by Paul Haines
“Your Majesty, I’m sorry, but . . .”
“Andur! The King is not dead. The King is very sick, but insists that the signing of the accord will proceed. Only you, Rythell and I know the truth. Why have I called for you?”
Andur’s trembling increased. He wondered if the Queen’s grief had driven her mad. “Your Majesty, I don’t know.”
“What can you do that Rythell or I never could?”
Andur stared into the Queen’s deep green eyes as his hands trembled in hers. Their proximity overwhelmed him. The shock of the killing, the stench of death, disoriented him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think, even as realisation rose in his mind. “No, my Queen. Surely not.”
“There is no other way.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“You’re the only one who can learn. And learn you must, in just a few days.”
Andur shook his head, eyes still tightly closed. “It is against nature, Your Majesty. And I don’t even know if it can work.”
The Queen put one finger beneath Andur’s chin, tipped his head up. His knees threatened to fold beneath him. “Look at me, Andur Mylan.”
With a supreme act of will Andur opened his eyes.
“Think how many lives are lost in this futile war every year. Can we in all conscience not do everything in our power to see this accord signed?”
Andur’s heart pounded in his chest, stunned at the Queen’s touch, the slaughter that surrounded them. “But Your Majesty, I don’t know how.”
“Teskelleth does.”
* * *
He packed in a haze of confusion, unsure what he might actually need. The Queen insisted that she and Rythell would take care of the body of the assassin. He was to focus entirely on his task. Already word was spreading as the castle awoke; the King was unwell and cancelling all engagements to be recovered in time for the delegates’ arrival. Deciding that little beyond food and water would be of any use, and would only slow him down, Andur threw his pack across one shoulder. With a handful of medications he returned to the King’s tower.
“Your Majesty, I have brought medicines and ensured I was seen bringing them. As Court Mage and Royal Physician it seems strange that I will be leaving. At least I will have been seen attending now.”
The Queen smiled, though it couldn’t push through the grief to reach her eyes. “You are a good man, Andur. I will make it known that the King is stable and you have travelled to collect medicines to hasten his recovery.”
Andur nodded. “It will take me most of a day to reach Teskelleth. Another to return. I must learn while I’m there and have enough time to perform whatever is required when I get back. This may be an impossible task, my Queen.”
“I know. We have three days before the delegates arrive. Tellon, as leader of our forces, will not return from the war until the accord is signed. No one else needs to know or has any business enquiring until then. If you can learn what you need, and get back in time to make it happen, we stand a chance of keeping this accord alive.”
“What if Teskelleth won’t teach me?”
“Do anything to convince her. And the Blessing Of The Six go with you.”
Terrified at the thought of what “anything” might entail, Andur reached the stables as the sun cleared the city walls. Weighed down by trepidation he walked his horse through cobbled streets, leaving the city gates as the morning mists lifted from the plains. Turning his horse to the north, he rode towards a place he had promised himself he would never go.
Teskelleth, the dark witch, once a respected citizen of Trear. He had looked up to her as a young child, when he was apprenticed to the Court Mage of the day. Her potions and her skills were legendary. Her ability to heal unrivalled. But darkness had crept into the heart of Teskelleth. Her magic had taken ever more blasphemous turns. Eventually she had been denounced as evil and tried as a dark witch. Found guilty, they had burned her at the stake. And she had laughed. Laughed as her magic protected her from the voracious flames. When the ropes binding her had burned away along with her clothes she strolled, casually naked, from the pyre. It was well known that she had exiled herself to the north. The King kept a close eye on her with spies and scouts, but she ignored everyone and everything. Concentrating, presumably, on her black arts.
Andur had no idea how he was supposed to ask this creature for help, especially without raising her suspicions to his reasons. Though, as the Queen had suggested, what choice did they have?
* * *
He rode all day, careful to avoid exhausting his horse. Eventually he reached the foothills of the Skaren Peaks, malevolent, jagged grey rising endlessly beyond. The light was fading from the sky as he walked his horse warily among the broken shale, watching for landmarks and signs. He guessed he wouldn’t have to look hard. A large black crow landed on a lightning struck tree limb, its blackness stark against the pale grey of the dead branch. Signs of magic swirled about it, obvious to Andur’s mage eyes. He nodded softly to himself. “You going to lead me then?”
The crow tipped its head, looking with one eye then the other.
“Ready when you are,” Andur said.
The crow tipped its head again.
Andur narrowed his eyes, feeling his way into the crow’s mind. “Ah, you’re watching through the crow? Teskelleth, I seek your counsel.”
The crow sat motionless.
“Teskelleth, I am Andur Mylan of Diam. I am a mage and a seeker. I have great need of knowledge I believe you can impart. I’m willing to pay whatever price you see fit to charge.” For emphasis he hefted a large bag of ducorts that chinked softly, though he doubted the witch would set her price in gold.
The crow took off and flew to another blasted tree, further up the hill. Andur followed until he was led down into a valley, swallowed by darkness. He cast a bobbing ball of light and walked in magical silver brightness. Eventually a cave mouth appeared, firelight flickering against the silhouette of the mountainside. Frightened by something that should have been a welcome sight he dispelled his orb of light. Teskelleth stood at the cave mouth, hands on hips, a featureless shadow with the fire at her back. “You have balls of iron, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” He tied his horse to a stunted tree.
“The stench of fear I smell in waves makes a liar of you, boy.”
“Boy? I have close to forty years.”
“And you call yourself a mage? You’re a child in the arts.”
Andur refused to be drawn into an argument about who may or may not be a mage. “I need knowledge of a magic that I believe you have.”
“So?”
“And I’m prepared to pay handsomely for it.”
“So you said. What use have I for money?”
“Then name your price.”
Teskelleth turned and walked into the cave, slim, attractive, moving with a courtesan’s grace. Andur knew it to be artificial youth through magic. She had been old before he was born, tales of her healing predating him by generations. Before she had turned. He followed her into the cave, partly grateful to be in from the wilds, partly cautious that he was willingly jumping into a spider’s web.
Her cave was a network of small caverns, packed with all manner of equipment, the bottles and cauldrons of the potioneer, the books and scrolls of the scholar, the tools and tinctures of the physician. There were caged animals and birds. At the back in deep shadow a large, dark sheet covered what appeared to be a huge cage. Andur thought he could hear a low keening floating through the smoky air from its depths.
“Best not to look on that, mage, let alone consider its contents.”
He turned his attention back to the witch. She sat before a fire, spooning a lumpy soup from a pan into two wooden bowls. She offered one. He paused, suspicious.
“Eat, you bloody fool. If my aim was to kill you I wouldn’t be so boring as to poison you with soup.”
Suppressing his urgency, he took the bowl, sitting opposite her, the fire betwee
n them offering a small sense of security. Surreptitiously sniffing the rising steam, using a simple magic to feel for threats, he heard her soft chuckling. She began swallowing large spoonfuls, eating as though starving. Smiling at his paranoia, he followed suit. The soup was good, meaty and thick.
“I’m really not as evil as everyone thinks, you know.”
Andur watched, chewing, choosing not to reply.
“You’re the young Court Mage apprentice, eh? At least you were when I left.”
“I used to idolise you.”
She smiled, but it was sad. “You still could.”
“I can’t condone what you do.”
“And what do I do exactly?”
Andur paused, spoon halfway to his lips. That was a good question. He took the spoon to his mouth, buying time to think.
“You’re all told how evil I am,” Teskelleth said quietly. “I’m really not evil. I just followed my studies down darker paths.”
“Darker but not evil?”
The witch made a noise of disgust. “Magic is not all about love potions and healing royals! There are wonders to be unlocked, Andur Mylan. Secrets of the void. Going where others fear to tread is not courting evil.”
Perhaps the things she said held merit. What did he really know of her after all? As an orphan child he had been apprenticed, taught the ways of the mage. Her reputation had been a light to guide him, her achievements a benchmark to live up to. She had ever been a free agent, never beholden to the royal family or anyone else, though always happy to help. She had often advised the Court Mage. Then tales of her slipping into black magic and dark experiments had preceded her trial, burning, escape and exile. But what had she actually done?
“It’s all politics, Andur.”
“Politics?”
“Of course. You cross the wrong people and, if they’re powerful enough, they leak poison about you. Everything is political. Even you, here now. This is political, is it not?”
Andur shook himself. None of it mattered. He had a very specific task and a very tight schedule. “No. Not political. I need to know how to return someone from the dead.”
Teskelleth rocked back with laughter. “Is that right? And for what, pray tell, if not politics?”
It suddenly seemed pointless to make up a story the witch would swallow. He had had plans to talk of a murdered lover, a visceral desire to have her back, but it all seemed so juvenile. Teskelleth was old and wise, despite appearances, and not easily fooled. “Please, my need is desperate. Can I not offer you a payment that would buy the knowledge without explanation?”
Teskelleth barked a short laugh. “Politics. But you need to know something. You can’t bring someone back. Or if you can, I haven’t learned how yet. You can reanimate a corpse, create a profane marionette that used to be a person. That unnatural thing can even do your bidding, though by the Six, it’s a horrible thing to observe. Is that what you’d like, mage?”
Andur sat stunned. He had not planned on Teskelleth being quite so open about her abilities or successes. Or lack of them. He was not really sure what he had expected, though perhaps this was enough. A war between nations was the source of their desperation, thousands of lives the wager. His eyes were hard. “Can you show me?”
Teskelleth was mildly surprised. “Must be dire straits indeed in Court.”
“Can you show me?”
“Yes.”
Andur’s heart was racing. “How long would it take to learn?”
“A few hours. The doing is rarely complicated. It’s the desire to know and the finding out that take time.”
“And what is your price?” He wondered if he would be able to pay. He was willing, with a nation at stake. He would give his life for his Queen and his country, if that’s what it took.
“You really shouldn’t play politics with magic, Court Mage.”
“Please, name your price.”
Teskelleth smirked. “I need nothing. But you will pay a price one way or another, I assure you of that. Politics and magic do not mix well. Look to me for proof of that.”
Andur was stunned. They would certainly pay a price if their audacious plan didn’t work, but could he really get this knowledge for nothing? “You would give me this knowledge freely?”
The witch shook her head. “I will give you this knowledge, but nothing comes freely.”
That was good enough. The magic was all he needed now. Without it there was little hope in the future anyway. “So, what do I need to know?”
“You will need potions to pour into the body, which I can supply. And even you know, I presume, how to draw a storm and tame the lightning?”
“I do.”
* * *
Andur stood looking at the body of his King. “I hope I got back in time.”
Queen Sylveen’s face was grim. “The odour and pallor we can conceal with perfumes and make-up. The looseness of the skin is easily explained by His Majesty’s illness. It’s whether your magic works or not that matters.”
“Teskelleth assures me it will. I just hope we can be convincing.”
“It’s the only chance we have. You say he . . .” Sylveen stopped, her face creasing as she strove to control her emotions. Andur couldn’t begin to imagine how hard this must be for her. She truly loved Monvald, had done since her teens. Theirs was a marriage envied throughout the land. She tried again. “You say he will be able to remember simple instructions? Enact them?”
“Yes, my Queen.” Andur’s voice was tight. “We can instruct him to touch his throat should anyone speak to him, while you explain that the illness has taken his voice. We can instruct him to enter the chamber, bow as expected, take his seat, sign where indicated. You will have to guide him, you can whisper instructions in his ear if necessary. If we prepare carefully he should act properly. And he will clearly be unwell in the eyes of those gathered.”
Tears coursed over Sylveen’s cheeks. She ignored them. “This desecration of my husband has to work, Andur!”
“We’ll do everything we can to ensure it does, my Queen.”
* * *
The Ethentian delegation arrived through the wet cobbled streets of Diam. People lined the roads, waved hands and flags, craned for a look at Emperor Qoh. Much discussion centred on whether the freak, unexpected storm of the night before was auspicious or not. Queen Sylveen met the Emperor at the Palace gate.
“Emperor Qoh, Your Royal Highness, welcome to Diam. I trust your journey was good?”
The Emperor stepped from his carriage, resplendent in blue satins and jewels. He smiled warmly. “It was, my thanks. Word reached us on the journey, your messengers reporting that King Monvald is sick?”
“He is. I’m sorry to say that he is very sick indeed, but has insisted that the signing of this accord go ahead. He is saving his strength to attend and sign, ensuring that this moment in history is not lost.”
“Unfortunate this accord could not be sealed under better circumstances.”
“It is. But after so much work, as my King himself suggested, this formality is but the end of a marathon. Perhaps, on his recovery, we might travel to Ethentia and celebrate the accord there, as it should be celebrated?”
The Emperor inclined his head. “A fine idea. I’m honoured by the suggestion.”
Standing behind his Queen, Andur breathed a sigh of relief. The delegation was led into the palace.
Andur took his place by the throne room doors. The room was adorned suitably for such an important event, rows of seating surrounding a central table. Guards patrolled every corridor, their armour polished to mirrors. The Emperor and his party were sat and offered fine fruits and wines. Tumblers and jugglers filled the space between the table and those members of the court lucky enough to receive an invitation to attend. Heralds raised their trumpets, the royal flag of Diam hanging beneath each one. Andur’s heart began to race as they fanfared the arrival of the King.
From behind the thrones Queen Sylveen led King Monvald through the gathe
ring. Her face was soft but even from the other side of the room Andur could see the hardness in her eyes. The King leaned on his wife’s arm, shuffling unnaturally across the smooth flagstone floor. His head hung forward, his eyes rheumy and sagging, his mouth loose. The court drew breath as one, horrified to see the poor health of their King.
Sylveen whispered in his ear and he raised one hand, offering a wave left and right as he approached the table. Emperor Qoh stood as the King arrived. “Your Majesty, it gives me a heavy heart to see you so unwell.” His face barely concealed his horror at the sight of the King’s infirmity.
Monvald bowed, touched one hand to his throat. “Emperor Qoh,” the Queen said in a strong voice. “The illness has taken King Monvald’s voice, his throat swollen and raw. Our Court Mage is treating his condition, but fears his voice won’t return for some days. My husband wrote a few words for me to say on his behalf.”
The King nodded, his head wobbling, seeming too heavy for his neck. Sylveen cleared her throat. “Your Royal Highness, Emperor Qoh of Ethentia and honourable gathered guests. I apologise most profusely for my condition, but thank you all so much for joining us here for this momentous occasion. Every citizen of Trear and Ethentia, I’m sure, desires to live in peace. After so many years, let us not wait another moment before that peace is sealed. May the Accord of Diam be signed here and now and celebrated in Ethentia on the new moon.”
Cheers and applause rose throughout the throne room. Emperor Qoh bowed again to the King. Monvald raised both hands, looking vacantly around the room, eyes unfocussed. Sylveen whispered in his ear and he returned Qoh’s bow. Andur wiped at the sweat that ran from his brow. They might pull this off yet.
Qoh and Monvald sat at the table and the parchment of the accord was set before them. Qoh took up a quill, raising it above his head. “Let this moment be noted by all here and spread to the four winds!” he cried, his voice carrying over the throng. “Let there be peace!”
The roar of approval was deafening as Qoh put his quill to the parchment. Monvald sat limp, no emotion on his face. Qoh slid the parchment across the table.