Jorandil: God of Beltane (Sons of Herne, #4)

by J. Rose Allister

  “If that were all Herne required, I could have saved myself the trip. But I must insist that I see for myself.”

  And quite a trip it had been. Costeros was imprisoned in a tower on an island in the far reaches of the realm, in hopes that he would not again spread havoc.

  “You must empty your pockets and remove any jewelry,” the guard said. “There is much he can exploit to conjure magic, from the grandest artifact to the simplest sundry item. That is why even his utensils are iron.”

  Iron suppressed magic, a most convenient fact when dealing with a wizard whose mother had been a fairy queen. She had been banished, overthrown for acts of malicious intent, and Costeros shared much of her spirit. He likely knew more about the workings of magic than anyone in the realm. If there was a soul who could tell Jorandil of a way to cross the barrier, it was Costeros.

  Perhaps it was unreasonable, not to mention dangerous, to seek advice from one of his father’s enemies. But then, Herne was being unreasonable as well. He expected Jorandil to sit by and let a woman come to harm because she’d had the misfortune of being selected as his sabbat mate. If he had to face danger in order to spare her, that would be both fair and proper.

  “Remove all items,” the guard said, but Jorandil shook his head.

  “I have nothing with me.”

  “Forgive me, but I must verify this. Please hold out your arms.”

  Jorandil obliged, and the guard’s hands moved over him, paying special attention to the pockets in his leggings and around the waist beneath the tunic. But Jorandil spoke the truth. He had not brought anything along. All he wanted was information.

  “You have nothing,” the guard said, and he almost sounded disappointed. “You may go in.”

  Large keys on a ring clattered while Jorandil was taken through two sets of locked doors with double-paned windows set in at eye level. At the third, they stopped.

  “You can observe through the glass that he is well enough.” He nodded to the small window on the door.

  “I must speak with him as well.”

  “Is that vital?”

  “I would verify his state of mind.”

  “You will have to be locked inside with him.”

  “Fine.”

  “The prisoner will step back,” the guard called out, and he peered through the door. “Turn around, hands on the wall.”

  Jorandil stood by while the guard watched through the window, presumably awaiting obedience. After several long moments—perhaps it took the old man a while to move around these days—the guard grunted in satisfaction. He inserted the key, and the door creaked open. “Five minutes.” He pressed something small and coated with iron into Jorandil’s hand. “A panic button. Press this if he makes a move.”

  He nodded and stepped into the cell. Costeros had his back to him, facing the wall with gnarled hands splayed flat against the gray stone surface. The door clanged shut behind, and Jorandil heard the keys jangle while he was locked inside, leaving the two of them alone.

  He waited, not saying a word, while the old man lowered his arms and turned around. Jorandil was by far the taller, but the man he faced did not require size to appear imposing. His gray robe hung to the floor, the hem as dirty and tattered as his feet. His motions were slow, his back bent with age. Costeros’s beard, much like his hair, was a snarl of dark and light, two tones twisting and writhing around his head and chest as though locked in a battle.

  “Such desperation,” the man said, his voice thick and grainy, yet with a liquid tone that had no doubt once been capable of soothing even the greatest misgivings about his intent.

  Jorandil folded his arms. “Mind reading is not one of the skills mentioned in stories of Costeros the betrayer.”

  The cackle in response bounced off the stone walls. “Costeros the betrayer? If only you knew the real stories, boy, stories that would turn that flaxen hair of yours into curls as tight as my own.” Rheumy eyes of pale green narrowed. “Tales that have not been twisted into lies. My personal favorite involves Herne the betrayer.”

  “I am not here for stories.”

  “These days, I have nothing else to offer.”

  “I am hoping you might change that.”

  Costeros lifted his arms to indicate the room. “And why would I wish to change my lot, with all the luxury I am afforded?”

  “I need passage to another realm. You can help me.”

  The man’s face, already scored deep with lines, wrinkled farther. “You have mistaken me for a chauffeur.” His eyes searched Jorandil’s. “Just who are you? It is customary to introduce ones’ self before imposing a favor.”

  Jorandil swallowed. “Does it matter who I am?”

  “Very much indeed.” He cocked his head. “You are a son of Herne, that much is clear.”

  “How would you know that?”

  Another laugh invaded the space, which seemed to close with each passing moment. “Years in this cell has given me ample time in which to reflect on my enemy. I see his shrewd arrogance peering out through your eyes, an inner fire born out of the belief in your own divinity. And there is a definite likeness, despite the differences in coloring and appearance.” He craned his neck to see around Jorandil. “Your unfortunate paternity has been tempered by an even more intriguing inheritance. Your mother was an angel?”

  Impatience blossomed in Jorandil’s chest. Even if he had time and inclination for idle chat, he wasn’t sure he trusted imparting such knowledge to the wizard. Then again, he would not likely gain favor with the man by refusing to speak, and the mere fact of his parentage shouldn’t net Costeros anything worthwhile.

  “I imagine that is obvious enough from my wings,” he replied, the subject ruffling slightly.

  “Wings that should be able to carry you wherever you wish. Yet you are here, seeking a transportation service.”

  “They cannot carry me across the veil,” Jorandil said. “Not at this time.”

  Costeros turned to the wall nearest his bed, a simple affair consisting of an iron frame with some straw and blankets smoothed across the top. Jorandil wondered if there was anything special about the bedding to keep the man from using it for magical purposes. Scratches, dots, and triangles had been drawn on the wall, with many marks in between.

  The wizard regarded the wall and nodded. “Yes, the time of Beltane has recently passed. The veil is, for all intents and purposes, impassable. Sealed by the power flooded through it during the ritual.” He abruptly turned back. “You are Jorandil, keeper of Beltane.”

  Jorandil’s fingers clutched the panic button tighter. “I am.”

  “Then you already know you cannot cross the barrier until the energies have cooled. Most unstable, they are. Potent and unpredictable.”

  There was a wistful tone, coupled with a faraway look that made Jorandil wonder just how much Costeros could relate to the notion of wild, unstable power. Indeed, humble and unkempt as the man appeared, there was a presence around him, an energy that almost crackled audibly in the room.

  They stood, regarding each other, Costeros’s eyes holding a challenge Jorandil was no longer certain he wanted to answer.

  “There are several means by which an immortal may cross the veil,” Costeros said, “if only you would hold off while the barrier stabilizes.”

  “I have business in the other realm that cannot wait.”

  “Vital business indeed, or else you would not be here.” A hard grin appeared on his face. “Tell me, God of Beltane, does your father, the great Herne, know you have betrayed him by coming here?”

  “He is not aware I have come.”

  “But he will be.”

  “Does that mean you will help?”

  The older man cocked his head. “Tell me what this business of yours is.”

  “I don’t see why that should matter. Either you will help, or you will not.”

  “Ah, but it does matter. If your reasons are not truly as urgent as your visit here suggests, then you will not be will
ing to pay the necessary price for my help.”

  Jorandil huffed out a sigh. “There is someone on the other side who requires my help quickly. Too soon to wait for the energies to stabilize themselves.” Especially since, considering how much power had flowed through his wings during the Beltane joining, it was not possible to precisely gauge just when that might be.

  Costeros tapped the side of his mouth with a finger. “Someone on the earth side, you say? Who is she?”

  Jorandil stiffened. “Why do you assume it is a she?”

  The grin that appeared was wrinkled with age, but the teeth behind it were white and straight. “It does not take the powers of a wizard to know that a man willing to race time and defy gods to save someone is most certainly in pursuit of a woman. She is someone of importance to you, I take it.”

  “She is in a position of danger because of my own actions. I merely seek to correct this.”

  Dark eyes flashed. “And how much are you willing to risk in order to succeed?”

  “I am here, am I not?”

  Costeros shook his head. “How much will you pay?”

  “The cost matters not.”

  Another smile. “Good.”

  “But I have nothing with me, either of value or otherwise.”

  “Not true. Not true at all.” The man, who moved now with a grace that had not previously been demonstrated, circled around Jorandil. “You have everything I need right here.”

  Jorandil twisted as the elder walked around, unwilling to turn his back on a wizard whether the latter had the means to do magic or not. “Will you help me cross over to the earthen realm?”

  “Why me?” Costeros asked, returning to his original position. “There are others you could go to for help. Others who are less controversial, though I dare say far more instrumental in meddling with your family’s affairs than I have ever been.”

  “I take it you refer to the Fates.”

  The wizard nodded concession.

  “I have already sought their help. They will not grant it.” He considered telling him why, but quickly dismissed it. Whatever power his father was holding over the Fates, Costeros did not need to know about it.

  “Indeed? How interesting.” The man eyed Jorandil for a moment. “I sense Herne’s hand in that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He must have threatened them with something quite dire to steer their stubborn ways.”

  Jorandil met his eyes evenly, giving nothing away. He hoped.

  “Fair enough. You seem a decent lad, despite your heritage. But be warned, such magic will not come cheap—and the cost will involve pain as well as sacrifice.”

  He squared his shoulders. “I am willing to pay if you can get me there quickly. Otherwise, it will be too late.”

  Costeros shrugged. “You can leave right now, if that is your wish. After we have settled the matter of payment.”

  “Now? How can you manage it without your magic?”

  “By exacting payment first. Your request will cost you two things, son of Herne. The first is simple enough. You will deliver a message to your father, a personal one that you will not be privy to ahead of time, nor will you be able to open it until you reach him.”

  “What sort of message? A plea for your release? Threats if he will not comply?”

  “Neither. You will not be aware of the contents. But rest assured, you will be but a messenger, delivering no threat or plea, merely a request. Words.”

  His wings quivered as he considered the implications.

  “Will these words harm my father?”

  “Not unless his sensibilities are so easily disrupted. Then again, Herne does take offense readily. He will not be pleased that you will deliver the message.”

  “Physical harm,” Jorandil said. He sensed the need to phrase his questions carefully, lest Costeros worm his way around them. “Will the message in any way inflict physical harm, either directly or by threat?”

  “No. The request will not cause any physical harm.”

  Jorandil eyed the man for several moments. If there was deceit in the mix, he could not detect it. But that didn’t mean he trusted the man.

  “You will give me your word that this message will not cause him or anyone else physical harm, and I will do as you say.”

  Costeros nodded.

  “Say the words, wizard. I would leave nothing to chance.”

  “You do not trust me. I suppose that is most wise of you, son of Herne.”

  “Jorandil.”

  “Very well, Jorandil. I swear to you that the message contains nothing to physically harm your father or anyone else. Merely a question.”

  Jorandil sighed. “Fair enough. However, time is exceedingly short. I cannot deliver the message until after I return from my business in the other realm.”

  “Unacceptable. I require payment in advance.”

  “Only if you can assure I will reach my destination in time.”

  “I can send you to your father quickly. No time will be wasted.”

  Jorandil eyed him for a moment. “Then we have a deal.”

  A gnarled hand went up. “Ah, but that is only the first part of the payment. The rest is yet to come.”

  “Then hurry and tell me, so we may conclude our business.”

  “As you have undoubtedly heard, I cannot do magic without the means. I will require something powerful for this magic, something that will let me transfer you from this room to the other realm.”

  “And I warned you already that I have nothing on me.”

  “Ah, but you do.” He paused. “I require your wings.”

  Jorandil’s wings stiffened. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I am. They contain enough power for the task at hand.”

  “Even if they did, it is not as though I can simply hand them over.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “I think not.”

  “It is the only way to save her. You have the means, right on your back. I can extract them with magic and return them the same way. Though not without pain, I’m afraid.”

  “And then do what? Destroy them?”

  Costeros laughed. “Of course not. Do not worry. There is a special pendant of my own design that can hold wings. You can wear it on your person.”

  “So they will go with me, but not on me? That makes no sense.”

  The man gave a shrug. “Magic makes no sense to those without the means to wield it. The power from your wings will allow you to move between realms, but they must be separated from you before I can extract it. That is the way of things, unfortunately. Take the deal or not, as your conscience dictates.”

  Jorandil’s pulse quickened. Nothing about this seemed the least bit pleasant. And he did not trust Costeros, not in the smallest measure.

  “What guarantee do I have that you will not take my wings and use them for your own gains rather than helping me?”

  “None whatsoever. Other than the fact that I could have simply stripped the wings from you without your consent, and yet I have not done so.”

  “You have no way to do such magic in here.”

  “Not until you walked through that door.” He held out his hand, palm side up. A small burst of energy, blue-gold and glittering with sparks, erupted and sat on his hand.

  Jorandil stepped back, but the energy ball vanished. “Your power rests largely, though not exclusively, in your wings,” Costeros said. “If you want to cross safely, I will require them. If you wish to survive the extraction of that energy, you and your wings must be parted first—for the time being. I shall fashion the pendant for you to wear on your journey, with wings inside.”

  “To be reattached when I return.”

  The man nodded. “Of course. When you return from your business. Do we have a deal?”

  Those words again, the ones that gave Jorandil serious pause. He eyed the other man, unwilling to agree until he’d thought through the entire conversation in search of any lapses in terms.

&nb
sp; “We have little time,” the wizard said. “The guard will no doubt return shortly to see you out. Then the girl will be lost.”

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  He wasn’t thrilled about the smile on the old man’s face, but he was running out of options—and time. Besides, he’d left nothing to chance, no loopholes to exploit. So far as he could gather.

  Again, the man extended his hand, palm up. The sparkling bits of power rose, swirling together into mists that darkened, then washed away. A small item was left behind, a miniature bottle attached to a chain.

  “Put this on,” Costeros said. “Once the power is drawn to send you from here, you will see the wings inside this pendant. Keep it with you for safekeeping.”

  Jorandil took the chain and dangled it, eying the empty vial.

  “How is it to be done?” he asked.

  “As carefully as possible, to avoid damage to the wings. You will need to remove your tunic, so that I might see precisely where to direct the magic.”

  Shooting the man a look, Jorandil reached behind him to unsnap the long tunic along the back, up to the large cutouts to allow for his wings, and let the garment fall free. He flexed his wings once, twice, not opening them fully, as the room was not large enough to permit it. Costeros came around, tugging slightly at the base of the appendages, getting a look. Beneath the flesh, a specialized network of muscles, ligaments, and cartilage attached the wings to his body, and Costeros prodded several areas around the base. The man’s touch left behind a chill.

  “I shan’t be left with gaping wounds, I trust,” Jorandil asked almost belatedly. “I will require full function when I reach the earthen realm.”

  “You will be completely intact when the process is complete,” Costeros said, though his voice held a note of distraction. “But I require concentration—and silence—in order to perform such complex magic properly.”

  Jorandil opened his mouth for another question, but stopped and gave a gasp when Costeros wrenched one wing half out of place.

  “You will want to scream,” Costeros said calmly. “But you cannot. A slip will bring guards in here before we can conclude our transaction.” He held up the god’s tunic. “Bite down on the linen. Do not stop. Not a sound, god of the sabbat, or you will betray us both.”