Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  “Shut up, old man.” Noralin lifted her arms and spread her fingers.

  When Darion heard the ancient begin to cast, he did the same.

  Next he knew, Sir Jalleth was casting too, and so was Alynor.

  Bundles of mage-song woke before their casters, winking to life like candles in a dark room. All except Sir Jalleth’s, which appeared outside his ward. It was close enough for Kestrel to push into Sir Jalleth’s grasp with a movement spell, so he did. The casters stood, holding their spells, each poised to release them at an instant’s provocation. So much awakened mage-song wrought a tightness in the air, like linens stretched thin across a well-made bed.

  “Think this through, Noralin,” said Darion. “You’re outnumbered and outmatched. You won’t survive.”

  “Then one of you comes with me. Who will it be?”

  “No one else need die tonight. Go now, and see to your affairs. The quarrels of the ancients are no business of ours.”

  Noralin turned the mage-song in her hand as though testing the weight of a stone before throwing it. She looked around, weighing her options in much the same manner. “Where is she, Alynor Mirrowell? Where is Celayn, my sister? Tell me, and no one dies this night.”

  “She is… not far,” Alynor said hesitantly. “South of here, in the Towershields. Her lair is somewhere beyond the northernmost Hightrade tributary. Briar Brook, they sometimes call it. I remember crossing it on my way there.”

  Noralin studied Alynor’s face. “I believe you are telling it true.”

  “I am,” Alynor said.

  “Do not disappoint me. You will not enjoy seeing me again if I am disappointed.”

  “You said you would leave us alone if I told you.”

  “I’ve said nothing of the sort. I promised no one would die tonight. That much is true. You’ve succeeded in protecting your pitiful souls for one more day. Your lives are but a blink in time. Enjoy them well. Soon the dust of your years will be a scent on the wind.”

  “You’ve made your threats,” said Darion. “Now go.”

  “Lower your spells and I shall.”

  “You first.”

  Noralin smiled. “Very well.” She let the mage-song dissipate from her fingers.

  Alynor lowered her hands.

  Sir Jalleth sighed and did the same.

  Noralin began backing down the slope. When she passed Darion, he heard her muttering to herself. A new sphere of mage-song awoke before her.

  Darion launched his spell, but Noralin vanished in a thick white plume before it arrived. Darion’s spell hurtled through the empty space and crashed into a home across the street, drenching the structure in flame. Sir Jalleth cast a fountain spell and, with Alynor’s aid, put out the fire before it could spread.

  When it was over, they found themselves standing in a warm, silent evening with death blooming all around them. Blood ran down the cobbles; bats flapped leathery wings, hunting the swarms of insects drawn to the carnage. Out on the downs, more Westenreachers shuffled toward Trebelow’s west gate, but these were the slow-movers; those on whom the mites had already done the worst of their work.

  Goldane soldiers summoned townsfolk and laborers to mend the west gate, and together they worked late into the night to rehang the massive doors and brace them with every spare piece of timber they could find. The cries of the wounded rang through the town, but Captain Shadda doubled the guard and ordered those not involved in the repairs to aid the apothecaries until all had been tended to.

  It was past midnight by the time Darion and his weary companions finished their work. Before they left for their respective resting places, he gathered them together. His back ached and his head was pounding, but they needed to decide what to do. “So it was Shandashkaleth who caused the plague of burrowing mites,” he said. “Or rather, Celayn.”

  “I had a suspicion,” said Alynor. “If what Sir Jalleth says is true, the ancients bear magics beyond comprehension.”

  “Those able to prolong their lives past what nature intends,” said Sir Jalleth, “are often haunted by the desire to discover the mage-song’s more obscure capabilities. Noralin’s spell would’ve destroyed one of us, I’ve no doubt. Yet we may have squandered our only chance to destroy her. If my instincts are correct, whichever sister defeats the other will likely become more powerful than we can hope to contend with.”

  “And one of them will be back,” Alynor said. “Noralin will come for our souls, or Celayn will come for retribution.”

  “Retribution for what?” asked Darion.

  “For my failure to bring her the periapt.”

  “We did her one better,” said Kestrel. “We brought her the soul in a living being.”

  “A being who means to kill her.”

  “That no longer matters,” said Sir Jalleth. “I am sure Celayn would’ve preferred a musical instrument to a live spellcaster.”

  “We must prepare ourselves,” said Jeebo. “Gird Trebelow against further attack, and make ready for the day when one of the sisters returns.”

  “The dragon will be more destructive,” said Axli.

  “The mage more cunning,” said Kestrel.

  “I’ll wager ten gold pieces to one it’s the dragon who wins,” said Triolyn.

  “I’ll take that bet,” said Kestrel.

  “We cannot fight either one of them here in Trebelow,” Darion said. “Lord Goldane has shared his home and hearth with us. A battle like that could bring Trebelow to ruin.”

  “Why should we wait until one of the sisters returns?” asked Axli. “Why leave them to take power from one another? I say we chase down the red bastard and kill her before she finds the other, then continue on and slay the dragon afterward.”

  Sir Jalleth shook his head. “A mage with the sort of power Noralin possesses can travel quickly and inconspicuously. She’ll arrive before we could hope to track her down, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re a bird, for the gods’ sake. Can’t you fly ahead and show us where she is?”

  “It will be another several hours before I can change back. Besides, we’re better off joining battle in a place of our own choosing.”

  “Such as…?” Kestrel asked.

  “There’s one place I believe Sir Jalleth has been wanting to go for some time now,” said Darion.

  Sir Jalleth’s smile was warm and full. “The Tetheri wilds. Far from the cities and castles of the civilized kingdoms, and further still from Dathrond’s reach. Yes; we’ll go west. And when the ancients return, there shall we make our stand.”

  Chapter 29

  When Darion and Alynor returned to the keep, Draithon was deep in the undisturbed slumber of a child who has endured a great ordeal. Lord Goldane’s governess told them the boy had woken earlier that evening with no concept of where he was. He’d been inconsolable, so Mistress Periella had taken him to the nursery and unpacked all the lovely toys and knickknacks from when Lord Goldane’s children were young. The tactic had proved less than effective. Draithon had eventually cried himself to sleep and was now occupying one of the cribs along the nursery’s window wall.

  “Get you some sleep,” Mistress Periella told them. “Don’t worry for a thing. Lord Goldane’s children have no need of me these days. I’ve no idea why he keeps me on, but it’s time I started earning my keep round here for a change. Milord tells me you’ve been away from one another for quite some time. Go. Sleep. Do what needs doing. Should the lad wake before dawn, I’ll take him to break his fast and bring him to Mummy and Daddy first thing after.”

  Darion crossed the room to where his son was sleeping. He stood there for a moment, staring down at the boy. He reached out to brush a lock of hair from Draithon’s eyes. “How I wish I could’ve known you when you were new,” Alynor heard him whisper. “At least now I have the next best thing. To know you tomorrow.”

  They thanked Mistress Periella and ascended to their rooms.

  Inside, Darion began to strip off his clothes, starting with his cloak and armo
r. He grunted, arching his back as if to relieve an ache. Alynor nearly asked if he needed help, but thought better of it. She was too embarrassed to remove her own dress, tattered and stained as it was from her long travels. Instead she stood and watched—or rather, tried not to. Yet when Darion’s tunic came off, her mouth fell open.

  He turned and caught her staring. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said, averting her eyes.

  “What is it, my lady? Have I alarmed you in some way?”

  She hesitated. “No, only… it’s as though you’ve been drawn out of a blacksmith’s mold.”

  He laughed. “Wearing heavy armor and swinging a sword for a few years will do that to a man. Forgive my boasting, but I imagine I must be in better shape than when last you saw me without my clothes.”

  Alynor dangled her arms in front of herself and laced her fingers together. “I’m afraid I would be a frightful sight to you without this dress on, my lord. Childbirth does awful things to a woman’s body.”

  He came over to her, lifted her chin to look at him. “You are more beautiful now than the day I left,” he said. “And what’s more, you’ve given me a son.”

  “You needn’t beguile me. Simply because you haven’t had a woman in—” She stopped herself, realizing she did not know how long it had been since her husband had had a woman. Where had his affections rested through all the long months—all the villages and castles and cities he’d passed through in his travels? Was there some tavern wench on the northern continent carrying his child even now? Were there ten such women? Twenty? The agony of not knowing was enough to drive Alynor half-mad in an instant.

  Darion took her hands in his. “You are my wife. I have missed you every day. Do not spoil this moment by heaping shame upon yourself. I treasure you, and I would not see you waste your remorse on needless things.”

  “You are kind, my lord,” she managed.

  “If only that were true.”

  “It is. Why do you not believe it?”

  “Because I have spent these last years fighting and killing. Those I killed were not monsters, as in the Ogre Wars of my youth, but men. Men of Dathrond, whose lives I stole with sword and spell. Whose eyes went dim before mine. Olyvard calls me traitor, and he has the truth of it. I am what he claims. I have crossed sides and sought to topple Dathrond’s empire. Whatever my fate, I am deserving of it.”

  Alynor pulled away from him. “I only regret that you stayed so long. That you chose glory over family.”

  “There is no glory in war. There is none afterward, either. Only pain and memory. A man at war wants two things. To live another day, and to forget what he has seen.”

  “And did you forget me, too? Did you forget our child?”

  “Every day I had to make a choice. Not to come running home to you and leave my task unfinished.”

  “And every day, you chose war over me.”

  “War is what I know, Alynor. I know nothing of being a father, and little more about being a husband.”

  “No one does, until they learn. You’ll learn, just as I have. Just as everyone does. Your son is three-and-a-half years old and he does not know you. Would you not rather have been here?”

  “Of course I would. But had I left Korengad any sooner, the world my family lives in would be a different place.”

  “Our world has been different since the moment you defied the king. Olyvard sees only your betrayal; he refuses to acknowledge that your actions four years ago were the only thing that kept the Korengadi army from putting Maergath to the torch.”

  “He sees my betrayal, true. But he also knows we took the scroll. Were it not for Sir Jalleth, I would’ve cast that accursed thing into the fire four years ago, along with all the others.”

  “The scroll is in Westenreach now. If the fires have spread, perhaps you’ve gotten your wish.”

  “So long as I live, Olyvard will never have that scroll. He’ll never get the chance to destroy the mage-song. That is why I do not regret what I’ve done, treasonous or no. My only regret is that I had to leave you.”

  “Did you, though? What happened in that tent outside Maergath? Did Rudgar King demand your sword, or did you offer it to him?”

  Darion said nothing.

  “I am sorry,” said Alynor, “but while I know your intentions were pure, I cannot deny that I, too, feel betrayed. You left me alone to sort things out for myself. Before I knew it, Tarber King had stripped us both of our properties and titles at Olyvard’s behest, and I was on the run. I was scared…” She broke off.

  Darion took her in his arms, but the gesture was more unnerving than comforting. “I know I have done wrong by you. I only wish there had been another way.”

  Alynor wanted to scream. If there had been another way than pledging his sword to Rudgar King, Darion had seemed loath to consider it. She was not such a fool as to think Darion hadn’t wanted to go to war. Instead of screaming at him, telling him how deluded he was to think her so gullible, she just cried.

  Darion held her, not speaking.

  After a time she dried her eyes on her sleeve, sniffed, and said, “I do not know how long it will take me to come round from this, my lord. Forgive me, but I am not ready to return to the way we once were.”

  Darion let her go and stood back. “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying I need time. That is all.”

  “Time for what?”

  “For healing. It was a shock to see you at the gates of Trebelow. A good one, but a shock nonetheless; I had not received word from you in so long, I’d begun to think the worst.”

  “I sent word,” Darion said. “I did. To your father at the Greenkeep, where I thought you’d be. I did not often get the chance, but when I did—”

  “I know,” she said. “I expected that was where you would write to, if you had. My father would’ve burned your letters the moment they arrived, for fear of being caught out as a traitor to the crown.”

  “I discovered that fear of his when I went to see him. He was cruel to you, my lady. I assumed he would protect you.”

  Alynor thought of ten different retorts she might’ve shot back in reply, but said none of them. “He did what he could.”

  Darion shook his head, as if to disagree without words. “Let us not dwell on the past. We’ve a journey ahead of us, and we must pull together if we are to face the evil that awaits.”

  “As you say, my lord.” She turned toward the window, where a low moon shone golden in the morning’s small hours. She was exhausted, but hesitant to share the bed that was large enough for both of them, and worried for Draithon, whom she was sure would wake up in tears if she wasn’t there this time.

  “Do you remember when I used to tell you stories?” said Darion.

  Without turning around, she nodded. “I’m sure you have many new ones to tell by now.”

  “Will you permit me to tell you one that is not so new?”

  “As you will,” she said, taking a seat on the bed.

  “Shortly after Sir Jalleth and I parted ways, I began to think I should take on an apprentice of my own. My head was large in those days; larger than it is now, if you can believe that.”

  Alynor gave him a knowing smirk.

  “I traveled to Deepsail and spoke to a young sorcerer I knew there called Mephys, who pointed me in the direction of House Besurlde, one of the wealthiest noble families in Orothwain.”

  “Yes,” Alynor said, “I know the Besurlde family. Not personally; rather, I know of them.”

  “They are quite a force in Deepsail. Mephys recommended Lord Besurlde’s youngest son Bein, who’d shown promise in his academic pursuits, and a passion for sport as well. A Warcaster must be strong, capable, and above all, dedicated, so Bein seemed an apt candidate. I am my father’s third son, so we shared that in common. Bein was a boy of nine at the time, so after securing Lord Besurlde’s approval, I worked with him in their home, tutoring him in the language of magic. He made a fine student, to be sure.”<
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  “What happened?”

  “As time went on, I found that my talent for teaching was not as strong as my desire for learning. Not only that, but while Bein possessed a great deal of natural talent, I became dissatisfied with his lack of effort. A boy grown up in the arms of wealth has no notion of hard toil like a person born of meager beginnings. The apprenticeship came to an abrupt end one day when I lost my temper and stormed out. I never again took on a pupil. Until you.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”

  “Quite the opposite. When you asked me to teach you, I did not think myself capable of it.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe I would make a worthwhile apprentice.”

  “I had my doubts. You’ve proven them unfounded, time and again. You are strong, Alynor, and brave. There are few who could’ve done what you’ve done these past years. Seeing the life you knew taken from you. Being abandoned by your headstrong husband and estranged by your father. Keeping hidden from the Dathiri as you continued down the path of magic you resolved to take. And all while raising a son, who, from what I’ve seen thus far, will grow up to be a fine lad.”

  “He is a fine lad. He’ll grow up to be a good man if his father is around.”

  “I am here now. I acted rashly when I left. It was a mistake to leave you behind. I do not intend on making the same one twice. You cannot imagine how I worried for you. I’m beyond proud to find you’ve managed so well under such hard circumstances.”

  “Your praises are squandered, I’m afraid. I had Sir Jalleth to help me all the time. Kestrel and the others were there too—in the first few months, before Draithon was born.”

  Darion smiled. “You are adept at spurning recognition. Humility, I believe they call it.”

  “And you show a practiced hand in the art of flattery,” Alynor said. It made her think of all the wenches in all the taverns of the northern continent, whose path her husband may have crossed in his travels. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

  “It is not flattery, that which is genuine,” Darion said. “When we leave Trebelow, I would pick up where we left off with your training, if you’ll have me. I understand if you’ve grown accustomed to Sir Jalleth’s methods, of course.”