“You should drink some water, Your Majesty,” the healer said, holding out a wooden cup.
Emillia struck it away, splashing water over her gown.
Patiently, the healer picked up the cup, refilled it, and offered it again.
“I had no idea she had grown this bad,” Helmos said to his wife in a low voice.
Anna nodded. “It seems to me she grows a little worse every day. The healers have stopped saying that time will effect a cure. They want to move her to the Halls of Healing, but I fear the sudden change would kill her.”
“Her care is a great burden upon you, my dear,” Helmos said, drawing his wife near.
“Not so bad,” Anna said, smiling with feigned cheerfulness. “She is docile when I am there. The healers say that I am a good influence upon her. I am the only one who can persuade her to eat.”
“You must leave her for the moment,” Helmos said. “I need you now.”
“Yes, of course,” said Anna, worried and anxious. “What is it? I heard…” She faltered a moment, then said, striving to sound calm, “I heard that Dagnarus’s army is taking up position outside the north wall.”
“Yes,” Helmos answered. “Captain Argot says that the attack will come with the dawn.”
The two walked down the long corridor in silence, her arm entwined with his, their steps pacing together, strides equal and matched. The empty stands of armor formed a silent honor guard for the King and Queen until, about halfway down the corridor, one of the spears suddenly slipped from its knight’s rusted grasp and fell to the floor with an ungodly clanging and clattering, almost at the King’s feet.
Helmos halted, staring, pale as if the spear had struck him. At his side, Anna gasped and pressed her hand against her wildly beating heart.
The clatter echoed loudly through the palace, causing servants and guards to come running.
“Your Majesty!” Guards had their swords drawn, were searching for some enemy. “Are you all right? Where is the attacker?”
“Here,” said Helmos, with a strained smile. “You see how we are blessed! The spirits of these knights long dead have returned and are eager for battle to be joined!”
The guards nodded appreciatively, pleased with the King’s fancy. A servant lifted the spear and attempted to replace it, but the metal hand was so badly rusted that it would not hold. At a sign from the Queen, the servant propped the spear up to one side and hurriedly withdrew.
Anna had witnessed her husband’s alarming pallor. “My love, what is it?”
“If I were an ork,” Helmos said, his gaze fixed upon the fallen spear, “I would be heading for the sea about now.”
“But you are not an ork,” said Anna practically. “You know that the glove was rusty and that our footfalls as we approached caused a vibration that resulted in the spear falling to the floor.”
She hoped to see him smile and laugh at himself in self-deprecation, but he remained somber and grave.
“A strange heaviness hangs on my heart,” Helmos said softly. “I have walked the palace halls this day and it is as if I am walking them for the last time. No, no, my dear. Let me speak. They say a man’s life passes before his eyes before he dies. I have seen my life this day. I saw my mother, Anna,” he said, his voice tender and filled with pain. “I saw her standing by a window. She turned and smiled at me, but when I would have spoken, she was gone. I walked past the playroom and something compelled me to look inside, and I was there—a boy again, with my tutor among my books. And then Dagnarus was there, with that wretched whipping boy, Gareth. I could hear their laughter and see Dagnarus moving his toy soldiers about in the old sandbox.
“And my father. My father has been with me all this day. He looks at me so sadly, as if he wanted to say something or explain something. It is odd, but I have the feeling he seeks my forgiveness. As if there was ever anything he did that required it! And you, my own, my heart’s dearest.” He halted in the hall, turned to face her, clasped her hands, and brushed away the silent tears that fell from her eyes. “You are the blessed dream and the blessed reality.”
He kissed her on the forehead, as if in benediction.
She could not speak for long moments, then she said, swallowing her fear, “You have not slept these past three nights, my lord. Nor have you touched more than a mouthful of food. It is no wonder you are plagued with these strange fantasies. I’ll wager,” she said, with a tremulous little laugh, “that a good beefsteak would send them all packing!”
Helmos did smile then, his love for her welling up in his heart and lighting the terrible darkness. He held her close. “I am on my way to the Temple, to prepare for my holy vigil. I wanted to bid you farewell and to urge you, once more, to leave the city.” He held her face in both his hands, so that she was forced to look into his eyes. “It is not too late. There is the tunnel, of which you know, that leads to the secret place up in the mountains. A band of retainers, chosen men, stand waiting to escort you—”
Anna was shaking her head. “I will not leave,” she said firmly. “You know I will not, so don’t badger me. I will stay with poor Emillia. She may be disturbed by the unusual noise and clamor. I place my faith in the gods, my husband, and in you.”
They clung to each other, loath to part, though hard duty called to each. Helmos, stroking his wife’s hair, looked down the hallway. The servants were lighting the torches, and by their wavering light, Helmos saw every one of the empty knights lift his visor, and the darkness of the Void pour from them like a black river.
The army led by Dagnarus marched through the mountains, concealed by the storms of his sorcerers’ creation. Their path was lit by vivid lightning, which struck all around them, yet never in their midst. Their march was accompanied by the drumbeat of thunder, their progress shrouded in fog so thick they could not see the boles of the trees on either side of the narrow mountain trail, yet the way they walked was clear, for the fog lifted with their coming and fell with their passing. Rain like spears and sleet like arrows landed all around them, but they remained untouched by the elements. The roads they traveled were smooth and dry.
They marched hard and fast. These warriors were hand-picked by Dagnarus himself, after months of observing them in training. These were the best, the elite of the army. No one dropped out of the line of march, though the trek up and down the sides of the mountains was long and difficult and wearing. No one uttered a word of complaint. Dagnarus marched with them. He shared their hardship, did not ask of them anything he did not ask of himself. He slept upon the rocky ground, he forded the icy streams, he ate the cold food, for they dared not light a fire. Valura walked at his side, never tiring, rarely speaking, always watching him and him alone.
The soldiers admired their commander, but they did not like the Vrykyl. Her fell beauty, visible on those rare occasions when she removed her helm, haunted their dreams. They knew that she fed upon the living and though it was reported that Dagnarus had forbidden the Vrykyl to slay any of his troops, the soldiers did not trust this creature of the Void. They divided their night watch between looking out for the enemy and looking out for the Vrykyl.
The sorcerers of the Void marched with the army, as well. They, too, were not trusted by the soldiers, though Void magic was keeping them hidden from enemy eyes. The sorcerers had trained for months alongside the soldiers and now the magi not only kept up with the rapid pace of the forced march, but several did so while drawing on their own energy to work the magic of the storm. Only a few were detailed to perform this task. Gareth had ordered the majority to conserve their strength in preparation for the immense and difficult feat of magic they would have to perform at the journey’s end.
Dagnarus’s magical connection with Shakur and the other Vrykyl made him a party to their thoughts and thus the prince knew the precise moment when his army had arrived outside the walls of Vinnengael. Dagnarus’s army emerged from the mountains that same evening, the troops weary but triumphant. The soldiers would have the night to rest a
long the riverbank. There would be no sleep for the sorcerers.
Gareth saw to it that his people were well fed, appropriating rather more than their share of the army’s victuals, for the magi would need all their strength and more for the upcoming trial. The magi sat apart, shunned by the ordinary foot soldier, who gave them a wide berth when he was forced by duty or necessity to go near them at all. While the sorcerers were eating and discussing their night’s work in low, eager voices, Gareth sought out Dagnarus.
The prince squatted on a flat rock, eating supper—a small amount of dried and stringy beef, some hard-as-rock bread, dipped in wine to make it palatable, and more wine to wash it all down. They lit no fire, but now that the magical storms had lifted, the night was clear and filled with the pale cold light of moon and stars. Valura stood near him, her hand on his shoulder—the pale hand of love, cold and dead; its fingers locked forever around the prince’s heart. Silwyth stood in the shadows, a wineskin in his hand.
Gareth bowed.
Dagnarus regarded him with a glint in his eyes. “Well, are your sorcerers ready to begin?”
“Yes, Your Highness. I—”
“Then begin.” Dagnarus motioned for Silwyth to pour more wine.
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” Gareth said, “but I need to know that you are completely and unalterably committed to this undertaking, that you are aware of the possible consequences, both to your sorcerers and to yourself.”
“To the magi?” Dagnarus shrugged. “Some will die. The loss is acceptable. To myself?” The emerald eyes flickered with displeasure. “What will be the consequence to myself? You never spoke of this.”
“I did, Your Highness,” Gareth said patiently, “when first you proposed this stratagem. The spell you require is so powerful that your assistance will be needed to perform it. The Void magic will drain you of your life’s energy, not much, not like it will drain the rest of us, for Your Highness has lives to spare now,” he added with a bitter irony that he could not conceal. “But you will perhaps feel a weakness, a certain light-headedness—”
Dagnarus scowled. “You know that I lead my troops into battle on the morrow?”
“Yes, Your Highness. That is why I wanted to make sure you knew that you would experience some weakening effect and to determine if you wanted us to go ahead—”
“It is rather late to back out now, Patch,” Dagnarus stated. “I do not recall you speaking to me of this. Did he, Silwyth?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said the elf softly, again refilling the wine cup.
Dagnarus flashed Silwyth a look of anger, which the elf pretended he did not see. “Well, perhaps you did. I am launching the largest assault the world has ever witnessed against the strongest, best-fortified city in the world. I cannot be expected to remember every little trivial detail that may arise.” He waved a negligent hand. “I will be ready when I am needed for your spell-casting. I doubt it will bother me much at that.”
“You will be needed close to the time when the spell is ready, which will be near dawn,” said Gareth. “Might I suggest that Your Highness try to sleep, to be at the peak of your strength?”
“You may suggest anything you damn well like,” Dagnarus returned sullenly. “Go back to your hedge-wizards, Patch. I have a meeting with my commanders.” He dismissed Gareth with a wave and bent over a map of Vinnengael he had spread out upon the ground.
Gareth cast a meaningful glance at Silwyth, who indicated, by a slight lifting of his shoulders and a slight lowering of his head that he would do what he could. Gareth was turning away, when Dagnarus said, without looking up, “You will not be involved in this deadly spell-casting, will you, Patch?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Gareth replied. “I am their commander, as you command your troops. I will not ask my people to do anything I will not do myself.”
“I forbid it, Patch,” Dagnarus said, continuing to study his map. “I will need your help to deal with my brother.”
Hearing no response, Dagnarus raised his head, frowning. “Well? Answer me!”
“Do not ask me to do this, Your Highness,” Gareth said softly. “I beg of you.”
Dagnarus’s face flushed with anger and the wine. “I do not ask you to do anything, Patch! I command you!”
Gareth could say nothing. What he might have said, he should have said a long, long time ago. He was like the Vrykyl, though he had never felt the stinging pain of the dagger. Dagnarus had drunk of Gareth’s soul, fed off it, and made it a part of himself. Gareth bowed silently and returned to his command. The sorcerers rose as he approached, indicating their respect for the young man and also their readiness to begin.
“You know what is required of you,” Gareth said, addressing the group, which was made up of men and women, mostly older than himself. All human, they came from various parts of Vinnengael, from villages as far north as Myammar, as far south as Lu’keshrah. “You know the sacrifice you will be called upon to make.”
“We know,” said one woman calmly, “and we welcome it!”
Gareth understood. Most of the sorcerers had come to Void magic like himself—by accident. They were magi who, from ambition or greed or pride, were discontented with the slow and methodical process of elemental magic, wanted magic that was faster, more powerful. Though Void magic was painful and oftentimes debilitating, though they were forced to wrap their hands and faces in cloth to hide the pustules and ulcerations, though their neighbors whispered about them and they were often persecuted, killed outright, or driven from their homes to roam the world, the sorcerers believed that the end result was worth it. And now they would prove it. They would demonstrate their power to the world. They would win the respect for which they hungered. At last they could stop fleeing, turn to face their detractors and their tormentors, and say to them proudly, “This is who we are! This is what we can do! Look on us and tremble!”
No sacrifice—not even that of their lives—was too great.
“I am not going to be taking part as I had intended,” Gareth said, his voice harsh to mask his frustration. “The prince has commanded that I accompany him when we enter the city. You, Tiumum, will take my place as leader.”
The sorcerers were not surprised, nor were they upset. It was only logical that His Highness should want his most skilled sorceror at his side. Looking within himself, Gareth understood why he was so terribly disappointed. He had been hoping to lose himself in the Void—if not to die, then at least to lose consciousness. He had hoped, coward that he was, to know nothing of what was happening until all had ended.
The sorcerers came together in a circle on the edge of the riverbank, fifty of them, the largest gathering of Void magi in the history of the world. Tiumum, the eldest of them all, lifted her voice and began to call upon the Void, exhorting it to embrace them, to encompass them, to exalt them. One by one, the other sorcerers joined her, adding their voices—deep bass, high-pitched treble. All except Gareth, who sat in silence, watching.
When each had recited the chant nine times, they began to walk the circle, each following one behind the other, feet shuffling as they disturbed the brown pine needles that littered the side of the riverbank. Round and round they moved, the chant rising and falling. Each was careful to walk in the other’s footsteps, careful not to stray out of the path or to break the circle.
The soldiers who had been in the vicinity of the riverbank left it the moment the chanting started. Considering it bad luck to watch a Void sorcerer casting a spell, the soldiers ran deep into the woods, as far from the sorcerers as they dared, to escape the sound and the sight of the spell-casting. Crouching in the darkness, the soldiers fingered charms they had purchased or made and now wore around their necks, charms that presumably protected them from any splatterings of Void magic that might slosh over the sides.
Gareth watched with disdain the soldiers’ departure. He wondered cynically how they managed to separate their distrust and hatred of Void wizards from their loyalty to their command
er, the avowed Lord of the Void. Probably because they had never seen him perform any magic. They had seen him wield shield and sword as did any warrior. Well, they would see him perform magic with the dawning. Make of it what they liked.
The night deepened. Hour after hour, the wizards walked the circle until their feet had stamped out a round path in the mud. Gareth sat on a tree stump and watched. He watched when he should have been sleeping, to conserve his energy for the morrow. The chant thrummed through him, tingled in his fingertips, burned a circle in his brain like the one in the mud. Had he tried to sleep, he would have seen that circle—a dark hole surrounded by fire—wheeling round and round. Better to stay awake.
Late in the night, he had company. Silwyth came to stand beside him. The elf frowned at the chant and at the sorcerers, but at least he did not avert his gaze or rub a chicken’s foot.
“His Highness is asleep,” the elf said to Gareth. “When do you want me to awaken him?”
“An hour before dawn. And try to keep him from the wineskin, will you?”
“And how am I to do that, Master Whipping Boy?” Silwyth asked mockingly. “He is my prince. I do what I am told.”
“You’ll find a way,” Gareth retorted. “You always do. Say that it sprang a leak or that bears ran off with it. His victory depends upon his ability to concentrate and focus his energy. Our lives—all our lives—depend upon him.”
“The wine eases his pain,” Silwyth said quietly. “He told me, once, that when he dreams, he feels the terrible heat of the flames and sees his own flesh withering and turning black in the fire…”
Gareth shrugged. Once he might have found it in his heart to pity. No longer.
“I will see to it that he is sober in the morning,” Silwyth said, and departed.
Gareth kept watch throughout the night. The sorcerers continued their chant until some could barely speak for the rawness of their throats, while others lost their voices completely, and could only whisper or mouth the words. They walked and walked, round and round, weariness seizing hold of their limbs, stumbling, catching on to and supporting each other. Once, however, one of the magi fell to the ground and did not rise up. Horrible ulcerations covered his body. His skin ran with blood. The other sorcerers continued to walk, stepping over the body of their fallen comrade.
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