by J. C. Staudt
“I don’t see why the Dathiri had to kill them. Couldn’t they have taken them prisoner instead?”
“A mage isn’t easy to cage, as you well know.”
“Surely the sphere makes it easier.”
“I’ll wager it does. Yet the spheres are not invincible. Olyvard King opted to exterminate his adversaries while they were helpless rather than risk a potential uprising later. A stroke of cruelty, but one I would expect from an aspiring emperor.”
“Give your foe the means to recover, and he’ll take you up on the offer.”
“That’s right. Where did you hear that?”
“You said it. The day we left for my name-day hunt. When Westhane tripped me and won our footrace.”
Darion managed half a smile. “I remember.”
“People are saying Tarber King is being held hostage. Why would Olyvard have him captured instead of killed like the others?”
“To set a precedent for the other kings. When it comes their turn to face a Dathiri invasion, perhaps they’ll think better than to resist. And for another thing, Olyvard happens to like Tarber. The King of Orothwain is old; complacent. Long has he played pawn to Dathrond’s advances. Tarber acts according to Olyvard’s wishes for fear of his wrath. Still, I expect the Dathiri will have their hands full imprisoning him, if it’s true he still lives.”
“You don’t like him very much.”
“I used to. Tarber King is the man who named me Protector of Orothwain. He granted me lands and a keep, only to renounce my titles and take everything back at Olyvard’s behest a few years later. Were it not for Tarber’s cowardice, you might’ve grown up in a castle instead of a cottage.”
“I’m glad I didn’t.”
Darion was surprised. “Are you?”
“Everything I’ve come to know these last weeks; the places I’ve seen and have yet to see; it would all be stale by now if I’d known it from a child. Better I see it for the first time now I’m old enough to appreciate it.”
Darion smiled. “You’ve always possessed a wisdom beyond your years, Draithon. When this is all over, perhaps there will be better times to come.”
“I should like to go on a traveling apprenticeship the way you did with Sir Jalleth. Seeing bits and pieces of the world has only served to make me crave more of it.”
“My travels with Sir Jalleth gave me a special appreciation of the world, too. But after a time I found them less fulfilling than I would’ve liked. I enjoyed those years—do not misconstrue me. Only, they weren’t my tasks being done or my quests being fulfilled. They were my master’s. Not until I was on my own did I begin to develop a true taste for such things.”
“I don’t care whether I’m master or servant. I’ve wanted to see the world for as long as I can remember.”
“I know you have. So did your brother. Would that he could’ve seen all this with us.”
Draithon grew somber.
Darion put an arm around him. “I miss him too. His name day is coming up soon.”
Draithon didn’t speak.
Darion tried to read his son’s face, but the boy’s look was strange to him. “Do you remember the time Westhane let the chickens out of the paddock? He must’ve been no older than five at the time. I watched him open the gate, yet he swore to your mother and me it was his older brother Draithon who’d done it.”
“I remember,” said Draithon. “He was always doing that sort of thing.”
Darion’s eyes welled with tears. “Mischief maker, through and through.”
Draithon stood for a time without speaking. Then he said, “I’d better help Mother with the rigging,” and headed off toward the stern.
The Cove Runner glided into the harbor under Alynor’s command. Darion watched her giving orders from behind the ship’s wheel. She’d impressed him these last few days, bringing Jarrel Heslip and his Dathiri deserters into quick seagoing shape. Not only had they crewed the Cove Runner admirably under her instruction; they’d proven eager to learn, knowing they would be without her guidance on their forthcoming voyage.
“Trim the jib,” she was shouting. “Steady on.”
The deserters had shed their frayed Dathiri tabards in favor of bare chests or simple woolen tunics so as not to identify themselves, and lowered the ship’s Ralthian pennant in favor of a merchant ensign. Darion doubted anyone would be paying them much attention, yet he understood their desire for disguise. He himself was about to return to the kingdom of his exile; his need for secrecy was greater now than it had ever been in Cliffside Harbor.
After mooring the Cove Runner to the docks, Darion’s companions collected their things and met Jarrel and his men on deck to wish them farewell. Kestrel and Axli held a son each in their shoulder slings while the Ulther family stood together by the ship’s railing. Darion felt every absence from the group with stinging heartbreak: Triolyn, staying behind; Ryssa and Vyleigh, waiting ahead; and Jeebo and Westhane, gone forever. “We thank you for giving us this chance,” he said, clasping arms with Jarrel.
“We’ve thanks of our own to give. Your wife is the finest captain I’ve ever had the pleasure to sail under. I’ve me work cut out in filling her boots. It’s a handsome vessel we’ve inherited; the boys and I will run her better now, thanks to Mistress Alynor.”
“It was nothing at all,” Alynor insisted. “I had to teach you to sail; otherwise we might’ve ended up in Korengad.”
Jarrel and his men laughed. “Let us hope the training rubbed off, or we just might.”
“Will you permit me to fill your storeroom for the voyage ahead?” Darion asked, touching his coin purse.
“Had we a copper betwixt us,” said Jarrel, “I wouldn’t take another mite from you. As it stands, I imagine we’ll be ill-fitted to survive another crossing without provisions.”
Darion handed him a few gold pieces. “This should see you through. I regret I cannot spare more.”
“It’s plenty. More than enough for the necessaries. Next we must decide where to go.”
“If you want my advice, sail west to Blacktide Bay. The Obsidian Forest is vast and rich. I grew up in Linderton, on the shadow of its eastern borders. There are dangers in that forest, aye. Yet Olyvard’s Pathfinders will think twice before they follow you into it. Nor will they likely find you there, for that matter. When you arrive, wait a month and then visit Linderton. News travels fast along the Hightrade. If I’ve succeeded, you may find you no longer need to hide.”
“It’s quite a burden you’ve undertaken, spellsword.”
“It was no choice of mine. The king’s provocation put me to it.”
“Far from an enviable position.” Jarrel scanned the faces of Darion’s companions. “Keep him well.”
“We shall,” said Kestrel. “And we wish you the best of good fortune in your travels.”
Before leaving the ship, Darion gathered his companions into a huddle. “We’re in the realms now. This is where things get dangerous. Dathrond’s presence lies heavy upon this city. There will be Warpriests about, and soldiers on every thoroughfare. We must avoid attention everywhere we go, especially as we near the castle.”
“Is that where we’re bound, then?” asked Kestrel. “Our motley troupe of four adults and three children comprises the only hope of wresting Castle Deepsail from its captors?”
“Our chances are not so remote as you might think. If there’s a sphere in this city, it’ll be somewhere in the castle. We won’t get far unless we deal with it first.”
“How do you plan to do that?” Alynor asked. “Deal with it, that is.”
Darion knew of only one method for destroying an object wrought of the worldsongs, and he’d vowed never to speak of it to anyone. Draithon was too reckless and inexperienced to be trusted with such knowledge. Alynor would find a way to hurt herself with it. Kestrel and Axli would scarce understand how to carry it out. “First we must find it and take it for ourselves. Once the sphere is in our possession, all we need do is carry it away from here
. With the mage-song returned to Deepsail, its citizens will be on even footing with the Dathiri.”
Kestrel looked doubtful. “Even then, how could they take back the whole city from Dathrond? The Warpriests will still have their power.”
“Aye, and so will the mages.”
“The mages are dead.”
“The Mages of the Council are dead. But there are more practitioners of the mage-song in this city than anywhere else in the realms. Without the sphere’s advantage, Dathrond’s Warpriests will have a fight on their hands.”
Alynor was as skeptical as the singer. “So that’s your plan? Take the sphere away and hope there are enough spellcasters left to drive out the whole Dathiri army? Is there no way to destroy the bedeviled thing?”
“It won’t be as simple as hitting it with a sword, I can tell you that much. That’s where I’m hoping Tarber King will be of help. Should his insight prove inadequate, our one consolation is that we can use the sphere as leverage to get Ryssa and Vyleigh back. That’s why we’re here, after all.”
“With Triolyn gone, I feel it my duty to play the pessimist,” said Kestrel. “I don’t like this plan. It feels incomplete.”
“I’ve no delusions it’s a sound plan. Yet with it we’ve a hope, where now there is none.”
“Best we put ourselves to work gathering what information we can, then.”
“Right. Everyone ready? Hoods up, heads down.”
Deepsail sprawled across Orothwain’s southern coast from ocean to riverside, nearly a hundred square leagues of avenues and architectural marvels as ancient as they were mysterious. The city wore its age like an elder’s wrinkles; tokens of a proud life lived to the full. Even under the sway of the ironglass sphere, the tangled streets possessed an air of enchantment. Though signs of nature’s power ran rampant through the overgrown hedges and the stone walls thick with moss, Darion trusted they would recede once the mage-song was restored.
Lund was sleeping soundly on Kestrel’s back as they worked their way toward the royal district, but Lupin was fussing in Axli’s arms. Darion tried not to mind, but the noise was making people stare. No one will recognize you, he assured himself. He hadn’t been to Deepsail in over twenty years. Yet somehow people still called him out by name wherever he went. If he were to cross paths with a former acquaintance, his cover would be spoiled in an instant.
Castle Deepsail stood on a rocky shelf near the city center, where the terrain sloped from the lower seaside districts toward the upland wards. The Hall of Mages, meeting place of the Council, lay only a short walk from the castle. Where flags of Orothi blue had once flown from the castle turrets, now black-and-white Dathiri pennants hung in their place. Soldiers in matching raiment patrolled the battlements and stood guard upon the gatehouse.
“I can feel the sphere getting closer,” Alynor said. “The air here feels too heavy, somehow. It reminds me of when the Warpriests came to the hamlet.”
“It’s grown worse since Atolai,” Darion agreed.
“Those walls are crawling with Dathiri. We’ll never get in there.”
“Not with these babes squalling.”
“Squalling’s what children do,” said Axli. “You ought to know. You’ve borne twice as many as I have.”
Darion gave her a hard look. “I don’t blame your boys for being children. Yet I cannot allow them to come with us when we infiltrate the castle. It’s too dangerous for them and too risky for us.”
“That’s me out, then,” she said.
“You’ve devised a scheme for getting inside, I presume?” asked Kestrel.
Darion nodded. “There’s a postern gate along the south wall, accessible only by a narrow walkway above the escarpment. Sentries will be posted inside at all hours. That means traversing the walkway, getting through the gate, and eliminating the sentries, all without being noticed by the soldiers in the battlements or on the guard tower above.”
“Impossible.”
“Easier with magic at our disposal, but not impossible without it. We’ll just have to do things the old-fashioned way.”
“How’s that?”
“With brute force and a little luck.”
“I’ve some skill at picking locks, though I haven’t the tools with me, and it’s been some years since I’ve tried.”
“We may well require you to call upon those skills tonight.”
“That’s a lot of pressure to put a fellow under.”
Axli gave him a heavy clout across the shoulder. “You’re up to the task, my little dumpling. Don’t think to say you ain’t. Your sons expect big things from their daddy.”
Kestrel gave her a sheepish grin and rubbed his upper arm. “Don’t I know it.”
“Best we don’t stand round here gathering suspicion,” said Darion. “I say we leave off and find supplies and a place to rest. We’ll come back after dark.”
Darion glanced toward the castle and locked eyes with a soldier atop the gatehouse. The man frowned as if in recognition, but Darion turned away before he could be sure. Despite the many soldiers he’d killed among the snowy keeps and castles of Korengad so many years ago and the countless others he’d sent fleeing across the tundras, Darion had been certain he would never encounter a survivor. Yet for some reason, he believed he just had.
Chapter 21
“Vicar Norne, I’m telling you… there’s an orphan colony in the crypts beneath the old Temple of Adenc.”
“That place is abandoned,” said Sister Wolla, “and has been for a goodly number of years. No one round here worships Adenc no more.”
“The above-ground levels are abandoned, well and truly,” said Maaltred. “However, the tombs beneath the cathedral are still in use.”
“And you saw the Ulther girls there?” asked Norne.
“I saw… two children. Not the Ulther girls. But children, of which there are many more. Or so claims the woman who opened the door to me.”
“So it’s some manner of unofficial orphanage? Who runs the place?”
“A dwarf named Cronion, among others. Proprietors, she called them. It’s the most promising lead we’ve come across yet, and that makes it worth a look.”
“You say this woman opened the door, but she wouldn’t let you inside.”
“That’s right. And before you ask why I didn’t force my way in, I did consider it. That wouldn’t have been the way to go about things if we want to establish a trust with these people. The woman says we’ll need to secure a writ of permission from Cronion should we wish to enter.”
“Cronion,” said Wolla. “Did you get his family name?”
Maaltred shook his head.
“Best of luck finding him, then. There might be half a dozen dwarves named Cronion in this city.”
“We don’t need to find him. We can wait for him at the Temple of Adenc.”
“How did you go from stubbornly trekking home to investigating the tombs beneath a forgotten church?” Norne wanted to know.
“I’m having trouble coming to grips with it myself. One moment I was thinking only of Sparrowmeet, and the next, I could think of nothing but the Ulther girls.”
Norne scowled. “A fine thing, this. I’ve made arrangements to continue the search on my own.”
Maaltred was hurt. “That’s not the welcome I was hoping for.”
“I don’t understand you, Maaltred. Not a mite.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“How you’ve come to care so much for two children you were once so quick to leave to their fate.”
“Call it what you will. A change of heart. An attack of conscience. These are the children of a traitor, it’s true. I once believed they deserved to suffer for their father’s transgressions. My niece is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a child of my own. When I think about her, I’m forced to take a hard look at the things I’ve done. They say we can’t outrun our deeds. I don’t want mine affecting the way she sees the world. It’s been a battle to admit that, but I’m final
ly finding the truth in it.”
Norne studied Maaltred for a long moment.
“What is it?”
“Were Vicar Sullimas here, he would’ve had you drawn and quartered for talk like that.”
“Perhaps he was the reason it took me so long to listen to my conscience.”
“Don’t you ever speak that way about him. Now you’re beginning to test my limits as well. I can only do so much to keep you out of trouble with the king. You’re a fool to return when you could’ve walked away free and clear.”
“I know I’m a fool. Yet I can’t ignore my principles.”
“If you were going to change your mind, you might’ve done it sooner.”
“What difference does it make?”
Norne gave him a steady look. “Know this, Brother Maaltred. My commission remains the bringing to justice of the traitor Darion Ulther. Should we find his daughters, that will not change.”
Maaltred hesitated. “I understand.”
Remembering the way to the Temple of Adenc proved an ordeal for Maaltred, especially given his bafflement over Norne’s sudden change in attitude. Thankfully Sister Wolla agreed to come along and was more than familiar with the temple’s location. Following her ridiculous winged headpiece through the city streets was an exercise in humility. People pointed and laughed, or called her bawdy names, for they knew whom she served. They were quick to criticize the goddess Phyraxis while the sun was shining, though after dark her temple overflowed with those intent on worshipping at her altar.
They arrived at the Temple of Adenc to find the entrance doors unlocked. The late afternoon sun shone through the big rose window to illuminate the cluttered sanctuary in bright color. Maaltred noticed not only dwarf-sized bootprints on the dusty floor, but dozens of trails made by smaller feet.
“What now?” Norne asked.
“I reckon we find ourselves a pew that isn’t broken and have a seat. Make ready for when he comes back.”
“Might be he doesn’t come back at all,” said Sister Wolla.