Bringing up the magic to do it was another matter entirely. Markal didn’t know the spell in question (though he was sure he could hold the thing in his head after an hour or two of intense study), but guessed at its classification. An impressive feat for three apprentices to gather the power. Even more impressive for the one who channeled it. That was Narud. The master had apparently been impressed, too. Raised from the dead—who wouldn’t find that impressive?
But what did it mean? Memnet could proclaim Narud a wizard, but that didn’t make him more powerful, any more than placing a crown on a man’s head made him more wise and kingly. King Toth’s horrific turn to necromancy attested to that. Declaring Narud a full-fledged wizard wouldn’t fill the former apprentice’s head with more arcana, nor raise the blood any faster to his pores. It wouldn’t make the incantations any less slippery in his mind or on his tongue.
And what did it mean for the other three apprentices? Were they supposed to defer to Narud now? That was hard to imagine. Never mind Chantmer’s pride, Nathaliey’s self-confidence, or Markal’s own knowledge, for that matter, Narud lacked the authority to impose his will.
So he was a wizard. When it came to it, weren’t they all wizards, after a fashion? To an outsider, even an archivist like Jethro had the ability to come and go without being seen, to muddle the thoughts of enemies, and to read books that would not even open for other men and women. That was wizardry.
So why should it matter that Memnet had given Narud a title? And yet it did matter. Markal could not convince himself otherwise. Narud had changed himself into a dog, a clear manifestation of power. Perhaps he wasn’t a great wizard like Memnet yet, but he was a wizard nonetheless.
How long for the others? That’s right, it wasn’t only Narud. Clearly, Chantmer and Nathaliey were on the cusp of such a transition themselves. None of the three would rival Memnet the Great, but they would earn the right to stand by his side.
And Markal? Relegated to the libraries. Of course he would be.
Chapter Nineteen
Nathaliey was working at the north gate just after dawn when Markal and Narud appeared leading an exhausted, stumbling horse. She was relieved to see them both, but especially Markal, and she threw her arms around his neck before she remembered herself. He returned a weary smile.
“I was worried,” she said. “I have to admit I—wait, where is the paladin?”
His smile vanished. “Bronwyn fell.”
The news was a blow, and it was all Nathaliey could do not to stagger back. But fresh hope rose when her eyes fell on the long, straight sword tied to the saddlebags. Its scabbard was gone, and someone had wrapped it in linen strips, but there was no doubt it was the same weapon.
“Don’t touch it!” he said sharply as she reached for the hilt.
She jerked back her hand. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It is not under our power.” His tone was frightened; the weapon seemed to terrify him.
Nathaliey dragged her eyes away. “And the sorcerer?”
“Still alive.”
“I see.”
The paladin dead, the sword turned against them. Markal’s journey had been a disaster, but at least he was alive. She was grateful for that much.
They left the horse at the stables, where one of the hands led the exhausted animal in to be groomed, fed, and watered. They emptied the saddlebags, but left the sword attached. Narud carried the bags by the leather strap so no one would have to touch the weapon. The three of them entered the gardens and crossed toward the Golden Pavilion, where the master was meditating with Chantmer.
As they walked, Markal shared the details of the disastrous assault on King Toth. Bronwyn had killed Pasha Malik, but at the cost of her own life and the loss of Soultrup. Markal seemed bitter about his own failures.
“None of this is your fault,” Nathaliey told him. “Bronwyn wanted to confront him, and you couldn’t have stopped her.”
“But if I’d been stronger, I could have helped.”
“You kept Soultrup from the enemy. That is something.”
“I suppose.” Markal paused. “Your father returned to Syrmarria?”
“He left last night. The khalif has bowed his head to the high king and allowed Veyrians to occupy the city. My father is a vizier and now subject to King Toth’s whims. He had no choice.”
“Kandibar will leave a trail. One more path for the enemy to find us.”
“I know that,” Nathaliey said. “But if we get him back to the palace, he could be of use.”
Markal looked doubtful at this, and to be honest, that hadn’t been her primary motivation. They already had eyes and ears in the palace in the form of Jethro, Karla, and the other archivists. But it was a kindness to return her father to Syrmarria. His actions constituted treason, and if he were caught, the torturers would get first claim on his body before he was killed.
It was a beautiful day in the gardens, and the air was filled with buzzing honeybees, the scent of flowers, and a cooling breeze that sighed through the boughs of the peach and cherry trees. But though the flagstone paths were solid beneath her feet, it felt as though she were walking over rotting timbers. Every step threatened to break through.
The oldest runes in the garden, those grown into the trunks of ancient oaks and carved in the stone beneath creeping tendrils of ivy, seemed fragile and faded. Nathaliey paused and ran her fingers over a stone pillar carved with three entwined snakes. The pillar was a sentinel, and its runes a powerful defense. But the snakes had almost retreated into the stone, the scales worn away, the heads and bodies undetectable except by touch.
“I don’t understand,” she said, hurrying to catch up to the others. “I could see the snakes a few weeks ago. They must have been there for generations. Why now?”
“That stone was placed by an old order of wizards,” Markal said. “Memnet was its last member. When he was killed, it began to disappear. A few more weeks and it would have been gone entirely.”
“Then we should be able to reclaim the old magic,” she said. “As Memnet recovers, the defenses should strengthen. We only need to turn aside the enemy for a few more weeks and all will be right again.”
“Ah, yes,” Markal said. “Merely that.” He patted Narud’s shoulder. “Good thing we have a second wizard, right? Otherwise, we’d be doomed.”
She thought Markal’s comment unfair. Good thing Narud wasn’t insecure about his abilities, because that surely would have set off a crippling sequence of doubts. Instead, he merely looked thoughtful.
“Anyway,” Markal said, looking thoughtful himself, as if regretting his words, “our defenses can be strengthened. The more time we have, the better, but we’re not helpless, even now.”
The prayer bell rang from the shrine as they left the woods. The deep, sonorous note rolled across the open space between the lake and the forest. It rang a second time, and then a third.
The Golden Pavilion gleamed on the edge of the lake, beckoning, and the three companions quickened their pace as they approached. The sound of chanting voices carried through the air. Narud set the empty saddlebags holding the sword at the base of the pavilion, and the three of them climbed the stairs.
Memnet and Chantmer faced each other cross-legged on the raised platform in front of the prayer bell. The seven acolytes sat in a circle around them, except for the one who had been ringing the bell, who stood poised with the beam to ring it again. The others chanted a mantra of tranquility and protection.
Here we are, Nathaliey thought. Gathered to protect our order from destruction. Will it be enough?
#
The garden had been strengthening Markal as he crossed its sunlit paths and green meadows, and the chiming bell now raised his spirits. It rang one more time after he had scaled the steps with his two companions. And there he was, Memnet the Great, sitting with Chantmer, the pair surrounded by acolytes. It was a scene that had played out hundreds of times, but seemed almost startling in its normalcy after the past weeks of viole
nce and struggle.
Memnet opened his eyes as the ringing dissipated and smiled at Markal. “Well met, friend.”
“Master. I am so happy to see you awake.”
“Awake, but rather enfeebled, alas.”
“You look like an emaciated corpse, frankly.”
Chantmer scowled at this, but Memnet chuckled. “That is probably understating it, unless said dead person had first fallen into a deep, sunless cave and starved to death.”
“Bronwyn was killed, Master.”
“I sensed you and Narud entering alone and guessed as much. Still, it is a blow. Come, all of you. Sit down.” He shook his head as the acolytes parted, and the three newcomers began to take their seats. “Not there, Narud. You will sit by my side.”
“Yes, Master.” Narud slid over.
“Listen, all of you,” Memnet said. His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, yet there was something penetrating about it. “Mistakes have been made. No, let me take responsibility. I have made mistakes. Yet you have persevered, hiding the gardens, searching for new information, and fighting off enemy attacks in my absence. Well done, all of you.”
There were a few murmurs at this.
“Our defenses held, but they are weakened. Perhaps fatally. The enemy, in his restless searching, has never found this place. A month ago, I’d have said no enemy ever could. Now I believe it is only a matter of time. Perhaps days. He moves unopposed through the land, and he commands the spirits of the dead. They, too, are sniffing for us. The wards that protect this garden are insufficient. They will fail. They have already failed.”
“What can we do?” Nathaliey said. A rough edge of frustration marred her tone. “We could work day and night and it wouldn’t be enough. We need more time.”
“Time is something we don’t have,” Memnet said. “The enemy is too close. He’ll surely discover us and throw his full might against our walls. Meanwhile, we’ll do what we can to keep the gardens hidden as long as we can. Every hour, every day is important.”
A thought that had been planted in Markal’s mind upon his flight from the high king now bloomed in full. “What if we were to abandon our attempts to hide?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Chantmer said. “If we do that, the enemy will be at our throat.”
“The master says that is inevitable.”
“Are you saying we should invite them in?”
“Yes, exactly that.”
Memnet studied Markal. “Why do you say that?”
“The sorcerer is a formidable foe,” Markal said. “His magic has burned a gash in the Sacred Forest. You would have to see it to appreciate the destruction. Then there are the wights. That’s magical power, but Toth also commands an army of Veyrians. And he’s only growing stronger.”
Chantmer shook his head. “And you want us to reveal ourselves? The Veyrian army is three days’ march from here. There is some untold number of wights ready to swarm us. And these gray-faced warriors—you forgot about them. What happens when they arrive together, with the high king among them, raising his sorcery?”
“Patience, Chantmer,” Memnet said. “Go on, Markal.”
Chantmer had raised a good point. Markal was more uncertain now, and licked his lips as he glanced at Narud and Nathaliey and then the acolytes, all of whom were studying him with some mixture of worry and hope.
“King Toth is overeager,” Markal said. “That is his weakness. His reach exceeds his grasp. We can turn that against him.”
“Your evidence, Markal?” Memnet asked.
He explained. The order had been blind to the threat developing to the north. Toth had not only concealed his true nature, but his road-building effort was more advanced than they’d guessed. The high king had been entirely successful to date, so why hadn’t he continued until his efforts were discovered, and then attack Memnet? Why had he sent assassins to kill the master on the Spice Road?
“An attack of opportunity,” Memnet said. “Nathaliey and I were outside the gardens and vulnerable.”
“She escaped, though, and escaped again when Pasha Malik had her thrown into the dungeons,” Markal said. “When Bronwyn failed to kill Toth, the high king still did not secure the sword. He is not invincible.”
“You caught him by surprise,” Memnet said. “You salvaged a small victory through luck. Even then, the paladin is dead, the sword turned against us.”
“I escaped into the woods, but King Toth found my trail,” Markal continued. “He tried to burn me out. I was tired, I thought I’d escaped. He had every opportunity to catch me, but he threw fire at me. With more caution, he would have snared me, but I smelled smoke, and I got away. And that was on top of an error he made killing one of his soldiers, who tried to pick up the red sword. He used excessive force, and didn’t have enough magic to finish me before I escaped.
“My point is, I would be dead if not for the sorcerer’s errors. We all would be. King Toth lunges too hard and too fast. That is his weakness, and I see no reason we couldn’t encourage it.”
“I think I understand,” Nathaliey said. “May I speak, Master?”
Memnet nodded. “Go ahead.”
“We let slip the runes that hide us,” she said. “The enemy discovers us and attacks before he is ready.”
“We could do the same thing in three weeks when the master has healed,” Chantmer said. “We’ll be stronger then.”
“We don’t have three weeks,” Markal said. “You heard the master—we have days, at best. Let’s not be naive—every day that goes by strengthens the enemy more than it strengthens us, because he has more resources to draw upon. It gives him a chance to consolidate men-at-arms, wights, and magic into one unholy army.”
“So you invite the battle,” Chantmer said. “Is that your plan?”
The acolytes were murmuring, but Markal ignored them and continued.
“Yes, we invite the fight, but on the battlefield of our own choosing.” Markal gestured at their surroundings. “The garden is our sanctuary, our citadel. When it is assaulted, we hold the walls as long as we can. When the enemy breaks in, he will discover our true strength.”
“With nothing but apprentices, acolytes, and a handful of keepers?” Chantmer said. “Not much of a garrison for your citadel, is it?”
“We have a wizard,” Nathaliey said.
“The master cannot fight. He said so himself.” Chantmer glanced at Memnet, as if for confirmation, but the master stroked his chin with a thoughtful expression and didn’t say anything.
“That isn’t who I mean,” Nathaliey said, and nodded in Narud’s direction.
Chantmer shrugged. “Excuse me, I suppose we have one wizard, young as he is. Plus a few apprentices and some assorted others.”
“Two young wizards,” Memnet said. They all looked him, and he nodded. “Markal has now joined the ranks.”
It was as bracing as a bucket of spring water splashed in Markal’s face. “What? Me?”
“Yes, you. You have proven your wisdom, seeing beyond our enemy’s actions to his motivations. To his weaknesses. You have the knowledge, Markal, and you have put in the years of study and contemplation. You are ready to take your place in the ranks of wizards.”
When Markal had first heard of Narud’s elevation to wizard, he’d been surprised and a little resentful, perhaps. Markal was the older of the two, and had studied longer. He knew more, and that knowledge gave him insight into the other apprentice’s weaknesses. Knowledge was slippery in Narud’s mind and on his tongue. He had weak insight into human nature and was more comfortable with beasts and fowl than with humans. These were deficiencies that would take decades to correct—they might not even be fixable at all.
But at the same time, Markal had known the day was coming when Narud would become a wizard. He’d expected it to be Nathaliey first, or perhaps even Chantmer. But sooner or later, all three of his companions would become wizards.
But him? And before Chantmer and Nathaliey? What was the master thinking? M
arkal couldn’t manage a fifth of the power the others could summon, not unless the wind was fully in his sails thanks to some bit of lucky concentration or other unusual circumstance. How rare was it that he raised his full power? It might happen once a year, if that.
Memnet the Great must have seen the looks passing among the acolytes and the doubt on the faces of Markal’s three companions, because he pressed on with his explanation.
“There’s magic hanging about you now, Markal. Spells you cast while on the road with the paladin. A spell to put enemies to sleep, another to hide yourself. You used magic to confront a sorcerer of immense power, and you bested him.”
“I didn’t best him. Bronwyn fell, and the high king still lives. The sword has turned against us. If I’d faced the high king directly, I’d be dead.”
Memnet smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t feel any different, and you won’t. You have taken an incremental step, but it is a step. Someday, you will grow into more than you can imagine.”
That was doubtful. Markal could imagine a great deal. He could imagine castles floating on clouds. He could imagine controlling a dragon or making the earth open and swallow an entire city. He could imagine all sorts of things that he would never manage.
Markal now saw Memnet’s proclamation for what it was: an act of desperation.
#
“It’s ridiculous, and you know it,” Chantmer told Nathaliey.
“I’m not going to speak ill of Markal,” she said stubbornly. “Or the master.”
“Of course not. That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Why shouldn’t I be pleased for him? It’s a great honor, and it was delivered in front of the entire order.”
“Oh, I know. You and Markal are great friends. Practically brother and sister.” Chantmer wiped a bloody palm on the cloth at his waist. “But you and I both know he isn’t ready. He’s unlikely to ever be ready.”
Keepers were laboring all around them, five of them in this little walled garden alone, and Nathaliey squirmed to be discussing it in front of them. She turned away from Chantmer and felt along the wall, fingers poking through the ivy. The keepers were breaking down old runes of concealment, while Chantmer and Nathaliey worked to reinforce those whose primary purpose was defense.
The Red Sword- The Complete Trilogy Page 20