The baby appeared at last, his cries suffusing Sanrev with joy. He had a son! Lamisha gazed at him, clear-eyed but exhausted, not even able to summon a smile on her face.
“I think we should name him Narmek, after your father.” She closed her eyes as if that one sentence had used up the last of her strength.
The mention of fathers brought back the sad news he’d learned. Sanrev struggled to contain his emotions. He’d soon need to tell Lamisha of her father’s death but not now. Not yet. He’d wait until she was stronger before burdening her with such unhappiness, for she’d surely blame herself.
He forced a smile when she glanced at him again. “That’s a fine name for our son. You rest now.”
She fell asleep with the baby at her breast and Sanrev left the room to think. What should he do now? Was there a safe haven waiting for them somewhere? Somewhere far from the valley of his birth? The snows to the north would be gone in another month or so. Perhaps they could go there and find peace, for none would be found staying here.
Three days later a virulent fever struck Lamisha. Though he tried to save her with cool water and broth, she died the following morning. Sanrev shoved his grief aside, knowing if he didn’t get help soon his child would die from starvation. He bundled the baby up and rode into the valley, stopping at the first farm he came to.
“Please find a wetnurse for my child,” he begged as a stout woman came to the door.
He saw pity in her eyes—and fear. She nodded and reached for the baby. “I will, Prince Sanrev. Be at ease.”
He stroked the baby’s cheek with one finger, then kissed his tiny forehead. “His name is Narmek,” he whispered and turned away while he still possessed the strength to do so.
Sanrev returned to the little farmhouse, anguish mounting with each step he took. There was a small field beyond the garden and he dug a grave there, laying his beautiful Lamisha to rest. He recited the prayer to send her into the Crossing, his heart tearing into strips with each word. She followed the Old Ones now. Beyond his reach, her troubles over.
His child lived but would be safer without him. Sanrev buried his face in his hands and wept as darkness overtook him.
Chapter Twelve
Loss of Magic
Camon staggered as a bout of dizziness swept over him. His limbs weakened and he fell to the floor in agony. Lamisha’s magic. Gone. Torn from his body. He strained to open the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out the diamond necklace she’d left behind so he couldn’t trace her.
The stones were inert. No vibration of magic flowed through them. They still retained their beauty but no power. Useless baubles. She must be dead.
He screamed his rage, berating the Old Ones for abandoning him in this manner. Without a wife’s magic, without the cooperation of the magic of the Kingdom, he had no more than any other noble. Indeed, even less than those highborn who were married.
The ignominy of it all struck him like a fist to the gut, even as his guards poured in to help him. Camon brushed them off, standing back up on his own. Dread fluttered in on silent wings, churning the air around him until it seemed he breathed in a noxious odor.
“Your Majesty? Are you ill? Should I send for someone?”
Camon gasped for air as he stared into the anxious guard’s face. The man didn’t seem to be aware of the fumes. Didn’t seem to have any difficulty breathing at all.
My mind is stronger than this! Camon struck at the necklace with his fist, venting his anger on the object of his downfall. The air cleared and he gulped in the sweetness of it, vowing to learn the truth.
A gren passed by the open window, its screech echoing through the room. He saw the guards exchanging worried glances but ignored them, striding toward the balcony and shoving the door open. Down below, where the heads of the traitors still adorned the pikes, he saw the gren land. It pecked at the head of his latest addition—that of the so-called witch of Baylana, a seer who refused to cooperate when his guards brought her to him a month ago. Camon turned away, afraid of what it might mean. The guards still huddled in the room, their silence more than he could bear.
“The Queen is dead.” Camon held himself with stiff dignity, refusing to look upon their faces. “Go find me a seer—anyone—who can tell me what happened.”
They marched out of the room in strict obedience but Camon felt their dismay as tremors in the air, blending with his fear in a terrible tempest meant to bring about his downfall. He wouldn’t let that happen. No one could take Shaylar from him. He was its rightful King.
Sanrev… What had he done to allow her to die? Had his jealousy run so deep as to harm her to get back at his King? It didn’t seem possible and yet…
He’d find a seer on his own. He still had that much magic left to him. Camon escaped into the peace of his windowless workroom in the tower just as the bells started ringing to announce the death of the Queen.
Chaog paced through the tall grass in the next valley over, an unaccustomed impatience lending a martial beat to his steps. After the unfortunate theft of the Dragon Sword, he’d spent more time in the area, periodically checking the progress of the twin brothers and gauging their growing hostility toward one another. Without the sword planted in the castle, Chaog couldn’t rely on magic to tell him what he needed to know.
He’d also spent some time trying to retrieve the sword, but to no avail. It was currently ownerless and apparently at the bottom of the sea. The thief had sold it to the Captain of the Benastra Talla, according to a witness to the transaction. The man had spent time in the taverns of the southern seaport of Katrain, telling all who would listen about the magnificent sword with its silver dragon and ruby eyes. As for the ship, it went down in a funnel storm, never to be seen again.
But now he heard the call he’d been waiting for. The King had used his magic to compel a seer to him. It was the opening Chaog needed.
“Wait for me,” he said to the two who’d accompanied him here to help retrieve Shaylar’s magic for their own use. He heard Zantira complain about being left behind but Chaog ignored her. She’d soon see the benefits of the plan he had in mind.
He set off on a horse, wearing the black robe and cowl of the priesthood. It was full dark when he reached the castle wall, exactly as he’d planned. Seizing Camon’s mind, he planted the suggestion that the seer he’d summoned awaited him at the wall.
Within the hour a horse rode toward him, Camon’s mind broadcasting every thought he had. Chaog permitted himself a fleeting smile. The highborn were so easy to manipulate, with their magic depleted of the lowborn wild magic and slanted toward the powers of the wizards.
Chaog kept his eyes downcast, as was proper for an oracle addressing the King. The gesture—and the darkness—would hide his lavender eyes from being spotted. He dismounted and stood to receive the King.
“Are you the seer I sent for?” Camon dismounted and walked over to him, seeming aloof, but Chaog read his eagerness in his thoughts.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Chaog bowed to him, using magic against Camon’s mind to ignore the timbre of his wizard’s voice. “I’ve had a vision concerning your brother and the Queen. It was your brother who kidnapped the Queen, killing her after the babe was born. He intends to raise the boy—his own son—and take the throne from you.”
“I knew it,” Camon muttered and scratched his head. “Where are they now?”
“I do not know where the child is.” Chaog didn’t want the King to lose focus and start hunting for the infant. “I have seen you send out a challenge to your brother and know that you will be victorious in this matter. Then you will be at leisure to find the child or not. The magic of the land will rejoice with you. This is what the vision tells me.”
“Then so be it. I have one more task for you. Tomorrow you will go among the peasants and proclaim my challenge for all to hear. I summon Sanrev to the castle to face me or death will continue to visit the valley.” Camon flipped a coin at him and turned back to his horse.
Chaog almost chuckled at the man’s arrogance. He certainly wasn’t going to play the part of the herald for the King but he’d find someone suitable to spread the message.
As for the babe, the son of Sanrev was of no consequence. He was much too young to capture the magic.
Chaog rode away, pleased with the night’s work. It would all be over soon and the magic of this Kingdom would be his for the taking.
Chapter Thirteen
A Challenge Accepted
Sanrev heard of the challenge from his brother three days later. A group of peasants stood in the main road as he rode back into the valley, solemn and silent as they blocked his path. He dismounted, weary of heart and mind, as their spokesman stepped forward to greet him.
“Are you to fight for us, Prince Sanrev?” the man asked after telling him of the announcement. “We can’t survive iffin you don’t take him to task.”
Sanrev let his gaze travel over the crowd, taking their measure. They looked angry. Beaten down. Without hope. He pitied them for the abuse they’d had to endure.
But to challenge his brother to a fight that would only conclude with a death? To take the crown which was rightfully Camon’s by birth? To pit brother against brother—his own twin?
He pushed aside his anguish and saw the bitter fury lurking behind it. They’d been born together, shared their mother’s womb, and yet Camon had murdered his mother—along with many others—to have his say heard. Those weren’t the actions of a good and noble King. Already the Kingdom suffered under Camon’s harsh rule. These people had nothing more to lose and everything to gain.
Unless Sanrev faltered…
He shuddered to think of what retributions Camon might impose if Sanrev should be the one to die. Best not think that way.
“I will accept my brother’s challenge, in the name of the people of this Kingdom, if he clears the castle. This fight must only involve the two of us. I don’t want anyone else to fall by our actions.”
The crowd thanked him in a subdued fashion, too tired of spirit to summon any exuberance. Or perhaps they had the same concerns as he did—who would win?
“We’ll send a message with your condition, Prince Sanrev. We hope for your victory.” The man paused and bowed his head as if in prayer, though Sanrev knew the lowborn scoffed at the Old Ones, believing the gods only championed the highborn and their magic.
“Then I will go to my home and await the signal.” Sanrev got back on his horse and rode through the parted crowd, people reaching out to touch him as if blessing him while he went. He gave them a smile steeped in sadness. It was all he had left to give.
Two days went by without word from the castle. Sanrev began to hope Camon had changed his mind.
It was not meant to be.
Just after dawn’s pale reds had left the sky on the third day, a commotion roared through the valley to the beat of hundreds of hooves. Horses, livestock, and people all descended from the mountain, converging into a river of uncertainty and fear. Sanrev watched the exodus from his window, his gut clenching and temples pounding.
The castle had been cleared. Camon meant to fight him to prove his superiority, just as they had years ago as small boys. The old rivalries had come back to haunt them after all.
Sanrev took his time in preparation as the crowd continued to flow down the road. He knelt and asked the Old Ones to give him victory—not for petty jealousies but for the good of the Kingdom and its people. He prayed for the souls of the departed who’d Crossed over before him and asked that he might join them if he should fall this day. He even asked for a softening of his brother’s heart, that they might put their differences aside when they next met.
Then he left to go meet with destiny.
The people gathered along the sides of the road fell into step behind him as Sanrev passed by, forming a procession in his wake. By the time he reached the outer wall, hundreds followed his path. Refusing to look up at the rotted heads still impaled on pikes like silent witnesses, he started up the mountain.
Heading toward death—either his own or his brother’s.
The silence in the castle begged to be filled with voices; the stale odor in the air not stirred by smells of fresh-baked bread or sweet pies. Sanrev stood in the center of the great hall, his feet unable to move any farther into the maw of despair. All was lost in this desolate space; the hopes and dreams of those who’d once frequented this place now roamed the hallways as pale ghosts mourning their losses.
A clatter of boot heels broke the spell cast over Sanrev and he came alert at the sound of Camon’s approach. The King entered from the opposite end, his typically impassive face now twisted by hatred.
“You sought to steal my Kingdom by murdering my Queen. You shall die a long, slow death for your treachery. If only I could kill you a thousand times over.” Camon’s sword quivered in his hand as he raised it, ready to strike.
“She died of a fever.” The accusation struck Sanrev like a physical blow and he fought to control his emotions, at the same time unsheathing his sword. “I would never harm Lamisha. I loved her and would have given my life for hers gladly.”
“Then join her in death.” Camon sprang at him, fury taking all reason from his actions.
Sanrev parried and pressed his own attack. His skin tingled, warning him just in time as a barrage of rocks sailed at his head. A swift glance told him Camon had laid an arsenal of objects in various corners—rocks, knives, potions with unknown properties. Sanrev assumed he’d discover their contents sooner or later. His brother meant to win by fair means or foul.
But the King no longer had a greater magic than his. They were evenly matched, as they had been growing up. Sanrev used his magic now to fling one of the potions at Camon.
A roar of anger told him of the direct hit but smoke filled the air and Sanrev couldn’t see anything. As it settled he found himself alone in the room, forced to seek out his brother, no doubt falling into a trap awaiting him as he searched.
Up the steps he went, his hearing strained for any telltale sound. A block of stone shattered in the wall, exposing the tower stairs to daylight for the first time and showering Sanrev with sharp rocks. Did Camon mean to bring the walls of the castle down on their heads? For what purpose? It was an act of a madman.
More blocks exploded around him as he continued, angering Sanrev at the destructive vindictiveness. “Why don’t you quit hiding and fight me? Why tear the walls apart?”
His brother stepped out from the landing above him, his eyes widening as he saw the holes. His face hardened and he looked down. “What trickery is this? Don’t think to lay the blame on me.”
He descended the steps with sword swinging, forcing Sanrev to walk backwards to escape his precarious position. They battled through the hallways, their skills too similar for either to gain ascendency over the other. Hours passed, each having to rely on magic to sustain them as weariness set in.
Sanrev staggered back as a blow to the arm spun the sword out of his hand. He rushed his brother and threw him to the ground. Odd points of light bounced along the walls of the room, then disappeared. Musical bells resonated in the air in discordant fashion. Camon recovered from his surprise first, shoving a fist into Sanrev’s jaw.
“You think a bit of magic will distract me from killing you?”
Sanrev scrambled to his feet, tasting blood. He hadn’t created the lights or bells. What was Camon up to?
A knife flew into his hand of its own volition, just as Camon leapt toward him with another in his hand. Sanrev ducked and spun around, slicing Camon’s arm as he came back up.
His brother bellowed with rage and pain; lightning flashed across the high ceiling. Sanrev held his head in agony and sank to the floor. He pulled his hands away from his ears and found them covered with blood. Camon rolled on the floor, his mouth working, but Sanrev heard nothing.
He was deaf.
The walls glowed with patterns of light and darkness, constantly changing as if something crawled
over the stone. Holes opened in the ceiling, revealing the stars above. As he stared, a ball of fire streaked across the sky.
Shaylar’s magic had turned against the Kingdom. Icy fear gripped Sanrev. He ran up the steps of his old tower, the walls lighting his way as the luminescence grew stronger. Rocks flew silently past his head but he kept going, up to the top room of the tower.
From the window he saw sheets of lightning striking the ground around the castle, felt the vibrations through the stone under his feet. He heard none of it.
A blow from behind twisted him around. Camon had followed, his face covered in blood and madness glinting from his eyes. He waved a knife in Sanrev’s face, then it flew from his hand and out the window.
“Don’t you see what’s happening?” Sanrev shouted the words, hearing nothing at all. It didn’t seem as though Camon could hear them either.
They punched and kicked and beat at each other. The walls of the castle crumbled around them, giving Sanrev glimpses of the valley below. Torch fire dotted the landscape along the wall, held by peasants keeping vigil and awaiting the outcome.
Sanrev’s eyes began to swell shut. A pair of hands grabbed his throat and squeezed. Sanrev whispered a silent spell through a mouthful of blood, punching his thumbs into Camon’s throat.
He felt the floor collapse beneath them, breathed in a last, gasping breath of dust as they fell through one hundred feet of rubble, still locked in combat.
Chapter Fourteen
Aftermath
Chaog stood back from the crowd of peasants, in awe of the anger of the magic blasting the castle apart. He watched the brothers in their final moments, choking the life from each other before the stone floors buckled and swallowed them. Ignoring the weeping and wailing of the people around him, Chaog lifted his hands in supplication, ready to receive the magic.
It flowed right past him, a luminescent whirlwind boiling up over his head. As he stared at it in dismay, the stream split into four sections and shot through the sky in different directions like arrows of molten flame.
The Fall of Shaylar Page 7