Sword of Jashan (Book 2)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  Callo gritted his teeth.

  “Surely you don’t expect this man to approve of the sacrifice of half-righ infants, since he is half-righ himself,” Phoire said to Oron with exasperation.

  “No. It would have made matters simpler in this case, however.” Oron sighed. “Besides, Lord Callo is a descendant of psychic mages on the other side of his lineage.”

  “Callo, my friend,” Phoire said in a gentle voice. “No one will accept an infant born of a slave as heir to the Kingdom. They would rather have you—or a civil war, after Sharpeyes dies.”

  “Civil war?”

  “What do you think will happen?” She gave a tug at the shoulder of his tunic. “Start using your brain for more than agonizing over using your magery. Oh, yes—you think I am not aware how you feel about power? You are a gentle man at heart, Lord Callo, and I admire it. But such agonizing will serve Righar ill.”

  He sighed. “You have no idea how I feel about the institutionalized brutality that is the rule of the King and the Collared Lords. Not to mention the travesty that is ku’an rule in Ha’las. Those who use great power use it to destroy others—it is well documented in my experience alone. I will not be one of them.”

  “You sound like one of the rebels who have sworn to bring down all the righ,” Oron said with distaste.

  “I have been willing to hear the arguments for their cause. I think they should have a voice in the affairs of this land. I see no reason for the righ to have a stranglehold on power, all based on color magery and the legend of Valotnor.”

  Oron made a disgusted noise. “A little argument about keeping the righ blood pure has led you to this conclusion? You take a few instances of manipulation and make of it brutality? You are a tender soul, Lord Callo. A King’s behavior is subject to different rules than the rest of humanity. A Collared Lord has his own rules. This is the way it has always been, and no brutality about it. Kings and Collared Lords are subject only to the judgment of Jashan. To subject the ruler to the laws of common man would be to destroy Righar.”

  Callo shook off the words. “We have no time to argue this now. Though I am—disappointed, Mage Oron. I thought by your attitude towards myself, that you were above such opinions.”

  “You do not have to be like them,” Phoire said. She swatted him open-handed on the chest, and he stared into her stern eyes. “I wish I could beat it into your head. Self-indulgent, all of you men, especially the color mages! In the time of Valotnor, before the Collared Lords, there was war in this land as petty lord fought petty lord until there was very little left. Imagine that come again! What would happen to those you know and love in such a civil war?”

  “I think the ku’an mages from Ha’las would be here, long before things degenerated into such a melee,” Oron said. “Ready to add some real territory and wealth to their poor little island, and save themselves from their own people.”

  Callo placed a hand around Phoire’s plump one and removed it from his chest. “All right,” he said. “I take your point.”

  Phoire said “Good!” and sat down, red in the face. Callo looked at her for a moment and then gestured to Rhin, who stood like a sentry in the doorway to the armory. “Rhin!” he called. “Water, please, or some wine for the lady.”

  Rhin grimaced at the order, then nodded and vanished.

  “You do not have to be like the ones you despise,” Phoire said again. “You do not even have to rule. Marry a nice righ girl from a Collared family, make a baby or two with your unique bloodline. Present the brats to Martan as a gift. He takes the long view—he will be satisfied.”

  Oron said, “He has waited thirty years, Phoire. He will not brook any further delay.”

  “I will not turn innocent children in to be raised by the man who raised me,” Callo said. “But it is an interesting opinion, Lady Phoire.”

  “Thank you,” Phoire said, gasping a little.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” Callo said, knowing she would be amused. “But at this moment I cannot do so. Mage Oron?”

  “My lord?” The mage lord said, making Callo grimace.

  “You may stop “my lord-ing” me. I am still the same man you scorned to speak to when I was Arias’ bastard half-brother and serving in the city guard.”

  Oron did him the courtesy to bow slightly. “I was mistaken. You are worthy of much more than castle gossip led me to believe.”

  “Thank you! But we must help Ander now. He must not die.”

  Phoire snorted. “No one wants him to die, Lord Callo. What do you propose we do about it? Have you some hold on the Unknown God, that you can make him give up the boy’s life?”

  A servant appeared then, offering a mug of water. Phoire took it and drank deep. After a moment the angry red began to fade from her complexion. Callo was relieved; she had looked in danger of bursting a blood vessel.

  “Have you looked in on him?” Callo asked Oron.

  “Why should I? I know nothing of the healing arts.”

  “And Mage Yhallin? She is a healer.”

  “She has been there many times. I believe she is coordinating the efforts of the other healers.”

  Callo fell silent, thoughts whirling in his head. Three Healers attended the boy, caring for his every breath, yet could do nothing. Clearly the illness was beyond human intervention—if, in fact, it were an illness.

  “Please humor me, Mage Oron,” he said. “Come with me today to see Lord Ander.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  Callo sighed. “I do not know. But it is beyond my self-control to watch him die and not do everything possible to save him. Who knows what might come of a visit from the Lord Mage?”

  Oron stroked his beard. “I am flattered, I suppose, if doubtful of your intelligence. Lord Callo, you cannot expect . . .”

  Phoire said, “Just do it, Oron. If this is what it takes to settle Lord Callo’s conscience before he bows to the inevitable. What harm can it possibly do?”

  “None, I suppose. I will go. Though what you think I can add that Mage Yhallin cannot—She does not like me, you know. But she is an excellent Healer.”

  The servant had disappeared again, and now returned, offering more water and sugar rolls to all three of them on a tray. Lady Phoire reached for both.

  “This is not the first time you have done me a great service,” Callo said to Phoire as she licked sugar from her fingers. “I remember the first time, when you warned me about Lady Fiora at the King’s ball, back before Arias was Collared.”

  Phoire’s eyes grew sad. “I am sorry how that ended,” she said. “I do miss Lord Arias and his smile.”

  “I have no idea why you continue to warn me,” Callo said, leaning to taken her hand. “But I want you to know how I value your advice. My thanks. I will let you know how things progress.”

  Phoire took his arm and pulled herself to her feet. “Be sure that the gossip will let me know how you progress long before you have time to send messages,” she said. “Do not concern yourself.”

  Callo looked at Oron. “Do you think we will be able to get past the guards?”

  “The King has cleared your name of Lady Dria’s accusations, and all at the castle know he favors you. Word of your latest confrontation has not reached the Castle. I do not think they will dare to stop you.” Oron smiled. “Besides, you will be with me, my lord, and I have yet to see any brave enough to question my judgment.”

  * * * * *

  The guards frowned at Callo as he followed Oron up the side stairs to the corridor where Ander’s rooms were located.

  Callo had been required to show that he had no weapons. He had opened his cloak to show the door guards that there was no sword slung about his person, then pulled it close again as they waved him through. As he walked away, he heard their whispers behind him.

  There was little else the guards could do in the absence of the King or the Lord Commander, since Callo was escorted by the Lord Mage himself, and apparently there was no order for his
arrest. Callo was sure frantic messages were sent to Lord Dionar, requesting orders. He wondered how long it would take the men to decide it was safer to hold him until they received further instructions.

  The young lord who guarded Ander’s door glared at them as they approached. Two additional guards stiffened to attention.

  “It is Lord Froman, son of the Council lord,” Oron said. “He is Ander’s sworn man now.”

  Callo nodded to the young man. Froman did not even acknowledge that, and Callo was reminded of the scorn he had always earned from the nobility in the past. He shrugged and began to enter Ander’s rooms.

  Oron stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He spoke to Froman, “The guardsmen will want to call for assistance. You will stop them?” Indeed, the guardsmen wore frowning looks as if they debated what to do, faced with the respected Lord Mage and the Royal Bastard, who was at odds with the King who nevertheless favored him. Callo knew if the Lord Mage had not been beside him, he would already have been in custody.

  “If you mean him no harm,” Froman said. His voice was low and threatening.

  “We are here to help, if we can,” Oron said. “The guardsmen have no reason to distrust me, but they know the King seeks Lord Callo.”

  A familiar form approached down the hallway. It was Shan-il, his face pale with exhaustion under his raven hair. He said to Froman, “My lord, these are friends.”

  “I know Lord Ander trusts the Bastard, but why in the name of . . .” He stopped himself.

  “Please go in, my lords,” Shan-il said. “You will find Hon Kirian within. I will explain to my lord Froman, and these other men.”

  “My thanks,” Oron said.

  Lord Ander’s chamber was dim and cool. The shutters were ajar. Window hangings screened the light while allowing the breeze to circulate. The bedside table had been cleared of its usual clutter, and now held a jug with condensation beading its sides, and a tray with soft fruit and bread that had not been touched. A mortar and pestle stood nearby, stained with the herbs the Healers had been using. There was an odor of illness in the air despite the breeze.

  Kirian sat on a cushioned bench that had been placed beside the wall. When Callo and Oron entered the room, she was hunched over, her head in her hands. She lifted her head as the door opened. There were dried tracks of tears on her face, and her eyes were red.

  Callo’s heart lifted to see her unharmed.

  She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand as they entered. “My lords?”

  “We are here to see Lord Ander.” Mage Oron turned. Callo saw him draw back in shock when he saw the boy who lay on the bed.

  Ander lay perfectly still, asleep or unconscious. His dark hair was flat and oily, his face white. His hands lay open to either side, fingers curled in a limp fashion that made him appear dead. Looking closely, Callo could discern no movement of his chest. He looked to Kirian in a panic.

  “He is alive,” she said in a soft voice. “But only just, I fear.”

  Footsteps sounded at the door from the outer chambers. A woman’s voice, deep and husky, said: “What are you doing here, my lords? You will do him harm.” Callo turned to see Yhallin, wearing a mage cloak with lavender and purple sinking into its depths. She stared at him. “You!” He thought he heard satisfaction in her voice.

  “We will not harm him,” Oron said.

  “I don’t know what you think you can add to his treatment.” Yhallin took Callo’s arm and began to pull him towards the door. “My lords. Come with me so you do not disturb him.”

  Callo resisted. “We need but a few moments. If you are quiet, he will not be troubled.”

  Kirian stood and frowned at Yhallin. “There is no harm, surely?” she said.

  Yhallin lifted her head. “You intrude on the treatment of this boy while he is a mere whisper from death. Three of us care for him. Please leave, my lords.”

  Kirian was looking puzzled. “But, Mage Yhallin . . .”

  Callo looked at Oron and Kirian. “I will leave with you,” he told Yhallin, just to get her out of the room. “Mage Oron, will you keep your examination brief? Mage Yhallin, Kirian will see no injury is done.”

  “But—” Yhallin put out a hand as if to stop Mage Oron. Callo took the mage healer’s arm as she let go his, and gently pulled her from the room. He felt strangely energized by Yhallin’s odd behavior. There was no reason she would want Oron removed from the room if there was nothing there for him to find.

  In the outer chambers, the new manservant, Thodon, sat sorting Ander’s clothing. He looked away as they came in, as if to offer an illusion of privacy.

  Yhallin turned on Callo, red sparks of magery in her eyes. “You do me no thanks for all my trouble over you,” she said. “I cannot believe you step foot in this place, after what you dared at Deephold. What right do you have to intrude? You endanger your own life as well; have you considered that? What if something were to happen to the boy while you were in his room? Then you would be accused of murder, most likely!”

  “I am no longer there. I am with you, and Mage Oron is trusted by the King. Also, Kirian is there to protect Lord Ander.”

  She stalked to the door and pulled it open, the mage cloak billowing behind her. “Guard!”

  Callo jerked his head up. The manservant dropped his work and stood, staring. Was Yhallin going so far as to call a guardsman to remove Callo from these rooms? Callo wondered if he would shortly be taken away and put back in that luxurious locked room that had nearly driven him mad before he had left for Deephold.

  Before the guardsman could arrive, Oron stepped out of Ander’s inner chamber. He leaned back against the door as it closed. His mage cloak swam with black on black, almost swarming with movement. His face was pale, but as Yhallin and the guard entered he straightened and attempted to speak normally. Callo heard the strain in the man’s voice, but his words were unremarkable.

  “Poor boy!” Oron said. “What illness is this? Have you determined it?” he asked Yhallin. “I hope it is not likely to infect others here in the castle?”

  Yhallin stared at him. “No one else has been ill.”

  “Are you sure? Perhaps the boy should be moved—though at this stage, it would undoubtedly be terribly painful.”

  “There is no need,” Yhallin said. She added, almost reluctantly: “Have you discovered anything new about his condition?”

  “Me? As you said, I am no Healer. I stopped in because I was asked to do so, but I see he is being cared for with the utmost attention.” Oron raised his eyebrows at Callo. “Are you satisfied, my lord?”

  “I suppose I must be.” Callo bowed in Yhallin’s direction. “I was concerned. I see I need not have been. Though I wish you and the other healers had been more successful in his treatment.”

  “You may ask Hon Kirian what we are using,” Yhallin said. “There is little enough we can do, since the illness itself remains a mystery. But we are doing what we can to strengthen him.” The sharp, suspicious look had left her eyes.

  “Hon Kirian was kind enough to show me what you have been using,” Oron said. “Once again, I offer my appreciation for your care. Has anyone kept the King up to date on his heir’s condition?”

  “Daily,” Yhallin said. “While he is away, he asked that we send a messenger to keep him informed. But His Majesty will be back in Sugetre any day now.”

  “Indeed. Good day, Healer.” Oron nodded and walked from the room into the hallway.

  “Wait!” Yhallin said. “Lord Mage, this man is wanted by the King.”

  “I will make sure he causes no trouble,” Oron said, and turned his back on her. Callo saw Oron’s hands shaking, but the old man’s voice betrayed nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Follow them,” Yhallin said to the guardsman. “I will send more men. King Martan will want him detained—comfortably detained!” she added as the man’s hand went to his weapon.

  The guardsman followed them both out.

  Callo walked beside Oron as the old ma
n proceeded through the halls. Behind him, Yhallin called for Dionar to be summoned immediately. Oron walked fast, his mage cloak hushing around him as he headed away from the righ residential section.

  Callo was impressed by the strength the old man displayed; he could tell Oron was distressed, but his shoulders were straight, and he nodded at people they encountered as if there was nothing more serious on his mind than what to eat for lunch. Callo supposed one would develop some ability at dissembling if one had to live and work for long in the mess of intrigue that was Sugetre Castle.

  The guardsman Yhallin had called walked behind them. He was joined by two other men, both armed. None of them dared raise a hand against the Lord Mage of Righar and the Royal Bastard who was obviously under his protection; but Callo knew as soon as Lord Dionar made an appearance, that would change. Callo began to think of trying to get out of the castle before he lost his freedom once again.

  Oron turned on the men. “Why are you following me?” he demanded. Because he was listening for it, Callo heard a minute shake in the old man’s voice. He doubted it would be discernible to anyone further away.

  “Lord Mage, this man is wanted by His Majesty.”

  “Well, he is here, and I have him in my custody. Send your word, if you must. Do you think me incapable of dealing with this man?” Red magery began to coalesce around Oron’s hands.

  The men stepped back. “No, my lord.”

  “Then, leave us! Post a guard, if you must protect yourselves. I have no objection.”

  The guardsman nodded. “Thank you, my lord.” He whispered a few words to his companions, and one of them strode off, no doubt to summon reinforcements. Then they reached Oron’s rooms, and the heavy door closed behind them. Oron dropped into the carved chair that sat before his cold fireplace, and took a deep breath.

  “What is it?” Callo asked. “You discovered something; I can see that. What is happening?”

  Oron looked up at Callo, and his face looked very old. “Lord Callo,” he said. “There is no poison and no illness. King Martan is killing his heir using color magery.”