The Forgotten Magic

by Kelly Peasgood

  "She just admitted to refusing that freedom," Alphonse grated, drawn into the discourse almost against his will. The old Councillor certainly had a blind spot when it came to his perception on the role of women, but he had a sharp mind despite his age, and had provided sound and insightful advice to the monarchs for years; first Stefan's father, and now Stefan. His obstinacy at truly listening to either Emily or Destiny paled next to his staunch devotion to Dalasham. "You cannot therefore claim freedom as her goal."

  "True freedom," Destiny countered, sparing Emily the disapproving regard of the Councillor. "Not just freedom from this minor inconvenience." She twitched her bracelets dismissively. "But from eternal persecution, from having to look over my shoulder for the likes of him," a jerk of her chin at Marcus, "or having to justify myself to the likes of you."

  "The freedom to write her own destiny," Emily murmured. Prichard hadn't heard her words so much as read her lips as the young woman glanced up.

  Destiny drew in a sharp breath, her dark eyes narrowed as she stared at Emily. She quickly regained her composure, gave a quick nod of her head.

  "Freedom to exist," the wizard concluded in a softer tone.

  "And you expect to find such freedom here?" Stefan queried in a tone equally low.

  She met the King's gaze with direct challenge.

  "I don't expect to escape justice for my part in Whillim's schemes, King Stefan," she stated. "I do, however, ask that you honour your Emily's agreement and confine me elsewhere than the wizard cell."

  Stefan raised an eyebrow before inclining his head in a manner that might indicate agreement. Or a shrug, depending on one's interpretation. Destiny chose to see agreement.

  "Then I will offer a piece of advice," she said. "Regarding this wizard and his disposition." Again, a nod at Marcus.

  Stefan narrowed his eyes―perhaps suspicion now―before opening his palm in invitation to continue.

  "He clearly stated his intention to hand your kingdom over to Wizard Nathan. While I don't yet see evidence that Nathan approaches your city, he might walk your lands. I advise you learn what you can from Marcus, and make ready to defend yourself against a powerful wizard. While Marcus might have planned to simply spirit me away for his master, I don't see how he could hand over your throne without that master making his presence known. I'm sure Darien has expressed my concerns to you regarding Nathan learning of the potential of Dalashamites, but I will say again: don't let Nathan see the strength of your Lesser Magics."

  Prichard winced. Darien had described Destiny's wild claim of the existence of these Lesser Magics, a claim the Chief Librarian and Emily sought to prove or disprove in the histories, but that theory had not gone beyond Prichard himself and Stefan. Before more than an uneasy murmur could arise from the Councillors, Stefan held up a silencing hand.

  "That matter we will discuss later," he stated, command in his voice. "For now, we have much to think on." He gave a purposeful nod, an indication of a decision made. "We will reconvene the matter of Wizard Destiny's trial tomorrow. In the meantime, I charge the one who accepted responsibility for the actions of said wizard with her confinement and well-being." The King's gaze pierced Emily. "Ambrose will continue to guard Assistant Librarian Emily who, in addition to her other roles as outlined by Chief Librarian Darien in researching recently mentioned matters, and as scribe to Lord Prichard, will oversee the disposition of Wizard Destiny. Do you accept this charge, Junior Assistant?"

  Emily blinked owlishly, terror writ plain across a face devoid of all colour. Prichard watched her visibly check herself from swivelling to seek Darien's guidance―or looking at Destiny―before swallowing hard enough that he wondered if she had just swallowed bile.

  "I―" she glanced briefly at Prichard, at Fred, back to Stefan. "I―" she tried again, the word strangled from her. Stefan hadn't really given her a choice, despite framing it as a question, and Emily struggled to give the expected response. She cleared her throat of her trepidation, drew in a deep, settling breath that brought a hint of resolve to her grey eyes, and bowed her head.

  "I accept it, Your Majesty."

  Stefan allowed his face to soften a fraction with his nod.

  "So be it. We will arrange for suitable accommodations." Now he took in the Councillors with a sweeping look. "We will adjourn until tomorrow, gentlemen." To his guards and Darien, "Remove Wizard Marcus to his cell." And finally, a curt, "Dismissed."

  Stefan turned on his heel, strode from the dais, and then from the room, Fred following close behind after meeting first Ambrose's pale gaze, then Prichard's dark one. So much said in just a glance. No doubt Stefan would hear all manner of objections from his Captain, but Prichard knew the King had made up his mind.

  Now Prichard regarded his fellow Councillors, milling uncertainly on the dais. Keeping his tone light, as his foppish persona would, Prichard clapped his hands once and rubbed them together, trying not to grin at how the abrupt sound made most of the men jump.

  "Well, that's that then," he said. "I'm off to find lunch. So much drama has awakened such an appetite."

  He leapt from the dais and made his way toward the main entrance. Behind him, he heard the other Councillors begin to take their leave, most following the direction Stefan had taken. The guards at the door had moved to retrieve Marcus. Prichard waited, watching while they removed the unconscious wizard, the soldiers following Darien to the wizard cells.

  Which left only Emily and Destiny, guarded by the stalwart Ambrose. Once the door had cleared, Prichard met Emily's stunned stare. He briefly took in the room, assured only they four remained nearby, then offered Emily a reassuring smile, dropping all his airs.

  "Stefan will have somewhere suitable set up shortly," he said. He met Destiny's mistrustful stare, surprised her with a nod of respect as his grin faded. "In the meantime, why don't you fill me in on what you didn't tell the others. Including the other reason Lady Destiny knew not to cross you, for I don't believe a knife alone would have stayed a wizard's hand."

  Both women rewarded his supposition with a shared look. He smiled, then turned to escort them from the room.

  Chapter 10

  Milos fought his way out of darkness and pain. He slit open an eye that throbbed in concert with a fierce ache at the back of his skull, peered at the limited view provided without moving his head as he lay supine upon a soft surface. Light flickered nearby, lanterns or candles, the subtle whiff of burning tallow suggesting either. A more distant source of light gave the sense of windows lightly covered against the glare of late-morning sun. Thick wooden beams stretched overhead, stone walls holding the roof aloft. He lay on a bed in a stark room smelling of sickness, the perception of other beds, empty, to each side.

  Milos dared move his head a fraction to confirm that he lay in an infirmary. He had an impression of lost time, fragmented memories of having woken thus in recent days, though with far more confusion and far less presence of mind, informing him that more than a day must have passed as he lay insensate. But what infirmary, and for how long?

  He flexed his muscles surreptitiously, cataloguing his injuries―broken ribs, swollen face, lump on the back of the head, a loose tooth or two in a mouth that tasted of old blood, bound right arm that felt flush with more than the bite of a sword (infection seemed likely, it's heat not unfamiliar to the mercenary Captain), and a knee that screamed agony even though it felt like someone had shoved the joint back into place. With that thought, memory slammed back to him, like the meaty fist of Captain Frederick of the King's Guard, whose furious final punch had stolen Milos' consciousness in a startling defeat of Prince Whillim and Lady Destiny, who had hired Milos and his Company in the first place. The cushy job that had gotten out of hand when King Stefan had fled, led to safety by a common girl, an easy payday that ended in disaster. The Destiny Seat, turning dark as it somehow restored memory, leaving Milos and his men at the mercy of those not inclined to grant it.

  So why, then, did Milos still breathe, and apparen
tly lie recovering in an infirmary? Had Whillim and Destiny regained control?

  Milos risked turning his head and opening both eyes to shift his gaze, hoping for answers. A man stood watching him, ginger hair pulled back, green eyes sharp. He bore the colours and arms of the King's Guard, but Milos didn't recognise him. Meaning this man had not remained in the city, fallen under Milos' command after Stefan had escaped. Only a handful of those elite guardsmen had evaded Destiny's spell, and every one of those had stood night watch and fled with the King before Whillim could seize full control of Dalasham. Now one who had remained loyal, untouched by magic and cognizant of Whillim's machinations from the start, stood over Milos, watching without comment as the mercenary took in his surroundings.

  Milos met the man's stare and managed to croak out a question, his normally rough voice made harsher by disuse.

  "How long?"

  The guard quirked a single eyebrow before answering quietly.

  "Five days."

  "King?"

  A slight snarl at the lips.

  "Stefan," the guard said. "The Prince and Destiny stand trial."

  Milos couldn't help the surprised snort at that. Then he narrowed his eyes.

  "My men?" he growled.

  "Out of the city and secure," came the surprising response.

  Milos shook his head, bemused.

  "Why am I here, soldier?" he demanded, using a tone his Mercenary Company would jump to answer. But the guard just twitched his lips in a wry smile.

  Whether he would have answered or not, Milos didn't know, because a commotion down the aisle of beds to the right drew their attention, from where Milos could now determine lay the entrance to the infirmary.

  A strange array of people began to shuffle in, turning into a small flood as the victims of Marcus' attack in the Greater Audience Chamber arrived, escorted by five soldiers. A suddenly harried physician swept from a cubby of a room near the entrance to deal with this unexpected influx of patients; a couple of bloodied soldiers, a handful of commoners and noblemen with scrapes and broken limbs, and two Councillors, one cradling an arm, the other limping badly, blood darkening his light trews in a spreading swath. The physician called for a page, sending the boy who popped his bewildered head into the room to fetch additional aid.

  Milos' guard shifted as though to offer assistance, but then Milos saw he had put himself in a position to block easy sight of the man he guarded. Milos might have laughed that the ginger-haired man thought Milos could pose a threat to others in his current state if he hadn't feared the action would elicit more pain. Five days may have passed, each one healing the mercenary a little more, but Milos doubted he could stand without assistance, and every breath felt an ordeal. The guard needn't have worried about Milos causing trouble.

  The physician began sorting out people, arranging beds for those in more dire need regardless of rank, an assistant rushing in to assist moments later. This concern for need over station didn't sit well with the Councillor holding his broken arm. That didn't surprise Milos in the least when he recognised the snarling man, refused a bed in favour of a soldier who could barely move without a supporting arm, the warrior's face red and sticky from a wound that oozed profusely as he stumbled forward. Sir Byndorf protested volubly, more so when the physician physically pushed him aside, demanding he wait his turn.

  Byndorf blustered, his irate (and somewhat frightened) gaze sweeping the room. It came to rest on Milos, and fear turned to anger.

  "Why is this man here?" the Councillor shrilled, advancing on Milos' bed. The ginger headed guard blocked him, drawing an indignant glare from eyes wide with conflicting emotions.

  "Out of the way," Byndorf snarled, actually lifting a hand to shove the guard, though the man moved not an inch, holding his position against rage.

  "This man lies under the protection of King Stefan, Sir Byndorf―"

  "While wizards cast their unnatural curses at honest men? He stood with that bitch while she gloated over her puppet Prince, lording it around as though he could stand equal to a nobleman, and you would protect him?"

  "I follow the orders of my King, Sir Byndorf. He has a use for this man that does not include additional harm coming to him. Whatever Destiny has done, Captain Milos has not left this room in nearly a week."

  "She didn't do anything, this time," the second Councilman said with a grimace from two beds down as the physician's assistant cut away his ruined trews to reveal a gash in his leg that showed the suspicious white of bone broken through skin. Master Jamison Goldsmith, face pale and glistening with pain sweat, avoided staring at his injury by scowling at Byndorf instead. "As you no doubt heard when that madman spoke."

  "What madman?" the guard asked.

  "That other wizard you brought back from Bakaana, Corporal Joseph. The one who thought he could hand over a kingdom to someone he called Nathan. Or weren't you listening to his ravings, Byndorf?" Goldsmith sneered as he regarded his fellow Council member. "Too preoccupied by your desire to see Destiny pay for what the Prince did." Then Goldsmith hissed as his attendant prodded his wound.

  Milos listened closely to the exchange. Another wizard? He vaguely recalled Destiny mentioning a wizard in the city after she had stolen Stefan's mind. Had the King himself brought another magic user to his castle? If so, it seemed he had made as big a mistake as Milos. No more wizards, he promised himself. If he ever escaped this kingdom (even this room, he admitted to himself), no more contracts from wizards, no matter how seemingly simple or lucrative the job.

  "Filthy upstart merchant," Byndorf growled, lunging toward Goldsmith. The guard―Joseph, Goldsmith had named him―tensed, but didn't move, and Milos suddenly understood that he hadn't stood over him to prevent an escape. Or not entirely. Joseph truly did guard Milos, preventing easy access to others who might intend to harm the mercenary. Why, Milos didn't understand, but weak as he felt, the protection made him embarrassingly grateful.

  One of the soldiers who had escorted these men to the infirmary intervened before Byndorf could do more than send the assistant stumbling to his knees with a curse. Joseph stared at Byndorf and Milos would have given a handful of coppers to see the Corporal's expression when Byndorf blanched.

  "Escort Sir Byndorf to a bench outside until someone can see to him," Joseph ordered the soldier. The man nodded crisply, took Byndorf's uninjured arm and led him away. Part way to the door, Byndorf recovered enough to shake off the soldier's hand, then stalked from the room. Joseph shook his head, his stance finally relaxing as he turned to face Milos again.

  "Captain Frederick wanted a word with you when you woke," he informed Milos. "But from the looks of things, he'll have his hands full with other matters for awhile. Rest while you have the chance."

  Milos stared at him, then around at the cacophony of chaos being held at bay in the infirmary. He nodded in turn and lay back, closing his eyes. Every good soldier knew how to find sleep under the poorest of conditions―inclement weather, strange and uncomfortable surroundings, the rustlings of foreign wildlife, the cries of the wounded―because he could never guarantee when another opportunity for rest might come. Milos took this opportunity to reclaim what strength he could. He had a feeling he'd need both mind and body at full capacity soon enough.

  ***

  The day had started bright and clear, but as morning shifted to noon, clouds had billowed in, darkening the horizon. On the cusp of those clouds, a bird had found its way to Nathan, released that morning from the hand of his minion in the north and enhanced to make all haste. It's message buoyed Nathan, making the first thin appearance of drizzle that enjoined many to think about seeking shelter feel more like a cleansing mist to the wizard, the beginnings of a clean slate. Marcus would take custody of Girl today, bringing her south to Nathan's justice. Nathan debated between waiting here on the border in the comfort of the inn with its fine food, soft beds and supple serving wenches―restraining the less-than-willing red-head had become a favoured past-time of Tyrandel―or cro
ssing into Dalasham to meet Marcus all the sooner. If they pushed the horses and the carriage that would bear the weight of Tyrandel, strengthening the endurance of the beasts with a touch of magic, they could meet Marcus within a couple of days, assuming Marcus also travelled on horseback.

  Nathan smiled fondly at the notion of Girl slung flopping and bouncing, trussed to the back of a horse, and Marcus proudly leading his prize back to its rightful owner. Too long she had evaded him, but no more. He would extract his vengeance slowly, painfully, pay her back for the slaughter done, and he would take his time in doing so. Tyrandel and Marcus would help draw out her suffering.

  And it can't come soon enough, Nathan decided as he finished the last of his mid-day meal, only slightly delayed. He glanced over at his companion, the bulk of Tyrandel also leaning back with a satisfied sigh, his eye roving toward the pale and shaking red-head in the corner.

  "We leave within the hour," he declared. "Meet Marcus half-way, then bring Girl back here."

  Tyrandel nodded absently, gaze slightly unfocused. It sharpened quickly though, when Nathan unexpectedly cursed and leapt to his feet, dark eyes flashing as he glared in fury at nothing in the room, his attention drawn north. He pushed his way to the door, throwing the barrier wide to smash against the wall. Striding outside, heedless of the drizzle that had turned into a light rain, he concentrated his senses into Dalasham, barely conscious of Tyrandel coming to stand silently at his side.

  Long ago, when Wizard Shelton had sought peers for his son, both to learn with (and from), and to share in the cost of wielding certain spells, he had bound a select few together. Tyrandel and Marcus had stood among that small number, along with a third who had died as a result of Girl's actions. Shelton had woven a spell into their blood, tying each to Nathan that he might borrow their strength in times of need, no matter the distance separating them or the interference of another wizard should he try to sever the link or block it behind a barrier. Nathan could always feel that connection, an action that had become second-nature, as simple and obvious as breathing, something he never had to think about, didn't even acknowledge most days.