by J. C. Staudt
Alynor heard a second voice echoing the king’s. This voice was speaking in a different tongue; perhaps the same tongue the prince had spoken earlier. The vision shifted sideways, and she saw who was speaking. A small man, dressed in robes of Korengadi red. A translator, she realized. This is not the future he is showing me. This is the past. Somehow, he has cast one of his memories into a spell.
“Now, you must be tired,” Olyvard King was saying. “My castellan will show you to your chambers. Master Carthag?”
The vision shifted again, and Carthag was there, beckoning Rylar Prince forward with a grand sweeping gesture.
Carthag showed the prince to his guest chambers. They were located in the same remote hallway as Alynor and Darion’s chambers, far at the back of the keep. There were two Dathiri soldiers standing outside the door. One gave the prince a crooked, gap-toothed smile as he passed. Two of his own Korengadi guards, in their crimson tabards with the white ram’s head emblem, took over for the Dathiri.
Then the vision flashed and went dark.
Alynor was back in her cell in the dungeons. “What was that all about?” she whispered, but Rylar was already casting another spell.
In the recesses of the room, Geddle the Wise began to snore.
Rylar sent her the spell, and she took it.
She was in the prince’s guest chambers, staring up at the sheer fabric of the bed’s canopy. It was night. The only light was the moon’s, a soft glow through sheer white curtains. The chamber door burst open. Four Dathiri guardsmen charged inside, past the bodies of the two Korengadi soldiers in the hallway, puddled in blood.
Rylar Prince shot out of bed and cast a spell. The mage-song woke, but it was out of reach. From the shadows in the recesses of the bedchamber stepped a spotted old man. It was Geddle, and he was chanting.
The Prince gave a shout and grabbed his sword.
The Dathiri soldiers converged on him.
The vision faded to black.
Alynor was back in her cell. Rylar Prince was staring at her, expectant, hopeful.
“I believe you’ve been unjustly imprisoned, as I have,” she whispered.
The prince nodded, but it was the nod of a man who wants to connect across languages and cannot.
“Did Olyvard King do this because he wanted to start a war?”
Another nod, and the same blank expression of unconditional agreement.
“You don’t know what I’m saying, do you?”
Another nod.
“This is hopeless. We’re both clearly innocent, yet what can I do? That prophecy of yours was sorely mistaken. I’ll never get you out of here.”
Then Darion’s words came flooding back to her like a spark of inspiration. Movement spells have many uses, he had said. When you master this spell, you will be able to move more than flowers.
It took her several minutes to remember all the sigils, and several tries to cast the spell successfully. Rylar Prince stood at the bars of his cell all the while, listening closely to her soft intonations until he seemed to pick up on what she was casting. When she had taken the mage-song in hand, she stood for a moment, wondering what to do with it.
She crouched at her cell door and gazed through the keyhole. Perhaps there’s some piece inside I can move to unlock it, she thought. But the room was so dark, the hole in the lock so tiny, and her knowledge of how locks worked so limited, that she doubted she’d reach a successful outcome from that line of thinking.
Then her eyes focused on Geddle, sitting asleep in his chair. The keys to every cell in the room were hanging from a loop on his belt, resting against his upper thigh. Alynor reached out through the bars of her cell and spent the mage-song, curling her fingers to will the iron ring toward herself. It lifted a little, caught on the belt loop, and crashed down onto Geddle’s thigh with a sharp jangling noise.
Geddle started awake. Alynor yanked her arm inside, banging her elbow on the bars to set them ringing. The old man fumbled at his belt until his hands came to rest on his keys and his panpipes. He took the deep breath of a person just waking up, then pushed himself to his feet and lurched over to Alynor’s cell. She let go of the bars and backed away.
“You’ve given me no reason to be anything but kind, milady,” said Geddle in a voice thick with sleep. “That’s not something I recommend you go about changing. You need any convincing that’s a bad idea, talk to him over there.” He shoved a thumb in Rylar’s direction.
The prince was sitting with his back to the bars, head lolling to one side as if asleep. That sneaky git, Alynor thought. I’ve got to learn to do that.
“I can see I’m going to need some help, now that there are two of you in here,” Geddle was saying. “That’s the last time you ever try anything funny while Geddle’s on the lookout.”
The next night, while Geddle slept, a Dathiri soldier stood watch inside the door. Whenever a jailer came to deliver Alynor and the prince their twice-daily meals, a new soldier came with him to take over the watch. Geddle left the room a few times a day, often for long stretches, but he always made sure there were two soldiers standing guard in his absence. After several days of this, Alynor was sure there was no way the prince’s foretelling spell could be accurate.
Then one day, an opportunity presented itself. There was the usual guard standing by the door, with a second soldier arriving as Geddle readied himself to leave. It was on this occasion that Alynor came to realize their jailer’s name could not possibly have been given to him in earnest. They called him ‘the Wise,’ she suspected, because he was not at all wise.
Geddle had just finished casting the ward which prevented the mage-song from manifesting within Prince Rylar’s reach. “I’ll be back sometime before evenfall,” he said. “I’ve received a summons from Olyvard King himself. You two be good for the guards and I won’t have to punish you when I return.” He gave a soft cackle and straightened his leather jerkin before he strode out the door.
As soon as Geddle was gone, Rylar Prince’s eyes lit up. He glanced at the guards, then at Alynor, and turned toward the back wall of his cell. She could not say what the prince’s plan was, though it was clear he had something in mind. He was casting, but in a voice so soft the guards didn’t seem to notice.
At the last moment, he whirled and spoke his final sigil.
Alynor felt the familiar sensation of being in close proximity to a body of live mage-song. She reached out for it. Rylar waved his arms wildly, shaking his head and repeating a single word in a sharp whisper. It was too late. Alynor’s fingers touched the mage-song, and it was gone. The sensation died away.
Rylar Prince had cast not one of his memories or foretellings, but a spell meant for the present. He gave a forceful exhale through his nose to express his grievances.
Across the room, one of the soldiers pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against. “Hey,” he said. “You, over there. Stop that.” He came over and scraped the point of his spear across the bars of Rylar’s cell. “I see what you’re doing in there. Quit it.”
“Leave him alone,” said the other guard. “Geddle says he can’t do nothing. He’s just making mischief.”
“Well I won’t have it. He’s got no excuse for—”
The man’s words broke off as Rylar yanked on his spear to pull him toward the cell. He collared the soldier and held him against the bars, then twisted the spear out of his grip. The guard reached out with scrabbling fingers to claw at Rylar’s face, but the prince did not let go. The second soldier was moving toward the cell, shouting for Rylar to unhand him.
There was a wet ripping sound. Alynor saw the spearpoint sprout through the soldier’s back, splitting his black-and-white tabard in a red shower. The other soldier gave a start, then fled for the door. Rylar pushed the first soldier forward to let the spearpoint slip free of him.
The fleeing soldier got a hand on the door and began to open it. Rylar drew back and heaved the spear across the room. It drove through the man’s back and sh
oved him into the door, closing it again. The soldier gave a strained gasp, then staggered backwards and fell over.
Rylar turned to Alynor. He raised his palms to her the way he had before. Wait. He began to cast. When the spell manifested, Alynor reached out to take it. Rylar waved his hands and shook his head again. He doesn’t want me to take it, she realized. What does he want me to do?
Geddle had told her that a spell could only be used by its caster unless it was a vision of the past or the future, in which case it could be shared. This spell was neither, and she would only smother it again if she tried to take it. More guards would be here soon, she knew. They didn’t have much time. And there would be a lot worse in store for them when Geddle came back later. What was the prince trying to accomplish?
Rylar was doing something new. Motioning. She watched him wiggle his fingers, then point at her. He scooped his hand as if telling her to hurry. What is he trying to say? The prince repeated himself, wiggling his fingers, pointing to his throat, then pointing at her. He wants me to… cast a spell? But the only spell I know is—
Then it dawned on her.
“Gods,” she breathed. Darion’s words came back to her once again. You will be able to move more than flowers. She knew then what Rylar Prince wanted her to do.
He wants me to move the mage-song.
Chapter 21
Field Commander Palavar’s tent was thrice the size of any other at the Keep on the Ford. Darion and Kestrel stood by the door flap while the leader of their escort exchanged words with the commander, a bull of a man with thick brown whiskers that ended in a gray-fringed beard. Presently, he invited them both to sit.
“Sir Darion Ulther himself,” he said in a deep voice. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a Warcaster in our ranks. A true Warcaster, I mean. Not one of these self-styled pretenders, these simple magicians who carry swords they don’t know how to use.”
“Sir Darion is no pretender,” said Kestrel. “This is the Champion of the Realms himself. He will not fail us.”
Darion wanted to shut the fool singer up, but by now he knew better than to try. “The singer praises me overmuch. I have taken part in no war for many years now.”
“He is a humble man, as ever,” Kestrel said. “The great ones always are.”
“That may be so,” said Palavar. “However, I should think him a cautious man as well. One does not survive countless conflicts by taking foolish risks. Yet my men tell me you mean to face Rudgar King and his armies alone.”
“I would face any challenger Rudgar King pits against me,” said Darion. “Whether that be a single combatant or the whole of his host. Tell me, where are the rest of Dathrond’s armies? This garrison is a fraction the size it should be.”
“Orders came from his majesty over a fortnight ago. They were so strange, some of the captains questioned whether they were from the king at all. But they were written in the king’s own hand and bound with his seal. Two-thirds of the army was told to split off from our camp and head northeast to Desparr. The orders gave no indication of the reasoning behind this maneuver; they were told only to await further orders upon their arrival.”
“That’s a peculiar thing indeed,” said Kestrel. “That the king would send the bulk of his armies away on the eve of a great siege.”
“This castle can be held with half the men remaining to us,” said Palavar. “It is not so unusual a thing for his majesty to have planned ahead. But why Desparr?”
“Was the king expecting a second attack from the north?”
“I do not know,” said the commander. “If so, I’ve heard no word of it as yet.”
“Has Rylar Prince been seen among the host across the river?” asked Darion.
“I cannot say as he has,” said Palavar.
“Have they a Warcaster of any great repute whatsoever?”
“A handful of Korengadi wizards and a few mages from Berliac. My scouts tell me that is the extent of their muster.”
Rylar Prince must be leading a second army down from the north to flank us at the ford, thought Darion. “And have you endeavored to treat with our foes?”
Palavar shook his head. “The Korengadi have attempted several times to send envoys, but we have rejected or slain them each time, by order of Olyvard King. His majesty gave specific instructions that I was to forge no treaty or terms with the enemy. We are to accept nothing less than full surrender or full retreat.”
“That’s absurd,” said Darion. He almost laughed. “Whoever heard of an army surrendering to the castle it lays siege to? The Korengadi stand between you and the Eastgap now. They have food to last them through the winter. Maergath will starve long before they do. The realms will suffer unless terms are reached. This siege could go on for months. Maybe even years. We must treat with them.”
“And violate the king’s order?” said Palavar. “Nay. I’ll not allow it.”
“Nor would I ask you to,” said Darion. “Open the gates and let me cross the river. I’ll take full responsibility for what happens thereafter. Should the outcome be grim, you may place the blame with me. Should the measure prove fruitful, I will speak only your name when Olyvard King is looking for someone to shower with acclaim.”
Palavar scoffed. “I would never accept recognition I do not deserve.”
“You alone can open the gates,” said Darion. “That makes you more deserving of the consequences than anyone here.”
The commander stroked his graying beard for a moment, deep in thought. “I’m finding it difficult to believe a man of your renown would encourage me to disobey the king’s command. And yet, I see a man sitting here before me who calls himself a champion and has urged me to do just that. I could have you locked in irons for this, Sir Ulther. Warcaster or no.”
“I am not one of your soldiers, Commander Palavar. Nor am I a subject of the Kingdom of Dathrond. I serve the realms above all else, kings and royal decrees included. It is not my aim to put you in disgrace, or to make a traitor of you. By all means, follow his majesty’s commands. I require no involvement from you aside from one simple request. Open the gates. Surely his majesty has not forbidden that.”
Palavar gave a thick sigh. “And what will you expect of me when the Korengadi take you captive? Shall I sally forth with a complement of knights to retrieve you?”
“You may leave me to my fate, if it comes to that.”
The field commander raised a bushy eyebrow. “A brave proposition. But when does bravery become madness?”
“I’ve straddled that line often enough.”
“I pray this time you land on the side more sensible.”
“Does that mean you’ll let us go?” Kestrel asked.
“Us? Oh no, singer. Not this time. If I go, I go alone.”
“Surely you jest,” Kestrel said with an easy smile. “I must bear witness to your great deeds. Who else will spread your fame to everyone you meet? You’ll never do it.”
“Nor would I suffer from the lack,” said Darion. “Besides, I’ll not be across the river long enough to require a ballad for my efforts. I’ll find out what Rudgar King wants, and if I can give it to him, I shall. Otherwise, I’ll be back within the day to prepare for battle. What say you, Commander?”
Palavar gave a throaty grunt, as if straining to push aside the last of his reluctance. “I will order the gates opened at daybreak. Return by evenfall, or you’ll wait out the night across the river. Am I understood?”
“I’ll make sure he gets back in time,” said a voice from the door of the tent.
Darion turned to see Jeebo walk in with a brace of desert hares in each hand. He was dressed in Dathiri colors, though he wore the uniform with a personal touch. The bird was swaying on his shoulder, still intoxicated with the hunt. “We caught enough for tomorrow and the next day,” Jeebo said, presenting his kills to Commander Palavar.
“Well done, Jeebo. My mouth is watering already. I take it you mean to accompany Sir Ulther across the river?”
�
�With your leave, sir.”
“Sir Ulther, you seem to be taking my finest men out from under me.”
“On that note,” said Kestrel, “there’s an archer named Triolyn Dorr, on whose behalf I must request the same privilege.”
“I can’t stand that fellow,” said Jeebo.
“And I do not require his services,” said Darion. “Nor do I require either of yours.”
“There’s one thing a man with a bow can do that the rest of us cannot,” said Kestrel.
Darion glowered. “And what is that?”
“Kill a man at a hundred paces.”
“I don’t plan on killing anyone tomorrow. Not without provocation.”
“The Korengadi are rather skilled in the art of provocation, I’m told.”
Darion sighed. “Fine. I suppose I could do worse than to have a good archer by my side. See you notify him when he comes down off the battlement. And make sure you’re all in your normal clothes tomorrow. I’m certain Commander Palavar does not want rumor of a Dathiri envoy spreading throughout his camp.”
“As you will, milord.”
Darion hardly slept that night. Not because the ground was hard and damp, or because he’d only been rationed one small cup of ale with supper, or because no matter how late the hour, the soldiers never seemed to stop yammering and go to bed. He couldn’t sleep because every time he shut his eyes, he saw the tower. He saw the horde of dark shapes lumbering toward it; heard the waves crashing on the shore; felt the ominous portent of something terrible about to happen.
The tower exploded. Over and over again, it burst like a lightning-struck tree. The mage-song tore out the Seaspire’s stones and rippled through the coming hordes like some cruel pestilence, a spell destructive and hateful enough to bring nature to its knees. Darion’s eyes shot open every time he remembered the feel of it, unable to shake his visions for thoughts of something milder. The memory of that tower was his truest nightmare. It would be with him, he knew, until his dying breath.
In the morning, he breakfasted with the soldiers on cheese and strips of smoked herring. He would’ve given a fistful of gold for his own cask of ale to soothe his memory-dreams and ease his nerves before he set out across the river. There was no such provision to be had, however.