He had to stop this.
There was no reason to the feeling, but it was nearly overpowering nonetheless. A tension had built in the air, and he felt a rolling nausea in the pit of his stomach, a warning that something must be done. Now.
Endric glanced quickly over at Senda. Her mouth was drawn and a look of horror crossed her face. Not even willing to meet his eyes, he knew she wouldn’t help. Part of him hoped the Magi would sense what was happening and interrupt, but all the windows on this side of the palace were darkened and there was no time for a warning. The same was true for summoning the Denraen, though with the palpable power building, he doubted there was much they could do anyway.
That left him.
Endric closed his eyes, struggling to think of what he could do, unsure what it was he witnessed but certain it needed to be stopped.
His eyes snapped open. Then he flung his sword toward the figures.
There was no intention of actually hitting them; a sword was not meant to be thrown like he just had. Still, it flew true, end over end, slicing the air, almost parting the darkness as it whistled toward the figures. When it neared the circle formed by them, it bounced back, as if hitting some physical barrier.
The nearest figure snapped his gaze toward Endric. A dark snarl crossed his face and he took an almost unintentional step forward. With the movement, the tension in the air suddenly snapped away. A loud crack thundered through the air. If Endric had not known otherwise, he would have thought it from a lightning strike. The darkness lifted and the sense of swirling movement to the markings on their skin disappeared.
The nausea in his stomach was gone. Now another feeling filled him. Fear.
“What are they?” he whispered. Senda touched his shoulder. He didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare take his eyes off the figures.
“I have no idea,” she said. Her voice quavered more than his had.
The figures glared at him, malevolence in their dark eyes. Their gaze pierced the night, almost as physical as daggers. Endric resisted the urge to step back. The strange markings on their flesh worked onto their faces as well, black lines forming a pattern. The markings occasionally seemed to slide and slither across their bodies, though with less intensity than before. There was something familiar about the markings that he couldn’t place.
Hatred and malice radiated from them. Endric shuddered, recognizing nothing natural about the horrible emotion rolling over him. Like a presence, it couldn’t be denied. The sense washed over him, pressing into him and overwhelming everything else. His body had slumped as if sapped of strength and will, and his knees buckled.
Loss filled him.
Andril was gone. Endric knew he should have been with him. Perhaps then his brother would live. Dead, and his last memories were of arguments he knew he never should have started.
His father hated him. Endric couldn’t blame him for wanting more from him. Even now, with Andril gone, he antagonized his father. Now, even hope for reconciliation was gone.
Then there was his mother. The woman he never knew. She left when he was only a child, too young to remember her. Somehow, he had managed to offend her as well, chasing her away from their family. Andril and their father had been right to blame him.
“Endric?”
He heard Senda’s voice as a distant sound, as if speaking through a thick door or from far off.
“Endric.” She spoke again, closer now, uncertainty to her voice.
He thought of his friends. Surely they would be better off without him? Pendin would no longer be forced onto patrol. Olin could find his place in the Denraen, no longer held back by their friendship. Even Senda would be freed from his taint.
“Endric!” Senda spoke with urgency now.
Endric shook his head, feeling his mind clear slightly as he did, a haze lifting. Slow recognition dawned on him and he breathed deeply, inhaling the cool night air, feeling his head clearing with each breath.
He glanced over at Senda. Fear crossed her face, but recognition as well.
“Endric?” The question was clear in her voice.
He nodded. “I think I’m fine.” Whatever had happened was gone now.
He turned his attention back to the figures, the nearest man tensing. Endric wished he still had his sword, but at least Senda had her staff. She was exquisitely skilled with it, and her presence gave him some measure of comfort, but without his sword he might as well be naked. He could protect himself in normal unarmed circumstances, but there was nothing normal about this.
“Be ready,” Endric whispered, not daring to turn his attention away from the men.
He heard Senda raise her staff, the air whistling as she started spinning the long length of hardwood.
Then there was a folding of shadows, like night covering night, and the tension built again. He felt helpless before it, uncertain what these men even were and even more uncertain how to stop them. His skin started tingling, almost burning, and the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. The nausea in the pit of his stomach returned, building as the tension in the air became almost unbearable.
Then it snapped out of existence with another crack.
With it, the figures were gone.
The night sky lightened and the outline of the palace was again visible. No one else stood on the lawn. Nothing moved. It was as if what they had witnessed had never happened. only his sword remained as a testament to whoever they had been and whatever they had been trying to do.
14
Endric stared at the open ground and then hurried forward after his sword. It rested on the lawn not far from where the nearest man had stood. The wrappings on the hilt were singed. The blade was hot to the touch as well.
It was not the only oddity he discovered. The ground around the palace was unmarked, as if it had not even been stepped upon. The grass, which should have been tamped down, stood tall.
How? He had seen how the strange figures had moved, stepping through a rigid dance. There should be some evidence they had been here.
Turning to Senda, he opened his mouth to speak but froze as two tall shapes emerged from a nearby door. For a moment, he feared the strange men had returned, but these were too tall. That left only one other answer. Magi.
“Get away,” he whispered to Senda.
She shook her head. “There’s nowhere for me to go.”
“I’ll cover for you. We both can’t be seen here.”
“You will not suffer for this alone,” Senda said.
Endric shook his head. If Senda was implicated with him in this, she could lose her position with Listain. He didn’t want to be responsible for the continued suffering of his friends.
The approaching Magi wore long, billowy cloaks. One was bearded and his back stooped slightly. His hair was shorn close and gray, and a bald patch reflected what little moonlight filtered through the clouds. The dark fabric of his cloak was more heavily embroidered. Everything about him called attention to his age; even his fingers were twisted with arthritis. A wide band of black encircled the fifth finger on his right hand.
Even so, there was a presence about him, a certain pull of authority. This was the Mage he had seen in Stahline.
The other Mage appeared youthful by comparison. Long hair was peppered, though mostly gray, and pulled back behind his head. His cloak was a lighter color than the older Mage’s, and less embroidered. He stood tall and his eyes were serious. His chin was sharp and angular and his nose long and hawkish.
The Mage caught Endric staring and turned his intense gaze upon him. Though the impulse was there, he didn’t shy away. The Mage glanced with a clear disdain at the sword still held out in his hand.
“You are Dendril’s son.” It was the older Mage who had spoken.
Endric nodded and sheathed his sword. The blade had cooled but was still hot, and he felt it through the sheath.
“Why are you on the palace grounds?” the other Mage asked.
He glanced at both Magi. Ho
w truthful should he be? He was certain that the older Mage was the same one he and Pendin had seen in Stahline meeting with one of the Denraen. A sudden worry struck him—could he trust these Magi?
“I saw something moving across the palace grounds. It was late to be one of the Magi,” he said, deciding to start with the truth.
The elder Mage frowned. “And you both decided to investigate?” His aged voice was thin and warbly.
He shook his head. “Not both. Me. Senda tried to stop me.” He hoped she wouldn’t say anything. Let the blame fall only upon him.
Several moments passed. At least in this, she complied.
“Hmm.” The elder Mage turned away from Endric and looked over at the ground where the strange figures had performed the ceremony. “Why here?” he asked without taking his eyes off the tall grass of the lawn.
Endric inhaled. He would be direct. The Magi might know if he weren’t. “There were three figures. They crossed the lawn from there.” He pointed to the gate he’d seen them come through. “I interrupted them as they performed some sort of ritual.”
The elder Mage had turned to watch him as he spoke and widened his eyes briefly.
The other Mage glanced down at the lawn. He took a few steps before looking back up at Endric. “There is nothing here other than Denraen bootprints.”
“They were here,” Endric said. “I can’t explain why there are no markings. And I don’t know where they went. They disappeared.” Even to him, the explanation sounded hollow, and he had seen it with his own eyes.
“I saw it too, Magi,” Senda said. Her tone was deferential. More of what his should have been.
“Hmm,” the elder Mage said again.
The other Mage stared at Endric for a long moment, then turned to face the elder Mage. “I see nothing here, Tresten.”
Endric’s ears perked at that name. Urik had mentioned the name Tresten, speaking of him with a certain reverence and referring to him as the only one on the Magi Council to have left the city. What did it mean that he was here?
“Are you certain, Alriyn?” Tresten looked up and blinked, but not before Endric saw that his eyes had taken on a milky haze, as if a film covered them. They cleared as he opened his eyes, now bright and piercing.
“What do you see, Elder?” Mage Alriyn moved to stand near Tresten and looked where the elder Mage had been staring.
Mage Tresten walked over to Endric, smelling of roses and fresh rain. The scent took him off guard and he frowned. Mage Tresten moved slowly, as if each step pained him. As he stood before Endric, his back stooped and bent, it was almost as if the weight of walking was too much for him to bear. And still he was tall. Nearly a hand taller than the other Magi, he would have towered over Endric at his full height. An aura of authority radiated from him. More than that, he exuded a sense of peace.
Endric suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of awe. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.
“Son of Dendril,” he began, then smiled. A wave of relaxation radiated from him and blanketed Endric. Muscles he had not known were tense loosened and relaxed. “Your father speaks highly of you.”
He shook his head, uncertain whether to be surprised by the fact that Dendril spoke with the Magi councilor or embarrassed by the confusion. “You must mean Andril. I am Endric.”
The Mage tilted his head. “Hmm.” He stared at Endric for a long moment, and he felt exposed, almost as if the Magi knew what he thought. “Andril?” he repeated and shook his head. “I am sorry that he has passed. Your father spoke highly of him as well.”
Endric swallowed hard at the sudden memories flooding him. He looked away, trying to avoid Tresten’s eyes, unsure what to make of him. The Mage seemed different than any other he had ever encountered. There was no arrogance. Not like the other Magi, Alriyn, appeared to possess. Though old, he didn’t appear frail. Rather, he appeared to have a distinct strength.
“I’m sorry I entered the grounds and approached the palace. I will report my actions to my father and accept the consequences for violating tradition,” he said without looking up.
Tresten raised his eyebrows. “Less violation than you think,” he said. Alriyn looked at him curiously. “I would know what the figures you saw looked like.”
Endric took a deep breath, knowing how foolish it would sound. He pressed on anyway. “They were men, though they didn’t move like any man I have ever faced. They were cloaked and covered at first. During their ritual, they tossed their cloaks off and their bodies were covered with dark paintings.”
As he spoke, he realized where he had seen similar markings. The miner, related to the Magi and quicker than any miner had a right to be, had similar tattoos. With the realization, he wondered at the connection and if the Magi were in some way involved.
Tresten watched him intently for long moments. When he spoke, the words were quiet, almost as if he didn’t intend to speak aloud. “As I feared.”
“What were they?” Endric asked.
Alriyn looked at him sharply for daring to speak, but Tresten didn’t take any offense to the question. “Theirs is a dark art, arcane, and one that should have been lost thousands of years ago but still somehow exists.”
Alriyn looked over at Tresten and frowned. “Elder? Are you certain you should—”
Tresten nodded, cutting Alriyn off. “Endric should know what it is he did for us this evening. Had they succeeded…” He looked back toward the space used for the strange ritual. Almost as if he could see it, though no markings existed.
Slowly, Tresten turned his attention back to Endric. His eyes nearly glowed. “What you came upon was a Deshviili, a ceremony of destruction. I can only speculate at the target.” He glanced at the palace, then around the lawn, frowning as his eyes passed over the nearest gate. “Performing such a ceremony takes great strength in the dark art. Few are thought to have the necessary power. If interrupted, it cannot easily be repeated. Too much is spent in building the needed energy. The fact that you live gives evidence of that.”
Endric shivered.
“I do not know how you managed to interrupt a Deshviili. It should not be easy. For that, you have the thanks of the Magi.”
“Elder?” A worried frown plastered Alriyn’s face.
Tresten shook his head. “They should not have been able to gain access to the palace lawn, Alriyn.” His tone was angry.
Alriyn nodded. His face was tight. Endric recognized the emotions there as the same ones he had felt. Fear. Worry. What could unnerve the Magi?
“What are they?” Endric asked again, needing to hear from the Magi what he suspected.
Tresten closed his eyes and sighed. “You know who they are, Endric. I see it in your face.” Endric nodded and said nothing. “They are the celebrants of destruction. They would deny the gods. They are the Deshmahne.”
Behind him, Senda gasped.
15
The night hung heavy and still after the proclamation.
Tresten had said nothing more after naming the Deshmahne, simply dismissing Endric and Senda to return to the Denraen. He turned and headed back toward the palace, his back seemingly more hunched, as if the weight of the discussion weighed upon his shoulders. The power he exuded was unchanged.
The other Mage paused and stared at them. He frowned for a moment, then opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something before shaking his head and turning away. Endric watched him follow Tresten, returning to the small side door they had come from. Had Tresten been the Mage he saw in Stahline? The importance of that meeting remained as much a mystery as the identity of the Denraen the Mage had met with. Endric couldn’t shake the idea that something important had taken place.
He sighed. Everything about this night had him unsettled, and his heart still fluttered in his chest. Even attempting to slow his breathing didn’t help.
“Endric.”
Senda’s soft voice startled him and he turned. The moon had crept out from beneath the clouds, now brightly lighting the
ir path. Her dark hair trailed behind her, billowing off her Denraen grays. She wore the same uniform as the men.
There were few women among the Denraen, but most were like her. Strong. Fierce. Proud.
There was a different set to her jaw tonight. Senda’s normally soft face was tight, and her hand squeezed her staff, almost afraid to let it go. It wasn’t only him who was unsettled.
“Rumors are true,” he said.
She frowned and narrowed her eyes before making the connection. Then she nodded. “There were too many stories of strange abilities for there not to be a shred of truth,” she began, trying to keep her tone confident. Endric knew her well enough to recognize the hitch for what it was as she spoke. “There was immense power here tonight, Endric. Even I felt it.”
He nodded. He had felt it as well. Tresten had even commented upon it, and for that Mage to make note of power meant something.
“We should report to Dendril,” Senda said. Nervousness crept back into her voice.
“I will. You find Listain. Add this to what is known of the Deshmahne. Maybe this will persuade the Denraen to act.”
“Endric, I—”
“You saw what happened here tonight. Regardless of what happens to me, the Denraen need you.”
“Just the Denraen?”
He sighed. “I don’t know what I am going to do,” he admitted. “But I may need you too. Tresten may not have been offended that I violated tradition, but the other Mage certainly was. There will be repercussions.”
“I saw what happened. We had reason for entering the grounds.”
“I had reason,” he corrected. “You know it doesn’t matter. Not when I’m involved.”
She opened her mouth and he raised his hand, silencing her. Her eyes narrowed and she frowned, but she didn’t say anything more. They knew each other too well.
The walk back through the city was silent. There were the sounds of the night—the occasional chirp of a creakerbug, a lonely hoot from a mountain owl, and their footsteps along the cobbles—but otherwise the city was quiet. It was late, and he didn’t expect anything else. Most in the city were asleep. As he should be. Somehow, he had managed to find trouble again. This time, he was not sure of the consequences.
Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1) Page 10