Centyr Dominance

by Michael G. Manning

  “Let us pray that Dunbar never has to learn the truth of it,” she answered mysteriously. Ooh, that was a good line, she thought, pleased with herself. Father would be proud.

  The Baron let the topic pass, but after a minute he spoke again, “Before we arrive, there is some news I need to share with you.”

  Moira kept her features smooth, doing her best to seem as poised and polished as she hoped that he perceived her to be. “Do tell.”

  “The Earl of Berlagen is currently at the palace attending the King,” began Gerold. “I had not known that the King summoned him, but he arrived yester eve, when I met you. This may be a highly propitious time to uncover the information you seek.”

  That surprised her, “Is he staying at the palace?”

  “He has a house in the city, and he left his retainers there, but he stayed at the palace last night,” the Baron informed her.

  “Do you think I’ll get a chance to talk to him?”

  “It is quite likely, if you wish it, though I would advise you to discuss your situation with King Darogen first,” said Gerold. “You will need his foreknowledge and support if Berlagen reacts badly to your inquiry.”

  “And you think he would give it?”

  The Baron of Ingerhold shrugged, “That is only for the King to decide, but I hope so.”

  She thought for a moment, what would mother say? No, what would Rose say? Eventually she replied, “Then I will be guided by your experience and wisdom.” And if I find that the Earl is hiding something from me I will take him apart piece by piece until he tells me where my father is.

  ***

  Since leaving home Moira had been fascinated by the constant variety she discovered in the aythar of the people around her. In Castle Cameron and even in Lancaster, almost everyone was shielded by one of her father’s amulets. She had occasionally encountered unshielded people, usually children or busy folk who had simply forgotten to put on their pendant, but since coming to Dunbar she had been surrounded by them.

  It was distracting.

  She had told her escort the truth, she couldn’t read their thoughts, but she hardly needed to. As they rode they passed a multitude of vibrant worlds; a woman carrying water, her back aching and her mind consumed with worry, probably for her children; a man angry and frustrated, with what she couldn’t be sure, but it most likely involved his employer; a child fascinated by a bird flying overhead, even while his stomach complained of its hunger. A thousand different worlds shouting at her, some bright and some dour, but all of them beautiful.

  I have to focus, she told herself, pulling her attention inward. The carriage had come to a stop, and Gerold was exiting, holding a hand toward her to help her down. She didn’t need his assistance, but she thought the gesture kind. Behind his actions lay a generous spirit, she could see that easily enough, despite his polished demeanor. He suffered from some of the same flaws that most men did, but she could see his mind working hard to discipline his thoughts. From what she had seen of unshielded humans thus far, it was a rare trait.

  By contrast, the guards who watched them pass through the main entrance to the palace exhibited far less inner self-control. Their faces were cool and their exteriors calm, but their thoughts were lewd. One glanced away, ignoring a mild interest in the shape of her body beneath the dress, while the other seemed to be actively creating a highly descriptive narrative that probably featured her in demeaning poses and little to no clothing.

  She suppressed a shudder as they passed. Why can’t more of them be like Gerold? she wondered. She was beginning to appreciate the benefits of growing up in a place where everyone’s mind was shielded.

  “Is everything alright? You haven’t spoken in a while.”

  Gerold’s voice jolted her from her reverie. Nodding, she answered, “Yes, sorry. I was just trying to figure out how to explain my problem to King Darogen.”

  “Don’t worry,” said the Baron, smiling, “he’s a decent man, as men go, and an excellent king, as kings go.”

  “Where are we going first?” she asked.

  “A short audience with the King,” he responded. “I sent a letter in advance this morning. After that, I suspect he will request you join him in the main hall for the noon meal.”

  They made their way to a small waiting room and sat on comfortable chairs while they waited for the chamberlain to call them in for their turn before the king. Several ladies entered shortly afterward, and their eyes kept moving to watch her. Their minds were fairly glowing with envy and petty thoughts. Moira began to wonder what bothered her more, lewd men or jealous women. Will I have to get old and ugly before it gets better?

  “Don’t mind them,” said the Baron, as if he too could sense their hostility. “They’re just sizing up the competition.”

  A minute later, the large double doors opened and the chamberlain, a tidy fellow named Bernard, ushered them into the audience chamber.

  The room itself was similar in layout to the audience chamber that Queen Ariadne used in Lothion, but the style and ornamentation were different. Deep red and maroon tapestries dominated the walls and the furniture was all built of a dark-hued cherry wood. Most of the fittings and hardware in the room were gold, which made a brilliant counterpoint to the reds and dark wood.

  Rows of cushioned benches separated by a long aisle were occupied with a smattering of people, nobles apparently. Men at arms lined the walls and three men stood to one side of what must be King Darogen himself. A tall man with light brown hair and a simple gold circlet sat upon a carved wooden throne.

  Moira had sensed the people within long before they had entered, but she hadn’t given them more than a cursory appraisal with her magesight before the doors had opened.

  Now that she looked more closely, she was shocked. A sudden gasp escaped her.

  Gerold’s hand was on her shoulder as he urged her forward, “Try to keep your composure.”

  She turned her head toward the Baron, eyes wide. “He’s dead,” she whispered.

  The Baron didn’t know quite what to make of her remark, leading her on, he responded to her quietly, “Don’t be ridiculous. What are you talking about?”

  “Your king,” she mumbled, pulling up short. She resisted his efforts to lead her any farther. The man staring at her from the throne was a living corpse. His heart was beating, his lungs were still moving, but there was no mind, and his aythar was almost non-existent. King Darogen might as well have been a lump of dead meat, for his body held no more aythar than the chair he sat upon.

  But there was something within his skull. Where she would have expected to find a brain, surrounded by a vibrant and living web of thoughts built of gossamer aythar, she found instead dead metal. It was as if some twisted smith or surgeon had emptied his skull and filled it with iron. No, not iron, it’s some other metal, and it’s far too complex for cast metal. She could sense other energies moving within it too, but nothing resembling aythar and certainly nothing indicating life.

  Gerold had stopped beside her, his face reddening, “You are embarrassing us. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Not me…,” she said, her voice tremulous, “…it’s him. What are you?” She pointed one hand directly at the dead king.

  People were muttering on either side of the room, uncertain what to make of her actions, but the king spoke firmly, “Is the witch afraid to approach us?”

  The words struck her as odd. It was like watching a statue talk, at least from her perspective. Although Darogen’s face showed the normal expressions, and his voice was properly inflected, she could plainly see that there was no mind behind the words. Her eyes and magesight roamed a room that suddenly seemed filled with enemies. The others there were human, with emotions and aythar reflecting the looks of annoyance and hostility that the king’s label of ‘witch’ had evoked.

  The only others who seemed slightly different were the three standing to the left of the king. Their aythar flickered slightly, as if in anticipation of something ple
asurable. The starburst symbol of Celior lay proudly displayed on their chests. Channelers, she realized. This is a trap!

  The King’s lip curled in disdain, “You will surrender yourself for arrest.” Holding up a strange set of milky white manacles, he directed the nearest guard to approach him and handed them over to the man. “Put these on her.”

  Moira’s eyes flashed in anger a sudden breeze kicked her hair up as she took control of the previously still air around her. Her shield grew stronger, and she turned toward the doors. “I’m leaving,” she declared.

  “You do not fear to defy a king?” asked Darogen, his tone strangely emotionless.

  “I was raised to fear neither men nor monsters,” she replied, her voice taut with restrained power. “I saw my first battle while still a child. My father fought the gods themselves and won. I will not fear you—whatever you are.” Raising her fist she spoke a word and hurled the air swirling around her against the doors, flinging them open. People gasped, and some yelped in fear. “Stand back, I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she commanded, striding toward the exit.

  The guards managed to keep their nerve, and five of them moved to stand in front of the now open doors, while the others approached her slowly, spears down and pointed menacingly in her direction.

  “Shibal,” she pronounced and all of them collapsed slowly to the floor, their minds slipping into unconsciousness. For a moment she was tempted to do something else, to reach out and touch them more directly, to turn them against their dead king, but she restrained herself.

  “My king!” shouted Gerold, finally aroused from his shock. “What is the meaning of this? She is your guest.” To his credit he moved to stand between her and the king.

  King Darogen’s face was devoid of expression. “Take her,” he ordered the priests standing next to him. Aythar flared around the men as Celior’s power flowed into them.

  Moira had expected that. Her hands had already gone to her waist, pulling her upper, presumably decorative, belt free. At a touch, it separated into two smaller strips of braided metal, and her will sent power flowing through them. The buckle came apart, forming two handles, one in each hand while the metal straightened into glowing swords. Runes along their lengths flared to life as the weapons began to glow with dangerous energies.

  The belt had been inspired by the enchanted blades that Elaine had made for her mother years before, but while those were simple weapons, these were designed for a wizard’s use. Rune channels made them effective for augmenting her ranged attacks, while a secondary enchantment simultaneously turned them into deadly swords.

  She used them to slice away the offending bands of aythar that the channelers were using to try and ensnare her as she marched implacably toward the doors.

  What she hadn’t expected was the sudden arousal of the sleeping guards. Eyes opening, they took to their feet again to block her path. The part that shocked her was that she could clearly see that their minds were still deeply asleep. The noble guests also rose from their seats, moving to surround her.

  The noblemen’s minds were a picture of terror and fear, but their faces were placid, and their bodies moved with calm precision.

  They are prisoners inside their own bodies, she realized. How is he doing that? Her magesight revealed no extraneous aythar, and she was sure it wasn’t something being done by the channelers.

  Gerold, like the other guests in the audience chamber, was unarmed, and he wrestled with several of the men trying to reach Moira. She would have told him it was pointless, they couldn’t touch her anyway, but there was not time for explanations. The way to the exit was momentarily clear, and while the channelers continued to harass her, the three of them together didn’t have enough capacity to really be a significant problem. She had been engaging in mock battles with her brother for years, and he was far stronger than these three put together.

  She paused and then turned back. She couldn’t leave the Baron behind and he was already so entangled with the other guests that he couldn’t possibly hope to extricate himself. Unfortunately, before she could use her power to create a shield around him and force the others back, one of the guards stepped forward and expressionlessly stuck a spear through him.

  “No!” she yelled, horrified by what she saw. Blood stained his shirt where the spear head protruded from his back. Without thinking, she raised her hand and still having the wind bound to her will, she sent the offending guard flying backward. She could almost feel it when she heard his skull crack as his body struck the hard stone wall, and it made her stomach lurch. I killed him, her inner voice noted as a wave of guilt and shame swept over her.

  “Run, Moira,” said the wounded lord. “Get out while you can.”

  “Shut up,” she told him, gritting her teeth and fighting down her rising bile. “I’m saving you. I’ve seen worse than that.” Extending her aythar, she started to envelop him in a protective shield, but once more the channelers interfered, attacking her from three separate directions. Her shield shuddered under the assault, and she knew that she couldn’t afford to play nicely any longer.

  Pointing her right hand sword at the nearest channeler, a man some twenty feet away, she sent a line of incandescent power sizzling through his mid-section. The rune-channeled energy tore through his flimsy shield and ripped a fist sized hole through his abdomen. For a split second, before he collapsed, she could see through his torso to the damaged wall behind him. Aiming her left hand sword at one of the other channelers, she warned him, “You’re next if you don’t rethink your participation here.” Her hand was visibly shaking.

  While making her threat, she created a defensive shield around Gerold. The guests, as well as the guardsmen, were still trying to get to her, despite the ineffectiveness of their hands and weapons against her personal shield. Their dead expressions, combined with the terror that lay within their trapped minds, was almost enough to drive her to insanity.

  With a surge of adrenaline she pulled the wind around her, turning it into a violent cyclone of air, flinging them back and creating more space for herself.

  More guards entered from the hall, and these she could see were still operating normally, that is, their native minds seemed to still be in control. They gaped at the scene within.

  King Darogen’s face changed, resuming its previous liveliness as he yelled at them, “Shut the doors! Don’t let her escape!” The effect was profoundly disturbing for Moira, like watching a dead man being controlled by a puppeteer.

  The guards leapt to obey, closing the double doors and dropping a heavy bar across them to keep her in.

  Things had gotten thoroughly and completely out of hand. Staring around the room, Moira tried to figure a way out of her situation that wouldn’t result in the death or injury of so many bystanders. Anger and frustration warred within her, but she couldn’t lash out without considering the consequences. Most of the people facing her were being controlled against their will; ‘how’ they were being controlled she was uncertain of, but she could see the panic and terror hidden behind their calm faces. The wind roared around her, and the simplest option would have been to expand her cyclone, destroying the room and its occupants. I should have brought a spellbeast, she thought. I’d have had more options.

  She did have one magical servant with her, a tiny sprite-like creature named Pippin, but it held little power. She had meant for it to serve as a messenger later, to let Gram and Chad know that things were going well, but it was increasingly looking like it would have nothing good to report.

  Moira considered channeling power into the tiny spellbeast. It would be quicker than creating one from scratch, but doing so in the middle of an ongoing battle would leave her weakened and vulnerable. She made her decision. When fighting a snake, remove the head, and the body will die.

  The wind died abruptly, dropping broken pieces of furniture and tattered upholstery to the floor as Moira withdrew her aythar. Turning one of her swords in King Darogen’s direction, she channeled along
the blade again, directing a powerful stroke at the monster that appeared to be orchestrating the chaos around her.

  With uncanny coordination, every person near the line of fire threw themselves into the path of her attack. The powerful beam tore through them like tissue, and twelve people died in the space of a heartbeat. The beam continued on and still struck Darogen, but its power had been somewhat diminished. The king had dodged as well, and it tore a small hole through his right arm near the shoulder, rather than piercing his heart.

  Moira saw the noblemen and guards collapsing in front of her, their minds registering shock and pain as their bodies died. Darkness enveloped each in turn as their terrified minds dimmed and went out. “No!” she cried, aghast at what had happened.

  That was when the remaining channelers struck.

  Focusing their power they sent twin bolts of pure force, not at the young wizard, but at Gerold. Moira hadn’t put the same amount of power in his shield, thinking it only necessary to protect him from their non-magical adversaries, and it collapsed before she could reinforce it. Pain blinded her as the feedback sent her to her knees, struggling to retain consciousness.

  They killed Gerold, she realized, just to capture me. She could taste iron in her mouth, but Moira’s anger was rising fast. Shaking her head she started to stand, ignoring the pain in her skull as she prepared to incinerate the channelers, and possibly everyone else left in the room.

  The milky white bracelet clicked as one of the guardsmen snapped it into place around her right wrist, sending a tingling numbness up her arm. She swept her left arm across, and the blazing sword she held tore through the man as though he were made of warm butter. Before she could recover from her swing, someone else struck her head from behind, sending her tumbling to the floor. She dropped her sword as she fell, but she rolled with the blow to gain some space. Lifting the remaining sword in her right hand, she discovered it had gone limp, reverting to its inactive form as a metal belt. That’s odd.