Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  He paused at the gate. This, itself, was a barrier. All knew teralin held heat, and the fear of that heat had stopped more than one person from trying to sneak past the wall surrounding the palace. The metal itself was valuable, mostly to the priests though it had other uses, but he had never heard of anyone thieving the teralin gates from the Magi. Many had debated whether it was fear of repercussions from the Magi or fear of the teralin itself that stopped most men.

  The gate was elaborately made here. The teralin was thick, the bars nearly a hand wide, and likely accounted for several months of mining to recover this much of the metal. A gate this size was nearly priceless. Then there were the decorations worked into the metal. Though some twisted into blurred faces—renderings of the gods—most were shaped into the other symbols of the Urmahne. Trefoil leaves, split branches, even the tower were shaped into the teralin. The effect was awe-inspiring.

  Or it had been, once. Living in the city took much of the awe of the Magi out of him. There were still a few people who visited and had never seen the city. He had seen the expression on their faces as they approached the palace and the gate leading to it. To one not born of the city, it was almost a religious experience.

  Endric sighed. If only he had such faith. Andril had had the required faith. That had granted him a sense of peace, a quiet strength. If only he could be like Andril in that regard. Perhaps then he could more easily serve.

  His hand hovered over the gate. Heat radiated from the metal. This much of the ore would be quite hot. It wouldn’t burn—shaped teralin never did—but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt. Steeling himself, he twisted and pushed on the handle, swinging the gate slowly open. He had to suppress a scream as he did.

  Pendin looked at him, a hint of amusement crossing his face. “It’s worse in the mines,” he said quietly.

  Endric began wondering just how much experience Pendin had in the mines. He had mentioned working in them briefly, but did he have more extensive knowledge? Could he…

  He pushed the thought away, inhaling deeply. He wouldn’t doubt his friend. Pendin had been nothing other than a friend since they first met. There was no reason to doubt him. No. He needed Pendin now. Especially since Andril was lost to him.

  “Do we just walk up to the front door?” he asked Pendin.

  He shrugged. “What did you do the last time you were here?”

  Endric snorted with a suppressed laugh. “Only violate centuries of tradition by entering the grounds and brandishing my sword at a pair of Magi councilors.”

  “We could repeat that…”

  He laughed again. It felt good, as if it had been too long since he had last let himself truly feel joy. Even though he worried for his friend, he knew he couldn’t hold all his emotions inside. Too often, he bottled up what he was feeling until it exploded. That was part of his problem.

  He still felt the pull of tension in his shoulders, but the worst of it had eased. He looked up at the tower still lit with the unnatural blue light. There had been no more tremors since they left for the palace, and he wondered if that was the Magi’s doing or simply chance. The lingering questions caused the tension that had been easing to slowly begin to build again, and with it, frustration at his impotence about what was happening.

  Nodding toward the palace, he started off down the path leading toward the main entrance. His heart skipped a bit faster in his chest. He almost wished he were more devout; a prayer might help them now.

  He paused as they neared. Ornately carved doors nearly twice his height curved up into an arching doorway. They looked to be made of the same pale stone as the rest of the palace, but Endric found that hard to fathom. Stone doors would be nearly impossible to open. But perhaps that was the intent.

  He frowned as he looked at the carvings along the surface, detailed etchings recognizable to any of the Urmahne faith. The centermost scene depicted the Ascension—the time when the gods left their earthly home to sit among the heavens. Urmahne taught that the Magi still spoke to the gods, acting as their voice, and that they would one day return. Endric believed that the gods had once lived on earth—the tower was a testament to that—but was not sure how he felt about the rest of the religion.

  Teralin handles decorated with twisting vines ending in wide trefoil leaves sank into the stone on each door. Even if he had the stomach to grasp the handle, he was not sure he could even open the door. Then he realized he wouldn’t have to.

  As he started to turn to ask Pendin’s opinion, one of the doors slowly swung toward him. He wondered briefly what he would say to the Mage he assumed opened the door. Who else could? Instead, a small man emerged from the shadows to peer up at him. The white shirt and pants he wore flowed with each step. His gray hair was worn long and tied loosely behind his head. Not a Mage. A palace servant. Their dress and appearance stood out from the other workers in the city.

  “You would be Endric, son of Dendril,” the man said after considering him for a long moment. His voice was thin and creaked as he spoke. Turning to Pendin, he brought a gnarled hand to his wrinkled face and frowned. “Then you are likely Pendin Tisguid.”

  “How do you—” Pendin began, but Endric cut him off.

  “I apologize for the lateness of our visit, but the need is urgent. We seek Mage Tresten.”

  The man tilted his head. “You mean Dendril seeks Elder Tresten.”

  Endric frowned and slowly nodded. “Is he available?”

  The man glanced up and behind him, in the direction of the lighted tower. Was Tresten the source of the light? Was he the reason the tremors ceased?

  “I believe he is expecting you,” the man said.

  With that, he turned and left Endric and Pendin standing alone on the threshold of the Magi palace, the huge stone door cracked open. They looked at each other and Endric frowned. He dared not enter the palace. Not without an express invitation. That went beyond what even he dared try. Yet he was not certain what was expected of them.

  Long minutes passed. Pendin didn’t speak and Endric chose not to disturb the silence. Not even insects interrupted the silence of the night. He tapped his foot silently in agitation at having to wait. Each minute mattered. Finally, the door opened again and the familiar stooped form of Mage Tresten stood before them.

  He smiled. It changed his face somehow, distorting the image of the nearly invalid Mage, and Endric felt a strange kind of power emanating from him.

  “Mage Tresten,” he began but didn’t get the chance to continue.

  “No need for formalities. Dendril has need. What is it?”

  Endric hesitated. How had Tresten known they were coming? He didn’t seem surprised. Even the old servant had said the Mage was expecting them. Another time, he would have cried out with frustration. Everything about tonight created new questions, and there had been few answers.

  “To be honest, I’m not completely sure. We are to take you to one of the guard stations. I think it is the Raen.” He said nothing of his friend. Listain would matter more to the Mage.

  “Listain?” Tresten murmured, then nodded. “Show me.”

  With a quick flick of his wrist, the huge door swung closed. Endric was not entirely certain he even touched it. Mage Tresten started down the path leading away from the palace. He didn’t look back to see if they followed.

  When they were a little ways from the palace, Tresten glanced over at him. “You seem troubled.”

  “I am.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Were you expecting us?”

  Tresten looked over at him, then at Pendin. His friend had remained silent in the presence of the Mage. That wasn’t surprising. Pendin had a bit more faith in the Urmahne than he did. “Willam told you that?” Seeing Endric’s nod, he continued. “He has served the Magi long and well,” he said softly, then shrugged. “Perhaps he misspoke. Is that all that is bothering you?”

  Endric nearly tripped with the question. Tresten seemed genuinely concerned, though the Mage could simply be pretending. Who coul
d know the mind of a Mage? He shook his head. “That is not all,” he answered honestly.

  “It is what you saw? The Deshmahne are men, Endric. Endowed by their mystical arts, but men nonetheless.”

  Endric frowned. It was interesting that Tresten felt the need to frame it like that—as well as strangely reassuring. Had he been fearful of the Deshmahne? “They used the mines, Mage Tresten.”

  He smiled sadly and sniffed. “Just Tresten, Endric. And I suspected as much.”

  “The miners staged their rebellion tonight.”

  Tresten cocked his head and paused briefly midstep. Endric almost tripped again trying not to collide with him. “More layers here than I anticipated.”

  “Did the Deshmahne create the earthquakes?”

  “I believe so.”

  “How?”

  Tresten shook his head. “Little is known about the arts the Deshmahne use. They guard those secrets closely. But the most powerful of them, like the men you saw tonight, are able to perform destructive works that defy imagination.” He shook his head again and sighed, looking over at Endric.

  Endric suddenly thought of Andril and what his brother must have faced. Tresten saw his face and nodded. The Mage’s shoulders stooped as if he was fatigued, but his eyes were still bright.

  “Was it you that stopped them?”

  Tresten nodded. “I interrupted the flow of their destructive energy. As did you earlier tonight. They were tired from their attempt at the Deshviili, else I might have been ineffective.” He sighed again. “As it was, they still managed some damage.”

  They had reached the gate and Tresten pulled it easily open, no grimace on his face as he grasped the teralin, and they paused to stare into the city. Dust hung over the buildings like a low-lying cloud. Any other night, Endric would have thought it only mist. Tonight, he knew better.

  More buildings were damaged than he had noticed before. As they followed the street, they found one after another with evidence of cracking. Some had simply collapsed. It would take years to repair all the damage he saw. The street itself bowed, as if the pressure beneath had been too much to bear. These cobbles had been in place for hundreds of years, only needing occasional replacement, and now they were completely damaged. People stood outside shops and homes—sometimes one and the same—and stared around them. Most wore the same dazed expression Endric knew he had felt when the earth first shook beneath them.

  Endric looked at Tresten. The Mage had closed his eyes and was shaking his head slowly. His shoulders rolled forward and his spine curved as if the weight of the mountain pressed upon him. And perhaps it did. He looked even older than when Endric had first seen him. Weakened and tired. Endric didn’t know what it had taken to stop the Deshmahne and was certain he wouldn’t understand were the Mage to try to explain again. He looked as tired as he claimed the Deshmahne had been. What would have happened had the dark priests been at full strength?

  “More damage than I had thought.” Tresten sighed, opening his eyes. He pulled himself upright, some of the vigor returning to his step, and said, “Come. We must find Listain. And your friend Senda.”

  Endric blinked in surprise. “You knew?”

  Tresten nodded once. “She serves Listain well. I knew she would report on tonight’s events. Seeing as how she is not with you and the worried look you’ve worn upon your face, I can only deduce that is what you fear.”

  “It is.”

  “And Denraen Tisguid fears his parents’ involvement with the miner rebellion.”

  Pendin said nothing, only nodding.

  Tresten sighed again. “Show me this guard station.”

  Endric took the lead as they made their way into the city. They were forced to take a less direct path than he normally would, diverted by an occasional building toppled across the street, blocking traffic. Strange they had seen nothing this severe on their way to the palace. They encountered a few people, and at one point heard sobs and a woman wailing. Tresten stopped and looked at the woman. She was covered in dark dust—broken stone and ash—and blood smeared her forehead from an open gash.

  “What is it?” he asked softly.

  “My daughter,” the woman sobbed. “She’s trapped. My husband and son have run for help, but no one has come. Please, Magi. Ask the gods to save her!”

  “I will do what I can.”

  Pendin stepped forward with his mouth open, ready to speak. Endric stopped him with an arm across his chest. They were pressed for time, true, but Endric wanted to see what the Mage would do. Could the Magi truly speak to the gods? Would they intervene on such a request?

  The answer was more mundane than that. Still amazing to witness.

  Tresten raised his arm. A swirling energy, palpable but invisible, flowed from him and into the rubble. His long face pulled tight in concentration. Suddenly his eyes narrowed and then the rock exploded outward, away from them, revealing a small child huddled beneath. Amazingly, she was unharmed.

  “Mama?” she asked, opening her eyes.

  “Tralia!” her mother shouted, sobbing harder. She turned briefly to Tresten. “The gods be blessed!” She climbed in to claim her daughter.

  Tresten nodded, then turned away to lead them around the rubble, an opening now cleared by whatever he had done. The energy still swirled around him, though it lessened until Endric could no longer feel it.

  He followed the Mage. “The gods had nothing to do with that child being saved.”

  Tresten glanced at him and smiled briefly. “It is all perspective,” he answered. “To you, it is only a powerful Mage who worked his ability. To that woman, the gods guided my hand to save her daughter. Who is to say which is right?”

  Pendin chuckled and Endric turned to him and frowned, feeling a brief surge of annoyance. Still, seeing a Mage’s power was beyond what he had imagined. The thrill of it surged through him and he felt a moment of doubt. Could the Urmahne teachings be right?

  The Mage looked at him again, smiling briefly as if guessing his thoughts. Endric fell speechless. They remained silent as they worked toward the guard station. The station was known as little used, old, and with an interior much in need of renovation and upkeep. Why would Listain be there? Was it his search for secrecy, or was there another reason?

  Which building they were seeking became obvious as they neared. The dust and smoke were thicker around it. Endric covered his mouth with his sleeve as he moved. Massive stone fragments were strewn across the road, radiating outward as if from an explosive blast. The center of what had once been the building was completely destroyed, little more than fine debris remaining. Even the walls were barely visible. Strangely, the neighboring buildings had not suffered nearly as much. It was as if that specific one had been targeted.

  Along the street stood Dendril and Urik, staring at the demolished guard station. Dendril’s back was straight and he simply stared at the broken rock. Urik seemed agitated, his head swiveling, looking for movement or possibly hearing something. Dozens of other Denraen worked among the rock, searching under flickering lantern light. Overhead, the wan moonlight struggled to shine through the thick clouds. It had little hope of penetrating the dust cloud.

  Dendril turned when they approached, and a flash of relief crossed his face. It was the most emotion he had seen from the man since Andril’s death. “You came.”

  Tresten grunted, more of a huff. “I have been a little busy.” He ignored Dendril’s glare and looked into the rubble. “You are certain Listain was here?”

  His father blinked slowly before speaking. Endric recognized the expression; his father was considering his words carefully. Why?

  “Listain was here.”

  Tresten nodded, accepting the answer. “Anyone else?”

  Endric felt his heart flutter, thankful the Mage had asked the question and suddenly wondering about his feelings for Senda.

  Dendril shrugged. “There are several who work directly for him. Some may have been here as well.”

  Endric f
elt his brief hope sink. Tresten nodded again and stepped toward the demolished building. As he did, Urik whistled a distinctive two-note call—a signal to retreat—and the men searching the fallen building immediately stopped and moved back onto the street. Endric was not sure what to expect. He had seen what the Mage could do to help the woman on the street. Was it too much to hope for the same with Senda now?

  He felt the buildup of pressure behind his ears first. Then the hairs on his arms stood. Even the hair upon his head twitched, as if suddenly alive. Tresten had not moved, standing still and immobile, nearly statuesque. Endric could almost imagine the energy the Mage manipulated swirling around him. As he watched, he no longer had to imagine; the dust from the debris of the collapsed building began twitching and swaying in the air, creating a slow but steady spin around them. Blue light, like he had seen radiating from the tower window, seeped into the air, though it didn’t seem to come from any particular source.

  Some of the men raised their hands in supplication. He understood. To one devout, seeing this was to see the gods, however indirectly.

  Yet Endric didn’t feel that way, knowing there was a different answer, no less impressive but not dependent upon the gods. He could no longer doubt the Magi abilities. Whether they truly spoke to the lost and nameless gods was something entirely different and not required for Tresten to do whatever feat he now performed.

  The blue light and dust plunged down into the earth in a torrent, sending a blast of dirty air blowing up behind it. Men who had stepped closer to watch were thrust back, most coughing and covering their mouths to keep from breathing in the stale air. A few fell over from the force of whatever it was that Tresten did. The Mage raised his arms, and with it, the largest of the rubble simply lifted from the ground as if light as air. He twisted at the waist and nodded at the men standing in the street. Those who watched jumped and hurried out of his way. Others were pulled by their friends. When the street had emptied, Tresten lowered his arms and the rock lowered slowly with the motion, depositing onto the recently vacated space.