“My liege, please, I cannot.” Tarkyn went down on one knee. “Sire, I have always been your loyal subject. The public stand should have had shields to protect it from off-target shafts of power. I raised this with the organisers before the tournament, but they dismissed my concerns. Other shafts went wide. The only difference is that mine hit a stand. Please reconsider.”
But justice played no part in Tarkyn’s trial and so his plea was irrelevant.
“Even if I may have reconsidered before, the fact that you raise your shield against me shows us all too clearly the limits of your loyalty and the reason that your magic must be forfeited.” Kosar glared at him, “My judgement stands. Release your shield!”
Tarkyn’s heart hardened within him. Never again would he bend his knee in submission. He stood slowly and straightened to his full height. He glanced around the room at the closed faces of the guards. No one met his eyes. He brought his gaze back to bear on his brother and said with quiet dignity, “I am truly sorry, Your Majesty…but I will not.”
A charged silence followed. At the king’s nod, the guards closed in.
“Bring him to me when he succumbs,” ordered Kosar. With that, Jarand and he rose and passed through a private exit, leaving their younger brother to his fate.
Tarkyn stood motionless within his bronze dome, head held high, masking his desperation. For a moment, no one moved.
Then one guard, more jittery than the rest, threw a bolt of blue power at him. Tarkyn flinched. But instead of blocking the power, Tarkyn’s shield reflected it, dropping the guard like a stone.
Pandemonium broke out. Tarkyn held his focus, knowing nothing could touch him if he held firm. But now, every guard in the room attacked. Swords, arrows and beams of magic drove at the beleaguered prince from all sides. Every arrow or shaft of power that struck the bronze dome around him reflected back at a different angle, ricocheting around the Great Hall, injuring and killing guards randomly.
The air fizzed with a maze of dazzling colours as shafts of magic zig-zagged crazily around the Great Hall. All around him guards died, either killed by reflected power or arrows. The constant assault of ricocheting power pockmarked the vast cream walls of the Hall, sending chunks of plaster spraying down on the unshielded guardsmen. But still the guards kept up their attack. In the midst of it all, Tarkyn simply stood there, stunned into immobility but rigidly holding his focus as arrows, beams of magic and masonry assailed him from every side before careening off his shield to add to the bedlam.
Then cracks began to appear in the ceiling and pillars. Within moments, aggression turned to fear. Anyone left standing turned tail and ran. With the imminent collapse of the Great Hall, the guards’ desperate efforts to save themselves thrust all other considerations aside.
Dimly, Tarkyn realised that while the guards were preoccupied, he had to find a way out. Unnoticed, he crawled beneath the huge wooden table and finally released his shield. He strained his mind to remember the words of the re-summoning spell he had read, desperately hoping that he could make it work. He drew a deep breath and, focusing his will on his surcoat, muttered, “Maya Mureva Araya…” Between one breath and the next, he felt himself disintegrate into oblivion before landing nauseated but safe, at the origin of his clothing in a tailor’s shop near the edge of town.
2
For some little while he lay there, wrestling with the shock of the ‘disintegration’ that he had endured in the course of his translocation. He nearly vomited at the thought of it. But as he recovered, he felt a certain satisfaction that his spell had worked. The events in the Great Hall crowded at the edges of his mind, but he could not yet allow himself to think about the scene of devastation he had left behind.
Once the feeling of sickness had passed, Tarkyn realised he was lying on a long wooden workbench. He rolled off the bench to land cat-like on his feet, then stood up slowly, grasping the edge of the bench for support while he regained his sense of balance. A strange combination of dull orange light from a street lamp a little way down the road and moonlight from outside picked out vague shapes in the darkened workroom. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he realised that the mounds in the corner were in fact neatly stacked piles of cloth. Completed shirts, surcoats, cloaks and leggings hung in racks along the rear wall. It was the middle of the night and the workmen were all at home in their beds. It seemed no apprentices slept on the premises. He let out a sigh, thinking that luck was with him.
“Oh, very lucky!” he said sourly to himself. For a moment the enormity of his situation threatened to overwhelm him, but he resolutely kept his mind in the present, knowing he could not afford the luxury of reflection until he was well away from Tormadell.
Although his own surcoat had been made here, he had never been to this workshop himself. All fittings were done at the palace. So he had no idea where he was. As he sat on a pile of cut cloth wondering what to do next, he gradually became aware of distant shouting. Several times, he heard running footsteps on the cobbles outside the factory. When the shouting drew nearer, for horrified moments he thought that the guards had worked out his location. But no. It was merely townsfolk regaling each other with the drama of the Great Hall’s collapse and urging each other to venture forth to see the spectacle.
Tarkyn considered his situation. He knew how to fight, but other than that, he had had no training in looking after himself. He had been pandered to from the moment he was born. Now, the obstacles facing him even to procure breakfast in a few hours’ time seemed insurmountable. He had never had to deal with money and did not have any on him now. And even if he did have money, he could not risk being seen to buy anything. Not only was he a well-known public figure, but any circulated description of his long black hair, his height and his unusual amber eye colour would make him eminently recognisable.
After some careful thought he decided that, with an uncertain future ahead of him, he would need resources. He would not turn to his friends and jeopardise their safety but somehow he had to get back into the palace and retrieve at least some of his personal jewellery. Now seemed as good a time as any; in fact it was probably better than most. All eyes would be on the demise of the Great Hall.
With a wry smile, he focused carefully on himself, better prepared this time for the feeling of disintegration and murmured, “Maya Mureva Araya…”
He expected to land in his mother’s bed where he had been born but in fact, he landed in the king’s huge four-poster bed. As he fought against the nausea, he shook his head. This spell is dangerously unpredictable. Returning to the place of one’s creation is open to more than one interpretation. He shuddered as a thought struck him, Oh lord. At least it didn’t try to put me back inside my mother.
A sound in the corridor brought his attention back to his surroundings. Even if the present king were elsewhere, he realised, there would always be a guard at his door. A fire glowed in the stone hearth, keeping the room warm ready for the king’s return. Bright moonlight streamed in through the window, bathing the padded armchairs and the fine, ornate writing desk in soft, silvery light. In the distance Tarkyn could still hear the sounds of turmoil but within the palace, everything seemed quiet.
Tarkyn considered his options. He could take some of the king’s jewellery in exchange for his own, leaving a note to that effect, but he suspected that Kosar would publicise the loss of his jewellery and suppress the explanation. Tarkyn did not want grand larceny added to the other accusations against his name.
He could not hope to beguile the guard by passing himself off as his brother. The king and Jarand were noticeably shorter than he, had grey eyes and wore their auburn hair at shoulder length. Only the set of their features showed their relationship.
Tarkyn crossed to the window and opened it. Two hundred yards away, crowds of people clustered around the remains of the Great Hall. Only one corner of the monumental old building was left standing. The rest lay in piles of tumbled stone. Even as he watched, the last section gave
way and crashed to the ground, sending up a billow of white dust. The sounds of shouting redoubled as spectators and workmen scrabbled away from the falling masonry. A knot of activity centred around one particular group, and when the crowds parted he could see his mother, the dowager queen, talking intently with guards, workmen and townspeople. Tarkyn felt sick at the thought of the guardsmen who must have been trapped inside the building as it fell.
He shook his head to clear it. There was nothing he could do to help them. He had to find a way out of the king’s room, retrieve what he had come for and leave. He took a moment to peer down two storeys to the lawns below. Too exposed. No way of escape there. After a bit of thought, he moved quickly to the king’s writing desk and rummaged around until he found some parchment. He tore it quietly into strips and placed it along the inside of the door. Then he lit a taper from the coals of the fire, set the parchment alight and waited.
As the smoke seeped out into the corridor, he heard a muttered exclamation, followed by the precipitous entry of the guard. Tarkyn stepped behind him and closed the door. At the sound the guard swung round, his eyes widening at the sight of the prince.
As the guard’s hand went to his sword, Tarkyn sent a thin blast of power into the man’s forearm. The guardsman reeled back, clutching his arm in pain. Tarkyn said quietly, “I do not want to hurt you further. But if you make any move to attack me, I will retaliate.”
The guard lurched towards Tarkyn, “I cannot allow you to threaten our king. I must protect him, even if it means my life.”
Tarkyn waved his hand languidly and muttered, “Shturrum”, freezing the man in his tracks. The prince raised his eyebrows. “I would expect no less. That is, after all, your duty. However, you have my assurance that I intend the king no harm. I am merely passing through.” He considered the guard dispassionately, “I am afraid I will have to tie you up so that I can make good my escape. I will not gag you if you hold your peace.” He shrugged, “Besides, I doubt that there is anyone near enough to hear you at the moment.” Saying that, he dragged the tasselled rope from the king’s dressing gown and used it to tie the guard’s hands behind him, before waving his hand to release the spell. Then he frogmarched the guard over to the huge four-poster bed, sat him down unceremoniously on the eiderdown and tied him to an upright.
The guard watched warily as Tarkyn stepped back to survey his handiwork. After a moment, Tarkyn met his eyes, “And now, guardsman, if I leave you like this, you will avoid excessive punishment, I think.”
“I do not wish to avoid punishment. I have failed in my duty,” replied the guard stiffly.
“Don’t be such a martyr. I have already told you; the king is safe. And I do not wish my actions to be the cause of your suffering, any more than they already are.”
“Huh! From what I hear, your actions tonight have caused a great deal more suffering than this. I can’t imagine why you would concern yourself with me.”
The prince’s mouth set in a thin line. “You forget yourself.”
Under Tarkyn’s unbending stare, the guardsman lowered his head. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Tonight’s events have confused us all.”
“That may be so,” Tarkyn conceded, “But whatever else I may be held to be, I am still a prince of Eskuzor…and you and anyone else who crosses my path would do well to remember that.”
At that, the guardsman raised his head and subjected Tarkyn to a long considering stare. But before he could voice his thoughts, Tarkyn crossed quickly to the door, listening intently. With a brief nod at the guardsman, he opened the door and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. It was deserted. He headed to his right, his nerves jangling, expecting at any moment that one of the doors he passed would open. The sound of his footsteps, despite his best efforts at stealth, echoed around the stone walls. With a grimace at the delay, he risked a few moments to take off his boots. Holding them in one hand, he crept on stockinged feet to the top of the staircase.
Suddenly he heard the voices of his brothers coming towards him from somewhere below in the central hallway. He stepped back and pressed himself into an alcove, finding shelter behind a large statue of his great grandmother. As he listened, a messenger ran to catch up with the king and reported, “Your Majesty, there is still no news. The entire building has collapsed in on itself. Workmen are even now trying to reach those trapped beneath the rubble. The streets are filled with anxious relatives and onlookers. There have been no sightings of your brother the prince, Sire, and until what is left of the interior is breached, it is too early to say whether he still lives.”
“Thank you,” said Kosar gravely. As Tarkyn heard the messenger’s footsteps gradually fade into the distance, the king spoke again. “Jarand, I think we must go out into the street and show our concern for our people.” He sighed heavily. “Blast Tarkyn! How did he have the power to destroy the Great Hall? It will cost a literal fortune to rebuild.”
Relieved, Tarkyn realised that Kosar had no immediate plans to climb the stairs and return to his bedchamber.
“Unfortunate, I agree,” Jarand’s voice echoed up the stairs, “But at least we have achieved what we set out to do. We have removed the risk of Tarkyn’s pretensions to your throne.”
Above them, Tarkyn listened in stunned disbelief.
“Just as well. Clearly his power is – was - excessive…and far too many people applauded his victory. But look at that mess out there! I was hoping to remove him with a minimum of fuss.” Kosar came into sight, heading towards the front door, his twin brother beside him. “I don’t know what happened after we left, but somehow he held off my entire Royal Guard and then destroyed the building around him.”
“Pointless. Juvenile theatrics; petty revenge at the cost of self-sacrifice. He must have known he could not win. And now he has been crushed with all the others.” Jarand sounded spine-chillingly unconcerned. “Even if Tarkyn has somehow survived, his popularity won’t have. He will be the most reviled man in Eskuzor.”
“I will make sure of that,” said the king grimly.
Tarkyn gave a little frown, knowing these words should upset him. And yet his brothers’ betrayal, followed by the horror of his trial and its wake of destruction, had so numbed his mind that his popularity seemed of little significance. In fact, when he thought about it, his unpopularity would be merely one more obstacle in his already impossible future.
As their voices faded away, Tarkyn found he had no energy left to care that the cost of the Great Hall mattered more to them than he did. He waited for a few minutes before easing himself out from behind his great grandmother’s statue to resume his journey across the top of the staircase. He followed the corridor for another fifty yards until he came to the door of his room.
He listened briefly before slipping into the haven of his own bedchamber. He glanced at his mahogany four-poster bed, noting that someone had already pulled the embroidered eiderdowns straight and plumped up the pillows. All around him were the objects of his life that he would have to leave behind: his trophy, books that he treasured, a small painting of his father, and various gifts and mementoes that he had kept despite carefully worded protests from his servants about the clutter. Almost he wished that he had not returned. Seeing what he must leave behind highlighted the extent of his loss.
Thrusting his regrets aside, Tarkyn walked to his dressing table where his jewellery box stood in full view. He searched through his drawers until he found a drawstring leather bag and, with no regard for the beauty or delicacy of the finely wrought, gem-encrusted pieces, shovelled his jewellery wholesale into it. He glanced at the door of his dressing room, considering the wisdom of taking some clothes with him, but he had limited time and no idea what clothing he should pack for himself. He had to return to the tailor’s well before the start of the working day. In the end, he stuffed a couple of shirts into a bag and grabbed only his travelling cloak and hunting knife. Then he spent precious minutes penning a note to say that he had taken his own jewellery, to p
rotect his servants from accusations of theft.
As he blotted his note, he took one last look around. He attached the sheath of his knife to his belt, and slipped the leather purse into a deep pocket in his leggings. Then he placed the cloak around his shoulders and took a firm hold on his bag, before focusing on his surcoat one more time.
3
As soon as he had re-oriented himself in the quiet of the tailor’s shop, Tarkyn crossed to the door and turned the handle. The handle turned, but the door did not give when he pulled or pushed it.
“Blast. It’s locked, of course. And no doubt the tailor has the key on his person.” Tarkyn threw his hands up, “Now what?”
After a few moments of frustration, it occurred to him that there might be another exit. Sure enough, a sturdy wooden door, bolted on the inside, led into a back alley. Tarkyn cautiously drew back the bolt, opened the door and peered out into the darkness. This established little more than the fact that no one was standing beside the door waiting to pounce on him. Taking his chances he slipped out into the alleyway, pulled the door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust. The alley was in deep shadow; the buildings too high to admit the moonlight and no streetlamp nearby to cast away the darkness. He stood with his back to the door, listening. Off to his left, he could faintly hear the noise of the crowd gathered at the remains of the Great Hall. With his hand trailing against the alley wall for guidance, he headed to his right.
He crept along until the alley intersected a small road. Here he took a left and then a right hand turn into another alley that led him all the time further from the sounds of the crowds and away from the centre of the city. This was, in fact, the sum total of his plan at this stage; to reach the edge of the city and from there, to get well away from houses and people. Without having thought it through, Tarkyn had a vague idea that the further from Tormadell he went, the less likely people would be to recognise him or to have heard what had happened tonight.
Bronze Magic Page 2