by Beam, Brian
“Thank you,” I replied, though I had no appetite. How could I? I was hours away from being shipped off to a kingdom on the brink of war. Galvin, the king of Gualain, purportedly had the power to raise the dead and enslave the living. He was likely in league with Raijom and Prexwin, meaning he could have eldrhims at his disposal. If Korin were caught trying to free Max and Xalis, he’d be imprisoned and unable to go to Gualain, leaving Max and Xalis as permanent research subjects. Raijom, who’d taken extreme measures to kill Korin, would never have to worry about the threat Korin posed him taking shape. Those worries were just a fraction of my troubles.
Saiyre stood and started out, but stopped at the sitting-room door and turned to me. “Salmaea, with my position, I should have known sooner about the death of Gualain’s king and the succession of this Galvin Lemweir. If not for my failure, this whole ordeal with you going to Gualain may not have even been necessary.” He swallowed, seeming to be on the brink of tears. “I am sorry for that.”
“Saiyre, you couldn’t have known,” I replied. “As I’ve told you, there’s much more to this than just that man. I’m sure of it.”
Saiyre shook his head. “Thank you, but part of the blame still falls on my shoulders.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, Salmaea.” It hurt to see the pain on Saiyre’s face as I remained silent again, but I was not about to lie to him.
~~~~
And that is everything I wish to have in writing before I leave for Gualain in the morning. I don’t know what to expect when I get there. My father and Saiyre feel that as a figurehead, I’ll be kept safe. However, can I truly resign to such a worthless post? If Raijom and Prexwin are involved, will I truly be safe if eldrhims are brought into the picture?
I won’t know until I go. No matter what my father says, and no matter the lack of power I’ll have over the squadron, I must ensure that the other wizards are fully prepared for what they may be facing. I won’t let my father’s closed-mindedness lead to their deaths. Even if they don’t believe me about the eldrhims, they will know how to tell if one is being summoned and how to fight them.
As for the undead . . .
Resurrecting the dead isn’t unheard of, but being able to control them is a whole other matter. The use of necromancy by wizards is illegal in every kingdom. Any wizards who ignore that law are generally harmless—raising the dead typically just leads to corpses ambling aimlessly and innocuously until the magic used to raise them wears off. Such events are usually quelled by a local wizard guild or a small force of the Wizard Guard. But if these creatures are being controlled . . . an army with no fear, no pain . . . the very thought is unsettling, to say the least.
Korin may be the only one capable of bringing about a true victory in all of this. It’s a strange idea to consider, given that he has no magic ability, but why else would Raijom try so hard to kill him? That has to mean something. I only hope that he and Max are reunited. I feel that Korin will need him.
If I die in Gualain and these are to be my last written words, I hope that they somehow make it into Korin’s hands. Korin, if you’re reading these words, I’m sorry I misled you. You’ve done so much for me that you’ll probably never understand. You’ve given me a glimpse of happiness, of acceptance. Thanks to you, Max, and Til’, my confidence has grown beyond what I thought myself capable.
Even if we can’t be together, I want you to know that I love you.
Chapter 20
Black Dreams, Markets, and Magic
Blood was all that was left of the world. My vision was tinged red with it. My clothing was stained by it. My hands were wet with it. The metallic taste and odor overwhelmed my senses.
On the cracked, arid ground before me, the ruffian who’d once followed Menar stared up at me sightlessly. His expression was frozen in accusation. His blood dripped from the tip of the sword in my hand.
Sickened by the sight, I turned away, the red sky around me blurring and lurching as I did so, nauseating me even further. Once I’d turned completely around, I found myself face to face with the six brigands, standing still as statues with their death-glossed eyes all centered on me.
Again, my stomach roiled. I couldn’t bring myself to face their condemning gazes, so I fled, running as fast as I could to get away from all the death. All the blood. All the pain.
I tripped over something and went sprawling to the ground of the barren wasteland. Pushing up with my hands, I turned my head to see the enslaved man I’d killed at Jefren’s camp the night it had been attacked. He wasn’t dead, though. He was curled up on the ground, weeping. Green light spilled from his chest. The sorceress that had been with him that night sat beside him, smoothing back his hair and whispering words of comfort in his ear. Her face was a ruined, bloody mess, its features indistinguishable among the pulpy flesh that had been left in the wake of my sword.
Looking away, I began to dry heave until my stomach and throat felt as if I’d swallowed shards of glass. The red sun—or at least it seemed red in my blood-clouded sight—assaulted me with skin-burning heat. I had to get away from it. I had to get away from all these people I’d hurt.
When I was on my feet and running again, I had to dodge around a group of the undead, green lights burning in their chests. Desiccated, sinewy hands clawed at me, but never made contact. I’d made it past them and out into the nothingness of the barren wasteland when suddenly I felt a hand clasp my shoulder. Halting, I spun around to see who or what had grabbed me. There was no one there.
Resuming my escape, I drew up short as Jefren and Kait’ suddenly blocked my path. Jefren was blurry, but Kait’ wasn’t. Her face was a picture-perfect representation of the last time I’d seen it, frozen in a blend of shock and anger. It looked just the way it had the moment she’d died.
Seeing all the death around me and knowing that I was the cause for it, I began to weep. The viscosity of my tears gave me pause, and when I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, blood stained the cuffs.
I screamed, and the world went black. There was simply nothing. I was aware that I was standing, but could see nothing below me. I dropped to my knees and continued to weep, pausing frequently to let out my emotional anguish in the form of guttural screams. I closed my eyes in an attempt to hold back my bloody tears. Then, all I saw was white.
Opening my eyes revealed the blackness to be gone, replaced by a bright day in a vast green field. The sky was still red, but the sun was now warm and comforting. I took in a deep breath, hoping the fresh air would clear my head. Instead, I was assaulted by the stench of rot and the acrimonious odor of burning flesh.
Panicked, I searched for the source of the putrid odors. On the ground just to my right was Bhaliel’s corpse, the golden scales of her underbelly shining around the gaping hole from which her intestines spilled forth. Her viscera were black with rot, though her green and gold scales had remained metallic and bright. Bhaliel’s once red eyes had been replaced by gaping holes. Her wings were torn and broken.
Lying prone on Bhaliel’s back was Menar’s charred corpse, smoke still rising from his black and crusty flesh. His body seemed abnormally contorted, due to his contracted limbs and fingers. Though his eyes had burned out of his skull, I sensed that he was somehow watching me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, no longer wanting to run. No matter where I went, I would just encounter further reminders of those who’d been harmed because of me. I began to weep once more, letting my red tears splash upon the dewy blades of grass at my feet.
“Korin . . .” The voice, though vapid, was undeniably Sal’s.
“No,” I pleaded, closing my eyes again.
“Open your eyes, Korin,” the voice called.
“No. Please, no,” I replied, knowing that I couldn’t bring myself to face what I knew would appear if I opened my eyes and saw the source of the voice.
“Open your eyes!” the voice screamed. My eyes fluttered open involuntarily, and the sight they met was even worse than I’d expected.
Sal
’ stood a few paces in front of me, her hair and robe matted with blood. Her face was streaked with crimson. Max was perched on her shoulder, his fur clumped with dark, dried blood. Til’ stood beside them, heaving with sobs. His tears were also red, standing out starkly against his silver eyes as they drew bloody lines down his pale cheeks.
“Korin, come to me,” Sal’s voice called in an unsettling monotone.
My body rose unconsciously and I started towards her. My hand tightened on my sword’s hilt. “No. No. Please,” I chanted repeatedly. My chanting didn’t help. As soon as I was close enough, I stabbed my sword through her stomach.
Sal’ looked at me with utter terror before turning her gaze down to the sword stabbed through her. “You will bring this on us all,” she whispered before falling to the ground, her eyes frozen wide from the shock of my betrayal. Max leapt from her shoulder to mine as she fell.
“What have you done, Korin?” he asked in pure horror. I didn’t answer. My left hand reached up and grabbed him, crushing the life out of his body, his bones snapping like twigs underfoot.
“Korin, no—” Til’ began in a panic. I lopped off his head with a quick slash of my sword before he could say more.
As my tears continued to flow, I looked at my friends lying dead at my feet. They had each died by my own hand.
“Well done,” a familiar, strong voice spoke from behind me.
I spun to see a tall man wearing a golden crown on his head, his royal-blue, gold-embroidered robes shining in the sunlight—no, lamplight. I was in a massive stone room now. The carpets were plush and blue. The walls were hung with art. Statues rested in recessed alcoves between lifelike paintings. There was an ornate throne behind the man. This was a throne room in a castle. The man was my father, Galvin Lemweir.
My father applauded slowly as he approached, his lips pulled up in a smirk. “Ah, my son. So much blood on those hands. Do you think they will ever be clean again?”
I wanted to say something. I wanted to know if he was behind the uprising in Gualain. My mouth wouldn’t move, though. As with every other time I’d envisioned this exact same moment, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. Realizing that this was just another nightmare, I steeled myself for what I knew would happen next.
Once my father was within arm’s reach, he pulled a jagged green stone from his robes and stabbed it into my chest. Searing pain flashed through my body as the world went white . . .
****
“Father, no!” I screamed as I bolted upright in the bed. The blanket covering me dropped to my waist. My naked torso glistened with sweat, and my hair was plastered to my head. The room was dimly lit by sunlight filtering through the cloudy window panes on the opposite wall. After a few calming breaths, I pushed the threadbare blanket aside.
The Magi’s Charm was by no means the most elegant inn I’d ever stayed in. After spending two days in Auslin, though, we had good reason to be in what was called the Black Magic District of the city. The name had nothing to do with evil magic, but with the not-quite-legal artifacts, charms, and potions sold on the black market there. Supposedly, you could also have some interesting spells cast on you—or your enemies, for that matter—if you had the money . . . and the gumption.
Almost two weeks past, when we’d parted ways with Bill, we’d been further into the kingdom of Courthan than I’d thought. It took us just over a week to travel to Auslin, the city surrounding the Wizard Academy in Tahron. Til’s woodwork had quickly netted us horses and supplies for the trip.
Once we’d arrived in Auslin, a few inquiries around the city revealed that the only non-wizards allowed access to the Wizard Academy were those employed there and those intending to petition the Wizard Council.
All others had the right to send letters to any wizard within the Wizard Academy’s walls with guaranteed delivery, even if addressed to the Grand Wizard himself. When I inquired about doing so and mentioned that the recipient would be Salmaea Fellway, I was told that there would be a two-week delay in which the letter would be put through several tests and pass through at least five different hands—all of which handled thousands of letters sent to prestigious wizards in the Wizard Academy each day to ensure their safety—before it made it to her. We didn’t have time for such a process. It had already been nearly a month since Sal’ and Max had been abducted. I shuddered to think of what Max had already gone through during that time.
The letter idea removed from our list of possibilities, it looked like we were going to have to gain entrance into the Wizard Academy in order to save Max. I found myself wanting to find Sal’ even more. I’d just have to make sure that Max didn’t know that.
My first thought had been to petition the Wizard Council and make a case to have Max and Xalis returned to me. However, a temporary suspension had recently been placed on all petitioning. There was little chance that such a plan would’ve worked anyway. I didn’t see anyone willingly handing Max and Xalis to me.
My second thought had involved getting my hands on a robe and posing as a wizard. Unfortunately, I’d learned that for a wizard to be admitted into the Wizard Academy, they had to be identified by some sort of magical means, bringing a swift end to that plan.
Our dwindling options had reduced us to searching for help in the Black Magic District. According to what we’d heard about that sordid section of Auslin, any kind of help, legal or otherwise, could be attained there for the right price.
Before shifting our attention to the Black Magic District, we’d seen a lot of unrest in the city. The majority of what Auslin’s residents called the Wizard Guard had been deployed to fight in Gualain. The suspension on petitioning had been a direct result of the Wizard Council’s focus on that deployment.
There were countless rumors about what prompted the Wizard Council’s action: wizards in Gualain were creating plagues that caused the living to rot from the inside out; the wizard king, Lyrak, had been raised from the dead to resume his quest to conquer all of Amirand; Gualain had actually been conquered by an army who’d broken through the tempestuous storms to the east and was now making a move to take over all of Amirand. Some rumors actually came close to the truth, speaking of the undead roaming Gualain and men being drafted into the kingdom’s army against their will.
Simply put, the people of Auslin were scared, and the Grand Wizard was doing nothing to address their concerns. The halt on petitioning had made things worse, cutting off the general population from the wizards who should’ve been informing them of what was going on. From what we’d gathered, up until the recent deployment of the Wizard Guard, wizards hadn’t participated in any war since the Power Wars. In my book, that made the current situation troubling enough to justify the fears permeating the city.
Given that the Wizard Guard also served as a protecting force in the city, the decrease in their numbers was actually a good thing for us. With the majority deployed, there was a reduced presence of law enforcement in Auslin. The shadier wizards in the Black Magic District were therefore braver in making their presence known. We assumed that the decrease in the Wizard Guard would also make sneaking into the Wizard Academy a simpler task.
Placing a shaky hand on one side of the lumpy mattress to steady myself, I reached for the ewer of water resting on the rickety bedside table. Forgoing the dirty glass beside it, I tilted it up and chugged the contents. At least the water was clean. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and scratched my newly itching head. I tried not to think of why it was itching. I just made a mental note to cover the unwashed pillow slip with my cloak if we stayed another night.
Getting out of bed was much harder than it should’ve been. By Quaman’s blood did that mattress do a number on me. Quaman’s the god of torture. Yes, it seems an exaggeration, but I truly felt like I’d been beaten in my sleep.
Just like every other night since Briscott had told me the name of Gualain’s king, I’d been troubled by nightmares. No longer did I dream of a loving mother and father gazing down upon me as I lay in a
bassinet. All I saw now was a father who reveled in the pain and death I’d caused since first meeting Menar in Old Geeron seemingly ages ago. If not for Briscott and Til’, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to cope with the knowledge that my birth father was possibly behind the troubles in Gualain. They’d helped keep me grounded during our northward journey to Auslin.
Til’ had remained especially optimistic during our days of travel, certain that Max would’ve told me if my father was some sort of tyrant who’d start a war using an enslaved army. I had trouble sharing in his optimism. Who knew what all Max had kept from me?
After gathering my clothes, I glanced down to the white, puffy scars on my chest and shoulder. Once we’d arrived in Auslin, Til’ managed to trade some woodwork to a local wizard healer to have Briscott’s and my wounds healed. Either the healer hadn’t been as proficient at healing as Max, or we’d just waited too long, because the scars remained prominent on our bodies. As I’d predicted, the one on my shoulder was a jagged, ugly thing. I just told myself that it could’ve been much worse and that maybe Sal’ would find a couple of battle scars attractive.
As I painfully dressed in the white wool shirt and thick leather pants I’d purchased our first day in Auslin, a sharp rapping sounded from my door.
“Korin, it’s me, Til’,” came Til’s shrill voice, muffled by the door.
I flipped up the latch, and after a fair bit of tugging, the door creaked open. Til’ entered the room with a big smile and a plate of bacon and eggs. With the way my stomach was growling, I could’ve kissed the little guy.
“I got you some breakfast, since you were sleeping so late. They were just about to stop serving it. For such a dirty place, they have great food downstairs! Look!” He held up the plate. It looked and smelled delicious. I took the liberty of freeing him of the burden and plopped down on the bed, digging into the food with my hands—the fork on the plate didn’t look so clean.