A servant girl carrying a tray of meat and bread saw Pael in the corridor and froze. Her eyes went to the hem of her apron. When he passed, she was trembling so badly that he could hear the silverware rattling on the tray. Her fear disgusted him, almost as much as the sight of all that food did. It was probably more slop for that fat pig Lord Ellrich. The huge Lord of the Marshlands was rooting himself fiercely into the Royal Guest Apartments. No doubt he wanted to gain Glendar’s ear and his favor. The only thing good about the obese man that Pael could find was his beautiful, budding daughter, Lady Zasha. Later, he would suggest to the girl and her ladies that some fresh air in the garden would help take their minds off of the sad and dreary process of preparing for the King’s funeral. He wouldn’t tell them that Glendar would be there, or that the King-in-Waiting’s Queen Mother was buried there. They would just happen upon each other.
Pael could think of a dozen reasons for Glendar to take Zasha as his queen. For one, the people loved her, but the main reason was that with Lady Zasha as his bride, there would be no quibbling when her father met his end. That heavy task would be taken care of, just as soon as the marriage was consummated.
“First things first,” Pael mumbled to himself as he ducked into a not so well known passage. To get to his tower, he had to traverse a labyrinth of halls, tunnels, and stairways. Some were bustling with staff and grieving visitors, and some, like this one, were more private and hidden. There were other passageways that only he knew about.
The castle’s outer walls were laid out in a diamond shape. Each towered corner of the diamond pointed in one of the four cardinal directions. The southwest wall loomed over the huge body of water known as Lion’s Lake, thus the name, Lakeside Castle. The bulk of the noble folk and merchants who lived in the castle, resided in the smaller towers and apartments that sprung up around the massive King’s Spire there. Most of them looked out over the water. The southwest wall was also the only wall without its own gate. There was no need for one there, for it would only open up to the lake.
Pael’s personal tower was in the southern most corner of the grounds. It overlooked a well used guard barracks. It was so close to the castle’s southern turret tower, that an agile man could easily leap from the lower landings of the Wizard’s tower to the top of the crenellated wall, where they met the southern turret.
Pael knew that old King Balton had kept spies in the turrets, and among the members of the wall patrols, to keep an eye on him. He wondered if they were still there now. He and King Balton had started off well enough, but the King of Westland hadn’t liked the subtle ways Pael tried to influence him in several situations.
Pael had always sided with Lord Brach. Both of them constantly wanted to expand the kingdom by use of force and trickery. King Balton, on the other hand, was a man of peace who remembered the lessons of the old wars, even though he hadn’t been alive for them. Balton Collum had also remembered the stories of peace and hope that filled the years after the demons were defeated and purged. Pael had been loyal enough to him though. The wizard had helped strengthen the kingdom, with his arcane skills and with plenty of hard work as well. But King Balton had never fully trusted him, and Pael had always known it.
The crafty Master Mage used the King’s spies to his advantage by making sure that any and all of his suspect activities took place well above the eyes of the guard patrols. To do this, he required a means of traversing the heights of his tower quickly and quietly. To meet his need, he created a hidden lift. It was a small, cylindrical cage, just large enough for three men to crowd into. Each floor in Pael’s tower, and half a dozen floors below it, all the way down to the dungeon’s lowest floor, had a hole bored through it that was in line with the center of the tower. By way of the powerful and naturally enchanted stuff known as Wardstone, the lift would rise up and down at Pael’s command, stopping at whatever floor he directed it to. This allowed Pael to work on complex, questionable spells and other dark magics in private, while still being seen every now and then reading in his library, or making charts in his map room.
His contraption kept unwanted eyes out of his true affairs well. The lower floors, the ones that could be seen from the castle wall and the turret tower, still had stairs and landings curving around the inside. Pael had had masons wall in the lift tube on these lower floors, so that it couldn’t be seen as it moved up and down through the tower. Of course, he had to kill the masons when the job was finished. The upper floors were only accessible by his lift. The stairs and landings above the turret tower had all been removed to make more room. Only Pael and his assistant, Inkling, knew how to use the lift, and in all of Westland, only Pael knew that Inkling existed.
Inkling was an imp, a small, minor demon, who could assume the shape of many different living things, though not very large ones. He could change into a human child, a full grown dwarven woman, or a thin, hungry looking wolf, and nearly any creature smaller than those. He was in the form of a young boy when Pael glided off of the lift onto the second highest floor of his tower. This level was one wide open circular room with several open windows. Pael called it the Nest.
“Any news?” the wizard asked, as he seemingly hovered just above the surface of the thick, plank wood floor.
“Only one bird has returned, Master,” Inkling answered, in his thin, wispy voice.
He thrust a finger sized scroll towards Pael. Pael looked at the rows of empty cages that lined the shelved walls. Only two hawklings and a pigeon remained. His gaze shifted to Inkling for a moment. No matter what form the imp took, his eyes were always solid black pools, with no whites at all. It was unsettling even to one such as Pael.
He put the unread scroll down on a table that was crowded with various shaped flasks and jars. He raised one that held a clear, blue liquid up to the light of an oil lamp, and swirled it around, as if he were studying the consistency of its contents. It was thick, like honey. Satisfied with what he saw, he carefully poured a drop of the stuff into another flask that was full of what appeared to be dirty, yellow urine. He swirled that mixture around, until it changed into a bright, greenish color, and then raised it to his nose and sniffed.
“I’ve got a task for you, my little friend,” he said to the imp, before downing the contents of the flask. Only a minor look of distaste crossed his colorless face as he swallowed.
Inkling scurried closer, shifting into his true to form as he did so. The lamp light reflected brightly off of his shiny red scales as he shivered his leathery wings with anticipation. As terrible as his devilish visage was, the horns, the pointed ears, and the needle like teeth, the imp would have a hard time intimidating anybody, as he was the size of a child. He didn’t get to leave the tower often, so the idea of a mission for his Master excited him greatly. He was hissing and ringing his little clawed hands together nervously, when Pael finally told him what it was that he would do.
“At the Summer’s Day Festival, you’ll find the truest of hawker’s. You are to purchase a dozen hawkling eggs from them, no matter how much the price. You’ll do this in a mannish form.”
Inkling sighed in disappointment. Pael grinned, because he had expected this reaction. He drew out the rest of his instruction, just to taunt the imp.
“Once the eggs are secured, seek out Lord Gregory.” Pael sat the empty flask down on the table and paced a few steps across the room. Inkling all but ran into him when he stopped, and Pael had to bite back his laugh. Seeing that he’d tormented the little devil long enough, he ended the suspense. “When you find Lord Gregory, kill him.”
“Yesss master!” The imp hissed gleefully. His feet were rising and falling in place, causing him to rock back and forth. It almost looked as if he were dancing. “Can I eat his flesh?” he asked.
Pael held out a pouch full of gold coins.
“Once you’ve secured the eggs, contact me in the ethereal. Then, as far as my concern runs, you can eat everyone at the festival. Now go, before the hawker clan heads back up into the hills.”
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Inkling pranced a step and half away from his master then snapped open his leathery wings and took to the air. He then changed into the form of a large buzzard, snatched the bag of gold from Pael’s hand, and flew out the open window.
A great sigh of relief escape Pael once the imp was gone. Now, he could get something done. He floated over to the lift and rose smoothly up to the uppermost floor of his tower.
It was dark, save for the light of four flickering candles spread evenly around the room at waist level. Every surface of the chamber was blackened so deeply that the walls were nearly invisible. It was as if Pael, and four little flames, were hovering in empty black space. Pael spoke a quiet word and his lift lowered out of the room. The light that shown up through the hole in the floor illuminated the space and made the area seem small again.
Pael began turning a wooden crank on the wall that was attached to a chain. A clanking, ratcheting sound filled the silence as a huge crystal sphere began to lower from the ceiling. It was so big around, that three men holding hands might have trouble reaching their arms around it. It hung in an iron ring that had three evenly spaced chains leading up and out of it into the darkness. The crystal sphere slowly came down to rest, cradling itself in the hole in the floor where the lift had just been. The top of the globe was now at chin level to Pael and the light from the hole underneath it made it glow faintly from the inside.
Pael kept turning the crank, until the chains lay slack across the floor, and then he walked completely around the ancient artifact, examining it. After a moment, he stopped, and even though he was alone and the room was dark again, he pulled the hood of his robe up over his bald head. He was careful to make sure that the top of it hung down over his eyes. He then raised his arms and began to chant.
The wizard went slowly at first, because it was hard for him to get the inflection and the tone of his voice the way he wanted it. Soon, the chant picked up its tempo, and became smooth and rhythmic. Pael then began to circle the orb quickly and his strange voicing became even faster and took on a melodic quality.
In the depths of the sphere, a tiny cloud began to swirl. It grew rapidly inside the crystal, spinning, and changing colors. Pastel blue and purple churned, then crimson, and a bright golden yellow, until finally inside the sphere, there was nothing but a roiling mass of color. The sound of Pael’s voice was a constant now. The meager boundaries of the room had long since faded away. There was no roof overhead, no wooden floor below, and no walls around him. Even the slight reverberation of Pael’s voice off of the chamber’s surfaces had disappeared. He, the four flickering candle flames and his spectral orb were no longer in the world – at least not the same world as the tower.
A diminished harmony joined the wizard’s voice, letting him know that he was no longer alone. The cloud that had filled the crystal suddenly pulsed red and stayed that way. The roiling mist faded, and a strange phantasmal face took form inside the orb. The intensity and brightness of the crimson light radiating out from within the sphere made it impossible to make out any certain detail of the face’s features. Pael let his voice trail away. He brought his arms down in front of his chest and put his palms together as if he were about to pray.
“What is it you seek wizard?” the booming voice of the demon called Shokin asked. “Have you opened the Seal yet?”
“I seek the location of the sword you so greatly despise, oh Mighty One,” Pael said. “Ironspike has gone missing.”
A long silence ensued. So much time passed that Pael started to think that the demon had forgotten him. He started to sigh, but remembered himself. It wouldn’t do to anger an ally as powerful as this one. Even though the demon had long been banished from the physical world, Shokin went out of his way to aid Pael. To aggravate the spectral demon would be to invite ruin to all of his plans, for enslaving the demon was part of them.
“The sword will not reveal itself to me.”
Shokin’s voice seemed irritated. It sounded like a thousand ancient trees creaking in a storm.
“Only when the blade is drawn by one with the cursed blood of Pavreal flowing in his veins, will I be able to locate it.”
Pael almost swore aloud. King Balton had only had one son. Prince Glendar was the last who carried the blood of the ancient hero King Pavreal. Shokin wouldn’t be able to locate the blade unless Glendar drew it, and if Glendar was in a position to draw it, then Pael wouldn’t need to locate it anymore. Pael thought carefully for a moment, letting his frustrations subside.
“Is there no other way to seek it?” Pael asked. “What about locating the King’s Squire, or the Priest that disappeared? Can you learn where those two are? It is one of them, who surely has the sword.”
The demon growled, but concentrated on this for a moment. If Pael wasn’t such a loyal subject to his cause, then he would punish the arrogant wizard. How could he have let such an important object get away? He could sense Pael’s impatience and frustration. Losing Ironspike was no small thing. It was the one thing that had the potential to hinder their plans. Shokin was at least glad that Pael was aware of this, and understood the ramifications of the situation. Shokin held his temper in check and went about seeking the Squire and the Priest, even though Pael’s thoughts were bordering on contempt.
“The priest is in Portsmouth seeking passage to the Isle of Salazar.” Shokin’s voice grated. “The squire, I cannot find, but he will show himself to me sooner or later.”
“He may have the sword.”
“There is another matter more worthy of your concern, little wizard,” Shokin boomed coldly. “A boy has found Illdach’s old ring. If he is allowed to keep it for a while, then I think he might be able to help us with the Seal. I feel a deep and certain connection to him. The ring itself is unimportant, but the boy is one of the sacred climbing folk from the mountains. He will be at the festival.”
Pael started to ask another question, but the tone of the specter’s voice caused him to hesitate. By the time the wizard had mastered his thoughts, the demon was gone from the orb. Already the bright crimson glow was fading.
Pael cursed himself for sending Inkling off to Summer’s Day so hastily. There was no way he could go himself. Glendar needed supervision far too badly. The fool Prince could destroy a lifetime of work and planning with a single thoughtless command. He hated to heap more on Shaella’s plate at the moment, but she was the one that was going to dance with the dragon, so to speak. She was also on her way to Summer’s Day to handle another matter for Pael. He knew her loyalty was unquestionable and that she could handle the young hawker who had found the ring. Most all of Pael’s planning had been done for her anyway. If she wanted to be a Queen, then she was about to have to get her hands dirty.
He had to laugh, as he started to raise the orb back up so that he could go down to the Nest and write out a message for her. He found that he truly regretted not being able to be there for the festival this year. This Summer’s Day would be a day to be remembered.
Chapter 7
Hyden considered the mood of his clansmen. Here they were, wandering through a beautiful forest, heading towards a place of peace and fellowship, on the cusp of a great and exciting competition. Very soon, they would be seeing their wives and children for the first time in weeks. The Summer’s Day Festival lasted for days and days, but on the first day of summer, it was the greatest celebration Hyden had ever known. Yet his people moved lethargically, as if they were dragging an enormous weight behind them and wading in sludge. Heads were down and shoulders were slumped. The exhilaration and bravado that had ignited them like a wildfire on their way to harvest the hawkling eggs had been completely extinguished. Wendlin and Jeryn’s fall from the nesting cliff had sapped the joy completely out of them.
It was like this nearly every year, Hyden reflected. He couldn’t remember a harvest where someone hadn’t fallen to their death, or somehow left them all disheartened. In the first year he had attended the Summer’s Day Festival, no one had perished. T
he long walk from the nesting cliffs, through the great forest toward Summer’s Day that year, had been as hope filled and exciting as all his trips to harvest combined. But since then, the trip to the festival from the egg harvest was always bittersweet. This year, one set of brothers and a father, were mourning, while the rest of the clan were trying to get past it so that they could enjoy the upcoming festivities. It was the cruelest of clan rituals, or maybe just bad timing on nature’s part, that the harvest and the Summer’s Day Festival were almost always tainted with sorrow and death.
“It’s a reminder from the goddess,” Uncle Condlin had said, after burying Wendlin in the canyon. “We, as a people, may climb high and reach farther than nature intended, we may reap great strength, and we may profit from these deeds, but we must remain humble, for it as a gift we are granted to be able to do such things. Every gain has its cost, and every loss is the cost of our gain.”
Uncle Condlin had looked directly at Hyden as he spoke of gain and loss. Hyden wanted to scream out that he had nothing to do with this year’s harvest. He hadn't asked for, or even earned, the God’s Gift that had found its way to him. But he held his tongue. Condlin had already lost one son, and another was lying broken on a travois. Condlin carried one end, and refused to let anyone else ease his burden. Hyden’s father, Harrap, and a few others, took turns carrying the other end. Hyden had a deep respect for the determination and strength his Uncle Condlin showed day in and day out, but he refused to feel guilty for anything. He may have been the recipient of a gift from the gods, and his cousins may have paid a price for it, but he had done no wrong.
The somber mood caused Gerard to give up on finding more devious ways to use the ring he had found. He had long ago exhausted the fun out of the trick of having someone tell someone else something that got them clobbered. The thrill of that was gone. Instead, he kept to himself and stayed out of the way, while trying to do other things through his mind with the ring. One night, he spent the whole evening by the campfire, trying to levitate a small stone, but it never once moved. He tried to make a stick catch fire and also to extinguish a flame, but it was all for nothing. What he did manage to do, was halt a deer in its tracks the previous afternoon. Gerard might have even called the animal to them, but there was no way to be sure. All he knew was that he had called out to the forest to send them a fat doe and one actually came.
The Sword and the Dragon (The Wardstone Trilogy Book One) Page 7