Seeker of Magic

by Susanne L. Lambdin

  A large bubble rose to the surface of a pool on her right and popped. Taliesin tucked her chin to her chest, able to smell the noxious odor despite the scarf worn over her nose and mouth. Gas bubbles popped in the pools on either side of the winding path; they created a yellowish cloud she rode into, which caused her to gag. Thalagar snorted, annoyed as well, and she heard Zarnoc mutter a cadence of unintelligible words. The fog swirled away from Thalagar’s chest and converged around her head, causing her to cough deeply, and she sagged forward in the saddle.

  In that instant, an image appeared of a dark-haired boy in a golden cloak standing in the shadows of Tantalon Castle throwing rocks into the murky, green moat. The boy’s black hair fell past his skinny shoulders, and his teeth appeared even and white as he turned and smiled. He wore a gold circlet on his brow and held a blue ribbon. Memories returned in a sudden rush and she felt a lump form in her throat. It didn’t seem possible, not after so many years, yet she recognized Prince Sertorius Draconus, fifth son of King Frederick; he’d been her dearest childhood friend. He gazed at her with eyes a shade of dark blue that appeared almost black, and she heard the prince laugh as he ran through the rose garden holding her blue hair ribbon.

  ‘You can’t catch me, stick legs,’ he shouted. ‘Stick Legs Rosie, try to catch me!’

  Roland had said her birth name was ‘Rosamond,’ but she remembered ‘Rosie’ was a nickname used only by John Mandrake and the prince. All sorts of images flooded her mind; Sertorius and her, in autumn, running through piles of leaves in the courtyard and pretending imaginary creatures chased them; in spring, picking flowers to make a wreath for Queen Henrietta who died that same year; in winter, reading stories in the grand hall, while snow fell outside the castle windows; in summer, watching tournaments in the royal gallery, eating chocolates, and shouting at their favorite knights. Sertorius and his guards had visited her father’s swordsmith shop to watch John Mandrake forge a sword for the king.

  John Mandrake stood forth in her memory, as clear as if he’d stepped out of the fog and onto the path; a tall, red-haired man with a leather apron covering his barrel-shaped chest. Not one strand of hair grew on his face or on his muscular arms, all burned away by the fires of his forge. He held the king’s sword with the tip buried in the smoldering, hot embers, until the metal turned a deep, molten red. After he drew the sword from the coals and laid it flat across the anvil, he picked up an iron hammer and pounded smooth the rough edges.

  Clang, clang, clang.

  The sound echoed in Taliesin’s ears, and she swooned in the saddle, only righting herself when she heard Zarnoc’s voice. “I have a vile taste in my mouth,” the wizard said. “That blasted cat has eaten something most foul.”

  Taliesin pictured Ginger gagging on a fur ball and leaving a present for the Shan on his pillow. Her mind turned a page, she pictured a white lion on a blue flag, and again thought of Sertorius as a boy, holding a stem of lavender he presented to her as though it had great significance. She leaned forward to smell the lavender, unaware she leaned over the side of her saddle, until the reins dropped from her hands, and she tumbled, creating a large splash as she plunged into the dark, murky water.

  The water dragged her down with a cold bite. Taliesin unfastened her sword belt and pulled off her cloak and scarf, but she continued to sink to the bottom of the pool. As her feet touched the muddy bottom, she felt a strange sensation, her stomach lurched, her head spun, and she blacked out.

  * * *

  Warm lips pressed against her own as air was forced into her lungs. A young man was bent over Taliesin, alternating between pushing on her chest and breathing air into her lungs. With a hard cough, water gurgled out of her mouth, and she felt the man turn her onto her side before she blacked out.

  When she came around, it was night. Taliesin wasn’t sure how long she’d been unconscious, but she was aware she lay close to a campfire, able to feel the heat through a woolen cloak she’d been wrapped in that scratched her skin. She lifted her hand, touched her arm, and felt bare flesh; someone had removed her clothes. A wiggle of her toes confirmed her boots were removed, too. She heard men’s voices in the dark. From the corner of her eye, she saw a group of armored men gathered around a second fireside, muttering softly. A heightened sense of tension hung in the air. She recognized Duke Peergynt’s soldiers by their dark-blue cloaks with the insignia of a red dragon, while the men with a white lion on their cloaks belonged to Prince Sertorius. There were Knights of Chaos in silver mail and black tunics with red skulls, and a few Royal Guards, King’s men, perhaps deserters, in gold cloaks. The soldiers, positioned around the camp and facing the wall of fog that reflected the glow of the campfires, wore helmets with brims and padded hauberks, and they held spears.

  “Is all in order, Sir Barstow?” a man said at the fireside. A slight infliction in his voice, a mixture of arrogance and petulance, meant he was a nobleman. “Every third man stands guard. Breaks every two hours. We must be ready when they come at us again.”

  Taliesin watched the nobleman cross his bare hands behind his back, a gold ring sparkled on his index finger, and he kicked embers at the side of the campfire. She remembered Shan Octavio had cautioned her against building fires at night. The nobleman was aware they were in danger, yet she counted five blazing fires. His black tunic and silver chainmail were expensive—so were his leather boots—but he wasn’t Duke Peergynt. Her heart raced as the man turned and offered a view of his aquiline profile. He was handsome, pale, and clean-shaven. She knew at once this was Prince Sertorius Draconus. The knight called Barstow also wore a black tunic, but boasted a thick, red beard and held a helmet under his arm.

  “Ever since I was a boy, I have heard disturbing reports about the Volgate, for few who enter ever leave this cursed place. Had our situation not been so desperate, Sir Barstow, I would never have agreed to ride through these marshes,” the prince said, in a velveteen voice. “We lost twenty men last night. I fear we will lose many more this night.”

  “This place reeks of death, Your Grace,” Sir Barstow said. “The wizard deliberately sent us this way. If I ever make it to the ruins of Pelekus, he’s a dead man.”

  The fire crackled and popped. A loud wolf howl pierced the night.

  Taliesin pulled the cloak to her nose and pretended she slept as several soldiers passed in front of her. Sir Barstow excused himself, went to speak with the men in hushed tones, and glanced in her direction before returning to the fireside.

  “Sir Morgrave has lined the ground with the last of the salt and wolf’s bane,” the red-bearded knight said. “The priests are saying prayers. Stroud willing, we will not be attacked this night, but I wouldn’t count on it, Your Grace. The men are uneasy.”

  “Prayers won’t keep away the Wolf Pack,” the prince said, his tone thick with sarcasm. “Chief Lykus, traitor that he is, has a mad dog for a captain. Wolfgar’s relentless in his pursuit. My father suggested we hire Lord Arundel’s legionnaires, but my pride got the better of me, and I refused the offer.”

  “Let them come, Your Grace,” Sir Barstow said. “Silver and fire is all we need to kill these beasts. We’re ready for them this time.”

  A loud sigh came from Sertorius. “Distract me, Barstow. Talk about something else,” he said. “Tell me something I don’t know. Impress me. You are a well-traveled man, and you fought in many campaigns for my father, yet you never talk about Fregia. Is it because you were not chosen to be a Knight of the White Stag? Your bitterness against your compatriots was obvious at the Battle of Burnlak. You do not admit it; however, I know you are the one who beheaded Hrothgar Volgan. What did you do with his head?”

  “That was Sir Morgrave, Your Grace,” the red-haired knight said. “I killed the bastard’s brother, but it was hardly a contest since he had but one hand. If I showed any resentment toward the Knights of the White Stag or my fellow countrymen, I hope it showed in the numbers I left dead on the field.”

  “I was fond of Hrothgar and Jas
per,” Sertorius said. “Killing them brings me no pleasure, and hearing you brag makes me ill at ease. On foot, Jasper would have skewered you; don’t pretend otherwise. What I wouldn’t give for a warm fireside, a cup of mead, and a pretty girl to remind me life can be beautiful.”

  Taliesin was moved by Sertorius’ velvet voice. If she reminded him of happier times, would his recollection of their friendship be welcome news? His voice had changed since she’d last heard it, but the Maldavian accent was always music to her ears; each syllable pronounced slowly, as if every word was important. The people from the eastern dukedoms had a nasal pitch to their voices, and the rapid speech of southern Erindor came with the clicking of their tongues on the roofs of their mouths, strange yet fascinating. Sir Barstow was Fregian, like Roland, and he had a guttural way of speaking, more like growls than words, especially when agitated. People who came from Adalgar had a charming drawl, but she could have listened to Sertorius all night.

  The prince had the type of voice one wanted to hear on stage, giving a recitation or some powerful speech, like from Van Cliff’s ‘Pale Monarch,’ a play about a prince who’d married a stable girl. The opening lines of Act I, Scene 8, were ‘Oh give me a lady of quality and I shall search the stars for a crown of diamonds to lay upon her head, worthy of a queen,’ always brought her to tears. She had seen Van Cliff’s play performed several times by good actors, as well as several times by pathetic clowns who had insisted they were ‘master thespians.’

  Taliesin realized she must have sighed, for Sir Barstow turned toward her, peering intently, and then turned away. In the distance, she heard a wolf howling, and the large, red-bearded knight placed his hand on his sword.

  “I’m no good at small talk, Your Grace,” Barstow said. “But I do know a little about swordsmiths. Who is the best? Falstaff or Gregor? You’re the educated man. One sword looks like another to me; all I require is a sharp edge. Well?”

  Prince Sertorius laughed. “I have used swords forged by both smiths, old friend,” he said, his mood lighter despite the eerie howls. “Both swords were nearly weightless, yet well-balanced, sharp, and proved deadly in battle, but if I had to choose, then I would pick Falstaff. Most would say Gragor was the finest swordsmith, but I find his hilts a bit too ornate. Plain is better. Falstaff was best.”

  “Gregor was before either of our lifetimes, so he doesn’t count, Your Grace,” Barstow said, with a rumble. “I asked Sir Morgrave the same question. He claims the best swordsmith was Mandrake, but I didn’t mention him because I know your father hated the man.”

  “Sir Sacramore had a Mandrake sword,” Sertorius said, “but lost it when he fell at Burnlak. As for my father, I don’t care what he thinks. You said pick between Falstaff and Gregor. Of course, John Mandrake was the best. My father liked his work; it was the man’s personal life he didn’t approve of.” He held his hands out before the fire. “Sacramore claimed his sword was one of five Mandrake had been making for my brothers and me, but on the night Mandrake was slain, someone crept in and stole all of his weapons. I asked Sacramore to give me the Mandrake sword, and he refused—he actually refused me.”

  Barstow took a step back, his helmet tucked under his arm, rubbing his belly with his free hand. “Sacramore was a conceited lout, Your Grace,” he said. “The duke killed him with Doomsayer, a sword I wish we’d been able to acquire. I told you it was Doomsayer, but you listened to Morgrave, who told you it was one of twenty gold swords.”

  “You can’t be sure, braggart,” Sertorius replied, tersely. “Hrothgar’s main army was but five miles away, and had we stopped to look for Doomsayer, we might very well have joined the Volgan’s in death. Why are you backing up? Is my conversation that boring?”

  “Your Grace,” Barstow said, turning to gaze at Taliesin, “I believe the gypsy girl is awake. She’s been listening to us. It’s time we found out what she’s doing here.”

  At the knight’s approach, Taliesin held the cloak to her chin as she sat up. Her hair spilled around her shoulders in a shower of golden-red curls that fell to her slender waist. Lifting a hand to her ears, she found the hooped earrings missing, along with her gypsy disguise. She frantically looked for her belongings, and saw her clothing drying on a rope pulled across a second fire. Her attention returned to the red-bearded knight as he glanced at the prince.

  “Not a gypsy,” Barstow said. “Her hair is redder than mine. Maybe a Fregian spy.”

  The prince walked to where Taliesin lay beside the small fire. His features appeared chiseled from stone, all sharp edges, and his mouth was pulled into a thin, straight line. A muscle twitched in Sertorius’ right cheek as he leaned over for a better look. Taliesin noted his ornate belt with a large silver buckle in the shape of a lion. A silver knife and a silver sword hung on the belt; he’d come prepared to fight Wolfmen.

  “Perhaps she’s a wolf girl,” Barstow said. “Shall I skin her, Your Grace?”

  Alarmed, Taliesin spoke. “I’m not from the Wolf Clan. Nor am I a Fregian spy.”

  A suspicious expression that should have frightened her appeared on the prince’s handsome face, but she took greater fear in the fact she was naked and in the company of a great number of armed men.

  “Then what does that make you, my red-haired beauty?” the prince asked.

  “I am lost, that is what I am.” Taliesin sounded pathetic, and to emphasize a mask of female vulnerability she clutched the cloak to her chin, and felt a chill slide along her spine as Sertorius crouched beside her. She caught her breath as his cobalt-blue eyes locked with hers and he reached out to lift a long red curl off her shoulder.

  “You need not be afraid of me, girl,” Sertorius said. “I won’t hurt you. Perhaps you did not know if you fall into one of these pools, you never end up at the same place you started. If you weren’t lost before, you certainly are now.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. She couldn’t help thinking of the boy she’d known, and smiled back without hesitation. He lowered his hand and let out a soft chuckle. “Do you know who I am, girl?”

  The correct response was to deny any knowledge of his identity. Taliesin shook her head and batted her eyelashes. There was safety in pretense. No matter what the prince intended to do with her, Taliesin did not intend to tell him who she really was.

  “No? Allow me to introduce myself then. I am Prince Sertorius Draconus,” he said with great pride. “I have never seen a gypsy girl with bright red hair that she didn’t dye. You come from Octavio’s camp. Is that correct?”

  Nodding in response, she kept her gaze lowered as she’d seen Ghajar women do in the presence of Shan Octavio. He didn’t remember her from the past. Why would a prince remember a swordsmith’s daughter, she wondered, feeling strangely disappointed.

  “How did you come to the Volgate? Were you following us?” Sertorius paused, watched her reaction, and lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. The shape and color reminded her of a furled raven wing. “You are a pretty thing. Were the Wolfmen chasing you, girl?”

  Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I…I don’t know,” she said, giving a shudder. “I can’t remember. I was drowning, and now I am here. Am I dead?”

  “If you were dead, would we be talking?” With a laugh, the prince jerked his royal head toward the red-bearded knight. “Do you hear that, Barstow? Our little gypsy thinks she is dead. I normally don’t have that effect on women.” He never looked away from her. “Tell me your name? Surely you remember your name, girl.”

  Taliesin shook her head. Damn the man. He was toying with her, she knew that much, trying to weaken her with his good looks and fancy accent like he did with all women, high and low born alike. He was a seducer of women; she knew the type. She merely shook her head and bit on her bottom lip.

  “What shall we do with a girl with no memory, Sir Barstow?” The prince placed his hand on the top of the cloak she held to her chin with clenched fists. “You can’t be a mermaid this far from the ocean. Perhaps you’re a witch. Was it you who s
ummoned me to be in this exact place, at this exact time, to save you from death? No? Perhaps you are a demon, though I must admit, I saw no mark or blemish on your flesh when I removed your clothes.”

  “Shall I fetch her clothes, Your Grace?” the knight said.

  “Don’t interrupt,” Sertorius said. “Can’t you see I’m talking to this poor girl who has lost her memory?” He stood without breaking eye contact with her. “A red-haired gypsy girl. The Shan must be heartsick about losing a beauty like this one.”

  “She’s come out of poisoned waters,” Sir Barstow said. “If she drank any, Your Grace, it may be why she can’t remember. Probably a sheepherder’s daughter who got lost. If you don’t want her, I wouldn’t mind a turn. It’s been a while since I’ve had a pretty woman.”

  Taliesin felt her temper rising and spreading like a wildfire throughout every inch of her body. A retort was swallowed before she launched herself into a scolding. She liked neither man, nor did she like the fact no one intended to provide clothing for her, and said the first lie that entered her thoughts.

  “I am Shan Octavio’s fifth wife, Jaelle, and he will send men to look for me when I do not return to camp,” she said. “Give me my clothes and let me go, Your Grace.”

  “Ah, the Shan’s wife!” Sertorius laughed. “The mystery is solved, Sir Barstow.”

  “Keep your voice lowered,” Taliesin said. “You heard the wolf howl. One howl means more will follow. You and your men are surrounded. You should have come to Shan Octavio and asked for his help.”

  “Now this is fun,” the prince said. “Your hair is red as the flames and your temper matches.” His smile widened. “I haven’t lost my touch after all.”

  Taliesin remembered his vanity. Sertorius had not changed in that regard; even as a boy, he’d demanded the attention of adults and children alike.