trunks and boughs as warriors of the tribes moved into position. He forced himself to focus, to draw upon the motes of magic which surrounded them and construct the spell Borus required.
Emlyn spoke and her words were those of the tribes. Lilting, almost a song, but interspersed with harsh consonants which created a dissonance in the flow and melody.
Holding the spell steady, he wound the net around the chief, the one he assumed would do most of the speaking. As before, it would be impressions rather than a direct indication of truth or lie. If the whole conversation was carried out in the language of the tribes, the task of dividing truth from lie would be much less precise.
The chief responded in the same language and Kyron let his sense roam across the net, feeling for changes which would indicate a lie. There was nothing. The net remained smooth and unruffled, which in and of itself was strange.
Words, no
matter the context or meaning, came with emotions attached. Emotions which were revealed by heartbeat, by gestures, actions, sweat, facial tics, and other more subtle clues which were unseen but which the net could detect. Every word spoken should trouble the net in some manner. The skill was in reading each word, each sentence, for meaning and truth.
“He says you will find no welcome in the forests,” Emlyn translated for Borus.
“Understandable,” Borus nodded. “Nevertheless, we are heading home, away from his precious forest, and our journey would go quicker if his army would move aside.”
Emlyn shook her head but spoke to the chief once more. This time her words were accompanied with gestures. She pointed at Borus, swept her arm to indicate the trees, and made a beckoning gesture back down the trail.
In return, the chief shook his head and a long stream of words sprung forth. Kyron looked on with worry gnawing away at his heart. The tone, the gestures, the way the chief waved his arms at the Empire soldiers, all demonstrated the man’s anger yet still nothing showed in the net.
He caught Borus glance but could do nothing but shrug his shoulders in response. It earned him a scowl.
“The chief instructs me to tell you passage is denied,” Emlyn said with a sigh. “He seems to think you cannot be trusted, that you will leave with the Emperor’s body and return with a much larger army. At which point, the chief suggests you will set fire to the summer forest and kill everyone who dwells within.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” Borus mumbled in a whisper which only just reached Kyron’s ears, then said to Emlyn, “Tell the chief, on my word of honour as a soldier of the Empire, that such will not be the case. We merely wish to return our leader to his family as is proper in our customs and religion. We ask him to respect that desire.”
Emlyn spoke again, this time with her fist clenched to her heart and Kyron saw her pound it against her chest twice during her speech. The net did not tremble or react. Something or, Kyron realised, someone was preventing his spell from taking effect.
Now, with the truth lighting his mind, Kyron held the net with one finger of his concentration and began to quest outward with another. It was delicate and clumsy at the same time. He had no direction to aim for, no clues to follow, and the questing probe of his mind was merely prodding at empty air, seeking some aspect of a foreign magic.
He inspected the face of each man and woman who stood with the chief. None had so much as glanced at him, even though he was dressed in a tunic and cloak unlike the soldiers or Emlyn. Discounted, unimportant, not worth their time. However, if they were the person responsible for the dampening of his net there would be some link, some thread connecting their magic to the net.
Kyron took a slow, calming breath and fought down his fear. Letting the motes of magic swirl about him, he began shaping a second net. A fine weave of motes, each one joined the next by the faintest trickle of power. All the while he held onto the truth net woven about the chief.
A magician should be capable of maintaining two constructs, Padarn had told him. A good magician could hold three, and a great one could manage four. Kyron struggled. However, the nets were similar in purpose and shape, one merely an extension of the other.
His breaths became shallow and his heartbeat sped up. In the still air of the forest, sweat beaded on his forehead, but like the stones which Emlyn had thrown at him, he batted away his discomfort. Twice he almost tore the net apart, opting for speed over care and was forced to repair the threads before trying again.
The strange three-way conversation continued and when he opened his eyes, he saw the new net hanging in the air before him. Silken threads of magic, finer than any spiders, thinner than hair, but shining like a summer’s sun on a morning dew. His heart swelled with pride.
“He says that should you have children with you, they are free to leave,” Emlyn said to Borus, casting a glance Kyron’s way.
“Kind of him, but he already knows we do not have children,” Borus said. “Apprentice, anything to tell me?”
“I’m sorry, Cohort,” Kyron said, and had to suppress a gasp as the very act of speaking almost tore his concentration from the two nets.
“Useful,” Borus muttered. “Tell the chief that there is no need for bloodshed today. What he fears will come to pass if we are not permitted passage from the forest. Tell him the Empire will not stand for the capture of the Emperor’s body. Should they try, the Empire will bring the full weight of its might to bear on the forest. Not a tree will be left standing.”
“Threats?” Emlyn raised an eyebrow.
“Just tell him,” Borus snapped.
Kyron let his consciousness fall back into tune with the magic, no longer just maintaining the nets, but putting his new construct to use. He lifted it into the air, where it undulated like the slow swell of the sea, and let it sink across the group of warriors who accompanied the chief.
One of them moved, raising a hand to scratch at a sudden itch on her scalp. Kyron sucked in a breath, watched, and waited. A moment later, her hand dropped and not for a moment did she look Kyron’s way.
He felt for the net, letting his mind slip along the motes, feeling for the tell-tale impression of magic. If there were a magician amongst the group, the net would detect the passage of motes which were not under his control. If a foreign mote troubled the net, like a spider with a delicate foot resting on a thread, he would feel the vibration and know his prey was caught.
There was nothing and disappointment settled on his shoulders. He shook it off.
Look at it another way, he told himself. You have eliminated this group from your search, there are many more possibilities.
The army of tribes ahead were an obvious target, and there were those of the tribes in the trees to either side.
The flags of truce hung limp from the spears, and the conversation went on, solving nothing and coming to no agreements. On the edge of his awareness, he could hear the changes in tone on both sides, the deepening of the anger and resentment, and the escalation in threats.
Setting his shoulders, he lifted the gossamer net and sent it floating across the space between the negotiating groups. The front line of the tribes was perhaps fifty wide and he took the logical route to his search. Starting on the far right of the front rank, he let the net drift slowly across them. Nothing.
Gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes, Kyron drew the net left, along the front ranks. He could see the shining threads drape themselves across each man and woman, tracing the outline of their bodies, shields and weapons in small glitters of power. Nothing.
A twitch in the net. A flicker of something. A tremble on a thread. A fly caught on a silken strand.
He wiped his sweaty palms down the side of his tunic and clenched his fists, drawing the net back along the row, feeling for another tremble. There it was, subtle, slow, and fragile.
Drawing the net in, focusing upon the magic which it had caught, it enclosed one figure who stood near the centre of the front rank. Kyron let the net settle about them, enclose them, and felt for the motes of magic which dampened his original spell.
They were there, contained, directed, a single line of motes which linked this magician to Kyron’s truth-net. That line trembled and swayed, rising and falling, as it absorbed all the emotions, the tell-tales, of the chief’s words.
Kyron opened his eyes. His vision swam for a moment and came back into focus upon the figure his net enclosed. She was tall, half a head above those around her, but other than that she was dressed in the same manner as all the other warriors. Oval shield, woad painted face, and spiked hair.
His heart missed a beat as he realised she was looking at him. The distance was too great to catch the expression in her eyes, but there was a connection which held him still and which chilled him.
She knows, he thought. She’s a magician like me. No, better than me.
He saw her spear come up, and the faint line of her mouth twisted into a smile. The butt o
f her spear struck the ground and his net tore apart.
The sudden snap of his power struck his mind and he took a step back. Another crack sounded in his mind and the truth-net about the chief shattered. All the motes he had bound into the construct scattered into the air. A shimmering star-field of magic which only he and the tribal magician could see clouded the air around the group.
“Borus,” Kyron gasped, even as he sought to corral the motes back into a shape, a shield with which to protect the Cohort and soldiers. His whisper was dry, a hiss, more than a word. Even so, the officer turned in his direction.
“Apprentice?”
“Magician,” Kyron lifted an arm, surprised to see it shake with the effort and pointed across to the female warrior in the front line.
Borus nodded. “Guide, tell the chief I will need to take his words back to my leader. We will talk again as I am keen to avoid bloodshed if possible.”
“If you do not have the power to negotiate, he will lose respect for you,” Emlyn said, and Kyron saw the way her eyes narrowed as she followed the direction of Kyron’s outstretched finger.
“I’m not here to get his respect,” Borus snapped. “He knows I am not the leader. Their scouts have been out and about our column long enough, and do not try to deny that, Guide. We may not know this forest as well as you, but we are far from stupid.”
“Whatever you say,” Emlyn answered and turned back to the chief. She spoke fluidly, without anger, but there was a hint of sadness to her tone that Kyron could not place.
The chief snorted and spat on the forest floor. Without another word the warriors stepped back and, holding the flag, high walked back to their front lines.
“Let’s get out of here,” Borus said. “Hold the flag so they can see it. We need to tell the Spear what has occurred.”
“There is going to be a battle, isn’t there?” Kyron said, his legs feeling weak as he fell into step with the group.
“I don’t think we can avoid it,” Borus said.
“You can’t,” Emlyn added.
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