A Wizard's Dark Dominion (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 1)

by Lee H. Haywood

  Demetry’s stomach turned over in a panic. He jumped to his feet and latched onto his mother’s legs. “Leave her alone!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  The hulking man’s eyes flared with dismay. He dropped Demetry’s mother and backed away, pulling his handkerchief tight about his face. “The gods help me, we’ve got a live one here!”

  The thin man dropped a kettle he was eyeing and spun on his heels. He gave Demetry a once-over with his eyes. “You sick, boy? Are you feeling hot or achy? Have you got a case of the shits?”

  Demetry shook his head.

  “Could be he’s not sick,” suggested the hulking man, still clutching the handkerchief tight to ward off the ill humors in the air.

  “Could be,” agreed the thin man. He cautiously took a knee beside Demetry. He turned Demetry’s face from side to side and then lifted Demetry’s shirt to check his belly and back. Demetry felt like a pig being inspected for sale at a market. “Not a boil or pockmark on the lad’s body,” the man finally reported. There was a noticeable hint of relief in his voice.

  “Check again,” said the hulking man. He had backed himself all the way to the far side of the room.

  The thin man gave the hulking man a dismissive wave. “Look at the boy’s mother. She’s been dead for awhile. If the boy was going to take sick it would have already happened. He’s clean.”

  A flicker of interest suddenly showed in the hulking man’s eyes. “Do you think he bears the Creator’s blessing?”

  The thin man chewed at his tongue. “They pulled a babe out of the east ward last week. Whole family was dead, save the boy. The Arcane Council figures he’s a magic. Supposedly, there’s something about his latent powers that makes him immune to the sickness.”

  “What do we do with him?”

  The thin man looked over his shoulder, making certain no one was standing at the door eavesdropping on their conversation. Satisfied they were alone, he collected a soiled blanket from the corner of the room. “How about we wrap the lad up in one of these blankets and cart him out of here before the magistrate gets wise. The Yanish Brotherhood will pay good silver for a boy like this.”

  The hulking man’s face turned sour. “That they will. But do you have any idea what the brotherhood will do with the boy?”

  “Do you think I give a damn about the brotherhood’s indiscretions? This lad could pay my rent for half the year. Now quick, help me wrap him up.” The thin man grabbed Demetry by the shoulder, but just then, there came a knock on the door.

  All eyes turned to discover a black-cloaked figure with the beaked face of a bird standing in the threshold.

  The hulking man gulped audibly.

  The thin man was more clever with his response. “My lord, the gods have blessed us,” said the thin man, bowing with the grace of a Divine Supplicant. “We have discovered a young boy untouched by the plague.” He draped the blanket over Demetry’s shoulders in a fatherly fashion.

  Demetry said nothing, he was stunned to petrified silence by the sudden appearance of the bird-faced man. He was certain the man was one of the winged gods of Calaban, come to punish Demetry for his deviant ways. What was left of the stolen bundle of carrots lay on the floor by the door.

  “A lucky find,” said the bird-faced man. His voice came out muffled and harsh through his beaked mouth. His black, unblinking eyes were locked squarely on Demetry. Demetry began to tremble.

  The bird-faced man stepped through the threshold, passing the stolen carrots without giving them a glance. He reached up to his face and unfastened a hidden clasp. His face came off in his hands — a mask, Demetry realized with a sudden sense of relief. The man’s true face was plain, albeit kind. A grin parted the man’s lips as he took a knee before Demetry.

  Demetry wrinkled his nose at the man’s strong scent. The man wore a sachet stuffed with garlic bulbs. Demetry reached for the silken bag, and the man graciously let him play with it.

  “Do you have a father, boy?” asked the lord.

  Demetry had to think about the question for a moment. There were men who came and went. Some of them even called Demetry son, but his mother had never let him call any of the men father. He decided no was the correct answer and shook his head.

  The lord didn’t appear surprised. “Magics lust after women just like any other man. This wouldn’t be the first time a whore reared a child with the Blessing.” He stood upright, a grin of satisfaction on his face. “The boy is the correct age and appears unusually hale given the circumstances. I’d say he’s a perfect candidate.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” said the thin man. He kept his eyes averted toward the floor.

  “Of course you did,” said the lord, grinning, always grinning. He patted Demetry on the head. “The boy reeks of death. I want him stripped down and given a good scrubbing. Get him new clothes and deliver him to the Arcane Council.

  “That will, ah, have costs, my lord.”

  The magistrate reached into a hidden pocket in his cloak and produced a silver coin. He flipped it to the thin man. “This will cover the costs, no?”

  The thin man greedily snatched the coin out of the air, doing an especially poor job of hiding his excitement. “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.”

  “Good. Add the mother’s body to the burn cart and then see to the boy. I want this dealt with before nightfall.” The lord stopped at the threshold. “One more thing. The boy is now the property of the king. You know the punishment for stealing from the crown, correct?”

  “Death, my lord,” said the thin man. He began to lick at the back of his hands. Inexplicably, black hairs had started to sprout from his arms.

  “I’m pleased we have an understanding,” said the lord, not seeming to notice the thin man’s transformation. He returned the bird mask to his face.

  “Squeak,” said the thin man as he bowed to the departing lord. Demetry watched in bewilderment as the thin man’s face slowly elongated into a snout. Whiskers sprung from his cheeks, and his two front teeth grew and grew until they dangled past his lower lip. He opened his mouth to speak but only a desperate pitiful squeak passed his lips.

  “What witchcraft is this?” demanded Demetry in horror.

  “Squeak, squeak, squeak,” replied the thin man, who now had the face of a rat. He lunged forward and bit Demetry on the nose.

  Demetry returned to the waking world with a start. Sneak was standing on his face. Demetry sat bolt-upright in bed, his heart nearly leaping from his chest. Sneak gave a terrified squeak as she was sent catapulting through the air. She landed with a thump at the foot of his bed. This time, it was Demetry’s turn to squeak in dismay.

  “Sneak, what are you doing down here?” He kept his voice low to keep from waking Jeremiah. The rat scurried in hurried circles about Demetry’s legs. He scooped her up in his hands. “What have you been up to?”

  In truth, he knew the better part of that answer. Demetry hadn’t seen the rat in over a year, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t often on the fringes of his mind. He would catch glimpses of her whereabouts when he slept — raiding the larder, exploring the other cell blocks, spying on Warden Cendrik and Chaplain Sighelm in their private chambers. It would seem Sneak had been very busy in the past year.

  He stroked her black fur, finding that her little lungs were working especially hard. He intuitively understood why — Sneak had fled from someone down the stairwell.

  “Jeremiah, wake up!” hissed Demetry, unable to hide the urgency in his voice. He quickly hid Sneak under his pillow.

  Jeremiah was out of bed and on his feet in an instant. He snapped his fingers and the brazier flared to life, filling the chamber with light.

  “There’s someone coming,” whispered Demetry. He could clearly hear footsteps now. Clomp, tap, clomp. That unsteady cadence belonged to only one man. The warden was coming to pay them a visit.

  “Another letter?” wondered Demetry aloud. “But it’s so soon.”

  Jeremiah looked equally pe
rplexed.

  Gong, gong, gong. Cendrik beat at the iron door with the head of his cane, causing the metal to ring so loudly it hurt Demetry’s ears.

  “Sir Jeremiah, we need to talk,” called the warden. The friendly inflection that was normally present in his voice was missing.

  Demetry and Jeremiah exchanged concerned looks.

  “By all means,” said Jeremiah, raising his voice to be heard through the closed door. “Why don’t you step inside. We can have a conversation over breakfast.”

  Cendrik laughed, although it sounded forced and insincere. “Maybe another time. I think you would prefer to hear what I have to say in private.” Cendrik reached through the narrow portal of the holding lock and dropped the gelding collar into the cell. “I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling especially trusting today. Jeremiah, if you would be so kind as to put on the collar.”

  Cendrik’s face appeared on the far side of the holding lock, his lower lip glistening with drool. Jeremiah grunted discontentedly, but complied with the order. He locked the collar around his neck. Cendrik waited until he saw the Sundering Stone begin to glow before he withdrew from the portal. “And Demetry, please place your arm in the holding lock.”

  Jeremiah motioned for Demetry to do as he was told. Demetry grumbled under his breath and grudgingly stuck his arm through the portal. His hand and wrist just barely reached the far side. Cendrik latched the iron cuff around Demetry’s wrist, locking his arm fast. A wave of nausea rippled through Demetry’s body as the Sundering Stone drank from his well of magic. He felt his knees buckle, and a sudden lightheadedness muddled his thoughts. It took all of his concentration to keep from vomiting.

  The cell door unlocked and Jeremiah stepped outside. Demetry caught a brief glimpse of the two men standing alone in the dark corridor, then the door slammed shut sealing Demetry in his cell. Jeremiah and Cendrik walked off, leaving Demetry locked in place with his arm buried to the shoulder in the wall.

  Demetry tried not to panic. This was the first time he had ever been alone in the cell. What if Jeremiah didn’t return? What if they left him down here all alone for the rest of his life? What if? What if? What if? The thoughts entered his head, frantic and unwelcome. His heart began to gallop in his chest. He had to focus to slow down his breathing.

  “You’re not alone. Not truly,” reminded the voice in his head. Sneak clambered up Demetry’s body and scurried down the length of his arm, joining Jeremiah and Cendrik in the corridor.

  Demetry closed his eyes, and suddenly he, too, was out in the corridor, hurrying along the ground on all fours. He kept to the shadows, his body pressed to the wall, his pupils dilated, looking for danger. The whiskers on his nose twitched as he sought out familiar scents. It didn’t take long to find Jeremiah and Cendrik; they had only ascended to the first bend in the stairwell — just far enough that Demetry couldn’t overhear their conversation.

  The two men soared overhead like giants, their proportions distorted from Sneak’s unnatural point of view. Demetry made his body — Sneak’s body — motionless. The two men conversed quietly. Their words sounded foreign to Demetry’s rat ears, yet somehow he comprehended everything that was said.

  “It’s time for you and I to be honest with one another,” said Cendrik. He was leaning on his cane more than usual. His skin was pale, his face exhausted. “We’re running out of time, Jeremiah. Our respective value to the king is wearing thin.”

  “How is the old fool doing?” asked Jeremiah. The Sundering Stone in Jeremiah’s collar was glowing brightly, filling the stairwell with flickers of blue and green light.

  “The king is growing old, growing impatient, growing desperate. And as you and I both know, desperate men are prone to rash actions.”

  Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make idle threats, Cendrik. If he lays a hand on her, I’ll...”

  “Do what? Go on a rampage? Burn Coljack to the ground? Set out on a vengeful vendetta to kill the king?” Cendrik shook his head. “Your threats are hollow, Jeremiah. The king’s are not.”

  “I’ll kill myself. Is that threat enough? I’ll take the whereabouts of the Orb with me to the grave.”

  “There was a time when I would have taken that threat seriously. Not anymore. You’ve had years to swallow the bitter pill of death, yet you persist. Why? Because you are a survivor. Suicide is not in you. Besides, you wouldn’t do anything that might put Princess Calycia’s life in danger.”

  Demetry’s little rat ears perked at the mention of the name. The Calycia sending Jeremiah letters was the princess? He suddenly had a hunch that the missing Orb wasn’t the only reason Jeremiah was locked in prison. Romancing the heir’s wife wasn’t without consequences.

  “You may be right,” said Jeremiah. “You’ve known me longer than most. How many years has it been now?”

  “It’s been nearly fifteen years since I put a knife in your side,” said Cendrik. “Does the wound still fester?”

  Jeremiah shrugged off Cendrik’s jab. “Fifteen years. That’s a lifetime for some men. Tell me — in the intervening time, how many women have you loved, how many children have you reared? How often did you venture home to visit your family? Not once, right?” Jeremiah smiled like a wolf about to gorge on its prey. “You have paid a very high price for your loyalty to the throne.”

  If Jeremiah’s mocking words were bothering him, Cendrik showed no sign. “I have paid a high price,” he agreed. “But one day I will get my due reward.”

  “Ah, yes, after I let slip the location of the Orb.” Jeremiah laughed. “A stubborn persistence — that is one thing you and I have in common. You still believe that the throne will reward you with a commission to the Academy Arcanum.” Jeremiah shook his head. “The men you are counting on are snakes, more likely to kill you than give you a fair reward. But somewhere deep down, you must already know that, right?”

  A corner of Cendrik’s upper lip twitched, the only hint that Jeremiah’s words had struck a nerve.

  Jeremiah didn’t let up. “You are as much a prisoner here as I am. And you know why? Dumb luck. You overheard a conversation not meant for your ears. You know that Princess Calycia does not love the prince. You know that she intended to run away from him on that fateful day in the woods. You know that she would sooner put a knife in his neck than live another day in his home. And how did Prince Rudlif cover his tracks? He whispered false praise in your ear, insisting that you alone had the ability to pierce my mind and discover the whereabouts of the Orb. But it was a lie. The truth is, you’re not special, Cendrik. You’re not Academy Arcanum material. You’re not even a very good seer, to be honest. What you are, is a liability.” He gave Cendrik’s shoulder a sympathetic pat. “That’s the problem with royals — they perceive all other lives as expendable. That’s why I’m in prison. That’s why you’re in prison. And that’s why neither of us are ever going to leave this place.”

  “You and I have one notable difference,” said Cendrik, the hurt evident in his eyes.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “The lie I tell myself still has a chance of coming true. Yours does not.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s why I came down here — I wanted you to hear the news from me. The princess will not be sending you any more letters.”

  The first flickers of fear began to show in Jeremiah’s typically composed face. “What did he do to her?” Jeremiah hissed.

  “Nothing,” replied Cendrik. “But that didn’t change her fate. This isn’t a fairy tale, Jeremiah. None of us are immortal. Sometimes people die.”

  Jeremiah’s brow furrowed. A dangerous glint entered his eyes. “You lie,” he hissed after a lengthy moment of silence.

  “Truly, I wish I did. I would like to think that your stubborn refusal to reveal the whereabouts of the Orb was for a worthwhile purpose, that you were engaged in some noble crusade to keep the woman you love alive. But here’s the truth, your efforts at deception, your years of silent suffering, all were for nothing. Calycia is dead and there is
nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

  This threw Jeremiah into a fit of rage. He lunged for Cendrik’s neck, but the warden dodged aside, fast as a fish evading a predator. Jeremiah lunged again, but Cendrik, even with his disability, was able to dodge just out of reach.

  “I may not be a very good seer, but I can still predict your every move,” said Cendrik tapping at his own head. “You can reach left and I’ll dodge right. We can play this game all day, but I’d rather not. I have never looked kindly on futility, and that is precisely the point you and I have reached in this journey. Calycia is gone — you can’t protect her anymore.”

  “You lie,” Jeremiah muttered again, but this time it was obvious he didn’t mean the words. Although Jeremiah was trying to maintain his composure, Demetry could detect it cracking at the seams. His charcoal eyes, which were usually stoic, glinted with tears. His lips, usually drawn in a tight line, quivered with emotion.

  Cendrik placed a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder, the gesture not unkind. “You’ve fought a good fight, but you’ve lost. Not to a spiteful old king or a crafty prison warden. You’ve lost to Fate. There is a plague sweeping the land. They are calling it the Breath of God. All who are afflicted die. If it’s any consolation, Prince Rudlif is also amongst the dead.”

  Jeremiah’s eyes showed no pleasure at the news. He stared at the floor, anguish eating at his heart.

  “Jeremiah, I know this is painful, but I need you to keeping listening to me. The plague is just one of many ill tidings I bear. There are dragoons amassing north of the wall. War is coming. Capernicus is in danger. The Orb, Jeremiah, the king needs it.”

  Jeremiah swallowed the knot in his throat. “Who leads the dragoons?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “No one knows for certain. Still, a man might draw conclusions from the rumors — they say the leader is a creature of deep cunning and is worshiped by the other dragoons as a god.”

  “Tyronious.” Jeremiah clutched at his chest.

  “You know what must be done.”