Deathcaster (Shattered Realms)

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Go ahead,” DeJardin said, lifting his chin to allow clearer access to the collar. “Give it a try.”

  “Hang on,” Hal said, taken aback by the mage’s willingness to trust to luck. “Let me show you something. The key seems to have settings. If you turn the head, like so . . .” He manipulated the joint, demonstrating how the shank clicked into place in four different spots. “So what it does may depend on the setting.”

  “Are any of them marked with K for kill, or O for open?” DeJardin said drily.

  Hal couldn’t help laughing. “No,” he said. “They’re not marked at all. But we understand that it takes a mage to use it.”

  “May I see it?” DeJardin reached out his hand, and Hal dropped the key into it. In the mage’s hand, it glowed more brightly than before, and eventually symbols appeared next to the notches, shining against the metal around them.

  Hal leaned in, his head nearly touching DeJardin’s. “I’m going to guess that the skull means ‘kill,’” he said.

  “Here’s an open lock, and a closed one,” DeJardin said. “I’m thinking that’s ‘lock’ and ‘unlock.’ And this one is a symbol I’m not familiar with.”

  It looked like a stick with a zigzag across it. It looked vaguely familiar to Hal, like he’d seen it somewhere before. Had it been somewhere in the north, when he was being held prisoner?

  Then he remembered. It had been during one of the tournaments at Delphi, when Lyssa Gray’s Highlanders were going up against Hal’s fellow prisoners. One of Hal’s men had caught his rebated sword in the hem of Captain Gray’s shirt, ripping it all the way to her collarbone. She’d continued fighting in her chemise until she won her bout. When Hal brought her another shirt to put on, he couldn’t help noticing a tattoo just above her collarbone. It was a stick with a zigzag across it.

  “What’s that?” he’d asked, trying not to stare too hard at her collarbone.

  “That’s the staff and flash,” she’d said. “Symbol of the Demon King.”

  “Didn’t he nearly destroy the world?” Hal said.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear in your flatland temple schools,” Gray had said. “He’s my ancestor.”

  “Well, that explains a lot,” Hal had said. She’d punched him in the shoulder, and that had ended it.

  “General?” DeJardin was watching Hal, looking puzzled.

  “I think it’s a symbol for the Demon King,” he said. “For magery.”

  “So that might relate to the collar’s function as an amulet,” DeJardin said.

  They sat there for an awkward moment.

  “I think the ‘lock’ symbol is clear enough,” DeJardin said, handing back the pendant. “Let’s try it.”

  Hal shook his head. “I think a mage has to use the key,” he said. “You do it, if you choose to.” He dropped the key into the mage’s hand.

  DeJardin gazed down at it for a moment. Then, gripping it by the shank, he turned the bow so it lined up with the open lock. Steadying the collar with one hand, he slid the business end of the key into the collar and turned it. With a soft click, the collar separated into two halves and clattered onto the floor.

  DeJardin raised both hands and fingered the place on his neck, puckered with scar tissue, where the collar had rested. He cleared his throat, his eyes unnaturally bright. “I can die a happy man now,” he said.

  “Hopefully not any time soon.” Hal leaned down and picked up the collar, fitting the two pieces back together, then took the key from DeJardin. “I’d like to try something else, if you don’t mind.” Using the key, he locked the collar again, and turned the setting to the Demon King symbol. Fortunately, it didn’t burn him to a cinder.

  “Next question. Can you tell by touching this if it can function as an amulet?”

  “I think so,” DeJardin said. “Are you sure that you want me to unleash my mage-ish powers in here?”

  “Just don’t set fire to the tent,” Hal said.

  The mage reached for the collar, and it lit up in greeting. He took it in his hands and spoke a charm. For a moment, it seemed that nothing had happened. Then the center tentpole burst forth with leaves and buds that opened into flowers.

  DeJardin grinned, plucking one of the flowers and handing it to Hal. “I was a damned good farmer. Before,” he said.

  Hal grinned back, relieved that nobody was dead, and nothing was burnt, and it seemed that they had ferreted out the secrets of the key and the “special-issue” collars.

  DeJardin took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if breathing free air for the first time in a long time. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said, “but I think you’ll tell me.”

  Hal laughed. This was a man he could work with. Then, sobering, he said, “You came to us because you said that you wanted to help us against the Montaignes,” he said. “We can really use your help, and that of the other mages who have defected. I would like you to lead our gifted division. If we win this war, I pledge on my honor that no mage will wear a collar in this kingdom again, except as an amulet.”

  26

  A MIXED BLESSING

  If Destin had thought that his troubles would end with the general’s death, he was wrong, of course. With the removal of that major scourge from his life, all of the other threats and obstacles that had been waiting in the wings elbowed forward to claim his attention.

  The blackbirds had finally taken his father’s corpse down from the battlements and buried it in Potter’s Field. Yet he still loomed over Destin like an avenging demon, tainting him in the king’s eyes. Though Destin had created the case against the general (created being the operative word) and served as prosecutor and executioner, the king did not like to be reminded of past mistakes.

  Destin savored the irony. Though the general had been a vicious, cruel, despicable bastard, he’d served the Montaigne line more faithfully than any of the survivors on Jarat’s council. Including Destin.

  Destin had only peripheral involvement in preparations for the march north, which suited him fine. He had no interest in being associated with a project that seemed likely to end in disaster. He worked with the quartermasters to make sure that all of the army’s gifted soldiers had the new-style collars. He provided updates to the king’s new general about conditions between Ardenscourt and Delphi and beyond.

  The intelligence reports he was getting from the capital of Fellsmarch were confusing. It seemed that Queen Raisa had taken ill and hadn’t been seen in public in weeks. A large contingent of Highlanders remained in Delphi, but they seemed to be preparing to march east against the empress.

  Meanwhile, the garrison in the northern capital seemed to be getting smaller by the day.

  What did that mean? They have to know we’re coming, Destin thought. The queen’s intelligence service was run by her niece, Julianna Barrett, and Barrett was better than that. Had the queen and her court secretly abandoned the capital to lead her troops in the field?

  Where were the hostages? If they were in Fellsmarch, surely he’d have received word by now. Where would Lila stash them? It was as if they’d disappeared into some black hole in the north. Destin didn’t like being outsmarted and outmaneuvered, and Lila had definitely done that when it came to that operation.

  In the absence of hard information, Destin’s creative imagination took over. Maybe Lila had been working for Celestine all along. Maybe Queen Marina and the others were on their way to Celesgarde. Maybe the empress planned to hold them hostage, contingent on delivery of Evan Strangward.

  Where was Evan? The last time they’d spoken, Evan had been on his way to the northern court to try to convince the queen of the danger posed by Celestine. Did this mean he’d succeeded, that they were pouring all of their troops and treasure into the threat in the east while neglecting the threat from the south?

  In the years they’d been apart, it wasn’t unusual to go a long time without communicating—especially because each contact had the potential of catching the attention of their enemies
. But, given the current political and military landscape, Destin couldn’t help worrying.

  I can’t think about that right now, he thought. He had to prepare for one of Jarat’s war councils. King Jarat had taken to holding meetings in the duty room in the barracks, where he could survey activity on the parade ground. He loved to sit, resplendent in his uniform, and hold forth on military strategy. Generally, Destin was spared attendance at these meetings, but he’d been commanded to attend this one.

  The war council was a mingle of new and old: Jarat’s remaining loyal thanes, including Lord Botetort, Beauchamp, and LaRue; Barbeau, captain of the King’s Guard; and Eric Bellamy, the son of the king’s Master of Horse and the new commander of the Ardenine army.

  The barracks had never been Destin’s favorite place, given its association with the general, but he’d hoped that would fade now that his father was gone. It hadn’t, at least not so far.

  When Destin arrived, Jarat and Bellamy were on the gallery, watching a platoon of soldiers drill in the sun. Jarat was talking, gesturing at Bellamy, who was listening politely. Jarat’s uniform was spit-and-polish new, while Bellamy’s looked to have seen hard use.

  Destin had never spent much time with Eric Bellamy prior to his appointment as general of the armies. Though Bellamy occasionally appeared at the winter court, he was fighting in the north the other three seasons of the year. Bellamy had a good reputation, however. Nothing would make Destin happier than to see him succeed where his father had failed. That might put the final nail in the coffin of his father’s reputation.

  Still, Destin worried that they were fighting the wrong battle against the wrong opponent. Once the king marched his armies north, Destin planned to return to Tamron for the rest of the summer, so that he could settle his mother’s estate and work his sources and try to locate Evan. He preferred to be elsewhere when Ardenscourt fell to the rebels, which seemed likely.

  Jarat called the meeting to order around a large, battered table in the duty room. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” the king said. “Let’s keep this meeting brief, shall we, since I know that we all have much to do. General Bellamy, what can you tell us about the readiness of the troops?”

  “To be honest, Your Majesty, the sooner we go, the better,” Bellamy said. “I had hoped to march three weeks ago. While we’re waiting, we’re eating through our food supplies. We’ve also seen considerable loss of manpower.”

  “Loss of manpower?” LaRue said. “Are you talking about desertion?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Bellamy said.

  “Are soldiers simply leaving our service, or are they going over to the rebels?” LaRue persisted.

  Bellamy hesitated. “In some cases, yes, they are going over to the rebels.”

  Here, Destin had something to contribute. “I’ve had confirmation that the thanes have put Halston Matelon at the head of their army.”

  “I thought he was dead,” LaRue said.

  “Apparently not,” Destin said. “He’s very well thought of among his fellow officers as well as the rank and file. If soldiers are leaving to join the rebels, that might have something to do with it.” Destin could tell from Bellamy’s expression that the officer already knew about Matelon.

  Botetort laughed. “Not even Captain Matelon can turn a peasant militia into an army,” he said. “It seems to me that what we need to do is make the consequences of desertion clear. In wartime, desertion constitutes treason and should be dealt with harshly.”

  “With all due respect, Lord Botetort, we’ve been at war for as long as I can remember,” Bellamy said. He stopped, cleared his throat. “It would really help, Your Majesty, if we could offer a payroll before we march. It would improve morale considerably, and I believe it might stem the desertion problem.”

  “It seems to me that paying soldiers while they are still here in the city will only lead to problems,” Jarat said. “They’ll be roaming the streets with money in their pockets and time on their hands. It would be better to wait until after the marching season.”

  “They haven’t been paid in months, Your Majesty,” Bellamy said. “Most have families to support, who can’t wait until after the marching season.”

  “Do they really believe that they are more likely to be paid by Lord Matelon and his fellow traitors?” Jarat said.

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty, but it seems that some have opted to take that chance. With the shrinkage we’ve seen, there will soon be a question as to whether we can continue to adequately garrison the city while sending a sufficient force north to achieve a decisive victory. In particular, we seem to have lost a large percentage of our magical assets.”

  With that, all eyes turned to Destin, the only mage in the room.

  “How can that be, Lieutenant?” LaRue said. “Why haven’t the collars kept them in line?”

  “I don’t know,” Destin said. “That’s not really my area of expertise. Perhaps General Bellamy could—”

  “General Karn was always in charge of that,” Bellamy said, deflecting that missile with military precision, “being a mage himself.”

  A thick silence descended, while Destin waited for the other shoe to drop. Such was the life of the token mage at the Ardenine court—always suspect, blamed for everything, credited with nothing.

  As usual, Jarat did not disappoint.

  “Lieutenant Karn, congratulations. You will assume command of our mage forces with the rank of colonel. In that role, you will report to General Bellamy. You will, of course, continue as head of the intelligence service, reporting to me.”

  Destin’s visions of a summer at his uncle’s estate in Tamron quickly evaporated. Now he would be embedded in the thick of this debacle, and in line to take the blame if it went wrong.

  But he could tell from the look on the king’s face that there was no use arguing.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, forcing a smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  Having disposed of that problem, Jarat turned back to Bellamy. “The rebels are still at Temple Church, are they not?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Bellamy said, “based on our most recent dispatches.”

  “Have they shown any sign that they intend to march on the city?”

  “I have not heard anything specific in that regard, sir,” Bellamy said, shooting a look at Destin.

  “With the hostages gone, isn’t it more likely that they will engage us on our way north, outside the protection of the city walls?”

  “That’s one possibility, Your Majesty, but it’s also possible that, in our absence, they will opt to attack here.”

  “With the delays we’ve had, it is absolutely critical that we make good time on our way to the border,” Jarat said. “Therefore, if a choice is to be made, I opt to take an overwhelming force north in order to make quick work of the rebels at Temple Church—if they engage us—and the garrison at Delphi. We’ll leave the city lightly garrisoned, relying on our walls to keep the rebels honest. We can conclude our business in the north and return before any damage is done.”

  Bellamy made one more try. “Your Majesty, if our mages have joined the rebel forces, it may be that—”

  “Do you understand, General?”

  Bellamy had been in the army long enough to know a command when he heard one. “I understand, Your Majesty.”

  Jarat smiled, having schooled this veteran soldier on battle strategy, then added generously, “Colonel Karn will address the attrition in our mage division.”

  And I will pull mages out of my ass, Destin thought.

  King Jarat had a habit of leaping over the hard part to get to the reward, but this time he was taking it to the extreme. Never mind the rebel army waiting on the road north. Never mind the garrison in Delphi, the shortage of mages, the dangerous path through the mountains, and a possible battle under the city walls.

  We should be talking about what happens if we get to the Fells, not when.

  Something was going on to bolster the king’s c
onfidence, something Destin couldn’t divine, at least not yet. King Jarat was hot to get to Fellsmarch, over and above everything else. Did it have to do with the spies and contacts the king had mentioned, spies and contacts that Destin knew nothing about? What was he missing?

  “Now, as to timing, I understand your impatience, General,” the king said. “I’m as anxious as anyone to get on the road. Unfortunately, it has taken Pettyman longer than expected to assemble the goods that we will need in the north.”

  “Pettyman?” Bellamy said, obviously puzzled. “Who is that?”

  “Percival Pettyman,” Botetort said. “The royal steward.”

  “The steward?” Obviously, that didn’t help. “What is it that he is assembling, Your Majesty?”

  “Once we reach Fellsmarch, we’ll need suitable clothing for court, gifts, and so on,” Jarat said. “We must arrive like conquerors, not like poor relations.”

  “Clothing . . . for court?” Spots of color had appeared on Bellamy’s cheeks. “That’s what we’re waiting for?”

  “And other things,” Jarat said hastily. “If we want the people in the north to bend the knee, we’ll need to show them what royalty looks like.”

  This was met with an awkward silence.

  “Have you ever been in the north, Your Majesty?” Bellamy said. “I doubt you’ll see anyone bending the knee.”

  “Not right away, of course,” Jarat said breezily. “First we’ll wield the stick, and then we’ll offer the carrot. Unfortunately, given current demands on the royal treasury, and the difficulty of collecting taxes in the disputed territories, we’ll be unable to make a military payroll until after we conquer the north.”

  Welcome to court, Bellamy, Destin thought. The land of broken promises. He felt genuinely sorry for the young general, and more than a little alarmed. The last thing they needed was for his father’s replacement to end up in gaol. He resolved to meet with Bellamy sooner rather than later and give him some guidance before he took his army north.