by Glenda Larke
That “floor” was not level either. It sloped downward as the cave deepened, so Tyen’s head was now lower than his legs. He felt the book slide up the inside of his shirt and tried to grab it, but Miko’s arms got in the way. The book dropped down into the crack. He cursed and quickly created a flame. The book had come to rest far beyond his reach even if his arms had been skinny enough to fit into the gap.
Miko let go and gingerly turned around to examine the cave. Ignoring him, Tyen pushed himself up into a crouch. He drew his bag around to the front and opened it. “Beetle,” he hissed. The little machine stirred, then scurried out and up onto his arm. Tyen pointed at the crack. “Fetch book.”
Beetle’s wings buzzed an affirmative, then its body whirred as it scurried down Tyen’s arm and into the crack. It had to spread its legs wide to fit in the narrow space where the book had lodged. Tyen breathed a sigh of relief as its tiny pincers seized the spine. As it emerged Tyen grabbed Vella and Beetle together and slipped them both inside his satchel.
“Hurry up! The professor’s here!”
Tyen stood up. Miko looked upwards and pressed a finger to his lips. A faint, rhythmic sound echoed in the space.
“In the aircart?” Tyen shook his head. “I hope he knows the priestess is throwing rocks at us or it’s going to be a very long journey home.”
“I’m sure he’s prepared for a fight.” Miko turned away and continued along the crack. “I think we can climb up here. Come over and bring your light.”
Standing up, Tyen made his way over. Past Miko the crack narrowed again, but rubble had filled the space, providing an uneven, steep, natural staircase. Above them was a slash of blue sky. Miko started to climb, but the rubble began to dislodge under his weight.
“So close,” he said, looking up. “Can you lift me up there?”
“Maybe…” Tyen concentrated on the magical atmosphere. Nobody had used magic in the cave for a long time. It was as smoothly dispersed and still as a pool of water on a windless day. And it was plentiful. He’d still not grown used to how much stronger and available magic was outside towns and cities. Unlike in the metropolis, where magic was constantly surging towards a more important use, here power pooled and lapped around him like a gentle fog. He’d only encountered Soot, the residue of magic that lingered everywhere in the city, in small, quickly dissipating smudges. “Looks possible,” Tyen said. “Ready?”
Miko nodded.
Tyen drew a deep breath. He gathered magic and used it to still the air before Miko in a small, flat square.
“Step forward,” he instructed.
Miko obeyed. Strengthening the square to hold the young man’s weight, Tyen moved it slowly upwards. Throwing his arms out to keep his balance, Miko laughed nervously.
“Let me check there’s nobody waiting up there before you lift me out,” he called down to Tyen. After peering out of the opening, he grinned. “All clear.”
As Miko stepped off the square a shout came from the cave entrance. Tyen twisted around to see one of the locals climbing inside. He drew magic to push the man out again, then hesitated. The drop outside could kill him. Instead he created another shield inside the entrance.
Looking around, he sensed the scarring of the magical atmosphere where it had been depleted, but more magic was already beginning to flow in to replace it. He took a little more to form another square then, hoping the locals would do nothing to spoil his concentration, stepped onto it and moved it upwards.
He’d never liked lifting himself, or anyone else, like this. If he lost focus or ran out of magic he’d never have time to recreate the square. Though it was possible to move a person rather than still the air below them, a lack of concentration or moving parts of them at different rates could cause injury or even death.
Reaching the top of the crack, Tyen emerged into sunlight. Past the edge of the cliff a large, lozenge-shaped hot-air-filled capsule hovered—the aircart. He stepped off the square onto the ground and hurried over to join Miko at the cliff edge.
The aircart was descending into the valley, the bulk of the capsule blocking the chassis hanging below it and its occupants from Tyen’s view. Villagers were gathered at the base of the crack, some clinging to the cliff wall. The priestess was part way up the scree slope but her attention was now on the aircart.
“Professor!” he shouted, though he knew he was unlikely to be heard over the noise of the propellers. “Over here!”
The craft floated further from the cliff. Below, the priestess made a dramatic gesture, entirely for show since magic didn’t require fancy physical movements. Tyen held his breath as a ripple of air rushed upward, then let it go as the force abruptly dispelled below the aircart with a dull thud that echoed through the valley.
The aircart began to rise. Soon Tyen could see below the capsule. The long, narrow chassis came into view, shaped rather like a canoe, with propeller arms extending to either side and a fan-like rudder at the rear. Professor Kilraker was in the driver’s seat up front; his middle-aged servant, Drem, and the other student, Neel, stood clutching the rope railing and the struts that attached chassis to capsule. The trio would see him and Miko, if only they would turn around and look his way. He shouted and waved his arms, but they continued peering downward.
“Make a light or something,” Miko said.
“They won’t see it,” Tyen said, but he took yet more magic and formed a new flame anyway, making it larger and brighter than the earlier ones in the hope it would be more visible in the bright sunlight. To his surprise, the professor looked over and saw them.
“Yes! Over here!” Miko shouted.
Kilraker turned the aircart to face the cliff edge, its propellers swivelling and buzzing. Bags and boxes had been strapped to either end of the chassis, suggesting there had not been time to pack their luggage in the hollow inside. At last the cart moved over the cliff top in a gust of familiar smells. Tyen breathed in the scent of resin-coated cloth, polished wood and pipe smoke and smiled. Miko grabbed the rope railing strung around the chassis, ducked under it and stepped on board.
“Sorry, boys,” Kilraker said. “Expedition’s over. No point sticking around when the locals get like this. Brace yourselves for some ear popping. We’re going up.”
As Tyen swung his satchel around to his back, ready to climb aboard, he thought of what lay inside. He didn’t have any treasure to show off, but at least he had found something interesting. Ducking under the railing rope, he settled onto the narrow deck, legs dangling over the side. Miko sat down beside him. The aircart began to ascend rapidly, its nose slowly turning towards home.
introducing
If you enjoyed
THE DAGGER’S PATH
look out for
THE FALCON THRONE
Book One of the Tarnished Crown
by Karen Miller
WHEN KINGDOMS CLASH, EVERY CROWN WILL BE TARNISHED BY THE BLOODY PRICE OF AMBITION.
A bastard lord leads a rebellion against his tyrant king—and must live with the consequences of victory.
A royal widow plots to win her daughter’s freedom from the ambitious lords who would control them both.
An orphaned prince sets his eyes on regaining his father’s stolen throne.
And two brothers, divided by ambition, will learn that the greater the power, the more dangerous the game.
A masterful tale of the thirst for power and the cost of betrayal. Epic fantasy at its bloodiest, action-packed best.
PROLOGUE
Trapped by the weight of a single cotton sheet, Salimbene listened to the bedchamber’s sickness-tainted air rattle in and out of his chest. Something was about to happen, cataclysmic as an earthquake. His aching bones, his burning blood, the strange, knowing presence behind his eyes—they all told him. This night was an ending. His life, this life, was ending. Soon he’d be reborn. But as what, he didn’t know. He couldn’t see it. Not yet.
So he drooped his lacklustre eyelids low enough to deceive the physick�
� and waited.
Barbazan, done at last with his poking and prodding, his grunts and dire mutterings, retreated to the lamplit corridor beyond the chamber’s open door. The king stood there, magnificent in a fine blue robe and priceless jewels. Four days since he’d dared cross the chamber’s threshold. One more ominous sign.
“Is there hope?” the king whispered, too afraid to ask for the future out loud. His long, grey-striped beard was oiled and heavily perfumed, clouding him in a sweet stink. Even over the mingled stench of vomit and shit, suppurating flesh and useless incense, Salimbene could smell it: a blending of hyssop, sandalwood and jasmine. Royal scents, meant only for the great. “Tell me, Barbazan. Is there hope, or must he die?”
Pitilessly revealed by the corridor’s hanging lamps, the physick’s face folded and stretched, malleable with grief. Or was it revulsion? Shit and vomit were commonplace in a sickroom, no reason for disgust. But this strange, disfiguring illness also brought boils and pustules and endlessly weeping lesions. Not a pretty suffering, only ugliness and filth. A gradual, stinking decay that not even the most obscure unguents could halt.
“My lord king,” Barbazan said, carefully. Lamplight shone on patches of sun-browned scalp, visible through his carefully crimped, brittle black hair. “There is always hope.”
The king’s face twisted. “So you think he will die.”
“Whether your son lives or dies will be as Carsissus decrees, my lord king.” The physick’s tone hinted at reproof. “But I will fight to keep him.”
“And if that battle is won?” said the king. “Do you tell me he is not near to ruined with this affliction?”
A moment, then the physick looked down. His hands fell to his sides, hiding in folds of moss-green lamb’s wool almost as fine as that worn by the king. Barbazan made a rich living in service to Zeidica’s ruler.
“Alas,” he admitted. “But my lord king—” He looked up again. “You should not despair. You are a vigorous man, and your new queen is lush. Surely another son will quickly follow, to sit your throne in his time.”
“I do not understand this calamity.” The king sounded stronger. Close to anger. “Why am I punished, Barbazan? What sin is mine, to deserve this?”
Two frowning gazes slid into the chamber. Then the king shifted his resentful eyes to the physick’s guarded face. What he saw there made him wince, and swallow.
“Speak your truth,” he commanded. “Your words will not ruin you unless you repeat them elsewhere.”
“My lord king…” Barbazan shook his head. “You know I am counted a great man of healing. In my sixty-five years I have seen all manner of sickness and death. No mysteries of the body remain for me.”
“I do know it. Why else would you be trusted as physick to my court? Seek not for praise, Barbazan. Answer me instead.” The king pointed into the chamber. “What pestilence devours his flesh?”
“Great and gracious king, I cannot name it,” said the physick, full of sorrow and dread. “I have never seen its like in my life.”
“Meaning what, Barbazan?”
“Meaning your son’s affliction is not natural.”
“Not natural?” The king’s head lifted, as though he braced for a blow. “Do you tell me—”
“Alas, my lord king.” Barbazan’s words were almost a groan. “I fear your son’s illness springs from some poisonous canker of the spirit.”
A terrible silence. Then the king and the physick pressed their palms to their eyes, swiftly, that they might be spared the sight of evil. They spat on the corridor’s stone floor, expelling evil from their souls.
Watching them, feeling his heart labour in his wasted, painful chest, Salimbene felt a different, sharper pain. They were branding him unclean. They were calling him cursed.
The king wrapped his heavily ringed fingers about the diamond sunburst chain resting on his breast and squeezed until its golden links threatened to buckle. “You are certain?”
“Yes, my lord king,” Barbazan whispered. “Forgive me. I am.”
“And he cannot be saved?”
“I do not say that, my lord. But—”
“Should not be saved?”
Barbazan frowned. “A question for a priest, I think.”
“I am asking you, Barbazan.”
“My lord king, I—” The physick placed his capable hands together, palm to palm. “I am sworn to heal the body. Beyond that, my authority wavers.”
“Does it?” The king laughed, a harsh bark. “Then I envy you. Because my authority cannot waver. As Zeidica’s king I must be priest and physick both to my kingdom. And as its priest I must face every truth… no matter how painful.”
“What truth, my lord king?” Barbazan sounded fearful.
“That thanks to you I now understand my sin. My sin, Barbazan, was Salimbene’s mother.”
“His—his mother?”
The king’s lips pinched bloodless. “Yes. For when I married that woman, I took to wife a witch.”
“My lord king…” Uncomfortable, Barbazan shuffled his feet. “I know there were whispers. I dismissed them as the rotten fruits of jealousy. Instead of choosing a woman of Zeidica, your eye lit upon an outsider from Osfahr.”
“A witch from Osfahr,” said the king, his face dark. “They breed them as a dog breeds fleas in that cursed place.”
“But my lord—she was examined. No flaw was found.”
“She was a powerful witch. As full of secrets as ever she was with child.”
“My lord king…” Barbazan risked his life to touch the king’s arm. “If you knew her for a witch…”
The king knocked the physick’s hand aside. “Know? I did not know! She snared me in a web of wickedness, blinded me with her spells and evil conjures. It is only now that I see what has been hidden from me all these years. That rotting lump of flesh in there that you say is beyond all natural remedy? It is not my son.”
Barbazan’s mouth dropped open. “My lord?”
“She said he is my son, but she is dead and he is dying, unnatural, and you, Barbazan, can you swear to me that my seed gave him life?”
“If not your seed, my lord king, then whose?”
“No man’s! Is it not plain? She gave him life, with foulest sorcery.”
“Sorcery? Oh, no, my lord king—”
“Can you swear she did not?” Sweat glistened on the king’s brow. “Before the god of healing, Barbazan, with a sacred stone in your hand, would you swear it? ”
Now the physick was sweating, salt trickles running down his temples and into the grooves in his parched cheeks. He looked like he was weeping. “My lord king, his face is yours when you were his age.”
“Are you deaf?” said the king, his eyes wild. “She was a witch. If her son wears my youthful face, it is her sorcery to blame. Her sorcery is to blame for all the ills of my life.”
“My lord king, what ills do you—”
“You are a fool,” the king spat, glaring. “You call me vigorous but in nineteen years she birthed no other child. I call that ill!”
“Your son’s birthing was bloody,” Barbazan protested. “Your wife’s body was ruined, after.”
“Another sign of sorcery! And it was sorcery kept me from discarding her when she was proved barren.”
Stepping back, Barbazan raised placating hands. “My lord king, I do not think we can—”
“Is it not strange that her son sickened on the first blood moon since she died?” The king was breathing heavily, making the dangled sapphires in his ears swing and flash in the mellow light. “The blood moon, Barbazan! A witch’s glory time, when all foul deeds are shrouded in murkiest night! If she did not conjure him to life with sorcery, why else would he fail when the moon rose bloody? Or do you say, physick, that his moral decay springs from my loins?”
Barbazan gasped. “No, my lord king.”
“No, my lord king,” the king said grimly. “And well for you that you do not say it, for there is more than one physick in this wor
ld.”
“Yes, my lord king,” said Barbazan, his voice strangled. “My lord king, these are weighty matters, far beyond my reach. I should return to your—to my patient.”
The king lifted a finger. “Wait.”
Still as death on his pillows, from beneath his lowered eyelids Salimbene watched the king stare at him. Watched his lips thin, and the leap of muscle along the bearded jaw that had softened with the passing years. And as he watched, saw his fate decided.
“Go, Barbazan,” said the king. “And never return. You are no longer needed here. See to my wife. I wish to know how many days must pass before my seed will fall on her fertile, natural ground.”
Barbazan’s shocked stare leapt into the bedchamber, and out again. “But—my lord king—”
“You dare dispute me? ”
Shuddering, the physick bent almost double. “No, my lord king.”
“Barbazan…” The king placed a fist beneath the physick’s chin and forced the frightened man’s head up. “You said yourself, Carsissus will decide if he lives or dies. Is that not the truth?”
“Yes, my lord king,” Barbazan whispered. “That is the truth.”
Lowering his fist, the king nodded. “The solemn truth. For we are mortal, Barbazan, and flawed. The gods have no need of our interference.”
“No, my lord king.” Cautiously, the physick unbent himself. “I—I will see to the queen, my lord. And in this matter—” A final, flickered glance into the chamber. “I will trust the gods.”
“Silently trust,” said the king, his face full of dire warning. “Barbazan, you are wise.”
Barbazan withdrew and for a long time after, the king stood silent in the bedchamber’s open doorway. Salimbene waited, barely breathing. There had been a mistake, surely. Surely he had misunderstood. For seventeen years he and this man had lived as king and prince. Father and son. Friend and friend. Friends did not leave each other to die, alone and in miserable agony.