by Kim Wedlock
Copyright © 2018 by Kim Wedlock
All rights reserved.
This book, its cover image or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
First Printing: 2018 Amazon Publishing
Bristol, UK
www.ablackbirdsepiphany.co.uk
The Devoted Trilogy
Book One
The Zi'veyn
Kim Wedlock
Chapter 1
A fine plume of steam rose from the pot that bubbled away on the old stove top, trailing a rich, herby aroma around the cramped little kitchen. The mixture of thyme, sage and parsley was simple but comforting; a single breath seemed to make pillows plumper and door locks tighter, and was enough to suspend, for a moment, the foremost of anyone's concerns.
But, as the cook, Rathen was immune. Instead he mumbled and cursed beneath his breath as he hurried about the kitchen, searching for ingredients he was sure had been right beside him only a moment ago, turning over this and looking beneath that, insulting each as he found them and throwing them into the pot. Eventually, the frustrating broth had thickened and was ready for the dumplings.
The dumplings.
Rathen blinked at the single bare spot on the table. Now where had they gone?
With a long-suffering sigh, he began his search anew, finding in the process an oven tin on a shelf it didn't belong, though he was certain that had been beside him, too, and proceeded to turn his little kitchen upside down for the fourth time that evening. He discovered and cast aside irrelevant items, certainly misplacing them for the next time he'd need them, and as his eyes finally fell upon the underside of a familiar tin tray, a groan of defeat slumped his shoulders.
He rose from his hands and knees, loosing another curse as his head struck the underside of the drawer the cupboard door had once again caught and dragged open, and sighed another as he heard a myriad of things topple over on the counter above.
He huffed and ignored it for the sake of his sanity, crawled out to make sure he'd cleared any other storage that sought to worsen his mood, and turned over the tray to collect the flattened dough beneath it. After rolling them back into balls and returning them as good as new upon the tray, he turned back to the stove just in time to watch the last of a fallen bottle of wine run into the stew from the shelf above.
His shoulders dropped again and humourless face twisted even further in defeat. Fortunately it hadn't been particularly full to begin with, but it would certainly make for a thinner meal - though one he supposed he could probably stretch for another day or so. But just as he shook his head and brushed off this most recent calamity, he spotted another bottle - both fuller and stronger - about to add its own flavour to the mix.
Hastily juggling the tray into his left hand, sparing the dumplings from falling again, Rathen twisted and contorted the fingers on his right. The bottle froze, stilling at an impossible angle, neither continuing to topple nor miraculously righting itself.
He sighed this time in relief, set the tray down and stood both bottles purposefully back where they belonged, even if one of them was as good as empty. He then turned back to the increasingly damned meal, ignoring Oat's bleating from outside - surely just another tantrum at her straw not being absolutely perfect as she settled down to sleep - and took the stew off the heat.
The fragrant mix of herbs, tomato and onion burst from the pot as he gave it a quick stir, his tensions finally settling, and he began arranging the doughy balls in the thinned, red sauce just so, fitting as many in as he could without them sticking together. But as he nudged the fourth into place, he was interrupted by a knock at the door.
...A knock at the door?
Rathen froze as a wary frown descended over his pale brow. It seemed Oat hadn't been protesting sub par straw. She'd been warning him.
He looked slowly towards the door, his perpetual misery lines deepening, and began a cautious approach with the lightest of steps. Whoever it was hadn't arrived by accident; the land outside was a maze, it was true, but not one anyone would venture into with even the slightest of sense, and the calm knocking didn't suggest that it was someone who had gotten lost.
He stopped silently upon the dirty doormat and found that he was still quite undecided about what to do. He could either pretend he wasn't home and wait for them to leave, hoping they were suffering from the nasal blockages of a cold, or...hope they didn't knock again. Both were equally genius, but before he could make his choice, his own accursed curiosity abruptly got the better of him. His hand moved on its own before he could stop it, snatching the door open with a speed that belied his concern, as if hoping a note of aggression might frighten off the unannounced visitor. But instead he found knuckles raised and ready to rap again, this time upon his face, and a momentary look of surprise on that of the man behind them.
Rathen stared at him as he lowered his gloved hand, just as stunned, and in the moment it took the man to collect himself to speak, he scanned over his formal attire and the white hammer insignia that presented itself upon the pommel of his sheathed sword.
"Good evening," he began cordially, but Rathen closed the door before he could continue.
He walked away and returned to the dumplings, silently cursing the man's beyond brazen arrival, and forced it from his mind as his stomach began to rumble. The knock came again but he pointedly ignored it, just as he did when it came a third time, and a fourth. His name was also called in between the bangs over the next few minutes, but he ignored those too, and took his aggression out on the stew instead, shoving the pot with unnecessary roughness into the burning oven.
"I have the authority to enter at will," the man outside reminded him, his voice muffled through the door and tainted with only the slightest note of frustration, but Rathen pretended to pay no heed once again and began to clean up after himself, as if simply keeping busy would be enough to shoo this man away, "but I would prefer to start on civilised terms."
He scoffed as he collected the unused pans he'd strewn about the place. 'Civilised terms'. How anyone could consider coming to someone's home, unannounced, making a racket against the door and demanding to come in as 'civilised', he didn't know.
"Sahrot Rathen Koraaz!" The voice suddenly barked, its tone now truly authoritative and finally weary of being ignored, and with it Rathen found that his patience had equally snapped. He slammed down the pans and trays and stormed towards the door, though he wasn't sure if it was anger, insult or unleashed curiosity that propelled him towards it. Not that it mattered; whatever it was, he snatched the handle and tore it open to stare coldly at the thirty-something man, the usually unpleasant lines on his face made only worse by his glare.
"There is no one here by that name," he informed him quite firmly, but though he wanted dearly to slam the door in the man's face, he found himself quite unable to. So he used himself to block the entrance, preventing him from just striding in, as official men such as he so often would.
"Perhaps not by title," the man, an officer, replied, and he stood straight and composed beneath Rathen's threatening gaze, his hands clasped behind his back so he remained official while unimposing, "but you are Rathen Koraaz, are you not?"
"No." He continued to stare him down in the hope that he would simply give up and leave, but he had an unfortunate certainty that his futile response wasn't going to work.
The officer sighed and closed his eyes. When they opened again a moment later, he offered a smile of apology. It didn't seem sincere. "Then I'm afraid you're mistaken," he replied calmly, "and I'm also afraid that I need a moment of your time."
His frown deepened, accursed interest quieteni
ng his aggression. "For what?"
"A proposition."
Rathen blinked.
"May I come in?"
He decided that he did feel both anger and insult after all, and yet found himself stepping to one side anyway, confusion adding to his middle-aged wrinkles. The officer left him no chance to change his mind. "This is a...very unusual home," he said with careful politeness as he slipped past him and looked about the small, cluttered space, pausing briefly as he noted the mess. "You're making dinner; I won't keep you long."
Rathen's lip curled in defeat, but he said nothing. He closed the door and gestured reluctantly for him to sit in one of the two dining chairs. Whatever his business, he wasn't inclined to entertain him long enough to require the softer seats of the equally cramped sitting area - nor show him much hospitality.
"My name is Inquisitor Garon Brack," the man said, finally introducing himself, though he didn't sit until Rathen did, and he kept his sword at his hip and his hands in his lap, away from the laid place settings. "I've come from the Hall of the White Hammer, so I'm sure you can appreciate the importance of my troubling you."
Rathen said nothing. He watched him closely through impatient eyes.
"There have been reports of strange occurrences around the country," he continued, unperturbed, "unnatural feelings and sensations in unimpressive locations, unusual weather patterns, things like that. It's inconveniencing people who live nearby, disrupting trade routes and making the general protection of the populace difficult, especially in these uncertain times."
Still, Rathen didn't react.
The inquisitor's grey eyes became weighted, though he showed no irritation at his lack of response. "I believe it may be the result of magic, and if it is, it also raises the possibility of rebellion within the Order."
Suddenly, Rathen couldn't help but laugh, and he made no attempt to stop the bitter chuckle from tumbling out. The inquisitor only stared at him. "'Rebellion'," he repeated, shaking his head at the preposterous notion, and looked back in disbelief at this authority figure who apparently succumbed to colourful rumours. "The mages of Qenra were treated so poorly that Turunda's Order is adored as royalty by comparison," he sneered. "Their rebellion was far from a surprise - but that doesn't mean anyone else is about to join them." He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes in mock interest. "So someone commissioned this investigation, did they?"
Garon hesitated. "Not as such," he admitted after a long moment, though there was no shame to his voice. "It's taken a lot of pestering on my part but my superior has allowed me the matter. I've come to believe that it's much more significant than anyone else wishes to believe."
"I'd have thought the Hall of the White Hammer would have more pressing matters to see to than hearsay - especially in these 'uncertain times'."
"Usually you'd be right, but we're handling all we've been given and the guard force and military are taking care of the rest."
"Then you're either underworked or overstaffed." Rathen cocked his head again, his unpleasant smile turning to mockery. "Your superior doesn't think anything will come of this, does he?"
"He doesn't, but if I do happen to be wrong, it gives him some peace and quiet." There was little humour in his face - Rathen doubted there ever could be - and he sat forwards and looked at him levelly. "But, if I'm correct in my concerns, and it is magic, then it needs to be stopped as soon as possible."
"If you are correct, then I agree," Rathen conceded, though he remained detached, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned back with disinterest, "but why are you telling me this? How do you know I'm not a part of this rebellion and that I won't go and tell the others that you're onto them?"
Garon smiled briefly. "I know. You've been out of touch with the world for eleven years; you're not a part of any rebellion. And I'm telling you because I need someone to assure me with absolute confidence whether or not magic is involved. Which means I need the help of a mage."
"Have you been to Kulokhar? You can probably find one or two mages there."
Garon didn't laugh, but then, it hadn't been meant as a joke. "Given the present martial state of the world and the possibility of a rebellious faction of mages, I'd prefer the confirmation to come from someone unaffiliated with the Order. And I'm sure you're aware that you are the only mage that fits that criteria."
Rathen tutted and pursed his lips in feigned sympathy. "Then it seems you have a predicament."
Garon's eyes darkened. He stared back at him squarely, his humourless face hardening further, and the weight of his presence thickened. He spoke gravely. "Chasms have been torn open in Hin'ua and Ithen to the north-east, and they're continuing to grow even as their wars draw to a close. Whole cities have been wiped off of the map, arid land has flooded, marshlands have dried up, farmland has been eradicated and people are still being killed by the landscape even now, racking up the death toll. In all of these cases, magic has been to blame, and I'm sure you can imagine the devastation - with your understanding of magic you know better than most what it can do, and then some."
Now Rathen's eyes darkened.
"The cases reported in Turunda so far have been minor," the inquisitor continued, ignoring his reaction, "and they may not be the same thing at all - it could very well be little more than unseasonal weather and people looking too closely for problems - but it's too much of a coincidence to risk letting it lie. So if it is magic, we need to know so that we can find a way to stop it before it takes hold. Turunda has avoided being dragged into war so far, but if this is the first stage of a foreign attack or the start of a strike from within, then it needs to be addressed. And for that, as I said, I need a mage."
Rathen shook his head. "And all you've brought to convince me are vague and desperate conclusions, a notable lack of evidence and more 'if's than I can count." His eyes shifted towards the window where the thick forest rolled away beyond. "I don't see why I should care all the way out here - and, frankly, if the cases are so minor and people are that inconvenienced, then they should just avoid those areas. Problem solved. Hin'ua and Ithen are both a very long way from here and we have no problems with either of them. I highly doubt that it is anything more than a coincidence." He turned sceptical eyes back onto him. "Have you got any proof that suggests magic is involved in Turunda's cases? Or did someone just mention it once in passing? Because I'm sure a man of your intelligence knows that that's all it takes for the finger of blame to fall upon mages as a whole any day of the week, alleged uprising or not."
Garon's eyes narrowed. "You're quite adamant that the rebellion isn't happening here."
"Does my denial alarm you?"
"No." The inquisitor was irritatingly confident. "I told you that I know you're not a part of it. I wouldn't be here if I thought that was a possibility."
"I still wonder why you're here at all. And you've still not told me why I should care."
"Because whatever is happening out there could be serious!" He cried, rising sharply to his feet and slamming his hand on the table top, rattling the cutlery. Rathen's eyebrows rose at the sudden outburst and the shattering of the man's composure, but he didn't otherwise react. "If this has been created by mages, then as tame as it may seem right now, it will get worse, and you won't want to be around when it does. Whether anyone else has realised it or not, events like these were the precursors in every other country where mages have rebelled, successfully or otherwise. It may seem to be a little bit of untimely wind and rain here at the moment, but this could easily go the same way, and there's no telling just where it could happen - these very scowles could close up and swallow your curious little home with you still in it! And who knows what it's ultimately building up to?!"
"Once more! What does this have to do with me?"
Garon leaned his fists on the table and stared down at him fiercely, reining himself in with effort. "You took an oath to use your powers to protect the country."
"Hah!" Rathen rose and squared up to him. He may have only b
een a fraction taller than the officer, and only about seven or eight years older, but the past decade had made him bitter and his menace easily outmatched his authority. "That oath was rendered obsolete the day I was banished and left to die from my wounds."
Garon took a half step towards him and lowered his voice, though his darkness remained. "I can order you to come with me," he informed him flatly. "If your help and knowledge can benefit my task and bring it to a swift close, then it is more than within my authority to forcefully place you in my custody and drag you out of here by your collar. But," his tone softened a fraction though his eyes remained aflame, "as I said before, I'd prefer this to be civilised. It would take only a few days at most, and the task is simple. You cared about the country and its people once, and no matter what you might tell yourself now, you still do. Now, you are the only mage who isn't under suspicion, and I know you're not affiliated with either a rebellion or the Order. I need your expertise."
Rathen's jaw began to knot. The inquisitor stared back at him, the weight of his words hanging in the air, and though a fire equally burned in the mage's eyes, he steeled himself against it. He took a step back, his features calmed, and a greater distance fell over him. "A man can change in a decade of forced isolation," he said with notable restraint. "Now even if - if - a rebellion is happening here, there won't be that many involved. A small fraction of the Order at best. If you go to the Order House in Kulokhar you're bound to find a mage more than willing to help and much more qualified than I am, and the chances are very slim that they would be a renegade." He shook his head, his eyes still firm, but injected now with a note of apology. "Though I may object to it, my banishment was an order from the Crown and I must obey it for everyone's sake, regardless of what permission you've been given or whatever it is you were prepared to offer me in return. I can't help you."
"Sahr--"
"I'm not 'Sahrot' anymore. Now please leave."