Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  Or, was there?

  He stood there mutely as Swain unlocked the door to his cell and led him out. He went along complacently, staring at his boots as he walked, filled with a desperate sense of unease. Swain couldn’t be right. Darien was a good, decent man. Sure, he had his moments, and sure, they seemed to be growing more frequent, but....

  Kyel stepped out of the prison into the glistening white sheen of fresh snow. Blinking, he instantly forgot his thoughts as his eyes gazed upon the sight of what looked like every Rothscard Bluecloak that existed all assembled in front of the palace steps in neat, orderly files. And, before them all, the Queen of Emmery was seated in a silk-trimmed sedan chair born on the shoulders of two enormous men, her golden scepter in hand, the Sapphire Crown on her lovely head.

  Kyel couldn’t believe his eyes. The scene looked like something out of a story, or even legend. He waited with Swain as the ranks formed up behind the queen’s chair. Startled, he noticed a guard walking toward them, leading two horses. One he recognized as his own. With a sigh of relief, he saw that his longbow was attached to his saddle. He had been worried that he’d never see it again.

  The guard offered him the reins of his horse, but as Kyel stepped forward to take them, Swain jerked the leather straps out of hand. The captain traipsed back to the saddle and snatched the bow from it, wielding it up before Kyel’s face. With a look of contempt, he took it in both hands and brought the shaft down viciously over his knee, snapping it clean in half.

  “No!” Kyel screamed. But it was already too late.

  Mortified, he stared at the broken shards of his longbow in Swain’s merciless hands. That single stave of wood had been his only friend, his constant companion all through the long, dark months at Greystone Keep. It had been such a beautiful piece of wood, so elegantly simple, at the same time so comfortingly effective. Practicing with it had been the only thing he had taken pleasure in at the front, and his developing skill had filled him with confidence and a blooming sense of pride. As he watched Swain throw the shards of the bow down like scraps of filth at his feet, Kyel felt like bending over to pick them up, wanting to run his fingers over the smooth golden yew just one last time.

  But he made himself stop. Deep down inside, he knew the captain was right. Mages were forbidden weapons, and there was a reason for it. Kyel couldn’t help but tremble as he thought of Darien’s sword. He wondered if things would have turned out differently if the Sentinel had cast it away as he should have or, better yet, had never picked it up in the first place. He wondered if Darien would still have yielded his commitment to the Oath, or if he would have found the strength within to rise above the temptation.

  Kyel turned away from the sad remains of his bow, trudging away from them through the snow. He was a Master, now. Even if he hadn’t sworn the Oath of Harmony, he would live it in his heart. In a way, he was glad that Swain had done what he had; it made accepting the constraints of the Oath that much easier. Even if he didn’t know them, not really.

  When the captain approached him with his horse, Swain laid his hand comfortingly on Kyel’s shoulder. His hard face held no sympathy. But there was another expression there, one that Kyel was thankful to find. When Swain placed the reins in his hand, he did so with a faint trace of understanding in his gray eyes.

  “The hardest thing to learn with a weapon is knowing when it’s time to give it up,” the blademaster uttered softly.

  “‘What hurts, teaches,’” Kyel quoted, staring down at the reins in his hand.

  Swain’s eyes narrowed, his brow creasing. “That’s the motto of the Arms Guild. Did you learn it from Darien?”

  “Yes,” Kyel responded dismally. “He said it applies to most lessons in life.”

  Swain nodded, patting him on the shoulder. “Well, at least he remembers something I tried to teach him. Come on. We don’t want to keep the entire army waiting.”

  Kyel glanced back over his shoulder at the ranks of Bluecloaks forming up behind their queen. “That’s not the army?”

  Swain barked a laugh, tossing his head back. “That’s just the City Guard, son. They go wherever the queen goes, and right now she’s coming to see us off. The real army is waiting outside the walls. Now, let’s go, before the men get hostile.”

  Kyel nodded. He tried to resist taking one last glance back at his bow as he mounted up and rode away from it, but he just couldn’t help himself. It was hard to part from it. But, he knew, it was much better this way.

  And, in the end, he was even thankful.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Orien’s Finger

  HE WAS VULNERABLE.

  It was a loathsome, despicable feeling Darien had suffered for two and a half days. His very skin crawled as if infested with a thousand writhing maggots. No matter how many times he raked his torn and ragged nails across the surface of his flesh, still the feeling persisted. His main source of solace was gone, the rapturous song of the magic field silenced in his head. That was the worst; walled away from the raging torrent of Orien’s Vortex, he could take no comfort in what had become his only source of reassurance. The field’s absence darkened his mood and fouled his temper. Those who dared come close enough to see the raging intensity that seethed behind his eyes turned and shied away, often with great haste. Yesterday, he had almost taken Wellingford’s head off for no greater crime than startling him, coming up behind him unannounced.

  Which was another problem entirely. The anxiety inspired by the field’s absence was becoming too much of a distraction. He was starting to lose focus. A blundering fool like Wellingford should never have been able to catch him by surprise, even if the boy had sneaked up behind him intentionally. Within the tumultuous fury of a vortex, such distraction could easily prove fatal. For one, if the Black Prince even suspected he was so helpless, Faukravar would not hesitate to move against him. Fortunately, the king had never taken an interest in magic or Masters, or the man would have schooled himself enough to know what a vortex meant for him.

  And Faukravar was really the least of his worries. If Renquist and his demons knew he was alive, then this would be the place they would try to take him. Not with the strength of their power; they were just as helpless here as himself. But their pets were as darkly potent within the torrent of a vortex as they were without.

  If Arden Hannah even suspected that he’d survived her fire, he might find himself confronted with such a fate. But Darien doubted that she had any reason to believe he was alive. By the time Craig’s charge had scared her away, he’d been hanging in that blaze for minutes, slowly searing like meat on a spit.

  What a surprise he had in store for her. Darien sincerely hoped Arden would be traveling with her army. He had read about Bryn Calazar’s battlemages lending their support in the theater of war during ages past, long before Arden’s betrayal and the Lyceum’s staggering fall. If she showed herself at Orien’s Finger, Darien had already prepared something special with her in mind. Like a solicitous suitor, he had put a great deal of thought and effort into selecting the perfect little something, a gift personalized just for her. He hoped she would find it just as stunning as he thought she would. If she didn’t, then he would just have to keep trying until he got it right.

  He was glad now that he’d sent Naia back home. The coming battle was going to be terrible. It would be no place for a priestess, and certainly no place for a lover. Darien could not guarantee her safety, just as he couldn’t guarantee his own. But more than that; he was glad that she wasn’t there to see him, to see the black festering place where he had once kept his heart. He had noticed the look on her face in Auberdale, when she had taken in the image of him standing on the king’s dais covered in the blood his sword had so eagerly spilled. The sight of him had repulsed her, but she had quickly forgiven him.

  Naia would not be so quick with her forgiveness if she could see him now. There was little blood on his hands yet, but he felt as if he had already bathed in a river of it. He may as well have; in t
he course of the past week he had rehearsed his part in the coming battle hundreds of times in his head. At first he had quailed. But then he’d forced himself to go over it one small step at a time, visualizing every graphic image again and again in increasing detail, until at last he finally felt numb enough to actually go through with it.

  Which was another reason for his foul temper. Already that day he had killed hundreds of his own men scores of times in his head. He made himself visualize each dying face, hear every scream of anguish. Each time, it got a little easier. And it was still very early in the day.

  He rode in the middle of the drawn-out column, eyes dimly focused on the backs of the men ahead. He’d let Faukravar take the van, and not out of deference to Chamsbrey’s king. Because of his vulnerability while within the scope of the vortex, Darien felt reassured only with a ring of armored men around him. He had even moved his tent. The first week of the march he had pitched it out away from the encampment, prizing his solitude above all else. Already, too many eyes were growing too wary, fixing him with questions he had no intention of answering. But the last two nights they had spent within the margin of the vortex, and he had positioned his tent in the very center of the camp. Even still, he’d had a hard time getting to sleep both nights. The crawling feeling of his skin bothered him, and his heart kept beating a thundering tempo in his chest, not wanting to slow its pace even for sleep. He lay there for hours staring up at the roof of his tent, feeling more isolated and alone than ever before in his life.

  More than anything, he missed Naia. But he was glad she was gone. So very, very glad.

  Up ahead on the left, the sharp ridge of a mountain groped upward from the snow-covered plains. They had made good time. He could scarcely believe they had made it all the way from Auberdale to the Cerulian Plains in only eight days, even if it was according to his own plan. He’d calculated the pace of the march himself from scaled charts in the command tent. It was a harsh pace, yet the well-disciplined soldiers had handled it well. They had matched and even exceeded his every expectation. Even Wellingford had proven true; the youth had a small but laudable charisma about him that went over well with the men. He was still far from a great commander, but the boy did seem effective at getting things done.

  Darien saw him riding up now, his young general’s horse working its way back from the front of the column. Wellingford’s eyes were scanning over the faces of the men, a frown of concentration on his youthful face. When he spotted Darien, the frown intensified. Directing his horse into a gap between ranks, he rode up and turned his mount to walk beside him.

  “The king is wondering why you’re not inclined to ride with us,” Wellingford stated, staring at Darien with a perplexed expression on his face. More boldly, he added, “I’m wondering also; it is not the Prime Warden’s place to breathe the dust kicked up by an army of men and their horses. It’s almost as if you’re purposefully avoiding us. People are starting to wonder, and ask questions.”

  “Let them wonder,” Darien glowered, not willing to address the reasoning behind his choice of position. “But if anyone shows the impudence to openly voice his opinion, send that man to me. I will not have my judgment questioned the day before the battle.”

  “But, Prime Warden, it would be wise to keep up appearances—”

  “What did I just say?” Darien growled dangerously. “Now, go back and tell your arrogant pansy of a king that if he desired my company so desperately then he should never have tried to have me killed. Go! Or I’ll make you my first example.”

  Stricken speechless, Wellingford visibly paled. With a tight nod of acknowledgement, he guided his horse back toward the outside of the column. Darien watched him depart, silently seething. He didn’t notice the gap that was widening between himself and the men that marched at his horse’s sides, or the looks of dismay in the eyes of the soldiers within hearing distance of his outburst. Instead, he summoned yet another image to mind, an image as grisly and appalling as it was comforting at the same time.

  To the men around him, the new Prime Warden they had sworn to follow seemed to be riding in a kind of trance. He sat slumped on his horse with eyes closed and arms as slack as his face, gloved fingers maintaining only a flaccid grip on the reins. His long, unbound hair stirred in a breeze, played forward into his face, unnoticed. Once in a while he would give a slight flinch, as if in the throes of a bad dream. Perhaps he really was asleep and dreaming.

  Or perhaps, more likely, he was mad.

  It was late afternoon when they had their first glimpse of Orien’s Finger. It rose slowly upward from behind the slope of the jagged ridge in front of it, a tall and narrow column of dark brownish-gray rock. Its surface was strangely textured, cracked and age-worn, with lighter patches of lichen speckling its sides. About a quarter of the way from the top, a particularly wide, diagonal crack had the appearance of running all the way through the stone. The very summit looked in danger of slipping off at any time, given but a chance breath of air, or even a whim.

  To Darien, the crag had the ominous portent of destiny. He had never seen it before; this was the first time he had passed by this way. It looked much as he had imagined. Subtly different: taller, darker; eminently more sinister. The slender shadow it cast fell across the valley behind it, the angle of the shadow bending up across the smooth face of the surrounding cliffs where its tip stroked a carved numeric rune. Orien’s Finger was an enormous natural sundial, and the ancients had taken advantage of it. Only, Darien had no idea how the sundial was meant to be read, or even the numbers represented by the large numerals scribed into the cliffs that encircled the crag like a horseshoe.

  Relinquishing his position, Darien left the center of the column and rode his horse out to the edge. From there, he sent the animal forward at a lope, his pulse quickening eagerly as he closed the distance between himself and the slender pillar of rock. He rode past the head of the column, right up to the Black Prince and beyond him, drawing out in front of the army. At the stony base of the dark tower, he brought the animal to a halt and climbed down from the saddle. Confident that he stood at last within the eye of the vortex itself, Darien opened his mind and groped for the magic field like a blind man tantalized with the promise of sight.

  It was rapturous. Darien gasped, collapsing to his knees in consummate relief as he immersed himself in the field’s soothing intensity. Here in the eye, where the lines converged together in parallel, the sweet savor of the field was like no other. Darien filled himself with it, letting the euphoric wonder of its presence saturate him entirely. He drew on the field, soaking it in, like a man dying of thirst trying to drown himself in a pool of clear water. He pulled in more, until agony blended with ecstasy. The sweet song in his head became a desperate wail, a climax of passion mingled with anguish.

  Reluctantly, Darien released his hold on the wild energies, letting the power drain out of him and slowly slip away. He held just a little back to hoard jealously, unable to distance himself from the field completely. His head ached and his body trembled with weak spasms, but he paid them both no mind. Wondrously complete again, he rose, shaking, to his feet.

  And saw an army of men gaping at him in appalled dismay. Faukravar was staring with eyes wide and full of disgust, his face a pallid shade of gray. At his side, Wellingford looked crestfallen and bitterly ashamed.

  Darien turned his back on them. What had they seen? Something they never should have. What had he looked like, there in the cold shadow of the spire, writhing in the field’s anguished ecstasy? Probably mad. He should never have succumbed before them to the temptation of the field. Once again, he had let his weakness for his passions carry him away. Now, he had much to account for. From the looks on their faces the damage was extensive, and there was simply not enough time to fully repair it. Solstice was only a dawn away. In the morning, he would be fighting the battle of his life up there alone on the summit of that sinister crag. In his moment of weakness, he had just lost the respect of every last man
that followed him.

  Worse, they all thought him dangerously insane.

  Ignoring the fatigue that yet lingered from his struggle with the field, Darien turned around and forced himself to face his men. They must see him as strong. If he played this right, he may even make them believe that he was a kind of troubled martyr, casting himself in Orien’s image. It was not a persona he would wish to project if he had a choice; he didn’t see himself as even approaching the nobility of Orien’s legend. He was creating an altogether different legend for himself, one trenched in infamy.

  But if the men needed to see him as Orien, then he would have to play the role. Taking his horse by the reins, Darien led the gelding back toward the column, testing the field as he went. Later, he would need to make certain he knew where the eye of the vortex ended and the cyclone of power began. But for now, he was satisfied with just the feeling of contentment brought to him by the eye, the calm within the storm.

  He stopped in front of Faukravar. Pretending that he didn’t notice the look on the king’s face as he regarded him, Darien dredged forth a somber smile.

  “It’s a good day,” he told the king. “Tomorrow will see the dawn of a better one. The banners of Chamsbrey shall wave triumphant over the field.”

  To Wellingford, he ordered, “Set up camp on the south side of the ridge. No fires; the smoke will give away our presence here. Use up as many rations as it takes to make certain every last man has a good meal.”

  “Aye, Prime Warden,” the boy responded. His face looked perhaps a bit less pale, but he was still gazing at Darien with an expression of doubt in his wide blue eyes.

  Troubled, Darien thought of the character of Orien they all needed so desperately for him to emulate. With that thought in mind, he decided that a little air of added mystery would do wonders for the role he played. “I’ll be up there,” he told them, nodding his head back in the direction of the crag. “Allow no one to disturb me. I’ll need to prepare myself, and I must do so alone.”