“Anyone can plainly see you’re not a gypsy,” the prince said. “I don’t believe you are Shan Octavio’s fifth wife, or even sixth wife. No gypsy ever gets lost in the Volgate. I do believe you are sincerely afraid of the Wolf Pack. Everyone fears the Wolfmen. So, how did you do it? How did you avoid being caught by them, girl? Do you know a secret path through this place? Help us, and I shall reward you. You may have your clothes and a horse if you will agree to take us out of this cursed place.”
“My pleasure,” Taliesin said. She stood up, wrapping the cloak around herself, and noted how quickly Sertorius stepped away from her. One-step forward and she caught a whiff of his cologne. The idiot really went out of his way to make himself an easy target for the Wolfmen.
“Not tonight,” he said. “I don’t trust you. You’re too eager to leave.”
“Yes, well, Wolfmen are on the prowl. May I at least get dressed, Your Grace?”
With a nod, the prince sent Barstow to retrieve her clothes. The two soldiers drying her garments turned to hand them to the large knight, but with a chuckle, Barstow tossed them into the fire and gave his prince an amused look. All that remained of her disguise was a pair of gypsy boots set aside on the ground. Barstow grabbed the boots and handed them to the prince, who personally handed them to Taliesin. She slid the boots on, keeping the cloak wrapped around her slender body, and wished she still had her sword and the pouch with the precious map and key that now lay at the bottom of the pool.
“I am sorry Sir Barstow has butter fingers,” Sertorius said. “My men will find you something to wear. Surely a page has something that will fit.” He paused, lifted his head to sniff the air, and let out a shout. “Sir Barstow, wake the men! I smell wolf in the air. They’ve closed in around us while we’ve been talking to this girl.”
The prince strode to the far side of the campfire to address a large group of archers, leaving Taliesin alone. She needed a way to escape from her precarious situation. The dry patch of land that served as the main camp was large and bulged out on each side, like an egg. Two paths at either end led into the marshes, but the camp was vulnerable on all sides. Torches were set in the ground and lit the encampment. At the sudden, loud howl of a wolf, Taliesin gazed into the fog and saw a pair of yellow eyes staring at her.
A shout went up from the far side of the campfire as the giant wolves moved in from all sides, barely visible in the fog. The ring of archers set the tips of their arrows alight and fired off a volley. Flaming arrows shot into the air with a brilliant, crackling glow, pierced several furry targets with silver, and set the brush on fire. Across the water, she saw numerous dark, furry bodies moving through the burning reeds. Another barrage of arrows scattered the pack and sent them yelping and howling away from the pool.
‘The way is clear,’ a voice said in her mind. ‘Dive, girl. Dive into the water.’
Without thinking twice about what she was doing, Taliesin let the cloak fall to her feet, ran to the pool, and dove into the murky, cold depths.
* * * * *
Chapter Seventeen
Spitting out a mouthful of sludge, Taliesin gripped a handful of coarse reeds and dragged her body out of the murky pool. Chilled to the bone, she remained hidden within the reeds with her toes and fingers buried in the mud. She’d lost her gypsy boots. Whatever magic enabled her to travel from one pool to another had to be dark. Every inch of her felt grimy, and the deep cuts from the coarse reeds stung. She heard Prince Sertorius and his men a hundred yards away, fighting the Wolfmen. Their frantic shouts and the snarls of the creatures filled the night with dread. From the reeds, she watched flaming arrows arc through the air, yellow glows in the fog, but she could see little else.
She couldn’t stay there and watch. She needed to find her friends.
Light from the full moon filtered through the fog and lit her way as she crawled through the reeds, found dry ground, and remaining on all fours, headed away from the battle. She crawled until her hands and knees hurt and yellow mud covered her from head to toe, but only when the cries of men and the wolf howls had faded away did she stand and run. The fog parted and formed a border along the path that led her, unsure of the direction, through a serpentine maze that wrapped around dark, gurgling pools and putrid reeds where the croaks of bullfrogs rang out. Sporadically she heard a howl somewhere in the dense fog, but never broke stride. A strange tingling that started in her feet made it feel like she never touched the muddy path, and as the sensation settled over her entire body, she felt her mind rise out of her body and found herself gazing at the path from high above. A naked woman with long, red hair ran beneath her, and though she knew it was in fact her, she witnessed it as through the eyes of a bird. Weightless and untiring, Taliesin guided her body through the marshlands. The distance traveled and her own exertion no longer mattered as she repeatedly recited, “Light as a feather, fast as a raven.”
Unsure as to how many miles she’d covered, she grew excited as the fog ended and she entered a field that stretched toward tall pine trees. As soon as she neared the trees, the strange sensation ended, and she was back in her body and running hard across solid ground. Flying beside her was a large raven that kept pace until she entered the forest; then, with a loud squawk, it flew up and lit upon a branch.
Taliesin sank to the ground as the miles she had run caught up to her, and feeling exhausted and sick to her stomach, she vomited. With the toxic waters out of her system, she collapsed to the ground, laid on pine needles, and gazed at the patches of starlight that appeared through the branches. The pain in her muscles and stomach slowly subsided, and as her temperature lowered, she felt the chill in the air and wrapped her arms around herself.
Faint voices could be heard on the breeze. She recognized Roland’s deep voice, got up, and sat with her back to a tree. Looking in every direction, she saw no sign of the Fregian knight, yet heard his ghostly voice repeating a prior conversation from days before.
“What do you know of the Cave of Chu’Alagu, Zarnoc?” Roland asked. “It’s said to be in Garridan, far beyond the Volgate, far to the west.”
There was a long pause. The wind calmed, and she heard the faint tinkle of bells—gypsy bells—and a horse snorted.
“A long journey it is,” Zarnoc said. “Marshes and deserts, quicksand, and sand storms. There is no water or living creature to be found for miles around. Many enter the Salayen Desert, but few ever return.”
The disembodied voices faded away on the breeze, replaced by far-away laughter that sounded like Prince Sertorius; but that too ended, leaving her feeling alone and afraid.
Standing, Taliesin held onto the tree for support and gazed at the moon hanging in the sky, flanked by two gray clouds that shifted in the upper atmosphere and morphed into the bodies of giant, winged creatures. She fought her fear and waited for the voices to return, for footsteps to approach, or for the familiar whinnies of a horse. No one appeared, and the raven that had guided her seemed to have abandoned her. She waited until her heart beat steadied and then headed west through the forest, her arms wrapped around her body; each footstep took her further away from the Volgate.
A loud squawk brought her eyes searching through the trees, and there, on a low limb, she spotted the raven. The black eyes stared at her with intelligence. The bird tilted its head and squawked again.
“Hello there,” Taliesin said. “Did Zarnoc send you to help me?”
The bird landed on her upraised arm. Taliesin slid a finger across the raven’s head and marveled at the silkiness of its feathers. A ripple went through the bird’s body, and her fear vanished, replaced by heartfelt relief. With a soft squawk, the raven burrowed his silky head into the palm of her hand and affectionately rubbed against her.
“That’s a good boy,” Taliesin said. “You’re a very smart bird. Do you know where my friends are? I’m a little lost, I must admit.”
The raven hopped off her arm and landed on the ground. Before her startled eyes, the raven turned into Zarnoc, dressed in a black
robe. In a bird-like manner, he gave a hard shake of his shoulders and cawed softly from the back of his throat. Taliesin threw her arms around the wizard and hugged him tight, until he started to wiggle. She stepped away, acutely aware he was staring at her breasts in the moonlight, and raised her hands to cover her bosom. Typical male, she thought.
“You old coot,” she said. “Did you bring anything for me to wear? I’m freezing.”
“What? Not a thank you?” grumbled Zarnoc. “I went to a lot of trouble finding you, young lady.” He smoothed his rumbled cloak. “Turning into a raven isn’t that easy. You try flapping your arms for twenty leagues and see how you feel afterwards.”
“That’s not possible. I couldn’t run that far.”
“Excuse me?” Zarnoc said, a bit snidely. “It’s called magic. I am a wizard.”
He snapped his fingers and Taliesin was instantly dressed head to toe in her familiar old leather pants, bodice, jacket, and boots. She ran her hands across her body, across the flat of her stomach to her hips, and felt the sword belt fastened around her waist. Wolf Killer hung at her side. She checked for the pouch next and confirmed it too was on her belt; inside she felt the map and round medallion.
“You are amazing, Zarnoc. Thank you,” Taliesin said, kissing him on top of his scraggily head. “I feared I’d lost everything. I am in your debt.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I was the only one who could find you. Retrieving your sword was easy. Getting you out of the Volgate took a bit of doing; I haven’t turned myself into a raven in quite a few years.” Zarnoc scratched at his ear. “Most people who fall into the marshes die. Only those with magic can transport from pool to pool as you did.”
Taliesin followed Zarnoc through the trees. “The marsh gases restored my memories, and that’s why I fell out of the saddle,” she said. He handed her a flask of water, which she thirstily drank from. “Prince Sertorius pulled me out of the pool. He’s not the boy I remember, nor did he recognize me.”
“The marsh gas can have a strange effect on people,” Zarnoc said. “You don’t need to tell me what was said, because I heard everything. I’m the one who told you to dive into the pool when the Wolfmen attacked. He’s not dead, in case you were wondering; he even managed to drive off Wolfgar and the Wolf Pack.”
Although not sure how she felt about Sertorius, she was relieved he was still alive, and her thoughts turned toward her friends. “Where are Roland and the others?” she asked.
“A few miles behind us. Roland wanted to stay and find you, but I thought it best I handle things,” Zarnoc said. “Thanks to Tamal’s skill as a scout, they managed to find a short cut through the marshes and avoided the Wolfmen. We are lucky to have that boy with us. He’ll prove himself useful before all is said and done.” The old wizard smiled. “Is he as handsome and charming as you remember?” He wondered, referring to Sertorius.
“I was eight years old when I last saw him,” she said. “Yes, he’s handsome. Very handsome. But nice? I can’t be sure. I don’t trust him. Do you think Roland and Sertorius are working together to find Ringerike?”
“I don’t know yet, and that is precisely why you will say nothing about this to anyone,” Zarnoc said. “You are in love with Roland, that much I do know, and the prince can charm anyone to his way of thinking. He believes you led the Wolfmen to his camp, and I suspect he’ll try to kill you the next time you meet, while Roland only wants to protect you.”
“I never said I was in love with Roland.”
“You don’t have to,” the wizard said. “But I should think it best not to mention you ran into Prince Sertorius.”
“Why not?”
“Things the prince said do not sit right with me,” Zarnoc said. “Sertorius claims to be loyal to his father, and friend to Hrothgar and Jasper; yet he killed them. He came to me asking about Ringerike, yet left Doomsayer on the battlefield. I don’t know where Roland fits into this puzzle, but until I do, I think it best not to tell him what happened.”
They came out of the trees onto an old road and glanced around. The wizard went to a log and sat. Taliesin joined him and drained the water flask, only to find it refilled. She didn’t ask Zarnoc about the water flask; it was obvious he was using magic, but the water tasted the same and she drank more. And then it dawned on her. Everything they’d gone through was unnecessary. She seethed.
“I don’t get it,” Taliesin said.
“What is that?” Zarnoc asked.
“Why can’t you just air bridge us to the cave?” Taliesin asked, her eyes ablaze. “Your powers are incredible, yet you allow us to ride straight into danger at every opportunity. I don’t understand your logic. Why are we going through all of this if we don’t have to?”
Zarnoc made a motion with his hand and everything around them froze. “Observe my dear,” he said, “I can stop time, as you can see. It is one of the many things I can do. What I can’t do, though, is give you experience; the only way you can get that it to earn it yourself. Knowledge is a precious gift, but experience is even more valuable. Knowledge freely given is worthless; it has no meaning without the context of the struggle for attainment.”
He turned away from her, and she could barely hear his voice as he continued, “I have seen too much violence in my lifetime…far too much…and I am not interested in making it easy for others to choose the path of violence.” His arm moved—was he wiping away a tear?—before he turned back to Taliesin. “Wielding Ringerike would give you great power...but are you prepared for that? It is only through the struggle to become a leader that you achieve the experience needed to rule with wisdom and vision. That is the purpose of this quest, and why you must do things yourself, even if I provide aid from time to time.”
“I understand and will try to respect your wishes. But I do find it odd a powerful wizard shows restraint. You did not need to live in the ruins like an old hermit. At any point, you could have created a palace and filled it with servants, riches, and whatever you desire. Why didn’t you?”
“For the simple fact I am not the only wizard who escaped King Magnus’ war against magic. There are others, Taliesin, and they watch me with keen interest. I dare not use my magic to interfere this civil war. Nor can I stop the bloodshed. If I lifted a finger to change events, or to even undo what has already been done, things would be far worse. Trust me and leave it alone. Now is not the time to discuss these things, for even now, our enemies listen on the wind and watch us. We must proceed, my dear, by putting one foot in front of the other. That means slowly and carefully.”
“Carefully…” Taliesin muttered, her thoughts drifting to another topic she had wanted to discuss with the wizard. “It seems ages ago that I lived in Padama. Our little house was on the main street, right in the shadow of the palace. My father often went to court and was hired to make swords for important noblemen as well as the king. The knight, Sir Barstow, said the king didn’t like my father. Sertorius made it sound personal. Did the king have something to do with my father’s death?”
“The shock of your father’s death is the reason you forgot your childhood,” Zarnoc said. “I asked Osprey to look after you in the hopes this day would never come. Are you sure you really want to know the truth, Taliesin? It will open a door you may not want to enter.”
“I’m not Rook,” she said. “I don’t want to hide from my past. Someone murdered my father, and I believe it was the king. Please, Zarnoc. If you know what happened, then tell me.”
Zarnoc produced his pipe from the folds of his robe and filled it with tobacco. A green apple appeared on his lap and he offered it to Taliesin. As she ate the apple, a tiny flame appeared at the end of his finger and he lit the pipe, drawing on it long and hard; the smoke came out his ears.
“To understand why your father was killed, you must first understand why some men covet magic, and why some men fear it,” Zarnoc said. “Magic is a combination of the powers of earth, water, sky, and air. Magic is neither evil nor good; it can either cau
se harm or be beneficial, but that depends on the heart of its owner and how they apply their magical skills.”
“Wolf Killer has magic,” she said. “I know it does. Yet, my father forged this sword for one of the princes. Was my father using magic, Zarnoc?”
The wizard blew smoke into the air. “Let me talk,” he said. “I’m explaining why some fear those who have the ability to manipulate magic, and why two hundred years ago King Magnus Draconus decided it must be outlawed to protect his realm from magical warfare. During the Magic Wars, King Magnus killed, exiled, or imprisoned all of the magic users he could find, and all things magical were either destroyed or disenchanted. Many magical weapons survived the Magic Wars, though, but only the Deceiver’s Map can locate them. A few magical weapons are still owned by noblemen, like Doomsayer, which remained in the House of Volgan. The interesting thing is that this sword was disenchanted, that is, until you found it. It’s the same with Wolf Killer. You see, all things made of magic want to serve their true master, be it for evil or good, and magic weapons that lay dormant for long periods of time require a powerful wizard or a clever witch to reactivate them.”
Zarnoc paused, looked at the length of the road in each direction, gave a sigh of disappointment that their friends had yet to appear, and continued.
“A magical weapon can be given to anyone, but that still doesn’t mean the new owner can control the weapon. One weak of heart couldn’t control a weapon like Doomsayer, but you had no problem calling upon the sword’s dormant powers, and Wolf Killer responded to you as well. I suspect Ringerike will also respond to your touch. Ringerike is the most powerful magical sword ever made, and it is the oldest, forged by the Lorians long ago. But Ringerike and other magical weapons are only as strong as their owners.”
“So how is my father involved in all of this? Octavio called me a sha’tar,” she said. “I believe that is a term for natural-born witches, like Wren, but I thought they were rare.”
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