“How did you get so strong?” Camorak asked her once the tide of wounded had subsided.
“I’m a baker,” said Martia. “I am, in fact, the best baker in Tarlion.”
“Truly?” said Camorak.
She proved it later, bringing him a loaf of fresh bread. Camorak hadn’t eaten for days at that point, and he devoured the loaf in short order. Hunger was the best spice of all, but with God and the apostles and the entire assembly of saints as his witnesses, it was the best damned loaf of bread he had ever eaten.
Martia told him her story over the next few weeks as he visited her bakery. Her father had been a baker, and his father before him, and she had married a baker. Then her husband had been called up in the militia, and he had died with Uthanaric Pendragon at Dun Calpurnia. Eventually, Camorak told her about his time as a man-at-arms in Durandis, how his wife and child had succumbed to the plague, and the strange turns his life had taken since he had become a Magistrius and met the Keeper and the Dragon Knight.
It seemed to fascinate her. Most commoners were terrified of the Magistri and only approached them when in dire need, but not Martia. Slowly it dawned on Camorak that she was making excuses to spend time with him.
Six months after the defeat of the Frostborn, they were married.
That had been five years ago.
“I’m serious,” said Camorak. “Maybe today is the day I shall get drunk.”
“Of course,” said Martia, her forearms flexing as she kneaded dough, shaping it into loaves with sure, practiced movements. “The wine shop is on the corner. Will you be home for dinner?”
“Yes,” said Camorak. “Master Vesilius has me teaching empty-headed novices. It shouldn’t take long.”
He kissed his wife and left her bakery. Well, he supposed under the law of Andomhaim it was his bakery now as her husband, but he didn’t know a damned thing about baking or household management. Best to leave it in the hands of the experts. Camorak had only ever been good at two things – soldiering and healing spells. Well, three things, if you counted getting drunk.
He had gotten out of practice with the last one.
The last time he had gotten drunk had been the day before Arandar Pendragon’s army had marched from Tarlion to confront the Frostborn at Dun Calpurnia.
After that, there just hadn’t been time. There had been colossal battles, many wounded soldiers to heal, and then he had met Martia…and there just hasn’t been time.
And then, suddenly, five years had passed since he had last gotten drunk.
Camorak walked past the wine shop without pausing as he headed through the streets of Tarlion to the Tower of the Magistri. He would spend the morning teaching novices, and then the afternoon sitting in the courtyard of the Tower, offering healing to anyone who came. Then he would go home for dinner with Martia. Some of the older Magistri looked askance at a man who had married a young widow and a tradeswoman at that, but Camorak hadn’t given a damn about their opinion before, and he wasn’t going to start now.
Maybe he would get drunk tonight.
Or the day after that.
Or maybe the day after that.
Or perhaps he would get busy with something else and forget yet again.
###
Antenora closed her eyes, drawing on the connection to the Well of Tarlion.
She had the Sight, and she had command of the elemental magic of flame, but one day she would inherit the mantle of the Keeper, which meant she needed to wield the magic of the Well. It had taken her some time to establish a link to the Well, but she had it now, and she could draw on that magic and use its power to heal and ward.
She opened her eyes and saw Calliande watching her, smiling in approval.
“All right,” said Antenora. “I think I am ready.”
Calliande nodded. “Then cast the spell.”
A commoner lay on the table between them, a builder who had broken both of his legs in a fall from a rooftop. Antenora summoned the power, put her hands on the sweating man’s temples, and cast the spell. The power surged through her and into the unfortunate builder, and at once Antenora felt his agony, felt the pain from his broken legs and bruised muscles and torn ligaments.
She took the pain into herself. It hurt, of course, but it was an abstracted sort of agony, one that she experienced but did not dominate her thoughts. That was the final legacy of the curse that had ruled her flesh for fifteen centuries. She could now feel pain, but it was simply another sensation.
Antenora had not entirely appreciated what a gift that had been until her son had been born.
She released the spell and stepped back, and the builder sat up, gasping. His legs were straight and strong again, and he looked down at himself in astonishment.
“My lady,” he said, “thank you, thank you.”
After the builder and his wife and children had left the courtyard of the Tower of the Keeper, Calliande looked at Antenora in surprise.
“That was remarkable,” said Calliande. “You didn’t even flinch.”
Antenora shrugged. “Pain is to be endured. I suppose I was in pain for fifteen centuries, and after that, all other pain seems of lesser consequence.”
“We know what Brother Caius would say,” said Calliande.
Antenora laughed. “That God works…”
“In mysterious ways his wonders to perform,” they chorused together.
Calliande said, “But for that builder, he certainly did. If you keep on like this, you’re going to become one of the greatest healers in the history of the Magistri. I think we’re done for now. Why don’t you go visit Philip? I’ll see you at dinner.”
Antenora thought that a fine idea, so she went into the Tower of the Keeper.
She spotted Philip playing a game with his nanny, something that seemed to involve a lot of clapping. He looked so much like Gavin that it tugged at Antenora’s heart. Gavin was with the Dragon Knight dealing with the Mhorite orcs and their dvargir allies, but he would return.
“My lady,” said the nanny, an older woman that Dagma had recruited. “He’s quite energetic today.”
Philip squealed and ran to his mother, and Antenora picked him up and kissed him.
“That is all right,” said Antenora. “There are worse things.”
Oh, yes. Antenora knew that very well.
The old woman hesitated. “Will the Keeper mind?”
“No,” said Antenora. “I expect the Keeper will be busy with her own son.”
###
The next morning Calliande Arban awoke alone in her bed in the Tower of the Keeper.
She missed Ridmark, but he would return soon enough. Just the rumor that the Dragon Knight had taken the field was often enough to make the enemies of Andomhaim rethink their plans for war. She knew that bothered Ridmark more and more. Often the lords of the realm had asked him to use the sword of the Dragon Knight to subdue their neighbors or annihilate their enemies. He thought that a misuse of the sword’s power and Calliande agreed.
But that was a problem for another day.
Calliande yawned and sat up. Today Arandar would be holding court to receive the new ambassador from Bastoth, and she would need to attend. But after that, the rest of the day was free. Perhaps she could take Antenora and the children on a ride outside the walls. Or they could walk to the bakery that Camorak’s wife owned. The woman was a sorceress with flour and yeast…
The Sight stirred in power within Calliande.
She blinked, and then looked down at herself.
“Oh,” she said.
Well, that was a surprise. Then again, considering how she had said farewell to Ridmark before he had set out on campaign, it wasn’t that much of a surprise.
Calliande donned a green dress and mantle. It vexed Dagma to no end that Calliande still preferred to dress herself whenever possible, save for the intricate garments required for formal occasions. Still, she would need the help from the maids to don the formal gown for Arandar’s court, but she cou
ld have a peaceful breakfast first.
Calliande descended the stairs and found Gareth Arban waiting for her.
Her firstborn wore a tunic and sandals, and even at five years old he had the same sober manner as his father. He looked a great deal like Ridmark as well, with the same blue eyes and black hair, though Calliande saw something of herself in the line of his jaw and his ears.
He was such a serious little boy. At first, Calliande had feared that he had been prone to melancholy, but he rarely had black moods. He simply took everything seriously.
“Good morning, Mother,” said Gareth.
“Good morning, Gareth,” said Calliande, bending down and kissing his cheek. “Were you waiting for me?”
“Yes,” said Gareth. “Father said I should look after you while he was away. So I was waiting to walk with you to breakfast.”
“Were you, now?” said Calliande.
Gareth nodded. “Mistress Dagma said it was all right.”
Calliande very carefully kept the smile from her face. “Will you walk with me to breakfast, then?”
“I will,” said Gareth, and she took his hand in her own. “You seem happy today, Mother.”
“I am walking with my son to breakfast,” said Calliande. “How could I be anything but happy?” She considered how to tell him. “And I think we shall have a surprise for your father when he comes home.”
“We will?” Gareth frowned. “I don’t think Father likes surprises.”
“He will like this one,” said Calliande. “Can you keep a secret for me, Gareth?”
He considered this for a few steps, and then nodded. “I will.”
“If God wills it,” said Calliande, “you will have a younger brother before the year is out.”
If she carried the child to term and he was born healthy, of course. So many things could go wrong. She had miscarried once about a year after Gareth had been born, and it had nearly broken her heart. But as she had told Ridmark in the great hall of Castra Marcaine on the day the sword of the Dragon Knight had nearly killed him, she would rather share pain with him than with anyone else.
“Hmm,” said Gareth, coming to a stop, frowning.
“What do you think of that?” said Calliande, watching him with concern. How would he react? Happiness? Rage that he would no longer be the only child? Some siblings grew close, she knew. Some did not. Ridmark wasn’t enemies with any of his brothers, but neither was he particularly close to any of them. Other siblings became mortal enemies. The war of the five Pendragon princes, all brothers, had nearly destroyed Andomhaim while she slept beneath the Tower of Vigilance.
And Aelia Licinius and Imaria Licinius had once been close.
“How do you know it was a boy?” said Gareth. “Mistress Dagma said it was a surprise when her last baby came and it was a boy.”
“It is a surprise for most women,” said Calliande, “but I am the Keeper, and I have the Sight. It couldn’t be a surprise for me even if I wanted it to be.”
“Oh,” said Gareth.
“Does that upset you?” said Calliande.
“Maybe,” said Gareth.
Calliande’s heart gave a little lurch.
Gareth turned a solemn look towards her. “There is one thing that bothers me. No, two things.”
“What are they?” said Calliande.
“What will you name him?”
“Probably Joachim,” said Calliande, “after my father, your grandfather.”
Gareth nodded. “Father will like that. But something else is much more important.”
“What is it?” said Calliande, wondering what troubled him.
“Will he have to pick up his own toys when he is finished with them?”
“Of course,” said Calliande. “Once he is old enough, yes.”
“Oh. That’s all right, then,” said Gareth.
Calliande smiled and picked him up. Gareth protested that he was five years old and could walk, but she carried him to breakfast anyway.
Chapter 34: The Shield Knight
Nine years after it began, nine years after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban knew what he needed to do.
On the day of the Feast of the Resurrection in the Year of Our Lord 1487, Ridmark stepped through the gate that Caledhmaer’s power had created, asking the sword to hold it open until he returned.
A cool wind swept over the causeway, tugging at his gray cloak, the waters rippling across the caldera lake, and Ridmark looked up at the soaring towers of Cathair Solas.
The last city of the high elves had returned to its island in the Lake of Ice far to the north of Andomhaim, its slender white towers still revolving around the mass of the Tower of the Sun at its heart. The gate had taken Ridmark to the end of the causeway, only thirty yards from the gates to Cathair Solas itself.
Ardrhythain, the last archmage of the high elves, awaited him.
Ridmark had not seen him since the battle at Tarlion seven years ago. The archmage had not changed all since then. Ridmark had. There was gray in his hair now, the lines cut into his face growing deeper, and his shoulders and back ached from countless battles and campaigns.
But he had no cause for complaint.
Ardrhythain stepped forward, his red coat stirring around him in the wind. He carried no staff today, though a cloth-wrapped bundle about three or four feet long was tucked beneath one arm.
“Lord archmage,” said Ridmark.
“Dragon Knight,” said Ardrhythain with a faint smile. “Welcome back to Cathair Solas. You have been busy since we last met, I see.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark.
“The Mhorites, the bone orcs, and the dvargir all thought to take advantage of a weakened Andomhaim, and you repulsed them,” said Ardrhythain. “The khaldjari have been driven back to their great citadel at Dun Licinia.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “I hardly did it alone, though.”
“No, of course not,” said Ardrhythain. “And you have children now, yes?”
“Two,” said Ridmark. “Two sons, Gareth and Joachim.”
Ardrhythain inclined his head. “Named for Dux Gareth and the Keeper’s father, I believe.”
“They were,” said Ridmark. “Jager was Gareth’s godfather.” It had pleased Jager to no end. “Gareth wants to be a knight, but if I die by some mischance, I suppose he can become a merchant.”
“I am glad of it,” said Ardrhythain. The golden eyes turned distant. “I remember when my own children were born. It was so long ago, but I remember it as if it happened this morning. It was a happy time.” The golden eyes turned back to Ridmark. “Then you are a busy man. The Dragon Knight, the defender and the husband of the Keeper, champion of the realm, and a father. Cathair Solas is a long journey to make for such a busy man.”
“Not really,” said Ridmark, glancing back at the gate.
“Perhaps not,” said Ardrhythain, “but not a journey, I think, you would make without some urgent purpose.”
“No,” said Ridmark, looking at Caledhmaer. “No, it isn’t. And I do have an urgent purpose.” He met Ardrhythain’s eyes. “The time has come to return the sword of the Dragon Knight. It’s too powerful.”
“What do you mean?” said Ardrhythain.
“Exactly what I said,” said Ridmark. “The sword has too much power, and the temptation to misuse it is there.”
“Not for you, surely,” said Ardrhythain. “Not after the trial the sword inflicted upon you.”
“Maybe am I strong enough for that, and maybe I am not,” said Ridmark, “but I’m not the only man in the world. There are some in Andomhaim who think the Dragon Knight ought to lead the conquest of our neighbors. That I ought to use the sword to utterly crush our enemies and make them into our vassals or even our slaves. That the Dragon Knight ought to build an empire for Andomhaim.” Ridmark shook his head. “That sounds too much like what Tarrabus wanted to do.”
“The desire for power,” said
Ardrhythain, “beats in the heart of every man.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “And what happens when I die? Someone else will claim the sword of the Dragon Knight. Or will try, and the sword will destroy him. Or the nobles will try to make the Dragon Knight into a hereditary office, and my son will inherit the sword.” That idea filled Ridmark with dread. He knew what wielding Caledhmaer had cost him. The thought of Gareth or Joachim undergoing the same ordeal was almost too much to bear.
Ardrhythain inclined his head in agreement.
“The time has come to return the sword to Cathair Solas,” said Ridmark.
“Will you wait with it, as Kalomarus did?” said Ardrhythain. “Will you wait in the Tomb of the Dragon Knight for your successor to come?”
“No,” said Ridmark. “If that is what I must do, then that is what I must do. But if that is what is required, I will return once my sons are grown and married and have their own lives and Calliande is in her grave. But I will not abandon my wife and children.”
Ardrhythain stared at him for a moment, and then smiled. It was still strange to see such an expression on that ageless, ancient face.
“Then you have learned wisdom, Ridmark Arban,” said Ardrhythain. “Through great pain and trial, you have learned wisdom.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Ridmark.
“Your own philosophers have said that knowing what one does not know is the start of wisdom.”
Ridmark snorted. “All I know is that the sword is too dangerous to remain with the men of Andomhaim.”
“That is so,” said Ardrhythain. “Do you remember when we first met?”
“It would be hard to forget,” said Ridmark. It had been during the Feast of the Resurrection at Castra Marcaine nearly twenty years ago. He had danced with Aelia on that day, and Tarrabus had been there. And then Ardrhythain had arrived, asking for a volunteer under the Pact of the Two Orders. Ridmark had volunteered, hoping to impress Aelia and win enough renown to ask her father for her hand…
Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (Frostborn #15) Page 45