The Circle of Sorcerers: A Mages of Bloodmyr Novel: Book #1

by Brian Kittrell

  * * *

  Walking through the night and the next morning, they came to the edge of the forest below a bluff. Ahead lay the city of Azura, and above the turrets and thick walls fluttered gold and silver banners. The chimneys billowed with smoke, and the roar of voices could be heard on the wind. The Heraldan Channel wound through the surrounding countryside with ships sailing slowly along the lanes in either direction. Beyond the city to the east lay the Sea of Pillars, and Laedron could barely make out the glints of light topping the rocky formations. Those must be the spikes summoned by Azura to kill the defilers, he thought, remembering the story Ismerelda had told him.

  “I've always dreamed of this place,” Marac said, standing beside Laedron. “As Heraldans, we were taught from a very young age of the holiness of this place. Just think of it, we're standing in a place where Azura herself might have stood, where she and Tristan may have walked and talked in their time.”

  “And Azuroth to the east,” Laedron said. “That's one place I'd really like to see.”

  “You can't,” Jurgen said, moving to stand beside them. Brice sat in the grass, taking off his boots and rubbing his feet.

  “And why not?” Laedron asked, turning to him. “I could conceal my identity.”

  “It's not that, young man. They only allow priests these days, by order of Tristan IV, and they check more closely than by the clothes you wear.”

  “Then we could hire a captain willing to take us,” Laedron said.

  “You really know nothing of Azuroth,” Jurgen said. “The Sea of Pillars is a treacherous place for ship. The only ones who may successfully navigate the waters are the Arcanists.”

  “Could you explain why that is?”

  “Allow me,” Marac said, pushing past the priest. “I know a little history myself.”

  Laedron said, “Very well, if you think you're able.”

  “A long time ago, well after Azura returned from the mound, the Grand Vicar of the time... Oh, what's his name?”

  “Petrius,” Jurgen supplied in a whisper.

  “Thank you, yes. Petrius commanded the Arcanists to find a way through the sea. The pillars are of varying heights, and if you take the wrong route, they'll tear the bottom out of your boat.”

  “So, they found a route? Surely someone else has found it out by now,” Laedron said. “They can't be the only ones clever enough to draw a map.”

  “It's a closely guarded secret. They have these glyphs on the stones, and they teach the members of their order how to read them,” Marac said. “No paper maps, no written record of the glyphs. If all the Arcanists were to die tomorrow, the secret would die with them.”

  “It seems rather elaborate.” Laedron put his hands on his hips. “Why would they care who travels to the holy sites?”

  “To protect them, of course. Allowing everyone to travel there without regulation would be dangerous for the priests and monuments,” Jurgen said.

  Laedron made no effort to hide his contempt. “Everyone should have access to these holy places. The church has no right to withhold it from the rest of the world.”

  “Under normal circumstances, they would allow anyone, so long as they aren't of the seedy sort,” Jurgen said. “In times of war, though, it is highly restricted.”

  “We have other matters at hand, anyway,” Laedron said. “What about getting into the city?”

  “As a vicar, I am knowledgeable of certain routes in and out without using the gates,” Jurgen said. “To the east of here lies a tunnel opening between the forest and the antechambers of the Vicariate.”

  “The Vicariate… The vicar's palace?” Laedron asked.

  “Only part of it is the residence of the Grand Vicar. The passage goes beneath the consulship, but past that is an exit into the city.”

  “Where does that come out?” Laedron asked.

  “I don't know. I've never been through it before.”

  “It's a chance we'll have to take, then,” Laedron said. “Anything is better than appearing inside the church's central headquarters.”

  Laedron helped Brice to his feet, and they prepared to leave. Jurgen led them through the thrushes and into the wood. Following a brief walk, they ducked behind a boulder, and Jurgen peeked over it.

  “There it is.” He removed his priestly ring and displayed it to them. “This is the key.”

  “Any guards?” Marac asked.

  “None that I can see,” Jurgen said. “Looks clear.”

  “They'd leave a tunnel into the city unguarded?” Laedron asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Few know of them, and it requires the signet ring of a vicar, or one of the council, to enter. Only twenty such rings exist, and I possess one of five outside the walls.” Jurgen walked toward the door and placed the ring into a slot along the facade, turning the protruding stone in which the ring sat. With a sigh and a breath of wind from the tunnel, the door opened. Replacing the band on his finger, he entered.

  Laedron and the others followed. Laedron's rod glowed in the darkness while he concentrated, emitting just enough light for him to see the way.

  The space between the walls was tight, forcing them to walk single file, and Laedron felt like they’d walked for over an hour. “No one comes down here,” Jurgen said, brushing cobwebs from his path. “Too confined for anything but an escape.”

  “Looks like it's been months.” Laedron swatted a spider web off his face.

  “I know it's been at least three years since I've heard of anyone traveling it,” Jurgen said.

  The passage opened to a room with a ladder in the center, and Laedron breathed a sigh of relief. His muscles ached from the climb on the cliffs, the long journey to the city, and the miles of tunnel they had passed. I don’t know if I even have a spell that could reinvigorate me after this, he mused.

  “The consulship is above this room.” Pointing to a hatch in the ceiling, Jurgen walked to a tunnel mouth across the space. “We won’t be going in there. This way.”

  Once through the next tunnel, Jurgen slowly opened a heavy wooden door, and they followed him into what appeared to be a cellar. The racks of barrels ran the length of the room, and the smell of whiskey and ale flooded their nostrils. At other end of the storeroom, Jurgen led them to a set of wooden stairs.

  Ascending the stairs, they were careful not to make noise, but the boards creaked with each of their footsteps. Once at the top, Jurgen opened the door, and the music and merriment of the tavern blasted in their ears.

  “Might want to hide those,” Jurgen said, pointing at Laedron's wand and scepter.

  With a nod, Laedron stuffed them into his backpack before entering the tap house. He did his best to blend with the crowd while following Jurgen to the door, keeping his head down and never making eye contact with the patrons.

  When they entered the street, Jurgen led them to the right toward a boulevard, then took a left down a side street. “There's an inn this way, and the proprietor was a member of my flock until recently.”

  Following a brisk walk, they entered the inn, and Jurgen tugged the bell rope above the counter. From the back emerged an older man with a peppered beard to match his hair.

  “Jurgen? Is that you?”

  “It is, my friend.” He took the man’s hand.

  “My word, Jurgen! Your robes, they're quite tattered. Are you well?”

  “Yes, a bit of a mishap on the road. We had to walk the rest of the way.”

  “What brings you to my humble inn?”

  “I thought I might visit you since you've moved to Azura.”

  “Couldn't stand to be apart from my dear Valyrie,” the innkeeper said. “I'd trade all the wealth in the world to keep her safe.”

  “How does she fare of late? Attending the university, is she not?”

  Bobbing his head, the man adjusted his spectacles. “Aye, that she is. Says she's finally found her calling in the world.”

  “What is it this time?” Jurgen leaned across the near side of the co
unter, resting his arms on it. “Still on the path of a seneschal?”

  “No,” the man said with a frown crossing his lips.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “A lyrist.” Shame tainted his words.

  Jurgen grinned. “That's not so bad. At least she has no plans to be a street sweeper.”

  “But a lyrist? Akin to the common scribe taking inventories in a shop.” He let out a huff at the end.

  “Some of the greatest vicars have been nothing more than lyrists,” Jurgen said. “Writing at length requires a skilled hand, after all, and we wouldn't have the rich holy texts otherwise.”

  “Perhaps you're right.” The man tugged at his beard. “Will you be staying long in the city?”

  “That's one thing I thought you might help me with,” Jurgen said, clasping his hands. “We haven't the money to pay for a room, but we should be able to reimburse you later if you would have us.”

  Laedron walked to Jurgen’s side and offered a handful of coin to the innkeeper. “I have the gold to pay for it.”

  “I'll hear nothing of it! Have the adjoining suites.” The man handed Jurgen two keys. “Business has been good of late, thanks in no small part to your referrals, I'm sure. Besides, not many pass this way who can afford such lodgings; they remain empty most of the year.”

  “Then, I thank you, Pembry,” Jurgen said, accepting the keys with a smile. “I'll revisit you so we can recount our days properly after we're situated.”

  “I'll have the pipes and wine ready for you,” Pembry said with a gentle nudge.

  “I look forward to it,” Jurgen replied with a grin before leading them upstairs. Unlocking the door, he handed Laedron the other key. Once inside the room, Laedron slipped his bag under the bed and, leaning over, scooted it farther. Brice collapsed into one of the beds with a heavy sigh.

  “It's good that you've resolved to waste the afternoon with a friend of yours,” he said as he stood. “We're on important business here, if you don't recall.”

  Jurgen closed the door behind them. “You should always make friends with an innkeeper each place you go. You never know when you might need a room for a night, and the streets are hardly a safe place to reside.”

  “Fine, but we're still no closer to the goal. What are your thoughts as far as taking down Tristan?”

  “Patience,” Jurgen said, resting on an armchair. “Open confrontation won't win the day, not in his home territory.”

  “What, then?” Marac asked, his hands on his hips.

  “To remove a Grand Vicar, you must remove the supports from beneath him,” Jurgen said. “We must persuade the consulship to replace him.”

  “Or I can sneak into his palace and rid the world of him while he sleeps,” Laedron said. “A much simpler plan.”

  “You think too highly of yourself, young man, for the palace is thick with guards and priests. It'll be nothing like Pilgrim's Rest. You enjoyed some measure of surprise there.”

  “He knew I was coming,” Laedron said. “Well, not me, so to speak; he knew the Dawn Knights had dispatched someone against him.”

  “Then, we must be even more cautious in our efforts. They'll be watching for anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Indeed,” Laedron said. “How do you intend to convince the consulship, then?”

  “I'll need to get in there and get a feel for things. With Tristan present, that could be difficult to accomplish, but I shall try. I was the most favored before the Drakars came, so I still have a little clout with them.”

  Laedron bowed his head. “Then meet with your friend and enjoy yourself this day, for we have work to do tomorrow.”

  Jurgen exited the room, closing the door behind him.

  “What are we supposed to do?” Marac asked.

  “We need to find some new clothes,” Laedron said, running his fingers down his torn and soiled garments.

  “But where?” Brice asked, sitting up on the mattress. “I know nothing of this city.”

  “The innkeeper will likely know.” Laedron produced the handful of gold coins. “This ought to be enough.”

  Marac nodded. “Better see if the innkeeper can change it to coppers, then.”

  “Why?” Laedron asked.

  “Something tells me the people in this section of town aren't used to seeing gold coins.”

  “Good point.”

  Opening the door, Marac said, “Come along.”

  Reaching the bottom floor of the inn, Laedron saw that Jurgen and Pembry were already thick in their drinks and pipes.

  “Could we get a little change?” Laedron asked, placing his hands on the counter.

  “Certainly!” Pembry said, still laughing from his previous conversation. Laedron placed four gold coins on the counter and received four hundred coppers in return, each one counted meticulously by Pembry with his squinty eyes.

  The door opened behind them with the ringing of a bell, and Laedron looked over his shoulder. Into the room stepped a girl of about eighteen, slender in build with straight, black hair brushing her shoulders as she walked. He figured her clothes were a sort of uniform, embroidered with emblems he had never seen. The garments reminded him somewhat of those worn by the academy mages of Morcaine, but they obviously weren’t sorcery robes. With her arms filled with a stack of books, she shied away from Laedron and the others, seeming content to go behind the counter without saying a word.

  “Ready, Lae?” Marac asked holding the door. “Shops are likely to be closing soon.”

  Handing the coins over to Marac, Laedron said, “No, go on ahead.” He leaned to try and catch a glimpse of the girl in the back room, stricken by what beauty he had seen and intrigued at the thickness of the books she had been holding.

  “You sure?” Marac asked.

  With his palms sweaty and his skin clammy, Laedron said, “Yes, I'm sure. Go on.”

  “We'll get you something while we're out, then,” Marac said, a grin creeping across his face. “Good luck.”

  “Luck with what?”

  Patting Laedron on the arm and dipping his head, Marac said, “Good luck. You know what.”

  “What? No... I just want to see what those books are...” Laedron said, trying to hide his true interest.

  “I've made some flat cakes if you care for any,” Pembry called out, sitting in his chair again.

  “No, thank you, Da,” a voice replied, muffled but still sweet to Laedron's ear.

  “What are you doing lingering about?” Jurgen asked Laedron.

  “I've sent them after some fresh clothes,” Laedron said, rubbing his hands together. “I was wondering if you wouldn't mind my joining you?”

  “Why not?” Pembry asked. “Perhaps we could have a younger man's viewpoint on our dilemma.”

  “Dilemma?” Walking around the counter, Laedron took a seat and a clay jar from Pembry when it was offered, the sweet scent of wine wafting from it.

  “Jurgen here says the war's a farce and a useless waste of life,” Pembry said. “Me, on the other hand, I think it's necessary.”

  “How could a war be necessary?” Laedron asked, still trying to spy on the back room. “The stakes are purely political and religious.”

  “Glad you asked, my boy.” Pembry slapped Laedron on the knee. Though it was forceful enough to leave a sting, Laedron didn't think it was Pembry's intention to harm him. It seemed the wine was getting to him. “Every few years, we need a war like this. Thins out the bad blood, you see? Only the best remain.”

  “Yes, but my point is that there's little guarantee, Pembry,” Jurgen said. “What if enough of the bad blood gets lucky and survives, leaving the best on the field?”

  “Then we had it coming,” Pembry said.

  Jurgen prodded Pembry in the arm. “War should be prevented at all costs and only fought for the right reasons, lest the good men end up doing evils upon one another.”

  “I'll have to agree with Jurgen on that one, sir,” Laedron said. “Who was that girl?”

>   “Which...?” asked Pembry as if someone whom he hadn't seen had entered the inn. “Oh, my daughter, you must mean. Valyrie.”

  “Yes, Da?”

  “Oh, nothing, my dear. A fellow here asked who you were,” Pembry said, taking a plentiful swig from his jug. Just as much wine stained his beard as went into his mouth.

  She came to the doorway but paused before entering the room. Laedron couldn't tell if she was put off by his staring or a feeling she had upon seeing him.

  She walked over and put her hand on her father's shoulder. “I can barely hear you back there.”

  “Ah, I was just saying, this fellow here had asked who you were,” he said, putting his hand on hers. “What'd you say your name was, young man?”

  “I didn't.” Laedron stood to face her. “Laedron Telpist.”

  “Not from around here, are you?” she asked.

  “No,” Laedron said.

  Pembry said, “Cael'brillan. A midlander.”

  “Really?” she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

  Laedron nodded. “From the west.” Torn between telling the truth and maintaining his secrecy, he finally settled on a half-truth.

  “I know where it is,” she said with a laugh. “Come, tell me about it, and leave these men to their idle ponderings of the world and its politics.”

  “You'd be good to study politics yourself, girl,” Pembry said. “Giving up being a seneschal over becoming a lyrist, craziest thing I've ever heard.”

  Ignoring him, Valyrie led Laedron out the side door to a covered patio with chairs and tables running its length. He followed her to a table surrounded by walls on three sides. “You'll have to forgive my father,” she said, taking a seat. “He's obsessed with coin and demands I pay my worship to it. I refused.”

  Taking a deep breath, he tried to focus on something other than her fair countenance, but her beauty struck the words from his head each time he tried to speak. He'd been through situations many times more perilous than the one presented before him, but he felt more intimidation from the gorgeous girl across the table than he had from Gustav Drakar.

  “Did you not hear me?” she asked.

  Laedron bowed his head, trying to control his breathing. “Yes, of course. You were saying you didn't want to be a seneschal?”

  “By Azura, no! Spending my entire life being a penny pincher and bookkeeper for some self-serving nobleman's house?”

  “And you're trying to be a lyrist?” Laedron took a sip of his wine.

  “A crafter of tales,” she said, gesturing to the ceiling as if presenting the future. “Grand narrations about travel and adventure, with some embellishments, as needed.”

  “Exaggerations, you mean?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, yes. Some stories are quite dull and boring without a little... fine tuning here and there.”

  While she spoke, he couldn't keep himself from being enthralled, by either her words or her crystal blue eyes. The hope and spirit behind her voice and expressions gave him a feeling of warmness and immediate attraction.

  “Are you sure you're all right?” she asked, causing him to snap out of his reverie.

  “Yes, yes, I'm fine,” he said. “Go on. You were saying?”

  “That's truly the size of it. I'm learning the talent of writing at the university, but I'm having some trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “They prefer historical fact to my fantasies,” Valyrie said. “Each time I change the original story from a holy text, they call it blasphemy. I wonder if I shall ever graduate from there.”

  Laedron, wanting nothing more than to hear her speak a little more, said, “Give me an example.”

  “Very well.” She stood. “I'll fetch my notes.”

  When she walked past, he caught her scent—a smell much like that of the honeysuckle blossoms of his homeland. He drank his wine quickly, hoping it would grant him some courage.

  “Here they are,” she said, emerging from the door and sitting again. “Don't laugh at them, though; ‘tis the only promise you must make.”

  He locked his eyes on hers. “I won't laugh, Val.”

  A nervous smile crossed her lips when he said Val, then she started reading.

  And there was Azura, the greatest of all who had come before, standing high upon the mound. Her wand raised high, she said the words of power.

  Laedron stopped her. “Did you say wand?”

  “I know, I know,” she said, blushing. “They correct me on that, too. I know it's supposed to be a staff.”

  Leaning toward her, he rested his arms on the table. “Where did you get the idea for that, though?”

  “Nowhere,” she said, seeming more nervous. “I... I just read it in some books.”

  “What book?” He eased his posture when he noticed her anxiety. “I'd be interested to see it, that's all.”

  “If I show you, you can't tell anyone, all right?”

  “I promise,” he said before she walked away.

  She returned with an old tome held tight under her arm, the cover facing toward her body. Never in his life had he wanted to be a book before, but he would have made an exception in this case.

  Tucking her hair behind her ear, she placed the book before him and opened it a little past the halfway point. Pointing her finger at the passage, she read aloud. When finished, she closed the book, and Laedron observed the cover.

  “Who is Farrah Harridan?” he asked, running his finger along the leather-bound face.

  “The author, of course,” she replied.

  “Clearly,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Do you know him? Or her?”

  “No one does.” She took the book tight to her body once again. “It was written long ago, and this is one of the few surviving copies.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “Burned,” she said, glancing down at the tome. “Destroyed by the church in an effort to remove heretical works.”

  “Do you think it's heresy?”

  She shook her head. “I don't know. I'm a Heraldan, and I've always been, but...”

  “But what?” he asked, pressuring her for the truth.

  Lowering her head, she sighed. “I don't feel like the church is doing the right thing. If they truly believed what they taught to be true, they'd have no need to remove any challenges or conflicting viewpoints.”

  “On the contrary, perhaps they believe it so fervently that they're willing to kill for it,” Laedron said, folding his arms.

  Her eyes met his. “No, they'd never kill for it. They have banished non-believers from these lands, though.”

  “What do you mean? They have killed for it. How do you think the war was started?”

  “The Sorbian mages influenced their king, of course. They've always been against the church. Nothing new there.”

  “No, the church sent assassins,” Laedron said. “Who told you otherwise?”

  “Assassins?”

  “Yeah, they attacked the Sorbian mage academy weeks ago. I'm genuinely surprised you hadn't heard about it, with it being the cause of this war and all.”

  Her eyes told of her confusion. “Heraldans would never do that. You must be mistaken.”

  “Look, I wasn't truthful before,” he said, reducing his voice to a whisper. “I was there at the academy when they came. They killed most of us, but my teacher and I were able to escape, at first. They hunted us and killed my teacher in the streets, and I barely escaped with my life.”

  “You're... a mage?” she asked, rubbing her hands together.

  Laedron nodded slowly. “Does that frighten you, Val?”

  “No. It should, but somehow, it doesn't. I've never met a mage before.” She studied him. “You look normal to me.”

  “We're not all that different,” he said with a sigh. “Sorcerers are people, just as your priests are, just as you are. We have particular skills; that's all.”

  “If what you say is true, what are you doing here?” she asked.

 
“We're here to make things right. To return things to the way they were before all this intrigue and murder. We intend to place Jurgen as the Grand Vicar, or do our best to rid the world of Andolis Drakar.”

  “Then I'll help you as best I can,” she said. “I’ll convince father.”

  “No.” Putting his hand on hers, he felt a rush of warmth but pulled his hand away when she froze. “Don't. He need not be involved in this. It's best if he knows nothing.”

  She shook her head. “It will be dangerous without help.”

  “I cannot ask others to become involved. One of our friends has already died, and I can't ask anyone else to risk their lives for this.”

  “I just don't know what to make of all this. I need some time to consider what I should do and how I can help you.”

  “I shouldn't have told you. I'm sorry.” Laedron covered his face, feeling regretful for getting her involved. “Forget I said anything, will you?”

  Marac and Brice, each carrying parcels tied with hemp string, walked along the outside railing. “We've got the clothes,” Marac said, putting one of the packages on the brick wall near the street.

  “Fine, thanks.” Laedron walked across the patio, took the bundle, and returned to Valyrie. “Best be getting changed, then. Thanks for the talk.”

  “Of course. Anytime. We'll discuss things later,” she said, bowing her head and returning into the building.

  When Marac and Brice walked toward the front door of the inn, Laedron spotted a suspicious man with a cowled head and dark clothes in the alley across the street. Turning to go inside, he felt eyes following him. There’s no way he could have heard us that far away, he thought.

  “Something's not right,” he said, walking over to Jurgen and Pembry. “A strange man in the alley...”

  Before he could finish his words, the front entrance burst open, followed by the back door at the end of the hall. Laedron spun around and saw cloaked figures with weapons flooding into the building from every direction.

  Pembry grabbed his crossbow from beneath the counter and shouted, “Damned robbers won't be taking me again!” He raised the crossbow to aim at the two men who had come through the front, but dropped to the floor before he fired his shot, a throwing dagger in his chest.

  Valyrie ran into the room, screaming in anguish. She knelt and took Pembry’s hand.

  Marac and Brice dropped the parcels and reached for their swords, but before they could unsheathe their weapons, daggers were placed at their throats. Laedron trembled with fear at the sight of the blade coming to rest against Marac’s throat.

  He searched his pockets for his wand, but then realized it was hidden away in his backpack upstairs. Damned fool! he thought. Enemies abound and your wand is nowhere to be found! One of the three men from the back took Jurgen by the neck, and the other two came at Laedron and his friends. “Take them,” one of them said. Laedron recognized him as the same one he had seen in the alley. “Tie and muzzle 'em.”

  Though he resisted, Laedron quickly succumbed to his captors. Unable to pry Valyrie from her father's body, one of them men struck her with a sap, and she fell unconscious.

  “Bastard!” Laedron shouted, struggling free from the one who held him so he could lunge at her attacker. With a quick motion, Valyrie’s assailant struck him in the head, sending him to the floor. In a daze, he felt his arms and legs being tied before a gag was shoved into his mouth. Through his blurred vision, he saw Marac and Brice tied, as well, and before he lost consciousness, several more hooded figures entered the building.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Dungeon Deep and Dark