Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  Darion’s fingers closed over the hilt of his sword. He sat looking west for a time, watching the trail of refugees across the distant hills. He shook his head. “I knew we should’ve gone through Barrowdale.”

  “Barrowdale burns,” called one of the old man’s companions. “There’s nothing for it, milord.”

  “He’s right,” said Kestrel. “The damage is done. I’ll wager there’s little help we could’ve offered them by now.”

  “Isn’t there more we can do for the people here?” Alynor asked.

  “Like what?” Darion snapped.

  “Cure their ailments. Heal their wounds. Surely you have a spell or two for that.”

  Darion shook his head and sighed.

  Alynor heard Kestrel snigger behind her. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  Kestrel gave Darion a look. “Have you taught this woman nothing at all about magic?”

  “She’s never shown the slightest interest in it,” said Darion.

  “I’ve nev—well, I… I…” she stuttered. It was the truth. She had taken an interest in magic, though none sufficient to divert her attention from her other duties and leisure activities. She had never expressed that interest for fear of suffering yet another curt refusal on Darion’s part.

  “You are but a babe in arms when it comes to the magical arts,” Kestrel told her. “Healing spells are the hardest spells of all.”

  “Why?”

  “Using magic to aid natural life is to compel two opposing forces to work in harmony. Nature is magic’s antithesis in this world. Thus the curative arts are more readily practiced by those who compel the forces of nature. I doubt your husband would very much fancy you dabbling with those.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because bloody nature-lovers have no appreciation for true magic,” said Darion. “They see no value in the arcane. They fail to grasp the purpose and distinction of the mage-song.”

  “I see,” Alynor said, disappointed.

  “We should make camp here for the night,” Kestrel suggested. “That way we’ll be nearby to defend these folk if the raiders come east. Who are they, I wonder?”

  “I think I know,” said another of the figures by the fire. She dropped her blanket and stood, revealing forearms scored with fresh cuts. “My Auntie Dessa used to run round with a man called Marclay. They were supping at my pa’s house a few months back, and I remember him making mention of a mercenary band called themselves the Hand of Suffering. Said he had a mind to join. If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say those were the same men what took Altenburg and Barrowdale.”

  Darion dismounted. “What makes you think that?”

  “They was offering gold to any man who could swing a sword and keep a silence. Word was, they had something big in the offing. Marclay wasn’t that sort of man, as you can imagine. Not the silent part, anyway.”

  “Do you know whether he joined?”

  “Haven’t heard aught of him since. Neither has my auntie. I’ve got to imagine the worst, knowing what this lot are into. Good riddance to him, I say. He was an arse, and none too kind to my auntie, neither.”

  “The Hand of Suffering,” Darion muttered to himself. He looked at Kestrel and Triolyn. “Say, you two are the sort to be found in company with mercenaries. Any of this sound familiar?”

  Kestrel shrugged.

  Triolyn shook his head.

  “It would appear my associates here are about as useful as a helmet on a roast chicken,” he told the girl. “You have my word that when we arrive at Castle Maergath, I’ll alert Olyvard King to your plight, if he’s not heard tell of it already.”

  “Thank you, milord,” she said before returning to her blanket.

  Later, as Alynor sat by the fire beside Darion, she considered telling him her news. Triolyn was off in the woods somewhere, hunting or doing gods-knew-what. Kestrel had gone round to sing and play for the exiles—an attempt to lighten the mood, he’d claimed. Were he to lighten their pockets, Darion had promised, the Warcaster would not hesitate to turn the singer on his head and donate every last copper he could shake loose from his pockets.

  “Is it true a person loses the mage-song as he ages?” Alynor asked, shying away from her original intent.

  “To the degree that his memory fades, and his reaction slows, and his voice becomes gruff and tired… yes. My old master used to say magic is for the young. He said that’s why elders rarely summon the mage-song without scrolls or spellbooks to aid them. Reading from a script is easier than reciting tones and sigils from memory, but nowhere near as quick or convenient.”

  Without thinking, she said, “Will you teach me a spell?”

  Darion raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You want to learn magic, do you?”

  “Just one spell.”

  “Well, now… that’s something new. What kind of spell did you have in mind?”

  “A curing spell.”

  “Afraid that was never my specialty, I regret to say.”

  “Does Kestrel know any?”

  He stifled a laugh. “Did you not hear the singer earlier? If healing magic were easy, every apothecary in the world would throw away his herbs and poultices and become a caster instead. Magic will always be better at taking life than giving it. Even the simplest curing spells are many dozens of sigils long. You would be better off as a druid, if that’s your aim. Much easier to heal using the wild-song than the mage-song.”

  Alynor looked around at all the sick and injured people. She couldn’t help but think it a tragedy that all the gold in the realms would never stop some of them dying. It came as a shock that neither her husband nor Kestrel had ever mastered the kinds of spells which might help the wounded stay alive. Maybe that was why they had learned war magic instead; at least they could stop bad people from doing things like this to innocent ones. “What if I didn’t want to be a druid? What if I wanted to be a Warcaster, like you? Would you teach me then?”

  This time Sir Darion couldn’t hold back his laughter. “You? A Warcaster? You’ve never so much as held a garden spade, least of all a sword. Have you ever done a day’s hard work in all your life?”

  Darion’s words stung more deeply than Alynor cared to admit. She sat silent for a time, choking back the lump in her throat. “It’s alright if you don’t want to teach me. All you have to do is say so.”

  “It’s got naught to do with wanting, my lady. It’s a matter of study, and practice, and time, and pitch, and—”

  “I don’t care what it’s a matter of,” she blurted out. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Darion gave her a kind smile—the sort of smile her father might’ve given her as a child when she asked to go on a hunt with him. “Oh, now, my lady…” he said softly, taking her slender hands in his big ones. “I know you want to help these folk. So do I. Believe me. They never deserved this.”

  “What do you think Olyvard King will do for them when you tell him what’s happened?”

  “I could not say. He doubtless has many concerns at the moment.”

  “Will he not send someone to their aid?”

  “It would appear his allies are few. I should think these raiders will know better than to push any further east—not by this road, leastwise. The elfkind of Eventide are a formidable force, and I do not believe anyone would risk marching an armed host through dense forest against them.”

  “One would hope.”

  “Yes, my lady. One would hope.”

  Chapter 11

  The Eventide Road snaked through glens and gullies, bending around curves so tight Alynor often found herself unable to see further than a few fathoms ahead through the Sparleaf’s dense greenery. A steady stream of refugees made the forest path feel less remote, and when Darion turned off the main road to lead them down a narrow side path toward Eventide, a procession of friendly travelers joined them.

  They descended the gentle slope into a wide grove which formed what Alynor could only assume was the city’s grand entryway. Sir
Darion rode into the hidden grove with a familiar nonchalance. Alynor, however, was in awe from the first. Tree limbs entwined with ancient stone structures to form graceful arches and suspension bridges over vibrant gardens dappled in sunlight. Everywhere she looked, the forest grew amidst the city’s architecture like iron poured across a blacksmith’s mould, as if the influence of elfkind and nature were one and the same. The elves did not seem to take offense to such bending of nature’s law; wherever a tree could offer stability or concealment to a structure, the gift was welcomed.

  Alynor heard the city’s sounds long before she saw the first sign of its inhabitants. Down a wide tunnel of pleached cypress trees lay the first of Eventide’s bustling avenues. The influence of elven blood was in the faces and forms of most every local she saw. The influx of refugees from the Grey Teeth townships had diluted this racial leaning somewhat, but it was obvious to Lady Alynor which people were the residents and which the exiles. “Don’t leave me behind, my dearest,” she said, hurrying to keep pace with Darion.

  “You need not fear this place or its denizens,” Darion assured her.

  “Unless you mean to make trouble,” said Kestrel, giving her a wink. “The elfkind welcome only good-natured folk within their borders.”

  “I’m surprised they let you in,” said Darion. “Eventide has been known to deal swift justice to those in need of it.”

  “And I suppose you’re friends with every elf and elf-cousin here who has the authority to dole it out,” Triolyn chided him.

  “Pardon me,” Alynor said. “I happen to be an elf-cousin, as you put it.”

  Triolyn snorted back laughter. “Apologies, milady. I was not aware. I’ve nothing against them… you.”

  “That’s rather fortunate,” she said with a smile, “because this place is full of us.”

  “Here we are,” Darion said, stopping before a grand edifice of gnarled hardwood.

  “What’s in here?” Alynor asked.

  “The Mistress of Seasons… Archdruidess of Eventide.”

  “Told you he was friends with everyone,” said Triolyn.

  “While we’re here, we ought to ask her why the weather’s been so awful lately,” Kestrel added.

  Two tall doors of carved wood were flanked by a pair of guards dressed in muted earth tones without luster or flamboyance. They wore animal skins and hide armor, with no trace of metal to be found between them. Even their weapons were fashioned of natural materials; their arrowheads were chipped gray stone, their spearheads smooth ivory. When Sir Darion and his companions tied off their horses and ascended the rough wooden steps, the guards made no move to halt them.

  The heavy doors opened without a sound. They entered a large circular atrium with a polished wooden floor. It took Alynor a moment to notice the concentric rings in the floor’s surface. She realized with astonishment that they were standing inside a massive tree, probably thousands of years old. Mottled sunlight shone through the domed ceiling high above. A long curved staircase, more live tree than cut wood, descended past a series of tiered balconies overlooking the entrance.

  “Darion Cursebringer,” said a rich, silky voice. A figure appeared at the balcony railing two floors above them and started down the stairs. She was an elf of pure blood, Alynor guessed, pale and dark-haired, in flowing robes that seemed to shift in color as she moved. Here they shone with the vibrant green of spring grass; there they blazed orange as autumn leaves or glinted gold like the summer sun. When she reached the bottom stair and turned to face them, Alynor could swear the robes were an ice-cold blue. Yet as the elf came close, the fabric faded to a drab brown color.

  “These elfkind all look the same, don’t they?” Triolyn whispered to Kestrel. When he saw Alynor’s look he cleared his throat and said, “Apologies, milady.”

  “You bring tidings of which I have already been apprised,” said the elf, studying Darion with sharp brown eyes.

  “I’ve come to learn, not to teach,” Darion said.

  “Those who inhabit the northern lands know to fear Rylar Prince of Korengad. Yet the Korengadi and their allies rage across the Eastgap, and no sign of the prince has been seen. It is Rudgar King who leads his armies, an old man grown feebler by the day.”

  “All of this have I been told, Gaelyn,” said Darion. “My suspicion is that Rudgar King has concealed his son among the rank and file to wait for such a time as his talents are required. The Eastgap is full of ripe fruit. Such fruit need only be plucked. The Korengadi have no need of a Warcaster—not yet. Not until they reach the Dathiri Ford.”

  “They say Rylar Prince is the greatest Warcaster in all the realms,” Gaelyn said, and the corner of her mouth turned up slightly.

  Darion’s lips tightened. “He may well be. I’ve never met the fellow. I don’t know.”

  “He has grown to become a formidable man whose prowess rivals even your own. You are sure to meet him soon, if your theories are correct. My own theories are different.”

  “Go on.”

  “Rudgar King left his son behind to rule Korengad in his absence. To guard the throne from cutthroats and betrayers. The Korengadi have a long history of backbiting and upheaval among their house of lords.”

  “Why not send his son to the five realms in his stead, if Rudgar King is so worried about losing his throne?”

  “That is precisely why he would leave the prince at home. Rudgar’s crusade to expand the Korengadi empire would be for naught if his seat were stolen during his absence.” Gaelyn paid the others no attention as she spoke, yet the way the elf was looking at Darion gave Alynor a chill all the same.

  Darion wagged his head from side to side, as if weighing the elf’s words. “What do the signs of the seasons tell you?”

  “It is high summer, and the crops grow tall,” Gaelyn said. “Yet a fell wind blows from the north. It will be several months before the harvest. If the Eastgap burns, there will be scant food to last the winter and the early spring. The Dathiri will starve. Shortages in the Eastgap will extend far beyond Dathrond, as well. The damage to the realms will be significant, whether or not the invading Korengadi penetrate the Dathiri Ford.”

  “Will Olyvard King do nothing to protect his lands?” Alynor blurted out.

  Gaelyn turned her gaze on Alynor as if noticing her for the first time. She studied her with those sharp, chilling eyes before turning them back on Darion. “The Korengadi move eastward along the shores of Shadewood Sound. They will enter the Eastgap by way of the breach between the forest and the Bogs of Desparr. They are ten days’ hard march from the ford.”

  “We’re still a fortnight from Castle Maergath,” said Darion.

  “I know the distance to Maergath, Cursebringer. I made that journey before your mother birthed you, and I’ll make it again after you’re gone. From Maergath to the ford is another week by ship; longer still by land. You are too late.”

  “To stop the destruction in the Eastgap, maybe. But to lend our aid in holding the ford, certainly not,” said Darion. “We press on. I thank you for your insight, Gaelyn.”

  “There is one more insight I would offer before you go. It would appear Olyvard King has many enemies, yes. Yet I am also certain he has allies in unlikely places. Be on your guard.”

  Darion paused. Alynor thought she saw a touch of concern flicker across her husband’s face, but it was gone in an instant. He did not reply to the elf; he simply nodded and turned to leave.

  “She wasn’t very nice,” Triolyn said as they retreated down the outer steps. “I thought these folk were supposed to be your friends.”

  “The best friend a man can have is one who speaks truth over kindness. Gaelyn does not favor my ways, nor I hers, but we have always maintained an accord. You can count on her information to be genuine and recent. In light of that, I’m inclined to continue on at once. We’ll never make Marlana’s Clearing by nightfall though, and the forest road is no place to be found at night.”

  “On the morrow, then,” said Kestrel. “In
the meantime, where might a man find a decent meal around here?”

  “Pick any place you come to,” said Darion. “I’ve never taken a bad meal in Eventide. Though I hope you don’t mean to earn your supper with that lute. Most magic is forbidden here.”

  “I’m better traveled than you may think, Sir Ulther,” said Kestrel. “I’ve been here a time or two.”

  “Aye. We know how it works,” said Triolyn. “I’ve a mind to take a few hours’ respite from the lot of you. Name a lodging house in the city and I’ll be sure I’m there to meet you in the morning.”

  “The Stars’ End,” said Darion. “It’s over—”

  “I know it,” Triolyn interrupted. “Sunrise tomorrow. Good eve, milady.” He gave Alynor a nod before turning his horse down a side avenue and vanishing into the crowds. Kestrel did the same, only he left them in a different direction.

  “Why is magic forbidden?” Alynor asked when she and Darion were alone on the bustling lane.

  “It isn’t, exactly,” said Darion. “It’s just that the elves of Eventide despise it. They see it as a plague; a blight on the forces of nature, to whom they swear their allegiance. Using magic here is sure to draw trouble of some kind.”

  “That’s why Gaelyn called you Cursebringer,” said Alynor.

  He nodded. “Do you remember how I told you magic is the enemy of nature? Healing comes easily to the druids and priests of this city. I’ll wager many of the refugees from Barrowdale and Altenburg are ready to pay good silver for the touch of a healer’s hand. Perhaps you ought to move here and take up study, eh?” He gave her a nudge and laughed.

  The words hurt, though Darion had only spoken them in jest. Does he want rid of me so badly? she had to wonder. “Is that a market over there?” she asked, turning her face away to hide the injury.

  “It is indeed, my lady. The people here call it King’s Lane, mostly out of spite. Eventide has not considered itself part of any kingdom for centuries, though the Sparleaf currently lies within Dathrond’s borders. Proceeds from the market are taxed by Eventide’s lord. Some say he uses them to bribe the king to stay out of the city’s affairs, but few know for sure.”