His mother would be there, pale and proud, eager for news of her only son’s military success. Rathien could already see her drawn face, the pulled-back knot of grey hair, the hawk’s glare of expectation. She was always there, pacing across her chamber in the seaward tower, hands clenched tight, thin mouth tight with incipient judgement.
Haerwal drew his horse alongside Rathien’s. The two of them sat beside one another for a long time with no words being spoken.
“All is not lost, lord,” the captain said at last, keeping his voice low so the rest of the riders, most of whom were still picking their way up to the Gate, wouldn’t hear. “You still have support in Caledor.”
Rathien shook his head bitterly.
“Caledor,” he repeated, as if the name had become hateful to him. “There is nothing in Caledor.”
He turned to face his captain, and shot him a glance of contempt.
“We have become weak, Haerwal,” he spat. “We, who once were kings. Now even the horsetamers dare to stand in the way of our ambition.”
“Maybe so. But there is still strength to be found.”
Rathien was about to respond with his customary disdain, when he paused.
There was a strange tang on the air. The wind that whined down from the peaks was sharper than it should have been. The sunlight was stronger. Even the rock beneath him seemed to vibrate with a low, almost imperceptible rhythm.
Everything was more vivid, picked out in clearer lines.
More real.
“There is strength,” agreed Rathien, his face pensive, still looking hard at stone and sky. “One gate closes, another opens.”
Haerwal looked at him uncertainly.
“I don’t—”
“I was told that once. Years ago, in Hoeth.”
Rathien looked up at the distant peaks. Cloud drifted down the shoulders of the mountains, dazzling white. Thousands of years ago, those places would have shimmered with magic. They had been home to creatures of such power and grace that Caledor had built its ancient fortunes on them and nothing else.
Rathien looked long at the summits, his mind turning new thoughts over, his face locked in a grim mask.
“We’re not going home,” he said at last.
Behind them, the entourage of riders began to back up along the road. Their steeds, bad-tempered Caledorian warhorses, stamped and whinnied.
Haerwal looked worried.
“We are at the gate, lord,” he pointed out. “We go onward, or we go back to Lothern.”
Rathien shook his head.
“Do you not feel it, Haerwal?” he asked. “Do you not sense the change? There is power running through these mountains like blood in a vein. It has infected all of us. This madness has a source, and we must seek it out.”
Haerwal looked nonplussed. Rathien couldn’t blame him for that. Haerwal was a decent warrior and an accomplished adviser, but no mage. The Winds of Magic washed over him leaving scarcely a trace. For Rathien though, steeped in the heritage of the Dragontamer and trained in the ancient arts of his people, the shift in the world’s balance was palpable.
The Winds were already stronger, and he could sense them waxing further.
One gate closes, another opens.
“I have danced to the wrong tune for too long. There were other paths I should have trodden.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rathien laughed, and his eyes glowed like jewels.
“You will,” he said, and for the first time since leaving Lothern his voice rang with conviction. “When this is over, you will understand everything.”
CHAPTER THREE
Under the strong sunlight, the great port city of Lothern revelled in its magnificence. Soaring towers of ivory and gold jutted up from the glassy waters, each topped with jewel-studded crowns and long pennants in livery of gold and crimson. Graceful bridges spanned the many canals in smooth arcs of stone, under which brightly painted boats glided on their way to and from the harbour. The air was sharp with salt and the thousand aromas of spices, herbs and fresh produce brought from across the civilised world. Along the wide quayside, voices in a hundred different tongues rose and fell.
Overlooking it all was the vast Emerald Gate, the huge arch of stone that guarded the narrow straits to the south. Hewn from the very feet of the mountains in the days of legend, it towered above even the mightiest buildings of the port city, framing the jagged profile of the Glittering Tower beyond. Bastions and fortified citadels studded the mountainside above, each manned with garrisons of Sea Guard and equipped with pristine ranks of bolt-throwers.
The Strait of Lothern was one of the wonders of the world, a reminder of the awesome power of the children of Aenarion in the days of their glory. Even now, while the power of the asur had waned and the future of Ulthuan looked bleaker than it had for centuries, the majesty was still evident in every facet.
None of which made much impression on Valaris. He sat in his chambers at the summit of the Tower of Silver Tears and looked over the unmatched vista with mild boredom on his refined features. He cradled a goblet of wine in one hand and the crumbs of an almond sweetmeat in the other. The exertions of fighting were long behind him and after several hot scented baths and the expert attentions of a quietly charming masseuse from Saphery he was beginning to feel something close to himself again.
He took a long sip of his drink and considered the deeds of the past months. Bel-Hathor was nearing the end of his life. The petty contenders for the Throne—Ulenwe of Saphery, Erione of Cothique, Rathien of Caledor—had been eliminated by diplomacy or warfare. That left only Valaris himself and Finubar, Prince of Lothern. The latter had many advantages, chief among them the stated favour of the Phoenix King, but his long journeys to far lands in support of obscure goals had weakened his hand at home. By contrast, Valaris had money and armies, and the quiet backing of many who wished to see less contact between the asur and lesser races.
All of these things were useful, but the matter was evenly balanced. The next few months would be decisive and there was still plenty of work to be done.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime from outside the chamber. He looked up, irritated, to see one of his serving girls hovering anxiously close by.
“Your pardon, lord,” she said. “There is a mage in the antechamber. Anlia of Loedh Anlyn.”
Valaris felt his heart skip a beat.
Anlia.
She had agreed to remain hidden, out of sight and out of harm’s way. Coming to Lothern was both dangerous and stupid. She had never been adept at keeping her movements secret, and there were watchful eyes in the city.
“Show her in,” he said, brushing the crumbs from his robes and placing the goblet on the table next to his chair.
As Anlia entered, Valaris was reminded of how young she looked. Her copper hair framed a slender face, and her movements were the brash, unsophisticated ones of immaturity. He felt his heart sink. Of all his many gambles, this was the one that troubled him the most. His mood soured almost painfully at the sight of her.
“Anlia,” he said, rising smoothly. “How delightful to see you.”
High up in the Annulii, the wind from the north turned cold. It brought waves of sleet with it, grey and biting. Haerwal struggled up the steep incline, letting his horse find its own way. Water ran down the smooth curve of his helm and dripped between his breastplate and undershirt.
He shivered and looked over his shoulder. The rest of the household guard made their way as slowly as he did and the column of mounted soldiers ran down the slope in a long, uneven line. Behind them came the rest of the troops. Their heads were low, turned away from the freezing rain.
They saw little purpose in this mountain crossing. Haerwal sympathised with them. He didn’t see the point either. Rathien’s mood, ever changeable, had oscillated wildly over the past few days. He’d gone from black despair to reckless optimism in the space of heartbeats. It was the optimism that was dangerous, but the despai
r lingered longer.
Perhaps his mind had finally turned. Haerwal had been with the family since Rathien’s childhood and had seen it coming for many years. The pressure exerted on him by that witch in Tor Morven would have cracked a lesser man decades earlier. His mother had been desperate for some recovery in the fortunes of the bloodline, so desperate that she’d forced her only son into the race for the Phoenix Throne, something more sober heads knew was far beyond his reach.
And Rathien had tried to please her. Since returning from Hoeth as a youth, steeped in the Lore of Fire and determined to master the craft, he’d given up everything to please her. He’d spent what remained of the family treasure on diplomats and ambassadors, bribes and warriors, all to please her. At every turn, she’d been breathing over his shoulder, reminding him of the great deeds of his father, a bully and a tyrant who’d squandered his ancestral honour on petty wars and lowborn maidens.
Haerwal kicked his horse higher up the slope, ignoring the rain snaking through the chinks in his armour. He drew alongside Rathien, who was plodding on doggedly, his shoulders hunched against the weather, his head low.
“Magic,” said Rathien, out of the blue. He was staring straight ahead, his gaze intense.
“Your pardon?”
“I should have trusted to magic.”
Rathien’s expression was hard to read. It was a mix of determination and desperation, as if the two emotions were warring within him.
“I was wrong to discard the craft of my fathers,” he said, a note of bitterness in his voice.
Haerwal struggled to find the words to reply with.
“Perhaps you—”
“I was fated to be a mage, Haerwal. I learned the Lore of Fire. I should have mastered the mysteries, not been seduced by the command of armies. Damn her!”
Haerwal said nothing. He wasn’t even sure if Rathien was truly speaking to him.
“Now I can feel it. I can feel the power of the world stirring. A storm is coming, one that will kindle every dormant ember on Ulthuan. It will give me the strength to do what is needed. It will give me the strength to do what should have been done years ago.”
Haerwal looked at his master warily.
“And what is that, lord? I need to tell the troops something—they have no idea what we’re doing here.”
Only then did Rathien look directly at Haerwal. His eyes glittered with a steady resolve.
“These are the Dragon Spine Mountains,” he said. “The glory of Caledor rests with the firedrakes. It always has. This is what we have forgotten. This is what will restore us to our rightful place in the order of things.”
“They will not wake. Their time has passed.”
Rathien smiled, and the expression was troubling in its intensity.
“They will wake, Haerwal.” His voice was strained but clear. “Do you not feel the magic burning? With every step, it grows.”
“If that is so, then other creatures will be drawn to it too.”
Rathien shot him a look of scorn then.
“Just what is it that you fear, captain?”
As if in answer to that question, an echoing roar broke out from the cliffs ahead of them. Instantly, the Caledorians snapped to attention. The infantry started to run up the slope to join the horsemen, drawing their weapons as they came. The mounted troops did their best to control their mounts, all of which had broken into a stamping, rearing unease.
Haerwal felt a spear of dread stab at his heart. The roaring was throaty and rattling. It came from more than one set of jaws, and rang from the stone like the tolling of a great bell. He picked up the aroma of death on the air, drifting down from the high places and staining the breeze with its polluting stench.
Haerwal drew his own blade and clamped his fist tightly around the grip.
“In this place,” he said, his voice thin, “everything.”
* * *
“You should not have come.”
Valaris looked at Anlia sternly. In response, the young mage smiled back. Her expression was both sweet and knowing.
“Hear me out before you send me back,” she said, sitting opposite him without being invited to. “I did not take the risk lightly.”
Valaris grunted.
“Quickly, then.”
“You have been kind to me,” she said, settling into her chair. “More than kind. You gave me shelter when others wished me… elsewhere. I have used my time in seclusion well, and know how to repay a debt.”
Valaris inclined his head noncommittally, but kept listening.
“I have heard much of your military adventures,” she said. “There seem to be more of them every year. Why is that, do you think? Why are the nobleborn of our realm suddenly so ready to take up arms to settle their grievances?”
“I do not intend to give you a lecture in the arts of state, Anlia. There are weighty matters at stake.”
“I have no doubt. And yet, it is still strange. I have learned much in the last year, and seen much. My visions have increased. They have given me an answer. You should know, lord, that a storm is on the verge of breaking. The Winds of Magic have grown stronger. They drive the world more violently and with each day their power grows. Even now they test the bounds we have learned to place on ourselves. But where there is danger there is always opportunity. And there is opportunity here, my lord, the opportunity of a generation.”
Valaris raised an eyebrow sceptically.
“Fascinating for you, I’m sure. How does it help me?”
“It could help both of us. You need power. You need to sway the undecided noble houses to your cause. As for me, I have gone too long without tasting the fruits of the aethyr. I need to flex my muscles again.”
Valaris studied her closely. There was no deceit on Anlia’s young face. There was excitement there, though, the excitement of a child before a festival day.
“Go on.”
“Location is paramount,” Anlia explained. As she spoke, a finger of her right hand lifted a fraction, and a translucent veil spun into existence between them. It hung, six feet in diameter and glittering like broken glass. There were marks on the veil. Valaris recognised the outlines of coasts picked out on the surface—those of Ulthuan and Lustria. Between the coastlines lay hundreds of miles of ocean, empty and shifting as if stirred by the breeze.
“There are fulcrums,” said Anlia. “Places where the Winds are drawn most keenly. On this occasion, there is only one. When the storm comes, this fulcrum shall be at the centre of it, drawing power to itself. This will be the eye of the hurricane, lord. I have seen it.”
As Valaris watched the fragile map, flame-like ripples began to circle around a nondescript spot of ocean. The ripples grew ever more violent, until it seemed as if he were staring into the lens of a huge, fiery eye.
“The middle of nowhere,” he observed bluntly. “And underwater.”
“You have ships. Take me there, and I will do the rest.”
Valaris frowned.
“And suppose I did. What would you be able to do?”
“I would raise the fulcrum above the waters. I would create an island of pure magic in the endless sea. You and I would stand atop it as the Winds raged about us. The paths of the future would open up to us, and the power of the sacred stone would fill us. I could send your image into the mind of every blood-royal on Ulthuan, and they would see your majesty revealed as if you stood before them clad in flesh. Their wills would be yours from that moment, driven by the dread potency of the storm. They would look for the next Phoenix King in their hearts, and see only you. Even after the magic had waned, they would see only you.”
Anlia looked at Valaris with a half-smile on her lips.
“Enticing?” she asked.
Valaris maintained his intense scrutiny, his brow creased in concentration. Anlia owed him more than money. It was he who’d installed her in the remote citadel of Loedh Anlyn after what had happened in Hoeth. She’d been headstrong back then, headstrong enough to destro
y herself, but she was older now and his sponsorship had accomplished much.
The transformation had been impressive. Perhaps—finally—the investment he had made was reaching its maturity.
“You spin a pretty story,” he said. “So why won’t every mage with a sail and a weather-spell be rushing there ahead of us?”
Anlia nodded, and retrieved something from under her cloak.
“You bought me many toys when you placed me in my secret tower,” she said, withdrawing the hirameth and rolling it casually in her palm. “Some of them were more useful than others. Take it on trust, lord, that none know of this but me.”
She gave him a playful look.
“And now you too.”
Valaris said nothing in reply. He made no gesture at all. He just kept watching, studying her face, considering the options, thinking around the dangers and the opportunities.
“You were foolish to come here alone,” he said at last. His expression remained severe, but some of the irritation had fallen away from it. “Even now it is not safe for you, so do not leave this place unless I give you the order.”
He leaned forward, gazing at the glittering image of the oceans that still hung between them.
“For now, though,” he said, and only then did his voice betray his hunger, “tell me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The beast burst into the open, and terror came in its wake.
It was gigantic. It loomed above the line of mounted knights, lurching into the air with a clumsy, laborious thrust of bat-like wings. Its grizzled flanks were the dull grey of rotting flesh. The heavy torso, covered in spines and tufts of wiry hair, was veined black and studded with shifting images of ruin. Huge limbs raked the air, each terminating in claws the size of a man’s chest. A long, sinuous tail flailed behind it, whipping and curling as if possessed of its own malign intelligence.
Rathien looked up at it, blade in hand, and felt hope suddenly drain from him. The stink of corruption bloomed out, fanned by the downdraft of those massive wings. The creature’s three animal heads, each distorted into expressions of frenzied, leering hatred, bellowed fury at him. Its eyes burned the red of the setting sun, and dagger-shaped tongues flicked out from behind rows of curved feline teeth.
[Storm of Magic 02] - Dragonmage Page 3