“I’ll meet him outside.” He bent to kiss each tiny head before he left, wondering why an oracle should present himself without the priest being present. Perhaps some calamity had befallen the man.
The oracle standing before him was a slim lad of about twenty. As with all oracles he wore no torque around his neck, only the baggy black robe all in the service of the Old Ones wore. His long blond hair had a shaggy quality to it, neither straight nor curly.
Narmek had the peculiar feeling of an ancient soul when he looked into the boy’s eyes, a being who’d seen too much in a short span of time; one who saw beyond this frail life and longed for the crossing into the next.
“I am Treestan, Your Majesty, and I’ve come to deliver a warning from the Old Ones.”
His proclamation set Narmek’s teeth on edge, while at the same time started his heartbeat to race, the sound pulsating in his ears.
“Out with it.” Better to get it over with and have the oracle gone from his door.
“Your Majesty, the vision has come to me thusly: The births of twin boys in the Kingdom of Shaylar shall see its ruin. There will be death upon the land, the peasants shall riot in the streets. What was once a proud and peaceful Kingdom shall turn into a valley of dust and sorrow.”
He took in a breath, beginning anew even as Narmek moved to stop him.
“The brothers will turn on each other, fighting to the death in their hatred for each other. The magic of the Kingdom shall flee the land, usurping the quality of the soil, destroying the nature of the elements. All of Chandra shall spin out of balance, terminating the other four Kingdoms, where five once stood proud and whole.”
“Guards,” Narmek called out, a cold fury settling inside his chest. “Take him to the dungeon.”
“Do with me as you will.” The oracle’s voice changed to that of a young man, no longer speaking with the power of the prophecy. “But know this. The Old Ones sent the vision to me for a reason. Heed their words. More is at stake than the lives of two boys.”
The guards led the unresisting oracle out of his sight. Narmek bolted up the stairs, storming into the nursery and scaring the women tending the infants.
“Leave us,” he ordered and they melted from the room as wraiths, as if they feared for their lives. He must look like thunder in their eyes, he thought and drew in a deep breath before approaching the twin cradles.
Camon woke, his swaddling clothes bound tightly around him so he seemed a bundle of rags with two eyes and a mouth—a mouth which now opened in protest. Narmek picked up his son and the babe ceased his cry as quickly as he’d begun, eyes solemn as he stared at his father.
Narmek’s heart filled with joy as he held this life in his hands. No one would speak against his precious sons ever again. The vision was false; it must be so. His children lived in an atmosphere of duty and devotion. Narmek himself had enjoyed a pleasing childhood. Had lived in harmony with his siblings. It was the way of ruling families. His father and his father’s father before him had instilled the necessary qualities for ruling in peace to their children.
Would he be any less of a father? The implication angered him. How dare an oracle disparage his King in that manner? The young man was a subject of the Kingdom, bound to obey his King in all things. To speak against him was treason. The punishment death. No one was spared. He set Camon down in his cradle, kissing both boys before leaving the room.
“Bring the priest to me,” he said to one of his guards, who hurried off to do his bidding.
The priest shuffled into the drawing room, his arm held in a tight hold by the guard who’d brought him from the temple.
“Leave us,” Narmek said and drew his sword as the guard closed the doors behind him. He watched the priest blanch as he stared at the blade in the King’s hand.
“One of your oracles has spoken treason to his King. Do you have any knowledge of this?” He tapped the sword against his boot, the noise measured and lethal, its sound a beat of death in an otherwise silent room. The priest’s body shook, a trickle of sweat running down his face. Narmek raised the blade up, resting it to his shoulder.
“N-no, Your Majesty,” the priest whimpered into the stillness surrounding them. “Please. The oracle acted alone. I…we have no knowledge of his words. None.”
“Then leave me.” Narmek sheathed his blade. “Go back to your temple and pray that others won’t become entangled in the same deception.”
The priest garbled a word of gratitude while choking on his breath and fled the room. Narmek stood there for a time, willing his rage to subside. Willing his fear to dissipate. Willing the oracle’s words to be but lies and not the truth.
The day of the feast arrived. The peasants gathered in the valley below, their cheers loud enough to reach the ears of everyone in the castle. Narmek stood proudly on an upper balcony with Meelate and two servants, each holding a babe in her arms. The King and Queen waved to the people below—the highborn gathered in the courtyard and the lowborn in the valley—on this happy day. The celebration of his sons’ births was about to commence.
Narmek signaled to the executioner down at the front gate, where a block had been erected. The hooded man nodded once and brought his axe down on the neck of the young man kneeling in front of him. The head rolled into the straw, dirty blond hair mixing with the blood pooling beneath it.
The axe man lifted the head of the oracle for all to see, announcing the sentence in a booming voice which carried into the crowd. “Know the punishment for treason against our King and tremble. Still your tongues for fear of my blade, in the name of His Majesty the King.”
The crowd roared their approval. Narmek felt the love of his people in the swelling of their voices as the head was carried to the gate and impaled on a pole. The executioner then read from a proclamation the King had written earlier. “By order of His Majesty, King Narmek of Shaylar, no oracle or other person shall claim to have received a vision or portent involving the Princes Camon and Sanrev of the Kingdom of Shaylar. So let it be known from this day forward.”
Meelate slid her hand through the crook of his elbow. “Are you going to tell me what the oracle said?”
“It’s of no importance, my wife. Lies should not be repeated. Come and let us celebrate the lives of our sons.” He led her off the balcony and into the dining hall to greet their guests on this auspicious day.
Chapter Three
Brothers
476th year of the Celaka
Sanrev hid in the apple orchard, lying in wait for his brother to pass by. The hilt of the blunt, wooden practice sword dug into his ribs when he sat down so he pulled it from the leather sheath strapped around his waist and laid the sword across his lap. Camon thought he was a good swordsman but Sanrev knew himself to be better. He’d seen the Master of the Sword nod his approval when he thought Sanrev wasn’t looking.
Camon walked through the grass between the trees, watching the clouds in the sky. Bad form, as the Master would say. One should always be alert for trouble. As Camon passed by his hiding spot, Sanrev leaped out and hit his brother with a backhanded swipe.
“I knew you were there,” Camon said as he turned around, though Sanrev had seen him jump from the blow as if frightened at first.
“Did not. You’re lying.”
“Did too.” Camon pounced on Sanrev and they went down, rolling in a tussle as they laughed.
Nurse called to them to get ready for supper and they both jumped to their feet, picking twigs out of their hair as they went.
“You’re slower than me,” Camon taunted and started running.
“Not when you give fair warning,” Sanrev shot back and ran after him, reaching the doorway just behind his brother. Which meant he was faster, since Camon had a much bigger head start.
“I’m going hunting in the morning,” their father announced as they sat down to eat, looking first at Camon, then Sanrev. “Would you like to come along?”
“Yes, Father!” Sanrev could hardly contain himsel
f. Only his mother’s dislike of bouncing in the chair kept him still.
“Yes, Father,” Camon said after a moment’s hesitation and Sanrev secretly gloated when his father frowned at his brother.
Sanrev thought Camon didn’t like going because of the older boys. They teased him when no one was listening. The other boys didn’t do that to him but he’d made sure to make friends with them. Camon thought he was better than the others, because he would be King someday. It was a dumb way to think.
“I want my sons to learn to do everything together,” his father said, a lecture he often gave. “You’re brothers and family must come first. Always remember that.”
“Yes, Father,” they answered in unison and rolled their eyes at each other when he looked away.
Sanrev glanced over at his brother and wondered, not for the first time, why his twin got to be King and he didn’t, just because he was born first. What if they got them mixed up? Maybe he was really firstborn and Camon second.
True, they didn’t look exactly alike; Camon had blond hair and his was much darker, but weren’t babies born bald? It could have happened.
He saw his mother give him a warning look to finish eating and he bent his head to his plate, trying to push the thought from his mind. It was too late to change things now anyway, no matter if it were true or not.
The month after harvest brought a visitor to the castle—a wizard. Sanrev leaned out the upper window, trying to see if he could spot the dignitary coming down the road through the valley. He didn’t know if his father was going to introduce them to this strange guest or not. Nurse said they should dress in their good clothes and stay clean, in case he sent for them. What she really meant was sit up here and don’t do anything except be bored.
Sanrev kicked at a chipped stone in the wall with his boot, seeing if he could get it to crack some more. It didn’t budge. Maybe he could fix it with magic and murmured a spell he made up that sounded like it might work. He thought he felt the magic tingle a bit through his torque but it was hard to tell. He crawled down onto the floor and examined the stone. Maybe it looked a little bit fixed. Maybe. Or maybe he needed better words. It was something to ask about.
The girls his age could already weave metal by moving their fingers over the strands to make jewelry. They didn’t even have to touch it. His mother said that was a woman’s special magic and his would get stronger soon. He had to be patient and let it happen.
Sanrev went to the window again and saw a man coming up the hill on a horse. His breath caught in his throat. The wizard looked up at the tower and raised his hand in greeting. At him. He was sure of it! How did the wizard know he was up here watching from that distance?
Excitement rolled off Sanrev in waves of glee. He had to go meet him. He had to. The wizards had even more magic than the highborn. Even more than his father, the King of Shaylar. Everybody said so. It must be true, too. The wizards did something to the King’s steel with magic, making the royal guards’ swords stronger than any others. Even his father couldn’t do that.
He felt a twinge of guilt about comparing his father to the wizard but the thought faded as he saw the wizard dismount from his horse and walk out of Sanrev’s line of sight, heading toward the castle’s main entrance. He picked up his wooden sword and practiced his thrusts while he waited to be called downstairs.
A short time later, Sanrev heard heavy boots pound on the stone steps and rushed to the door, flinging it open as a guard raised his hand to knock. The man smiled at him and bowed his head.
“His Majesty requests your presence, Prince Sanrev.”
Sanrev drew himself up to his full height. “I’m ready,” he said and bounded down the stairs ahead of the guard, leaving him far behind.
Disappointment slapped him in the face to find Camon already standing in the receiving room when he got there. His envy turned to wonder, though, as the wizard rose from his chair.
“Chaog, may I present Prince Sanrev?” his father said.
The wizard inclined his head as Sanrev gave him his best bow. He knew he shouldn’t stare but it was the first time he’d ever seen a wizard.
His eyes shone with an odd color, almost purple like his father’s royal robes, but not quite. Lighter than that. This must be what lavender meant, a word he’d heard used to describe a wizard’s eyes.
Chaog brushed his long hair back over one shoulder and Sanrev studied his ear in fascination. He had two lobes, the front one jutting out at an angle from the other. Sanrev’s body went rigid when the wizard responded to the introduction.
“I am most pleased to meet you, young Prince Sanrev.”
Sanrev had been told the wizards’ voices didn’t sound like theirs but hearing him speak transcended any notions he’d had of what he might hear. Soft bells rippled through his voice, better than any music Sanrev had ever heard. He might have stayed in a daze all day if his father hadn’t started speaking again, the familiar voice bringing him back to reality.
“Chaog requested you both be present for a special reason.” He inclined his head at the wizard, who lifted a bundle lying at his feet. He unwrapped the fur blanket with great ceremony, so slowly Sanrev’s foot begin to jiggle with impatience. He glanced sideways at Camon and saw his brother’s face, wide-eyed and flushed, his hands opening and closing as if to snatch the bundle out of the wizard’s hands.
At last the contents peeked out from its furry shroud and the wizard held the object sideways in both hands. Sanrev’s breath caught. It was a sword but unlike anything he’d ever seen before.
A tiny dragon, fashioned in silver, graced the hilt. Its body curled around and around, with spaces left for a man’s fingers to grasp the weapon. Rubies sparkled in the dragon’s eyes, seeming to wink at Sanrev in the light.
“My gift to you, King of Shaylar,” the wizard said, holding it out to him. “One of the last Dragon Swords made in the ancient fashion.”
Sanrev held his breath as his father took it, his own fingers twitching to touch the sword for himself. Would the dragon come alive if he touched it? No telling what it might do. The wizard’s magic might do anything.
“It is my wish that this sword serve your House well, to be passed down through generations of Kings.”
The words knocked a hole in Sanrev’s stomach. Not even Chaog’s bell voice could disperse the gloom settling in Sanrev’s gut. Camon would get to keep the sword. Not him.
His head itched like he’d laid in a bed of ants and he looked up to find the wizard gazing at him. Sanrev grasped his hands behind his back—it wasn’t polite to scratch in front of company—even as he became lost in the lavender depths of those eyes. The itching stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the wizard looked away.
“I’m honored to receive such a fine gift.” His father ran his fingers across the hilt but the dragon didn’t come alive. It wasn’t magical, then. “Go now, my sons. We have business to attend to.”
“Can you believe it?” Camon whispered to him after they’d left the room. “Someday that sword will be mine.”
Sanrev ignored him, turning away to climb the steps to his separate tower and the comfort of his room. It was just another sword. Camon could have it, just like he got first pick of everything else. One day he’d show them all that he was worthy of the same attention. Better, even. They’d be sorry for all the snubs someday.
Far Isle, island compound of the wizards
Chaog met the boat when he reached the south edge of the continent, weary of people and longing for home. No breeze stirred to fill a sail but he didn’t need it. Magic propelled the small boat through the waters, the bottom skimming along the tops of the ocean swells. Within a few hours he touched shore again and made his way to the tropical compound where forty-three wizards lived and planned their future.
A greeting committee met him as soon as he walked into the massive compound, not even giving him time to enjoy the shadowy coolness or relax on one of the soft sofas.
“What did we accompli
sh by giving Shaylar a Dragon Sword?” Zantira shook her head, her silvery mane of hair floating about her shoulders.
“I deemed it necessary.” Chaog glared at her. She returned his look in like fashion. “Since it was mine to give, it’s not your concern. The sword will help me focus on the power of Shaylar’s magic. If its link to the King weakens because of strife, I’ll be able to feel the changes.”
“But how will knowing this help us claim the magic for ourselves?” one of the other wizards spoke, his face a mask of concern. “We hide on this island like outcasts when we are stronger than them.”
“Need I remind you? We created the highborn!”
Zantira interrupted him. “Yes, to call the magic to us. It failed. You keep trying different methods but we don’t see any progress.”
Chaog looked around the room, holding each one’s attention until the murmuring died down. “We have more magic, yes, but there are few of us and many of them. Destroying the Kingdom isn’t the answer. To do so would ensure the magic not being granted to us. It’s tied to the present ruler and he oversees his land and people well.”
“Then what’s the plan, if he’s so in tune with the magic?” another said.
Chaog smiled, confident in his plan. “The twins. I plan to take it from them.”
They were silent for a moment, contemplating his words. Then Minalia spoke up, shaking his confidence. She normally sided with him. “What about the wild magic of the lowborn humans? Won’t we still have to contend with them?”
“I have an idea in mind for them. We will create an army to command, one they have no chance to defend themselves against. But that’s for later.” Chaog raised his hands in the air to make sure he had their attention. “Events will change. I know it. We have to be patient. We can afford to be, given our lifespans. For now, you will listen to my counsel. Understood?”
A few gave him a sullen look but he paid them no mind. It would go as he’d envisioned. They wouldn’t have long to wait. Not long at all.
The Fall of Shaylar Page 2