Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  It snapped, sending Jeebo to his knees in a shower of splinters. Triolyn laughed again, louder, until Kestrel quieted him. The falconer picked himself up and inspected what was left of the spear, a foot of sharp steel attached to two inches of broken wood. The iron gate bore a small dimple where the steel had dug in, but it was far from broken.

  “I told you this was a horrible idea,” said Triolyn. “Now what are we to do?”

  “Who has the keys?” Kestrel asked.

  “An old mage called Geddle the Wise,” said Alynor. “He’s the jailer down here.”

  “Is he one of these fellows?” asked Jeebo, giving one of the prone soldiers a kick.

  “No. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

  “I say we start by searching the rest of the dungeon,” Kestrel suggested. “He can’t be far.”

  “He could be anywhere,” said Triolyn. “We can’t leave nine armed men in here while we go looking for him, either.”

  “You stay here, then, and keep them out of trouble,” said Kestrel. “I’ll go.”

  On the window ledge, Ristocule flapped his wings and gave a loud screech. When he slipped through the bars, Jeebo tried to call him back, but the bird lit from the windowsill and disappeared into the darkening sky.

  “Why does he keep doing that?” Jeebo complained. “He should know better.”

  “Your bird likes you about as well as I do,” said Triolyn.

  Jeebo gave the archer a dry look. “Ever since we came to Maergath, it’s as if he’s forgotten everything I ever taught him.”

  “Maybe the wretched creature has had enough of you ordering it round.”

  “I’ve had enough of your inconsiderate jests. Faranion give me patience.”

  “The two of you had best keep your eyes on these guards and off each other while I’m gone,” said Kestrel. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He grabbed a spear and straightened his tabard, hood, and pot helm before opening the chamber door and marching off into the dungeon.

  Alynor paced the length of her cell while she waited. She still felt weak and tired, but she was sure she could run if they got her out. There were so many questions running through her mind she couldn’t keep them all straight. Where do they plan on taking me, if they can open my cell? Will the soldiers be back to bring me to the king before that happens? Where is Darion?

  As she paced, Jeebo and Triolyn were piling the soldiers’ weapons in the corner, pulling daggers and small knives from boots and belt sheaths, and cutting strips of their tabards for makeshift bonds to tie their wrists and ankles. Shortly after the nine captives were bound in a neat row along the floor, Kestrel returned.

  “Geddle’s in the king’s hall,” he said, out of breath.

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I asked the other jailer.”

  “Did this other jailer happen to have a set of keys?”

  “Of course he did,” Kestrel said, holding them up with a smile. He tossed them to Jeebo, who began trying each one on Alynor’s cell. “I doubt any of them will work. The jailer said as much. He said Geddle has his own set of keys just for this room. There’s always a chance he might have been lying, though. Have any of them worked?”

  Jeebo hesitated, taking a deep breath as he came to the last key. He pushed it into the lock, but it was no good. He turned to Kestrel and shook his head. “The jailer was telling the truth. What now?”

  Triolyn leaned his spear against the wall. “I suggest we ditch these tabards in a fire and get out of Maergath before anyone finds us. The next time they bring us down here, it’ll be in chains.”

  “I made a promise—”

  “I know, I know. You promised Sir Darion you would look after his wife. Well, I didn’t. I’m getting out of here while I still can.”

  “You do give up easily, for a man who advocates helping the helpless—and who claims to fight for justice,” said Jeebo.

  “I’m not giving up,” said Triolyn. “I’m trying to keep my head on my shoulders.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  The archer opened his mouth to speak, but he only sighed. “You have the right of it, half-breed. I’ll not say it often, but this time… you have the right of it. We’ve gone too far to turn back now, besides.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Kestrel. “Did you bring your bow?”

  “Where would I hide it? In my codpiece?” Triolyn said sharply.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Darion has one,” said Alynor. “A bow and a quiver full of arrows, in our bedchamber.”

  “Who’s to say it would still be there?” said Kestrel. “The king may have had your rooms ransacked and your possessions confiscated.”

  “Still, I’d be willing to check on them for you,” said Triolyn. “Where were your chambers, milady?”

  Alynor gave him directions as best she could remember.

  “So we’re splitting up, then?”

  “I suppose we are.”

  “Right. Jeebo and I shall make our way to the great hall to see if we can get a look at what’s going on up there. Perhaps I’ll be able to get a hand on Geddle’s keys.”

  “I’ll meet you back there.” Triolyn straightened his uniform and marched to the door.

  “Don’t mind the other jailer,” said Kestrel. “I hit him over the head and threw him in a cell. He may ask for your assistance as you go by… if he’s come to.”

  Triolyn nodded and closed the door behind him.

  “Now, we’d best be getting these gents to their feet so we can find a proper cell to put them in,” Kestrel said. He and Jeebo slid the piled weapons into Alynor’s cell. Then the two men stood the soldiers up one by one and marched them to the door. Before he left, the singer took Alynor’s hand and gave it a gentle kiss. “We shall return for you, milady. I swear it.”

  Alynor watched them go with a sense of foreboding. She had been finding it hard to have hope. Now she was all alone for the first time since the king had locked her away down here. She wondered if she would ever get to wear the new gowns Mr. Malchaeus had made for her, the midnight-blue samite and the sea-green damusk. If she would ever see Darion again. If she would survive long enough to see her child born. She supposed the answer to those questions depended on the next person who came through that door.

  Chapter 27

  They were tearing the fabric of magic away from the world when Ristocule landed on one of the great hall’s narrow windowsills. The king looked on with glee as the four cornerstones of his ancient ritual began to form. The participants recited their sigils; the two Warcasters and the baldheaded druid read from their scrolls, intoning the mage-song and the wild-song in time with one another. The harmony they made was flagrant and jarring to his ears, a discord of those two opposing forces. The old mage held no scroll; he was reciting his part of the ritual from memory.

  Ristocule caught sight of Geddle’s keys, hanging from a hook on his belt beneath his loose-fitting leather jerkin. His landing on the windowsill had been so quiet no one had heard him above all the chanting. He was sure Jeebo and his fool companions were on their way here by now. No matter; he was used to doing his work despite the blind resolve of oblivious men.

  Though anxious to take action, Ristocule knew he must wait until they neared the end of their casting before he intervened. There would pass only a few moments when the square between the four casters was open and devoid of all magic; the beginnings of the mage-song’s destruction. Ristocule did not know how he had come to be aware of this, but he was. When it happened, he needed to be in that square.

  The throne room doors creaked open and two Dathiri soldiers slipped inside. Jeebo and Kestrel. The king gave them an annoyed glance before turning his attention back to the ritual. The two soldiers joined the crowd standing behind the prince and the druid, who occupied the two charcoal circles closest to the doors. Kestrel stood studying the event for a moment, eyes wandering over its participants. His gaze fell on Geddle and settled on the
key ring at his waist. He’ll ruin it, Ristocule thought with sudden alarm. The meddling singer will throw them off the spell too early.

  A shaft of light pierced the square’s center. This was it. It was starting. The shaft split four ways and began to peel from the center like turning page corners, each moving toward its own participant. The space between them went bright as day despite the darkness outside. For a moment it really did appear as though the mage-song were some plague, a sickness lying over the world and in need of cleansing.

  The opening was big enough now. Ristocule rocked forward and took off from the windowsill in a furious beating of wings, heading toward the center of the square. It was the singer who thwarted his path—the accursed singer, who’d summoned the courage to go for old Geddle’s keys at the very same instant.

  Ristocule saw the accident before it happened. The singer darted out in front of him just as he was reaching the invisible border along the edge of the ritual square. He was flying too fast to change course by then, diving straight ahead like a spear shot from a ballista. He crashed into Kestrel’s back and careened away with the sound of the singer’s chainmail jangling in his ears.

  The world became a swirling bundle of colored strings all around him. He could feel his last opportunity slipping through his talons and cursed the fool singer for the interference. After bouncing off another soldier’s chest, Ristocule landed on the floor with a thud. He became aware of the uproar starting around him when a foot came down on his tail, pinning him to the ground. Something smaller and harder struck his wing and held him down fast; the butt of a spear.

  When he craned his neck to look, Kestrel was darting through a crowd of Dathiri soldiers while Jeebo knocked them aside for him. The ritual’s four participants had stopped their chanting to watch, and the gap at the center of the square was closing. Ristocule flapped and fluttered to free himself from the pinions holding him to the floor. Finally the soldier moved, and he hopped to his feet.

  “Sir Darion,” Kestrel shouted as he ran. “We’ve found Lady Alynor. Come with us.”

  The peeling pages of mage-song were moving in reverse now, back toward the middle of the square from whence they had opened. Ristocule chased after them, limping and stumbling to reach the center before they did. Someone kicked him as they ran past, knocking him across the floor like a skipping stone.

  He shook himself and stood, only to see the hole in the mage-song close the rest of the way. It was all over now, unless the king gathered his participants to start the ritual over from the beginning. Ristocule had come a long way to thwart the king’s plans. Yet he’d also come for another reason. To stand inside the absence of mage-song and find out what he really was. Who he really was.

  The great hall was in chaos. Jeebo and Kestrel fled the room while the Warcaster barreled through the crowd after them, pushing men out of the way with bound hands.

  “Take them down,” the king was shouting. “I want the Warcaster alive.”

  “Thief. Bring back my keys,” Geddle screamed alongside the king.

  A soldier struck Kestrel a low blow with his spear while a fallen footman wrapped his arms around the singer’s legs to trip him up. Ristocule heard the jingle of keys and was in the air before they’d left the singer’s hand. He fought through the pain, pumping his wings to snatch the iron ring as half a dozen men tried to get a hand on it. He rolled and pitched toward the window. Then he was diving, down into the open ward.

  He spread his wings and let himself glide through the crisp night air, circling round the castle toward Alynor’s dank cell chamber. She was huddled in the corner when he arrived, her head in her hands. Ristocule slipped through the bars, dragging the iron key ring behind him.

  She looked up when he landed on the floor with a thud. There were tears in her eyes. When she saw what Ristocule was holding, her face lit up. “How did you—” she stopped herself to glance around the room suspiciously. “Does anyone know?”

  Ristocule gave a screech and hopped backward a few paces, leaving the keys for her to take. When she came over and knelt, he felt something. There was a curious air about her, one he hadn’t come close enough to notice before. His curiosity got the better of him, and he hopped toward her in a flutter of wings.

  An inexplicable sensation came over him then. When he got within a few feet of her, his feathers shrank away. His wings sprouted fingers. His tensile legs grew skin and muscle. His whole body enlarged, and instead of landing lightly on his talons, he crashed down and flopped to the floor in a naked heap.

  Alynor shrieked.

  “Wha—I… I am sorry, my lady,” Ristocule said. He was speaking.

  He was speaking.

  Alynor backed away and pressed herself to the wall.

  Ristocule shrank. His eyesight sharpened, his body slimmed, and feathers puffed out on his breast. When he tried to speak again, a honking squawk replaced his words. What’s happening to me? he wondered. Lady Alynor had nowhere to run now, so he hopped closer.

  Next he knew, he was tumbling out of his feathers and collapsing to the floor. This time Alynor stayed where she was. Ristocule stood on a man’s legs, cleared a man’s throat, and lifted a man’s hands to calm her. The skin on his knuckles was old and wrinkled, the hair coarse and gray. He looked down. “My gods, what—” he stammered, covering himself.

  “Stay away from me, you monster,” Alynor was screaming. “Or so help me, I’ll—I’ll…”

  Ristocule backed away, desperate to calm the hysterical noblewoman. A few steps were all it took before he saw his hands go feathered again. He tripped and tumbled backward in surprise. When he righted himself, he was a bird once more.

  “What is going on?” Alynor shouted. “What sort of creature are you?” She took a step toward him, then thought better of it and backed to the wall again.

  Ristocule was beginning to remember. There were shadows coming back to him; glimpses. It was an incomplete picture, at best; a moth-eaten tapestry, full of holes. Who he was, or why she was changing him, he could not say.

  The door burst open, and into the cell chamber strode Darion, Kestrel, and Jeebo. A mob of agitated soldiers came hard on their heels, but Jeebo closed the door and barred it with a spear just in time. There was a loud crack as the soldiers drove their shoulders into the door, but it held.

  Jeebo pushed back, struggling against the weight of so many. “Hand me another spear,” he shouted. “Quickly.”

  Alynor gave Ristocule a cautious look before sliding over to the pile of weapons at the corner of her cell and handing them through the bars. Jeebo added several spears to the door before throwing his weight against it once more. Meanwhile, Alynor grabbed Darion’s hand and pulled him to her, embracing him through the bars.

  “They’re breaking through,” Jeebo said. “Hurry. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Where are the keys, my lady?” Darion asked. “The bird had them in its claws when it flew out of the throne room.”

  “They are here, my dearest.” She went over to pick them up, not minding Ristocule for the moment. As soon as she came near, Ristocule felt himself changing again. Half a heartbeat later he was a man, standing naked in her cell.

  The Warcaster’s lips parted in astonishment. He took a step back, grabbing the bars to steady himself. The singer, standing with his short blades at the ready, did a double-take.

  Jeebo was perhaps the most surprised of all. “What have you done to my gyrfalcon?” he yelled as the soldiers pounded on the door behind him.

  “Sir Jalleth,” said the Warcaster. “Is this some trick? Or is it you, truly?”

  Ristocule could not believe it. The Warcaster knew who he was. Come to think of it, now he did too. I am Sir Jalleth Highbridge… of Tetheril, he thought to himself. “Darion,” he said, and the words came out as intended this time. “Darion, my lad.”

  Alynor picked up the key ring, but averted her eyes and did not move from where she was standing. “Will you please tell me what this is about,
my dearest? You know this man?”

  Darion moved his lips for a time before any sound came out. “Why… yes. At least… I think so. But how—”

  “I know it now,” said Ristocule, covering himself. “Though I did not before. I have existed as this bird for many years. My memory is only now returning to me.”

  “You survived the Seaspire…”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Ristocule, who was now Sir Jalleth Highbridge. “This bird—the one whose body I now inhabit—was perched on the tower that day. He was nesting after a cold winter, a worn and underfed specimen if ever there was one. When it became apparent that I would have to cast the incantation to bring about the destruction of the Ogrelord’s armies, I knew my only chance of survival was to transmute myself, body and soul, into that of another. The falcon was the only candidate, being that the creature could fly. I knew he would die if I did nothing—if not from the incantation, then from starvation afterward. Needless to say, merging my body with his was a tight fit.” The old knight gave a soft chuckle. “I can only assume that was the reason my memories became so clouded. It was as if my self-awareness diminished to near absence.”

  “You and the bird exist side by side, in a single body and mind?” asked Alynor.

  “More than that. We have become one.”

  “We must free you from this,” said Darion. “Separate you again, somehow.”

  “Oh, I am afraid there is no escape for me, my lad. The forces of magic are what bind us together. Unless the mage-song were removed from the world, as Olyvard King intends, I shall seldom see my human form again. This is my lot now. Whatever magic your lady wife possesses to have turned me back seems to be fading already.”

  “It isn’t magic,” Alynor said. “Or rather, it is magic, but… it isn’t. Geddle the Wise cast a spell to remove the mage-song around Rylar Prince. It’s the same spell he cast on me. It lasts no longer than a day, and it always seems to fade with time.”

  “His part in the ritual,” Darion realized aloud. “A way to lift the mage-song from a small area for a short time.”