Wycaan Master: Book 01 - At The Walls Of Galbrieth

by Alon Shalev

  “Still, I would rather he lived than all of us die,” Ilana said.

  “You’re weird,” Maugwen said, and smiled.

  Shayth was made to stand outside General Tarlach’s office until the meeting inside adjourned. A number of voices seeped out but Shayth could not hear any words.

  Some time later, the door opened and several officers exited, each glaring at Shayth. One intentionally knocked into him, and Shayth nearly lost his temper. You would have feared to come within a hundred paces of me if I had…

  It seemed a long time passed before he was called in–perhaps a pointed statement on how unimportant his time was. Shayth watched Bortand clearing papers from the strategy table. He turned and gave Shayth a tight smile. “My apologies, Master Shayth. I, um, I won’t be a moment.”

  Tarlach, who had been standing at the table looking over maps or plans–Shayth could not be sure which–returned to his desk and sat down. He eyed Shayth but never made any move to begin the conversation, and the silence extended. When Bortand finished and made to leave, the general stopped him.

  “I think, Mr. Bortand, that a witness to a meeting like this might be protocol.”

  “Indeed, General Tarlach. I would recommend a third person given the, um, intricacy of the situation.”

  Shayth contemplated the rotund administrator. “I would threaten to kill you if a word of what’s said here ever got out, but given my situation, that’s not much of a threat.”

  The general laughed, the bureaucrat gulped, and the prisoner glared. When Bortand had regained his composure, he said: “I would be expected to reveal whatever I heard in court or, um, to the Emperor. Otherwise, I would, um, out of professional decorum, keep what is said here in the strictest confidentiality.”

  Bortand was just an aide, Shayth reminded himself, and addressed the general. “I plan to get personal,” he warned.

  General Tarlach shrugged and signaled for Shayth to continue.

  “I have come to bargain for the lives of my friends, the elves and the two Tutans. They’re young, foolish, and I think they’ve learned their lessons. Given that they pose no threat to the Emperor, I ask that they be set free.”

  “What have you to offer in exchange for this gesture of good will? A single execution makes much less of a statement than all five of you would.”

  Shayth swallowed. “I’ll make a public confession, either here or in the capital. I’ll admit to whatever crimes you would like to stick on me.”

  “You might still be executed after that,” the general said.

  “I hope I will. It’s preferable to rotting in a prison cell.”

  “So what difference does it make,” Tarlach leaned forward, “if we execute you here or there, now or in the future?”

  “You’ll get the confession. Nothing is as popular as a dead martyr and you can prevent that. Those in the resistance will enjoy playing up my execution. Also the Emperor will be able to put to death all those rumors that abound.”

  Tarlach looked up and a flicker of doubt crossed his face. “I know not of what you speak.”

  “About the murder of Prince Shindell and his wife, my father and mother. You remember them, surely? Do you recall your own fears and doubts? How about those of your wife’s? About how I had to flee to protect, not just my own life, but also yours and those of your wife and son. Shall I go on?”

  “You have no proof,” Tarlach snapped, beginning to rise from his chair. “You were just a boy.”

  Bortand cleared his throat quietly to remind the general where he was and who he was with. Tarlach glanced at him, stood, straightened his uniform, and crossed the room. His heels clicked on the stone floor. He opened a cupboard, took out a bottle, and poured himself something strong and pungent, before returning to his seat, where he sipped his drink.

  Shayth continued. “I was there the night you told your wife of the pregnant Empress. I was hiding under the pagoda in the garden when you discussed who murdered my parents.”

  Shayth saw the general’s knuckles whiten as he gripped the desktop. His glass was frozen halfway between his mouth and the desk. He glared at Shayth but said nothing.

  “Tell me, General Tarlach,” Shayth snarled, “and honestly if that’s even possible: if they had come for me in the night and I had cried out to you for help, would you have come to the aid of the ten-year-old orphan living under your roof, under your protection? Back then, before the Emperor corrupted you with rank and power, would you have tried to save me? The son of your best friend?”

  The general was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring. Bortand was quick to intervene. “Allow me, um, with a lifetime of diplomacy, to suggest that calling the impeccable general corrupt might not, um, be the most strategic way to free your friends.”

  Shayth rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Tarlach. The general held a scroll with a royal seal on it. He read: “Furthermore, all caught aiding the criminal, Shayth, shall also be put to death, without trial, appeal, or negotiations whatsoever, on the day of my birthday. Let the people understand that hanging is the sole consequence to treason.”

  Tarlach stared icily at Shayth. “You may go now. Guards!”

  Shayth was furious and clenched his fists. “So now your hands are tied, Tarlach? What about then? What would you have done to protect the innocent boy under your protection, under your roof? It was me, Shayth. Were you such a coward then as you are now? You never looked for me after I ran away, did you?”

  His voice was shaking as two burly guards entered the office, grabbed his arms and began to drag him away. He shouted: “Were you so scared then as you are now? You know who murdered my parents. I heard you admit it to your wife at the pagoda.”

  “Take him away,” Tarlach hissed between clenched teeth. “He’s gone mad.”

  Shayth struggled against the iron grip of the guards and kicked out. A chair spun into the air before crashing to the floor. Shayth twisted and screamed, “WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE IF THEY’D TRIED TO MURDER THE TEN-YEAR-OLD BOY LIKE THEY MURDERED HIS MOTHER AND FATHER? HIS FATHER, YOUR BEST FRIEND, WHO RODE WITH SOLDIERS UNDER YOUR COMMAND, TARLACH, UNDER YOUR PROTECTION.”

  “GET HIM OUT OF HERE,” Tarlach roared, springing to his feet and throwing the glass across the room, where it shattered against the stone wall.

  Bortand rose slowly from his chair, but didn’t move further. A scuffle broke out outside the office and then more dragging. Shayth’s hoarse shouts echoed from around a corner. “THE BOY WAS UNDER YOUR PROTECTION, TARLACH, IN YOUR HOUSE. WOULD YOU HAVE TRIED TO SAVE ME? I WAS SHAYTH SHINDELL?”

  And then from further away, almost muffled. “Why won’t you answer me? You coward. My father was your best friend.”

  General Tarlach signaled for his adviser to leave, his chest heaving with rage. Bortand closed the door softly and walked away shaking his head.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Sellia was intrigued with Seanchai’s behavior. He sat cross-legged, peering at the open book that crackled with age as each brittle page was turned. His forehead creased with concentration as he read and reread passages. Occasionally he looked up and mouthed a word. Sellia wanted to interrupt him, to ask what he was doing. Why was he reading a book when he had been so anxious to leave for Galbrieth?

  Caught in her reverie, she barely saw Seanchai now crouching next to her. “Sellia, Sellia, I need your help. Read this sentence to me.”

  She peered over at what she now could see was a children’s storybook, and read: “He looked out over the valley and called to the wind spirit. ‘Wind spirit, wind spirit, I summon you.’ This is a famous children’s story, Seanchai. Why are you so excited?”

  “What you read are the actual words ‘wind spirit’, correct? You don’t see any other word, any other language?”

  “No. It’s here in plain Odessiyan,” Sellia replied, her exasperated confusion clear. “Why?”

  “I see something else.” He raised his head and looked across Mhari’s camp. “Do you feel the light
breeze?”

  She nodded.

  “Moriarhtur,” he whispered, “Moriarhtur,”

  And the breeze became a wind, whistling through the weathered rocks. Seanchai’s palms were facing upwards. He turned them over and brought his hands down, the wind dying to a breeze as they lowered.

  “Wow,” was the best she could manage.

  “Wow is right,” Seanchai grinned. “You see the words as they are intended, but a Wycaan sees the words that channel that element. Now that I have become a Wycaan, I can read the magical words.”

  Sellia couldn’t help smiling at his childlike excitement. “Apparently!” she exclaimed. “But finish your packing, and let’s go. You can keep reading whenever we rest.”

  Seanchai couldn’t help but lose himself in the book. It was all coming together: the fusion of earth power and the magic of the spoken word. They had all hinted at the power of stories–Mhari, Ilana, Rhoddan, Shayth–and he had always believed in the ancient lore with an inexplicable draw. It had been calling him, and now he suddenly and fervently needed to learn every word. His name was, after all, Seanchai. He was a storyteller, a Wycaan.

  A shadow. Sellia stood over him, hands on her hips. She was beautiful, he thought, her ebony skin shining in the crisp morning light. But Sellia was also imposing when annoyed, though her stance only reminded him of Ilana getting angry. He wondered if it was something common to all elfes. He wouldn’t know, but his heart felt heavy at the thought of Ilana.

  “Yes?” he asked, as pleasantly as he could muster.

  “I think we should go. There isn’t a lot of time, and I’m not sure reading children’s stories is a priority right now.” She half-smiled to show she was half-joking, but Seanchai’s expression remained intense, and he just nodded.

  He rose and disappeared into the cave, retrieving the bag of herbs and a few other items that Mhari had instructed him to bring. Everything else he packed on the hidden rock ridges as his teacher had requested. When he finished and Snowmane was ready, he turned to Sellia.

  “Let me work on your ankle for a few minutes.”

  “It’s fine. We should leave.”

  “No,” Seanchai countered. “It’s not just about you. I might need you to run, to fight, who knows what.”

  “I’m feeling much better,” she protested, but Seanchai wasn’t having it.

  “I’ve seen you wince. This isn’t some fairy tale with a brave heroine.”

  “I’m not the one reading fairy tales, Wycaan,” Sellia replied, but obliged him and sat on a rock. She sighed with relief at the healing pulse of energy.

  Seanchai led Sellia on Snowmane out of the mountains and down toward the lake. Once the ground was smoother, the Wycaan scryed and, not sensing anyone, began to run so fast that Snowmane was soon galloping to keep up. Sellia watched from the horse’s back, an astonished expression on her face.

  They rounded the lake in the first two hours and moved through another mountain pass. As they approached the road to Galbrieth, Seanchai slowed to a normal pace. They joined a steady stream of people on their way to the city for the Emperor’s birthday, excited by the promise of free food and ale.

  Seanchai’s frustration grew as the human river slowed his pace. He weaved in and out, keeping his cloak over his head. He looked like a religious eccentric, and where they could, people let him pass with a roll of the eye, an indulgent smile, or a wary glance at their weapons.

  When they took a short break, Seanchai stretched and then glanced over at Sellia. “We’ll stop early this afternoon to rest. We’ll sleep for a few hours and be able to travel faster by night.”

  There were about two hours of daylight left when Seanchai guided Snowmane off the road and into a treed area. He quickly wrapped himself in his bedroll and closed his eyes. He woke, a wave of panic when sounds from the wave of strangers penetrated his dreams and saw Sellia sitting up, her back against a tree and her hand on the hilt of her long knife. He drifted back to sleep.

  It was dark when Seanchai stirred and, despite his fatigue, immediately came awake. He found some dried fish in Mhari’s supplies. “Eat this while we ride,” he told Sellia, who had only dozed and now looked groggy. “If the road is clearer, I’m going to go fast.”

  Away from villages and people, Seanchai sped up while Sellia dozed in her saddle. In the villages he stopped only to tear down a few scrolls announcing the execution of his friends. Such notices hung everywhere and he knew his actions were futile. The village scribe had been busy, no doubt being paid for the amount he drew. Seanchai felt a growing sense of urgency and picked up his pace.

  As dawn stretched across the valley, Seanchai took them off the road and into another grove of trees. He had his bedroll out quickly, and was about to lie down when he saw Sellia standing and staring off into the distance, her roll of blankets pressed to her chest.

  “What is it, Sellia?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  Seanchai rose and came to stand beside her. On the horizon were the towers rising above the great walls of Galbrieth.

  Fifty-Eight

  Shayth screamed hysterically as he was dragged all the way from Tarlach’s office. Rhoddan, Ilana and Maugwen were all wide-awake and listening to his legs hit one stone stair after another. The soldier leading the sixer glared at Rhoddan.

  “Move away from the door,” he yelled as he swung his heavy ring of keys. “The traitor has gone nuts.”

  Rhoddan saw that the soldier’s eye had begun to swell. He didn’t feel any sympathy, for the man had hit him several times. The other guards were similarly disheveled.

  Shayth’s black hair was sweaty and standing straight up off his head. His clothes were ripped and bloodstained, and large purple welts were emerging on his body. Shayth, however, still seemed up for a fight. But he was overpowered and unceremoniously thrown into his cell.

  He fell onto the floor, facedown, panting. When Rhoddan went to help him up, he snarled, “Don’t touch me.”

  The ferocity in his voice jerked Rhoddan back, and he glanced over at Ilana. She and Maugwen were standing at their bars, staring. Time passed uneventfully, until suddenly Shayth rose and charged the cell door. He howled with pain and fury as his shoulder hit the bars.

  “Come and get it over with, you worms,” he yelled. “If you’re too scared to fight me, then bring your scum of a general and let him face me! He’s a coward! Your general is a coward!”

  He charged the door of the cell again, this time recoiling in pain with his arm clutched to his body.

  “He was too scared to protect a little boy in his care,” Shayth’s voice was becoming hoarse, but still he yelled. “His best friend’s son, you hear?”

  As he hurled more insults and prepared to lunge again, Rhoddan grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. Shayth was past caring with whom he fought and threw a punch. But Rhoddan easily avoided the clumsy attempt and swung his right fist into Shayth’s chin, sending him reeling to the floor. Shayth didn’t get up. Then Rhoddan dragged him up onto his cot and turned to face Ilana.

  “Nice shot,” Maugwen cheered, though she withered when Rhoddan, who was opening and closing his fist in pain, glared at her.

  “What do you think happened?” Ilana asked.

  “No idea,” Rhoddan replied. “But I’ve a sneaking suspicion that his discussion with the general didn’t go too well.”

  The excitement over, they all retreated to their cots and went to sleep. When they were woken the next morning for breakfast and bucket duty, the guard glared at Shayth, who lay still on his cot, facing the wall. Prisoners were required to stand up when food was brought to them so the guards could easily see if someone was sick or dead. The guard hesitated but ultimately decided that he was not going to deal with Shayth.

  “We’ll be back soon,” the guard announced. “You’re to see where the celebrations will take place. You’ll be shown what will happen tomorrow and where you should stand so you don’t make complete fools of yourself. Very considerate
of the general, if you ask me.”

  “What does that mean?” Ilana asked when he had left.

  “It’s a rehearsal. It needs to look good for the Emperor.” Maugwen said.

  “And if we don’t cooperate?”

  Maugwen shrugged. “I think you can do it the easy way or the hard way. But either way, you’ll die.”

  Ilana stared at her. Maugwen was so young and innocent. She had no idea how insensitive she had just been.

  Rhoddan was dozing when the guards finally came for them several hours after their evening meal. It had been a tense day. Shayth never spoke and refused to even acknowledge anyone. He lay curled up on his cot, not rising to eat or drink. Rhoddan eyed him with increasing apprehension.

  The sixer stood in two groups of three, each trio holding a burning torch. A soldier unlocked Ilana’s cell and signaled with his head for her to exit. He moved more cautiously to the other cell, opened the door and beckoned to Rhoddan.

  “Walk to the she-elf very slowly. You try anything and we’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life. Understand?”

  Rhoddan nodded and obeyed. Shayth still had not moved.

  “We can do this smoothly or shackle your legs and drag you,” the guard said. “The general doesn’t care either way.” When he received no response, he stormed into the cell and cracked his baton against the wall by the head of Shayth’s cot.

  Shayth jumped to his feet and the guard almost fell over backwards. “A little jumpy tonight, aren’t we?” Shayth hissed. “Why are we doing this in the dark?”

  “Not our place to ask questions,” the guard replied. “Let’s move.”

  “Maybe it’s because you’re frightened of us and want us to be tired. Or maybe you’re scared that we might outsmart you and run away.”

  The head guard sneered. “Maybe General Tarlach had more important things than you traitors to worry about during the day. I’d bet even his visits to the chamber pot were a higher priority.”