Traver had been irate. At least until he’d tested the edge of the blade with his thumb, wincing at the cut that appeared in his skin. After that, he stared down at his new weapon with growing appreciation.
It was still dark out, though the sun should have already risen. When he looked up through the open roof of the keep, Kyel saw the same black sky that had been there the night before, full of churning clouds and buffeting winds.
After a meager breakfast, they were assembled into lines and marched out to the practice yard. Fires lit all around the yard provided a good amount of light. A high wall on one side effectively blocked the wind. Kyel found himself separated from Traver and thrown in with a cluster of men holding longbows.
An old sergeant spent quite a bit of time modeling the proper grip to use and where to place the hand on the shaft. Kyel was already tired by the time he was finally allowed to nock an arrow to the bowstring. He gritted his teeth and pulled the bowstring back to his cheek. The action took every bit of strength he had.
He heard exclamations from the men up and down the line, which made him feel a little better. He trained his eyes down the arrow’s shaft at the target, a man-size clump of hay with a circle painted on it. Exactly as he’d been instructed, he released his fingers as smoothly as he could manage.
The arrow flew wide of its mark. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was what the bowstring did to his left wrist. Kyel yelped as the string slapped back against his skin, making him jump and almost drop his bow.
Behind him, he could hear the regular soldiers laughing. Kyel stared down at the red welt on his wrist in shock. That had really hurt. He glared back over his shoulder as he picked another arrow up off the ground.
This time, he held his wrist at more of an angle, away from the bowstring’s recoil. Determined to get it right, he drew the waxed string back to his cheek. He took his time aiming, sighting down the shaft until the target slowly steadied. He was so afraid he was going to jerk at the last moment. With as much concentration as he could summon, he plucked his fingers away.
The bowstring hummed, and this time it didn’t score his wrist. The shaft flew perfectly straight. It slapped into the clump of hay, hitting the mark just off-center. The farmer next to him laughed, grinning in approval. Another man clapped him on the back.
Kyel looked behind him, feeling no small amount of pride. He was the first man who had managed to hit the hay. The soldiers weren’t laughing anymore. Feeling smug, Kyel almost said something. But then his eyes caught the shape of a dark form standing just to the right of the group of men.
Kyel’s stomach lurched as he saw the look of satisfaction in the Sentinel’s eyes, right before the mage turned and stalked away.
Supper was a wretched affair. Kyel’s belly rumbled as he waited in line to get his meal, bowl in hand. It was porridge, or at least something that resembled porridge. Two soldiers were ladling the watery substance out of a large kettle by the door of the hall. Kyel thrust his bowl out when it came his turn, looking away as the bearded soldier slopped the thin liquid into it. The porridge was hot, at least. He brought the bowl up to his mouth, trying not to gag as he forced the contents down.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, Kyel found himself gazing up into the face of Sergeant Ulric, the dour old bowmaster who had worked with him in the practice yard. The man motioned for him to get up. He collected his bow, remembering Craig’s order to take his weapon everywhere he went.
Kyel fell in behind Ulric and followed him into the circular room at the base of the tower. There, the old soldier turned back to run his gaze over him. Evidently satisfied with what he saw, he turned and started up the winding stairs.
Kyel had no idea what he was in for. He suspected it might have something to do with his progress down in the yard. It was the only thing he could think of that could have singled him out from the other men of his company. He didn’t know what to expect at the top of that turret.
The air was cold and damp, moving in through arrow slits that followed the curve of the stair up into the shadows of the rafters high above. The dim lights of torches cast a flickering, eerie dance along the wall. The long climb seemed perilous. There was no rail around the inside edge of the stair, just a straight drop to the floor stories below. Overhead, Kyel could hear the flutter of bird or bat wings beating against the rafters.
The steps ascended through a large opening cut into the ceiling. Kyel followed Ulric with a growing sense of unease, his feet making the transition from the rough stone of the stair onto the planks that made up the floor of a circular chamber that smelled strongly of wood smoke and dust.
The first thing Kyel noticed was a wide hearth in front of him that had two neatly made pallets to either side. A blazing fire seemed to be doing a fair job of warming the place, despite the cold air coming in through the arrow slits. The chamber was conspicuously lacking almost any kind of fixture or decoration.
There were only two chairs pulled up to a dilapidated table with what looked like several maps held down by stones and iron broadheads. Gazing down at the table, Kyel almost missed the shadowy figure standing against the wall to his right.
The darkly clad Sentinel stood with his back to him, by all appearances intent on the smudged lines of a map that hung on the wall. He traced a finger down the worn-looking parchment, giving no sign he was even aware of their presence. But then he paused, hand dropping to his side.
A shiver ran down Kyel’s spine as the man turned toward him, fixing him with the same look of quiet appraisal he had worn in the practice yard. The mage nodded, dismissing Ulric without a word.
Kyel shuddered as he realized he was alone in the tower with an eighth-tier Sentinel of Aerysius. The man extended his hand toward the table. Kyel sat down in one of the chairs, leaning his bow against the wall behind him. The mage remained standing, watching him for a long moment before speaking.
“I saw you down in the yard,” he said at last. His voice was not harsh. The words were soft and low, perhaps even gentle. “Have you ever held a bow before?”
Kyel felt a bit embarrassed as he shook his head. “No. That was my first time.”
The mage nodded slightly, but the look in his eyes didn’t change. It was as though he already knew the answer. Finally, he strode forward and slid into the seat opposite Kyel, spreading his hands on the splintery wood.
“My name is Darien Lauchlin.”
Kyel was a little surprised he hadn’t offered his title, the long and imposing chain of words he’d heard the man confessing to the previous night. Kyel felt a bit relieved. By just offering his name, the mage was making an attempt to bridge the distance between them. Kyel gave his own name quickly:
“Kyel Archer of Covendrey Township.”
To his amazement, he found the mage grinning. “Archer the archer. Now, that will go over well with the men.”
His smile was so honest and reassuring that Kyel found himself grinning too. The irony of his surname hadn’t been lost on the members of his company. The others had taken turns ribbing him about it all day.
Lauchlin let his smile slip, but his eyes remained mild. “Do you mind telling me what you did for a trade back in Covendrey?”
“I was apprenticed to a merchant,” Kyel answered, remembering to add the honorific “Great Master” only as an afterthought. His nerves tensed, hoping the mage wouldn’t take offense at his hesitation.
But the man only waved his hand over the table. “My friends call me Darien.”
Kyel was struck speechless. A Sentinel of Aerysius had just told him to call him by his given name. And Lauchlin had, whether he’d meant it or not, just labeled him a friend. Of course he knows it, Kyel berated himself. Mages never did anything that wasn’t deliberate. He wondered what the man was really after.
“A merchant’s apprentice,” Lauchlin said thoughtfully. “That would make you good with numbers. And you know your letters as well, I take it?”
Kyel nodded, admitting, “My f
ather was an acolyte of Aerysius, but only for a time. He taught me my letters.”
He watched Lauchlin’s eyes widen at his words, feeling again that cold shiver of chill. Slowly, the man stood from his chair and paced away, head lowered and hands clasped behind his back. His floor-length cloak swayed with the motion of his pace. He paused beside the hearth, leaning with one hand against the stone wall, staring down pensively into the flames.
“I noticed you last night when I arrived,” he admitted. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve had my eye on you throughout the day.”
Kyel fingered his bow absently. He produced the waxed and expertly tied bowstring from his pocket as a thought occurred to him. “You left this for me. And you switched out Traver’s sword. Why?”
“I did him a favor. The blade he’d picked was too much of a weapon for him. The sword I gave him will serve him better.”
Summoning his courage, Kyel asked, “Why have you been watching me?”
The Sentinel looked up at him. “Have you ever been tested for Consideration?”
Kyel felt stunned. No wonder the man kept staring at him that way. Lauchlin was hoping to find an apprentice, probably someone to follow after him. Kyel knew the gift was transferred upon death from one mage to the next in an unbroken line of inheritance. But not just anyone could receive it. The ability was rare, and Kyel knew for a fact he didn’t have it. Lauchlin was going to be disappointed.
He said, “I’ve been tested. Twice. I never passed.”
“Yet your father did.”
“Aye,” Kyel admitted. “But he didn’t last long as an acolyte. Only two years. I don’t understand. Are you thinking I could be a mage?”
“I can see the potential in you, but I’ve no idea how strong it is. Sometimes people come into their potential later in life. If you were tested again, you might pass this time. It’s possible, at least. I’d like to try.”
“It’s too late.” Kyel sighed and shook his head. “I have a family … I did at least.”
Lauchlin dropped his gaze with a deep, lingering sigh. To Kyel, it seemed he was struggling with something that was difficult for him, like a dark secret he was afraid, or even ashamed, of admitting. When he looked back up again, his eyes had lost most of their intensity.
“You heard what I said last night. Aerysius has been destroyed. I’m the only Sentinel left alive. I can scarcely provide an adequate defense for this keep, let alone the entire Rhen.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably and staring down at the chain on his wrist. “And I’ve another problem. There is too much of the gift in me. No one was ever meant to take on this much. Eventually it’s going to be more than I can live with. I need someone to pass on my gift to … so that the legacy of Aerysius doesn’t die with me.”
Kyel looked away. He hardly knew this man, but for some reason, he felt moved by Lauchlin’s plight. He truly wanted to help him, but he wasn’t a mage. And, even if he were, Kyel didn’t think he had it in him to give what the man was asking.
“Wouldn’t it just kill me, too?”
“Not necessarily. If I can find another with the ability, I can divide the conduit between you. It’s been done before. Then there would be two of you. And if you both go out and find two others within your lifetime…”
Kyel nodded, seeing where he was going with that line of reasoning. Where there was now just one mage, in time there could be two … and then, eventually, as many as eight. But that’s all there could ever be, no more.
Kyel frowned. “But all this hardly matters if I don’t pass the test.”
“That’s right.”
Kyel understood. He nodded slowly, drawing in a shuddering breath. He realized he was trembling as Lauchlin stood and crossed the floor toward him. The mage lowered himself to a crouch in front of Kyel’s chair, staring him keenly in the eye. Kyel cringed back, wanting to look away.
The last thing Kyel remembered was thinking that he’d never seen such depths of pain as were reflected back at him from the Sentinel’s eyes.
And then the world around him dimmed to a distant point of light.
10
A Sack of Mead
The next two weeks went by in a blur of hectic training interspersed with tedious hours of boredom. Kyel found himself growing used to the routine, though he discovered he enjoyed the hours of practice with his bow far more than the time spent sitting around.
He remembered nothing of Darien Lauchlin’s test. He only remembered wakening as if from sleep to find the mage backing away from him, head bowed. Kyel had felt horrible at the time. He knew how much Lauchlin had at stake.
“I’m sorry,” Kyel had told him.
But when the Sentinel raised his head, his expression was one of wonder.
“No need to be,” he said. “You passed the test.”
The next day had gone by in a strange sort of haze. Kyel had practiced with his bow until his arms were shaking. Part of him still wanted to deny Lauchlin’s words. It all seemed so far from reality it couldn’t possibly be true. But when he left the practice yard, one look back over his shoulder at his target was enough to make him admit that perhaps the mage was right. All of his arrows had hit the mark.
Darien shook his head in admiration as he stared at the enormous black gelding Craig offered him. It was a Tarkendar, a massive breed of warhorse heavy enough to carry a man in full battle plate. The gelding’s tail was carried high, its enormous girth as big as a heavy draft horse. The animal nickered, tossing its head.
“I thought he was yours,” Darien said, reaching up to stroke the horse’s neck.
Craig grinned, offering a slight shrug. “Now he’s yours. There’s mine over there,” he added with no small amount of pride, jerking his head toward a dappled gray stallion circling the paddock.
Darien cocked an eyebrow, looking sidelong at Craig. “Think you can handle him?”
The captain chortled. “You know I can ride circles around you, Lauchlin. Or did you forget the last three races you lost to me? Just worry about keeping your seat on that black beast and leave the cantankerous ones to me.”
“Oh, is that the way of it? If I remember correctly, that stallion of Jorin’s tossed you flat on your backside. I also seem to recall another ‘cantankerous’ animal that just about bit your arm off when you—” He had to duck as Craig’s arm swiped out to clap him.
The soldier grinned. “Remember that fellow in Wolden who came at you with a knife?”
Darien was taken aback by the sudden change of topic. But then he had to laugh when he saw the expression on Craig’s face. “I was drunk,” he reminded his friend. He was just fortunate Craig had been quick enough to disarm the man.
“That was probably the last time you’ve gotten yourself good and sodden, wasn’t it?” Craig winked. “I lied to Proctor. The Queen of Emmery sent a little something extra with that goat swill you had the other night. I’ve got it stashed in my saddlebag.”
Darien found himself shaking his head. The man was insane. Aerysius and all it stood for was destroyed, the Enemy was massing right beneath their feet, and the entire South was blithely going about its business as though oblivious.
As if that wasn’t enough, Devlin Craig wanted to get him drunk again.
“Let’s have at it,” Darien decided. If the Queen of Emmery was willing to provide, then he was game. But what he would have preferred from the woman was reinforcements and provisions, instead of rotten convicts and bad liquor.
Craig scowled roguishly and fetched two sacks of mead from his saddlebags. They had no cups, so Darien lifted the sack to his lips and took a thirsty gulp that made him choke when he swallowed it.
“Gods, this is really bad,” he muttered, but that didn’t prevent him from chasing the draught with a second. He could feel the effects of the mead almost immediately as it hit his stomach. It might be goat swill, but at least it was strong. After a few more gulps, he could feel the strange hesitance of the magic field evening out around him, mellowing with his senses
, and finally giving way all together.
It was a common wife’s tale that mages seldom drank because they couldn’t hold their liquor. The truth was, they seldom indulged because strong drink diminished the perception of the field.
But at that moment, Darien didn’t care. The liquor soothed his mind, calming his restless thoughts. He finished his sack before Craig and was rewarded with another. He tilted his head back for another healthy draught, but then thought better of it and offered the sack back instead.
It was useless. No matter how drunk his old friend could get him, no amount of mead would fill the gaping hole inside that had once been filled by a woman named Meiran.
Darien stared down at the fog in the lowlands, cursing his brother’s soul.
Garret Proctor looked out from the battlements at the top of Greystone’s tower, Sutton Royce at his side. Softly, he asked, “Have you spoken with him again?”
The captain nodded, his hand clenching the baldric of the longsword strapped at his back. “He refuses to forsake the Oath. You know Darien. Once he’s got his mind set, even a supreme act of the gods won’t change his course.”
It was Proctor’s turn to nod. The man was just as stubborn as his father had been. It was that same arrogance that had gotten Gerald Lauchlin tied to a wooden stake.
Sometimes, in his nightmares, Proctor could still hear the sounds of the man’s dying screams.
11
The Breaking Storm
A violent gust seized Darien’s hair, playing it out behind him and tossing dark strands forward into his face. His cloak made crackling noises that sounded like a fraying banner as it was lifted away from him and billowed by the gale. He turned his face slightly into the wind. Then let his gaze wander upward toward the bank of clouds that raced above the black spikes of the Shadowspears. Strange lights flickered deep within them. A forked tongue of lightning flared, licking down from the sky.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 13