The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond

by Simon Markusson

  He walked his faithful mount back and forth beside the oaks and the beeches in their gold-tinted autumn shrouds, cooling her off after more exertion than he could demand of the animal. She was an old courser of fiery Kabdarakh stock, and she had carried him over the world for some ten years now, always with a reliable spirit. And always with a mischievous, hungry eye for carrots and an endearing craving for affection. “But now I think you have served me beyond reason.” He smiled at his snorting horse, patting her as her muzzle nudged his shoulder. “Yes, Mariuet, you shall have a more peaceful life now.”

  The animal’s black eyes regarded him as if it shared his sense of loss. Alwarul stroked her neck, silently settling in his mind to acquire a new horse.

  The chill of the morning was such that he felt its sapping touch, and he was aware more than ever, somehow, of the great weight of years that lay upon him. He had conquered an ocean of time, and yet he looked back on it all as if it were but a single day full of summers and winters, evenings and mornings, lived and seen and judged by a mind in constant change. He pulled his hood up and smiled almost wistfully at the gentle breeze that stirred the high, magical leaves of the trees, his thoughts wandering to the short and endless summer dawn that had been his childhood. The years of childhood were counted so easily in old age, yet even with the familiarity that Alwarul had with time and the world, they would never cease in his memory to seem the most lasting and the most rewarding. Another world had greeted his eyes then every time he awoke from warm sleep and every time he ran out into all the seasons of the year, and it had been a world of joy and laughter and unpretentious grace. The period had been but an eyeblink when compared to the rest of his life, but now, towards the end of that life, it seemed the rest had been the eyeblink and his childhood had been the thing to dominate his stretching memory.

  Suddenly, it was as if remembrance consumed him. Why is Mark taking such a long time? he thought restlessly, fretting in the cold morning air as he paced. Did Aunt Kathryn catch him?

  He stopped in shock as he realized what thoughts had just been his. It seemed as if a second world had been reluctantly pulled away to reveal the real one. He was not waiting for his cousin to poach a pie from the windowsill anymore — that had been another morning, lost in the past — and both the laughing Mark and stout Aunt Kathryn were long dead. He was waiting for Nathelion Nightshadow, a stranger and the Chosen, and he was old.

  Tears had come to his eyes, and he stared through winds that whispered of his past. Not yet, he thought wearily. I must not be torn away yet, not when it means fleeing from my mistake and leaving it upon the world to solve.

  It had been long in coming, he knew. During the last few years, there had been moments, in the sleepy, dark confusion of the night, in which his mind had seemed to drift further and further into the past, forsaking things arcane and things of lore and instead embracing a reality that his thoughts alone acknowledged, a time long lost, finding there a child’s reason again. The mind was frail, and none of Alwarul’s arcane secrets had been able to mend the growing crack that had spread across his being, though he had tried. He had thought that perhaps he had found the answer there, in those distant ruins and in the power that they had held. Instead, the wild exertions seemed to have worsened his condition. But it didn’t matter anymore, for he had given up his fearful aspiration. Now remained only the task of preventing the end of the world, and then he’d let fate take from him what it would.

  Mariuet puffed at him, wondering, perhaps, why he had stopped, but he gave her a reassuring pat and straightened his tired back, seeing again with purpose. A faint scent of ashes and smoke had come to drift through the air from some fire beyond the copse of trees. It seemed Nathelion’s friends were quick in preparing a feast for his parting. A trail of frustration grew in Alwarul at that, causing him to feel some shame, yet he knew that his annoyance was not completely uncalled for. There was, perhaps, time for some well-wishes and goodbyes, but to delay with festivities was foolish at best. They needed speed in this quest lest the world pay for their reluctance. He had thought that Nath—

  Before Alwarul even had the time to finish his thought, the blademaster appeared, bursting out onto the road on a brown horse that seemed bred for the plow. His sword was now fastened at his side by virtue of a crude hempen rope tied around his waist, and he reined in only briefly to call out to Alwarul, “I think it best we hurry!” His voice was strong. “Let’s go!”

  Alwarul was not slow in following the young man as he spurred his horse again. Mariuet was weary, but she was a mighty specimen. She caught up to Nathelion’s humble steed easily, and then both made the road pass in dust and wind.

  At the inn of the Widow’s Rest, Alwarul demanded a quick stop despite Nathelion’s flaring hunger for the quest, and he dismounted in the courtyard next to the stable. The aproned woman who met him was as motivated a bargainer as she appeared, but Alwarul cared little for a fair price and exchanged Mariuet for a pick of her stables. A trade down by any measure, but the smoky black stallion that he received was rested and eager to be out of his stall, and Alwarul needed to continue. “Give me some loaves of bread and a few rolls of your fattest cheese,” he added over his shoulder as he saddled his new horse. “And find it in your heart not to charge overly much of an old man.”

  As he rode out of the courtyard with the new supplies and a lighter purse, she called after him, “His name’s Storm!”

  “It’s Mariuelis now,” he replied without turning back. He had long since abandoned naming his mounts in such a fashion. Two hundred and eighty-seven was much more orderly.

  He rejoined Nathelion Nightshadow on the road, and they made speed again, though Alwarul certainly noticed the man’s happy and lingering looks down the road behind them. There was something strengthening about this simple show of heart, that the hero smiled with sweet and joyful memories even when he needed to leave his loved ones behind for an uncertain fate. He is found, Alwarul thought with almost a smile of his own. At last, he is found.

  Dreams of Hope

  Nathelion felt as if he were soaring in the saddle of the stolen horse that had been Shepherd’s finest. He felt so utterly free and boundless in his uncaring flight that he cursed himself for not having done it all sooner. He wished that he could have seen his former master’s red, sputtering rage when he found those little savings of his missing from his drawer. Ha! Nathelion had never seen so much copper as now bounced at his side in a pouch that was hard as a rock. And he had a good sword to boot! At first, he had worried about meeting the knight on the road and having to bow and shuffle and say, “Sir must’ve forgotten his noble weapon,” and then return it with downcast eyes. Why would he do such a thing? The sword was his now, as was the mount and the coin. He was free from the mad plight that he had for some unclear reason up until now accepted as inescapable. Suddenly, the world had become a set table from which he could pick and choose. He’d need new clothing soon, but until the opportunity for such purchases came, he’d warm himself with the thought of the flames licking the dry walls of that old stable and growing bright and smoky as they climbed into the loft with all the hay bales that had broken his back over the years.

  The image of that fire really lit up his mind while riding, crackling and burning before his inner eye with such endless beauty that he almost forgot where he was and who accompanied him. But the old man seemed to share his preference for speed. He appeared to know just where they were heading, too, picking the rural roads without hesitation as they raced beneath the rising and the risen sun — and the sinking one as well. Nathelion simply followed, borne on a storm wind that blew away all things troublesome and painful from his life.

  They rode well beyond the old stone bridge and along the road to town, passed Heath Berme at a distance, and left the market that Nathelion had been supposed to visit behind, and then they broke away among gentle hills that he had never visited before.

  When night fell, they continued a bit farther still, ridi
ng along a thin road that must’ve been rarely used, until the sky was overtaken by stars and a brilliant moon that seemed made of ice. The stretching landscape around them lay cold, dark, and silent. Then Alwarul reined in ahead of him, beside a frozen rivulet that dug through the stony ground and snaked in among sparse trees. “Here we can stay. The horses need to rest, and I need to map out the course of our continued journey.” The old man dismounted with some difficulty, clearly exhausted.

  It was Nathelion who made the fire and collected the firewood to feed it, and he took care of the horses as well, but he did it gladly. Alwarul was old and frail, and though he was a kind lunatic, Nathelion felt comfortable helping him.

  When they sat by the growing fire, enjoying its rejuvenating warmth, the lunatic broke off two pieces of bread and handed Nathelion one, along with a generous bit of cheese.

  “Thank you,” Nathelion said, unused to such kindness.

  “You should eat much from now on, I think,” Alwarul advised gravely, as if he’d make sure of it. “We will both need all the strength we can muster.”

  Despite his words, Alwarul seemed little interested in his own food. He sat frowning over a cloth map while muttering to himself. The light of the fire created deep, flickering wrinkles in his face and truly made him seem an ancient creature stooping under his great age. He even looked like a wizard, Nathelion came to think with some amusement, an old sage wearied by some terrible burden only his own scholarly mind could properly understand. But that seemed to be the role that Alwarul had assumed, and he did a marvelous job at acting it out. Very wise and very brooding was the look.

  “So, we are visiting Lourne?” Nathelion asked. Lourne, the fabled capital of Undran. He had never thought that he’d get a chance to see it.

  “The Crowned City. But I have little hope for the king’s help in this. Even if he could be made to hear of the peril we are in now, I fear he has no knowledge of the ancients. Like others, his mind would be filled with mistrust and fear if I were to reveal myself to him. No, what might help us among the tall towers of Lourne is the secret one. The Tower of the Rizych.”

  Nathelion raised an eyebrow. “Tower of the Rizych? As I’ve heard, the six towers of Lourne are each assigned to an order of knighthood sworn to protect the city. The Hammers of Raywyn, the Golden Shields, the Sunlarks... What’s this other tower?”

  “The towers were not always counted to six by the common man,” Alwarul told him in a voice full of reminiscence as he rolled the map back up. “There was once another order that was not of the knightly kind, one that commanded far more respect. ‘Rizych,’ we were called in the tongue of the old kings. ‘Kindred,’ it means. My kindred.” Alwarul’s breath grew slow and heavy. “We were the Light-weavers and the Robed Ones, the Enlightened and the Wise — all names given to us by those who marveled at our power. We were the sorcerers. Two thousand years ago, we were admired and honored, and the arcane was not only found in the stories told to frighten young children. It was practiced openly, and in most places did it find welcome, for we were able to help where no others could.

  “But not everyone among the Rizych was satisfied with being elevated servants. In weak minds, power and ability easily bring about arrogance, Nathelion...” Alwarul gave him a tired, almost apologetic smile, and his eyes were pained. “We long tried to maintain our appearance of control and unison, and I fear some things were done to the first outspoken reformers that may have served only to aggravate the situation.

  “The retribution came swifter than we could ever have expected, and its form...the vilest and most devastating of all. For it was directed at the citizens. The first murders committed with the arcane sent a shock through the city and the realm that had every mouth foretelling doom. Eyes were turned to the Rizych, and those eyes burned with blame and suspicion. And even as we tried to reassure them of our innocence, the murders continued. Soon, every night was filled with screams and scenes of slaughter.

  “We had failed to stifle the new movement within the Rizych; now there was a group among us who worked with grim purpose under the cover of darkness. They left messages in blood and ashes always. They were the new Kindred. They were the Barizych.”

  Nathelion was surprised at finding himself listening very intently to what the old man was saying, the bread almost forgotten in his hand. “And what happened then?”

  “We did the only thing we could,” Alwarul said. “We proclaimed to the public that the Rizych had been divided by inner turmoil and that the Barizych lay behind the foul deeds that plagued them. The Old Masters did everything in their power to calm the crowds and put their fears to rest. Yet we could never win trust before the Barizych were dealt with, and we were not alone in seeing this. The command we received from the king was simple, short, and issued from a distance: put them to justice. The Barizych had to be destroyed.

  “Yet how could we destroy our own shadow? They were among our numbers, hidden through treachery and deception.” Alwarul shook his head sadly. “The day came when we found one of them, a man who had been my friend and the friend of many others, and we were terrified when his mask was dropped and he turned into a creature of spite and mockery before us, utterly changed and utterly wretched. We needed him to give us names — all the names — yet his defiance was unyielding, and when we had chained his power, he turned on us with his teeth instead. The Old Masters were wise and always full of compassion, yet at that moment, they turned to iron in a way that I shall not forget. We needed to have the information. And so, we picked up the methods of our enemy and had all our questions answered.

  “It was said that never had one of the murders in the city streets produced such tormented screams as rose from the Seventh Tower that day, and I was there to know it for true. There were those even among the wise Rizych who wept like children at seeing that vile process. Even more would weep at the names that poured out along with the screams, friends and comrades being revealed as monsters. And then a name came to linger in the air. Mafret. One of the Old Masters had been revealed.

  “The tower and the city were searched, but the Barizych had already fled, and they had left behind the Kindred’s robes. They held themselves above other men, and their clothes were those of royalty, with satin, lace, and thread of gold. Their pride made them careless, and we came upon their tracks. We left the city of Lourne to hunt them in full strength.

  “Thirty years did that hunt last, and devastating battles were fought with the arcane. The sky was ever ruled by the clouds of thunder and storm as the countryside of Undran was ravaged and cities burned. This was the Witchwar, as they named it, and none walked safely with the incantations that were uttered in that conflict. Twisted creatures were brought into being and set loose, scattering everywhere over the lands to claim the deep forests and the cold mountains. Some were animals morphed by our foolish misuse of the arcane, while others were fouler things still, drawn from the depths of our universe by this reckless play of magic. But worse was the change we noted in the Barizych during these dark times. They became different.”

  Alwarul drew a heavy sigh, and Nathelion waited with some anticipation for the ghost story to be continued. The elder’s harried voice made it all very vivid. “They had become cruel beasts who longed for the taste of blood. They drank it, gorged themselves upon the fallen like the most unholy creatures a man’s nightmares can summon. And still, they commanded the Art, their own now, a black and abominable sorcery of shadows and dark beguilement, of death and distortion that made the night come alive with horrors. The Barizych had truly become fiends. They made a last stand when they could run no farther, at the base of the Darkfang Mountains, where the chill winds were ever present. There, in a final battle that made the very ground tremble and the sky turn red as if by the anger of the gods, we defeated them.

  “We cared for our wounded as best we could and then began the long journey back to Lourne, where we would declare the end of war and the ultimate victory of the Rizych. Our numbers did no lon
ger count past a hundred, but there would be time to recruit new members, we thought, now that peace was restored. Alas that even the eldest of us would be such naïve fools. We all rejoiced when we saw Lourne’s grand walls appear before us and spotted those majestic towers and the castle upon its hill. If any of the Old Masters felt unease, it was not strong enough to caution them. If it had, maybe they would have survived. For we were riding into a trap.

  “The great gate opened for our columns, but only to invite us to the murder pits and its burning oil. Confusion and fright took hold of our horses immediately, and we were defenseless before the rain of arrows. My own steed was one of the few that managed to clear the bridge in its panic and run away from the city. I could only look back in desperation from my saddle as soldiers rushed out among the Kindred. They were under orders to take captives, yet their hatred and fear ensured that only a few remained alive of the Rizych. Among them, I and other survivors learned, was Haxamalath — the greatest of our order and the last of the Old Masters.

  “In disguise, we moved about in the city, feeling what atmosphere of spite towards our kind had conquered the minds of all and trying to discover what would happen with the prisoners. The answer soon came when the Burning was announced by the town criers — and a fortnight later, on the set date, all people flocked to the great square under the Temple of Uamar with darkened faces. I and the rest of the Rizych walked among them, cloaked and hooded.

  “The king held a speech from his wooden stage as our kindred were tied to the stakes in the center of the torchlit square, and next to him stood the iron-masked High Inquisitor, clad in steel, commander of the new order that was to assume the Seventh Tower: the Inquisition, witch hunters with the sole duty of rooting out practitioners of the Art with blade and fire. They were banned now, all forms of the arcane.