Cordillera despised this particular tower most of all. He didn’t consider why he had chosen it for Ida, if he even knew. Climbing the stairs was never easy. His thoughts always took him back in time. When his father was alive, he used the chamber at the top of the tower to punish him. Usually the king’s majordomo carried him up the stairs by the scruff of his neck, Hermon’s feet kicking in lame attempt to find purchase. He would never forget the mechanical click of the king’s key turning tumblers in the door’s lock, and the protest of rusted hinges whining as the door was opened.
His father never beat him, but without word would lock him away for days in the tower. In the tower he received no food, and not even a bucket to use as privy. There was just the one window out of which he could watch the sun and moon battle for placement in the sky. He would relieve himself out of it as well. The crisscrossing iron bars prevented him from doing anything more. This was the only room in all of the towers without a machicolated floor. Before being released the head of household would drop off a bucket filled with soapy water. He was expected to collect feces, and scrub the floors clean finally able to escape the horrid stench in which he had been forced to live.
A beating would have been better. He would rather a few good swats for sins committed, and then be able to move forward. Initially there would be pain, the king’s hands had been big, strong, as if he’d spent his days with steel smiths hammering out imperfections in swords, instead of sitting behind mahogany desks and barking commands.
The silence and isolation of the solitary confinement extended beyond the days spent locked in the tower. That emotional pain, always present, ruined his entire childhood, but (in his mind) he refused to let it sour the rest of his life.
King Cordillera carried the same ring of keys his father had carried. They were tied to his belt, but wrapped in thin cloth which kept them from rattling as he walked. He didn’t need to search through the keys for the one to the tower door. It didn’t look any different from the others. He knew it by touch.
The king always assigned a knight to guard the room, who acknowledged the king and stepped aside as the king unlocked and pulled open the door.
“Sire?” the Chamberlain said.
He knew the man craved praise, or at the very least, approval. It was as obvious on the man’s face as it is the royal hounds’ when they begged for scraps. Just like the hounds wouldn’t get a morsel of turkey with gravy tonight, neither would this man get a thank you for meeting his responsibilities as Chamberlain. “You can return,” Cordillera said.
Ida stood near the bars across the window. Thankfully, her hood was covering her hideous head, and keeping her face where it belonged, in shadow. A putrid aroma filled the room. Cordillera knew it came from a mixture of the herbs and ingredients Ida kept for her magic, as well as from the witch’s flesh. She disliked water, bathed infrequently, and was going to force him to command that she cleanse the stench from her body.
Thick black candles sat on flat plates set around the room. The sun was, thankfully, setting on a relentlessly hot day. As long as the clouds thinned, the heat could escape and the breeze of the sea might provide a reprieve from the humidity. Autumn was ending soon. Winter would fall on the kingdoms fast. Then the cold would be what they were forced to deal with. There was no winning when it came to weather.
King Cordillera stood still, and did not announce his presence. She had summoned him. Surely she’d heard the heavy door open when the hinges squeaked. It didn’t take magic for ears to work.
It did take insolence to ignore royalty. He knew she thought she was different than his other subjects, that her magic made her better than most. But she was no queen.
He allowed her silence for a moment longer. Her power did frighten him; he just didn’t want her to know how much. It was important to continue letting her believe that she was more than a prisoner, more than the tool he’d use to get the things he wanted. In preparing for the war, her role was essential. She knew as much, and it was where her insolence stemmed from, unfortunately.
Did she know she was a prisoner? Of course she did. The locked door was more than proof enough. Even his half-witted wife would know she was being held against her will if locked inside a room. He had never mentioned to Ida the extent of her captivity, and she never questioned it. The arrangement was transparent. He was king, and she served him under lock and key. Quite simple, actually.
Quite simple, and yet he sometimes wondered how he’d respond if she ever demanded freedom, or worse, threatened it.
Her magic was strong, even though she was a lone witch.
He knew the room was enchanted. The spell cast was straightforward, but unbreakable. It sealed the entire room, keeping a wizard locked inside; a dungeon amidst the clouds. When he’d brought Ida to his keep, and led her up the winding tower staircase, he thought for sure she’d recognize the magic. The promise of her own room where she was free to work her spells, potions, and live mostly undisturbed apparently appealed to her. The enchantment, the lock, the key, she had not seemed to anticipate. Or had she?
He’d not lied. She was encouraged to work on spells and potions. Just not as freely as she might have originally thought. The magic created was dictated by him. He had a library of books on magic. His collection had become extensive, and had taken time to acquire. The plans made would require many things to happen. Everything needed to fall perfectly in place if he expected to succeed. And he did expect success. They talked through what he expected a potion to do; expressed what he hoped, and wanted the magic to accomplish, and she worked to make it happen. Her trials weren’t always fruitful, or quick. Getting things right took time. Patience and time.
When Ida spoke, it was softly. Her words lightly bounced off the rock walls. “There has been a disturbance. Magic has been used.”
“And the potions?” He wrung his hands together. It was the first small taste of victory to reach his tongue, and he salivated at its possibilities.
She waved a hand in the air. “They’re ready. They’ve been ready.”
“And do you have a location?” he said.
“Not specifically. I am thinking it happened on the west bank. But I am not yet positive. More magic will be used. And when it is, I will have more accurate information. I simply wanted you made aware. We’re getting closer.”
“Keep me posted. Night or day. Any time you have something new, I want to know,” he said, before turning to leave.
Chapter 7
Mykal lay on the bed, his eyes open, but seemed to stare at nothing.
“Is he breathing?” Grandfather said. His chair was parked beside the bed. He held his grandson’s hand in his own.
Blodwyn quickly cleared items off the nightstand, and set down his small leather bag. He loosened the purse strings and dug inside. “He’s breathing. It’s shallow, but he is breathing. His body has slipped into shock. We need more blankets. He must be kept warm.”
Grandfather wheeled himself out of the room in search of blankets.
Someone knocked on the front door.
“We can’t be disturbed,” Blodwyn shouted. He lifted a clear jar from the bag and held it up to the candlelight. It had a piece of leather tied over the mouth as a lid, and was filled with bugs, like tiny creatures that resembled insect-sized lobster tails. “Send whoever it is away!”
“He needs to heal himself.” It was a woman’s voice.
Blodwyn glanced over his shoulder, ready to order the intruder out of the house. Her presence caught him off guard. Before him stood a woman, and aside from a purple gem hanging from a silver necklace, she was naked and stunningly beautiful. Her hair was green like blades of grass, curly, and hung just below her breasts. Her flawless skin was creamy pale, but it was her violet eyes with sapphire rims and black irises that held his stare.
Grandfather sat behind her at the bedchamber threshold, blankets piled atop his lap. “I tried to tell her to leave.”
“We’ve no time to argue. The blankets, q
uickly,” Blodwyn said. His eyes on the woman, as he held out his hand.
The woman took the blankets from Grandfather, walked into the room, and handed them over. “He needs to heal himself.”
“You must be the mysterious woman Mykal met this afternoon.” Blodwyn unfolded the blankets over Mykal’s body, and then untied the string removing the leather lid from the jar.
“What are those?” Grandfather said. He tucked the blankets around his grandson’s feet.
Blodwyn scooped bugs from the jar and hovered over Mykal for a moment before dropping a few of the insects into Mykal’s mouth. “These are cymothoa. Tongue biters. You most often find them living inside the mouths of fish. They’re parasites. They attach themselves to a fish’s tongue and suck blood from their host. They can grow quite large. The ones in this jar are an inch long, or less. In the sea they can grow several feet. They are most difficult to remove. Eventually the host’s tongue will die and fall away, and the cymothoa will act as the new tongue for the fish.”
Grandfather grunted, then groaned, “Why on earth are you putting them in my grandson’s mouth?”
“The poison from the cuts is traveling through his body. The more poison that reaches his brain, the more dangerous his infection becomes. These tongue biters will interfere with the blood flow and ingest the poison,” Blodwyn said.
“He needs to heal himself,” the naked woman said.
“Please, I have no idea who you are. I am not sure why you are here. This young boy needs medical attention. His life is in serious danger. Serious danger! You’re not helping the situation at all. I am going to have to ask you to leave,” Blodwyn said. He’d raised his voice, and seemed uncomfortable with having done so. He was unable to keep eye contact, but looking anywhere else seemed inappropriate. “Now please, let us be. I am trying to save my friend’s life.”
“How long will it take to work?” Grandfather pointed at Blodwyn’s jar.
“We may have to wait until morning before we notice much of a change.” Blodwyn rested a hand on Mykal’s shoulder. “One way or the other, we will know something by morning.”
“Mykal,” the woman said. “You must heal yourself. I know you hear me. You can rid your body of the poison inside your blood. You do not need parasites to cleanse you. You can just as easily—”
“That is enough!” Blodwyn put out his hands. He spun the woman around. “You must leave.”
“But what if she’s right?” It was grandfather.
Blodwyn bit down on his upper lip. “Who are you?” he said to the woman.
“My name’s Galatia.”
Blodwyn’s brow furrowed. He eyed the naked woman suspiciously. She was either lying, or cared nothing for Grey Ashland law. King Grandeer had launched a war against magic, executing wizards across the empire—back when there was a united empire. The decree held sway from king to king continuing the outlaw of magic, with substantial rewards offered for information that led to the capture of anyone caught using magic or claiming to be a wizard.
“Galatia, the Wizard?” he said.
She cocked her head to one side. “You’ve heard of me?”
He had heard of one named Galatia. “I know of her. Most do. She perished nearly two centuries ago at the hands of Kind Grandeer.”
The woman winced as though Blodwyn’s words had cut her with sharpened-steel edges. “That man cannot still be on the throne?”
Blodwyn slowly shook his head. “He’s not. His grandson is king. You want us to believe you’re the same Galatia from two hundred years ago?”
“In the flesh.” She held her arms out, palms up, as if announcing, here I am. “Now, unless you feel a pressing need to ask more questions, I would like to return to Mykal’s room. I need to speak with him some more.”
“But he can’t hear you,” Grandfather said.
“Yes, he can. He can hear everything we’ve said. Blodwyn was correct in assessing the danger of the Isthmian Serpent’s dorsal. The poison, even in small doses, can be lethal. What the poison does is paralyze prey. They become like a log, unable to move limbs, and muscles. His eyes are open, so trust me, he can see. He can also hear, which is why I need to continue speaking to him. Do I have your permission to do so?”
Blodwyn saw conflict in Grandfather’s eyes. If word got out Galatia was inside his house, the king would send knights and have the old man arrested. In the dungeons Grandfather would be tortured. The dungeon master would force a confession that both he and Mykal were also using magic. They would be put to death in the courtyard for all of Grey Ashland to witness.
“You already know you can trust me in this. You have my word, no one will know,” Blodwyn said to grandfather. “What happens tonight will stay between us.”
“You remain a good friend, Wyn. You have always been loyal to this family. I thought for sure when my daughter-in-law was. . .taken, and my son ran off, I’d have seen the last of you. Instead you’ve remained a part of Mykal’s life as though a blood relative. For that, I have always felt gratitude,” Grandfather said.
Blodwyn kept too many secrets to be completely truthful with the old man. It was expedient to accept the compliment, and move forward. “Thank you, sir. Being a part of your lives has been a blessing to me.”
“And the boy? May I?” Galatia said. “I do not think we’ve much time before his life is too far gone to save.”
Blodwyn nodded his approval.
“How is he going to heal himself?” Grandfather said. He looked shaken, his head wobbled and lips trembled. “Why do she keep saying that? I don’t understand. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
Blodwyn sat in the main room with Grandfather. Galatia was with Mykal in his room. While he’d rather be in there, a witness to whatever happened, he knew Grandfather needed him more at the moment. The man deserved answers.
“You know something, Blodwyn. There’s no need in denying it. I saw it in your eyes tonight. More than once.” Grandfather sat rigid in his chair. His fingers laced, knuckles white. His mouth kept working even after he stopped speaking, as if there was more he wanted to say.
Outside, thunder rumbled over the Isthmian. The storm would strike soon. As the rain began to fall, the intermittent drops sounded like a box of carpenter nails being erratically emptied onto the cabin’s tin roof. It then transitioned into a steadier din.
“It’s really coming down now,” Blodwyn said.
“Please,” Grandfather said. “My grandson is all I have left. He is my only family. I can’t lose him. I can’t. There’s only so much an old man’s heart can take.”
Blodwyn sat on a chair facing the old man, gripping with both hands the staff between his legs. He kept an ear focused on the woman’s voice, her words just barely audible to his attuned hearing. “I knew your daughter-in-law before she fell in love with your son.”
“You did? You knew Anna before my son?” Mykal’s grandfather looked uneasy. He shifted his weight in his chair. His hands unclasped and fidgeted with the blanket over his legs. He lifted it, and replaced it on his lap, tucking one end around his stump.
“I knew Anna, and Anna’s family quite well.” Blodwyn didn’t want to lie. He knew some things needed revealing. He didn’t want to volunteer more than necessary. He feared it would be near-impossible to keep secrets much longer, though. Getting answers to questions didn’t always makes things better. Ignorance was sometimes preferable to knowledge. The toughest thing was to convince those who didn’t have specific knowledge, that they truly did not want it; that they would be happier left in the dark.
“Were you a part of her family?”
Blodwyn shook his head. “I was not related. I was her teacher.”
He could see Grandfather slowly absorb that bit of information. He knew inside the old man’s brain wheels turned like those on his chair, trying to get from one place to another. There couldn’t be enough pieces in place for Grandfather to get there yet, but it wouldn’t take much more. Mykal and Blodwyn had spent ti
me together nearly every day, rarely missing a single one, since the day Mykal had been born.
“Teacher? I don’t understand.”
Blodwyn leaned forward. He knew that except for Galatia and Mykal they were alone inside the house, and that the steadily falling rain and occasional crash of thunder would drown out the sound of his voice should anyone be nearby to listen. Still, he felt uncomfortable speaking above a whisper. “There were the rumors,” he said.
“There are always rumors,” Grandfather said.
“Anna, your daughter-in-law, was like Galatia.”
Grandfather, who seemed to have been holding his breath sighed. He sat back in his wheeled chair and laughed. Blodwyn retained his grip on his staff, but never blinked, and never looked away from the other man’s eyes.
It didn’t take long before the weight of his words overwhelmed Grandfather’s mirth. The old man’s shoulders began to shake. The tears brimmed from his bottom eyelids. “Eadric’s Anna? She really did know magic?”
“She . . . was a wizard,” Blodwyn said. It somehow still surprised him that such news could bring devastation to some people, although it shouldn’t, considering the laws which still existed criminalizing such things. One could choose to practice magic, but such learning was limited. Students of magic focused their studies perfecting one element of the craft. The books provided insight and guidelines. Magic could be learned, and used by those born without the spark, but was not nearly as effective or as dangerous as most suspected, or as King Grandeer once feared.
Wizards were different. Wizards were born. One couldn’t choose to become a wizard.
“Don’t let that diminish your memory of the woman,” Blodwyn said.
Grandfather licked dry lips. “I just don’t know how I was blind to it. I feel like it’s something I should have known, should have been able to detect.”
“She was skilled at keeping her abilities secret. She knew revealing who she was, what she was, endangered everyone she loved and cared about. She rarely used her powers.”
“Eadric?”
Severed Empire: Wizard's Rise Page 5