Sparrows chattered noisily from the branch of a tree, gossiping about the battle. “Yes, yes, yes,” one excitable fellow chattered. “Yes, the big people are going to war again. Yes, yes, lots of fighting. Big fighting. Yes.”
Markal turned, irritated. “The chattering beak tempts the snake,” he told them.
Chittering in surprise, the birds flew away. The wizard grinned in spite of himself, pleased that he’d remembered the common bird proverb. Like most such adages, it was utter nonsense. A snake was stone deaf, as any creature smarter than a sparrow could tell you.
He made his way to the clearing, afraid of what he would find. Much to his relief, the dead rider was neither of his friends nor Flockheart or his daughter. He didn’t recognize the griffins either.
Markal made his way through the tower. Thankfully, no more bodies. Indeed, the saddlebags were gone, making him think that they’d already taken the griffins to Balsalom before the battle. Flockheart had some fledglings, and these too were gone, perhaps removed to some other location. Cragyn must have drawn griffins from towers he’d attacked along the way. So the question was, had Darik taken the book? Why would he? If Markal was any kind of wizard, he’d have never left the book with Whelan and the boy without knowing its true nature first.
He found a shirt and some trousers and a pair of Flockheart’s boots, but the latter didn’t fit. Ah, well, his feet were tough enough. The skin on his blackened right hand began to slough off. It would hurt like hell for the next two days. This had been no mean spell.
The sun rose, promising a glorious late-summer day. It belied the scene of death in front of him. Others would have to give peace to this scene; he hadn’t the time. He scanned the trees, pondering the best way to cross into the Free Kingdoms.
“Did you lose something, wizard?” a voice said behind him.
Startled, Markal turned around. An old man with an oak staff stood at the edge of the clearing. He had a beard that was so white that it had a bluish tint, and an ancient face as lined as the mountain crags. It alarmed Markal that he hadn’t heard the man approach. Only a wizard had the power to do that.
“Are you friend or enemy?” Markal demanded.
The man chuckled. “If I were with the dark wizard, you would no doubt be lying in a pool of your own blood. By the Harvester’s bones, I thought you’d fallen asleep. I’ve rarely seen a more careless fellow.”
Markal grinned and forced himself to relax. The old man didn’t look dangerous, and that fact alone alarmed him. “So what were you going to do, old man, thump me over the head?”
“Old man? And I suppose that among the Order of the Wounded Hand, a man old enough to remember the Tothian Wars is not reckoned as old?” He shrugged. “Such is the curious way of wizards, I suppose. Men and women powerful enough to petrify their bodies in eternal youth, but feeble in the mind.”
“And you are not a wizard?”
The old man shook his head. “Not a wizard, no.”
“Then what, then who are you?”
He lifted his oak staff to point at the sparrows still chattering in the trees. “I’m the friend of those poor creatures you frightened just now. The friend of all birds and trees and animals who live beneath the attention of man.”
Markal nodded. “So you hide your destiny, magical man who is not a wizard? Very well. Yet, you know much about me. Who am I that my ways concern you?”
The old man lowered his staff. “You concern me little, except that I have something of yours that you carelessly let slip from your hands.”
Markal stepped forward eagerly. “You have it?”
The old man lifted a hand. “No closer, please. Yes, I have it. Your young friend looked into its pages one too many times and attracted unwanted attention. I trust if I give the book to you, you will be more cautious next time?” He reached into his robe and removed the steel tome. The Tome of Prophesy.
“Yes, I promise.”
“Very well then. I will hold you to your promise, Markal of Aristonia.”
The old man dropped the book and stepped back a pace. By the time Markal picked it up and looked up to thank his benefactor, the man had gone. He stared for a moment, wondering. A surviving wizard from the Crimson Path, perhaps, who’d lived the last four hundred years perfecting his arcane crafts? He must be powerful indeed, to keep himself and the tome hidden from the dark wizard.
Markal would seek him out later, should he get the chance, and find out what he knew about the book and the rest of the Oracular Tomes. For now, he had to reach the Citadel and warn King Daniel.
A bird screamed from the sky and Markal looked up to see Whelan’s falcon. He held out his good left hand and Scree circled for a moment before coming to his wrist. He grimaced as the bird dug its talons into the skin.
“Left you alone, did they?” he asked. The bird cocked its head and watched him, perhaps surprised that he could speak to it. No, Whelan would never leave the bird alone. It must have been staying with the griffin rider laying outside Flockheart’s tower.
“We need an understanding, you and I,” Markal said. “I have none of your equipment. None. So you’ll be unhooded.” He nodded. “Fly away and I’ll leave you to the eagles. They’ll make short work of you. Do you understand me?”
“Fly!” the falcon said. “Fly west! Mountains!”
Markal clenched his eyes shut. Falcons, hawks, eagles: why was it they had to scream everything? “Yes, we’re going west. Settle down and we’ll be all right.”
The wizard made his way across the mountains over the next few days, making sandals from birch bark. The falcon hunted fowl and marmot, which they ate raw. While his companions battled Mol Khah in Balsalom, the wizard fought snowstorms atop Mount Rachis. He hadn’t planned to go so high, but had awakened one morning in the middle of a giant’s thrackmole. A thrackmole was a strange game where giants chopped down trees and stripped off their branches, then took turns casting these trees as far as they could.
Markal had been dreaming of pleasant days, rather than the curse of the Dark Citadel that overshadowed his sleep in lower elevations. He’d dreamt of walking through his mother’s herbal gardens, before the war turned his home into the Desolation. Mother pointed out foxglove, and fontinel, and groning berry, telling him the healing power of each.
Markal woke to something crashing through the trees. A trunk five feet in diameter smashed down near his head. He scrambled to his feet to see six naked, hairy stone giants pitching trees at each other across a ravine. If a tree sailed toward one of the giants, he wouldn’t step clear, but let the tree knock him to the ground. More giants squatted around a fire further up the ravine chewing on bones and making an awful ruckus. By the Brothers, he’d slept soundly!
He slipped back down the ravine and circled to the north, which led him higher, and toward Mount Rachis. Scree flew down to meet him a few minutes later. If autumn came early in the mountains, winter came early atop Rachis, the tallest of the Dragon’s Spine. They slept in a cave that night while a storm raged outside, snowing them completely in. The cold bothered Scree little, and the snow not at all; as for Markal, wizards have ways to keep warm.
The weather improved as they circled Rachis and dropped down the other side. Pine gave way to hardwood. He crested a hill and got his first view of the valley. Below lay Eriscoba, beautiful and green and prosperous. Towns and castles dotted the plains, and in the distance, he saw a gleam of gold cast by the setting sun. The Citadel, the greatest fortress in all of Mithyl. Its outer walls were lined with gold leaves brought by thousands of pilgrims. Since the destruction of Aristonia, nothing had been so beautiful.
His breathing tightened when he remembered how long it had been since he’d stood atop that tower. He’d left Eriscoba with Whelan. Had it really been three years?
He heard the winged horses before he saw them, a whisper of sound on the wind. Markal looked up to see a company of winged knights riding down from a cloud castle that had drifted overhead while he daydreamed a
bout the Citadel.
Markal cursed his carelessness. He threw a hood over Scree and looked around for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere. The riders spotted him and shouted.
Chapter Fifteen
The palace had sustained heavy damage in the fighting. Mol Khah had let it burn at his back while he fought his way through the palace gates. Only the rain had put it out. Kallia’s garden rooms and the throne room were completely destroyed, together with most of the servants quarters, and into the scholars corner, including the library. Books that had survived the burning of the library of Veyre during the Tothian Wars perished, a loss that pained Kallia greatly. The damage would have been worse but for a few Balsalomian scholars trapped inside the palace with the presence of mind to carry hundreds of volumes to safety.
Mol Khah had surrendered, but he remained unbowed. “Cragyn will turn your name into a curse,” he promised her again. “For a thousand years, children will wake in the night, screaming for their mothers after hearing tales of Kallia Saffa.”
“Maybe so,” she replied. “But nobody will remember Mol Khah, second-rate henchman of a second-rate wizard.”
They’d led him to the dungeons to join his men. Kallia ordered the dungeons cleaned of the filth Mol Khah’s men had carted in to rot with her men, refusing advice from her ministers to let them bathe in their own excrement.
Kallia flushed revenge from her mind and turned her thoughts to Balsalom. The people needed to believe that normalcy had been restored, that their queen was strong enough to fight the dark wizard. She set men to clear rubble from the palace, while Saldibar organized a second crowning ceremony. She took up residence in her tower rooms, catching needed sleep late that night.
There was a knock on her door the next morning. She sat next to a window overlooking the city signing decrees for Saldibar. Life returned slowly to the streets. Kallia nodded to her servant girl who opened the door. Whelan stood at the doorway, and she rose to greet him.
“Did you find your friends?” she asked.
Whelan shook his head, frowning. “I found Flockheart in the tombs, but we can’t find his daughter or Darik.”
“Killed?”
“No. The dark wizard’s army traveled in such haste that they didn’t bury their own dead. Surely, if Darik and Daria were killed, someone would have found their bodies by now.”
“Captured, then?”
“Perhaps. I hope not. Better that they die. Still, I’ve got a feeling that they’re alive, so we’ll keep looking.” He cleared his throat and looked at his boots. “Kallia, may I speak with you frankly?”
She gestured for her servant girl to leave the room, but Whelan lifted his hand and said, “Perhaps she should stay. You are a married woman, now.”
Kallia eyed him coldly. “I am the wife of no man. Tashana, you may leave.”
Whelan looked relieved and waited quietly until the girl drew the door shut behind her. “I spoke to the dark wizard’s general a few minutes ago.” He unstrapped his sword and lay it beneath the cricket cage, as was the custom in Balsalomian homes, then sat on the rug opposite Kallia. “He is a vicious, stubborn man and not afraid of torture. In fact, he dared me to do my worst. He said something, however, that concerns me. Something about the dark wizard’s child.”
Yes, of course. Much to her fear, Mol Khah was right about one thing. She’d gulped gallons of Saldibar’s tea to salt the field where Cragyn had planted his seed, but still it took root. She hadn’t thought he would impregnate her, coming in the last few days of her cycle. But her courses were three days late.
“Yes,” she said, “it is true. It was not my wish.”
“No, of course not. The question is,” Whelan said, “what to do about it. A physic or herbalist can give you poisons to root it out, but they are dangerous things. Bearing his child lends legitimacy to the wizard’s claim over Balsalom.”
She rose to her feet, pouring him a goblet of fine Chalfean wine. He sipped politely; they preferred ales in the Free Kingdoms. “And if I keep the child, what then?”
Whelan said, “Declare the marriage to the dark wizard forced and thus invalid, and marry again, quickly, and with an ally. Then, conceal the child for a time, and lie about its age.”
“And Mol Khah?”
Whelan shrugged. “Saldibar will suggest that we kill him before he talks too much. I say lock him in solitude, or shrug off his statements as the ravings of a madman.”
His plan held a certain appeal. “No,” she said at last, “it will never work. I could not deceive my husband, and defiled, no prince or khalif would have me, political gain or no. Otherwise, I might approach the khalif of Darnad, see if he would join our revolt if I married his son. He once wished such an alliance.” She sighed, turning to look out the window. “Perhaps if I had Marialla’s beauty, he might overlook these flaws.”
Whelan put down his wine and looked in her eyes. “I heard what the dark wizard said about you.” He rose to his feet and sat closer.
She blushed. Yes, that she looked like a dunghill. “You did?”
“Yes, and it is a lie.” He sat far too close to be proper and took her face in his hands. The trembling in his hands alarmed her. But there was a raw power in his face and the strength of his shoulders that made her heart pound.
Whelan pulled away, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. But Kallia,” he protested, “your beauty is not a concern. There might be petty khalifs who are afraid of the dark wizard’s claim, or reject you because he defiled you. I wasn’t thinking of that sort of husband, but someone from the Free Kingdoms.”
She smiled. “Are you talking about yourself, oh great warrior of the thorn?”
He recoiled. “Oh, no. Of course not. I would not presume such a thing. But what of King Daniel’s brother Ethan? He is with Markal in the mountains, but if I can find Flockheart, we can bring him back to the city instead. You can wed him then.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, disappointed and a bit confused.
Whelan must have misjudged her expression, for he continued in a hurry, “Prince Ethan is a good man, wise and kind like his brother. His brother, the king, that is. He would be a good match.”
“You may be right.” She looked Whelan directly in the eye. “Now let me speak boldly with you, Whelan. I know my marriage will be largely for political reasons, but I can’t simply marry Ethan just like that. I’ve met the man once.”
“He is a good man,” Whelan said. “Kind and decent. Strong in character.”
“But I want something more. I won’t marry a stranger and simply take my chances.” She smiled. “I haven’t had the greatest fortune with marriage.”
He stood and walked to his previous seat, taking a nervous swallow from his wine. “If that is your wish, my queen, I will obey it. But if so, you’ll face the unpleasant task of bearing the dark wizard’s child more-or-less openly, or poisoning it like some vile weed.”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t say that I wouldn’t marry for political reasons, simply not political reasons alone. But what if I were to marry the captain of the Brotherhood of the Thorne, the greatest group of fighting men in all of Mithyl? The other brother of King Daniel. For Balsalom, that might be the best alliance of all.” She watched for his reaction, heart beating swiftly. She rose to her feet and went to the window.
Whelan watched her in surprise. “Who told you? Ethan?” He followed her to the window. “He said he wouldn’t tell you who I was.”
“No, Saldibar told me, but he only confirmed what I’d already guessed. There is no reason for you to hide secrets from me. I believe in you and trust you.” She put her hand on his arm and felt him tremble. “Come, Whelan, you know that few things would rally the Brotherhood to Balsalom as an alliance between us.”
He let her hand linger on his arm before tearing away. “No,” he said. “It is impossible.”
“I see.”
He turned quickly, and took her down-turned face in his hands to compel her to see the sincerity in his
eyes. “No, my queen, you don’t understand. It is not you. I have dreamed of hearing such words from your mouth. I am disgraced among my order, and hated by my brother, the king. He has sworn to kill me should I ever return to Eriscoba.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You know?” Whelan asked.
“I have known for three years that Daniel banished one of his brothers. Since it happened, in fact. Once Saldibar told me that you were a brother of the king, I quickly guessed that you were that brother. When I knew you as a boy, you meant to return to Eriscoba, to take Sanctuary to atone for your sins and join the Brotherhood, did you not? And so I guessed that you only returned to Balsalom because you finally told your brother and he banished you in a fit of rage and grief. Did I guess correctly?”
“You guessed correctly.” He lowered his head for a moment, before picking his glass of wine off the floor and taking another sip. “These things shame me greatly. Even when I suffered in Sanctuary Tower I was still too cowardly to confess to my brother that I had broken his trust.”
“But King Daniel must also be shamed by his own anger.” Hope rose in Kallia. “He too has suffered from the rift between you. He will welcome you back, I am sure of it.”
“Even if you guess correctly, there is more than that, my queen,” Whelan said. “There is the Brotherhood itself, the oaths I’ve made.”
“Oaths of chastity?”
He shook his head. “No oaths of chastity. But let me explain, Kallia. When Serena and I committed our crimes, we were children who didn’t understand the consequences of our actions. Now I am centered and know my strengths and weaknesses. I must marry a woman with that same knowledge, who also knows the crooked path to the Thorn Tree, the path that Jethro the Martyr walked in his last days.”
This was a trifling concern. “So I will learn this crooked path.”
“Kallia, my queen. Almost I believe you. I desperately want to believe you.” He sighed. “Kallia you would do anything, say anything to protect Balsalom. The city is your true love. You have no idea what the path to the Thorn Tree means, or you wouldn’t suggest it so lightly. And my oaths aren’t discarded so lightly, either.”
The Dark Citadel Page 23