The Seventh Magic (Book 3)

by Brian Rathbone

  "It's been too long since we've done something together," she said and he smiled. This was not the average mother-son effort. Both pulled wet scarves over their noses and mouths. "Be ready! On my command . . . now!"

  The air pressure within Dragonhold changed as a dozen thrust spheres were activated. A twisting wind howled toward the main entrance. Carrying coarse sand and grit, it wore away at the rock itself. Clouds of black dust roiled and billowed, blotting out the light and leaving them in near darkness, but still they continued, knowing they were not to stop before the Herald's command. It was a testament to the bravery of those who served that day when the air within the hold began to clear, showing the stone columns gleaming in the meager sunlight. Though the skies high above were clear, thick gray dust clogged the air in the Pinook Valley.

  Aiming his thrust to one side, scouring away the filth from every crevice in the main hall, Sinjin saw ancient carvings in the walls now revealed from beneath millennia of lichen and calcified mold. Overzealous effort sent tiny stones flying across the floors, damaging parts of the ancient artwork, and Sinjin did his best to clean the hold without destroying it.

  "Concentrate on the main entrance," Catrin shouted above the roar of artificial wind, and the air within the great hall cleared even further as the group cooperated, forming a mighty vortex of air that sucked the remaining dust from the great hall. When the air was clear, the Herald held her fist in the air. "Cease!"

  It took only a moment for those gathered to obey, and Sinjin smiled at his mother. "That wasn't so bad."

  She grinned in return. "For the people of Dragonhold, it was the very least we could do."

  With that sentiment, Sinjin wholeheartedly agreed. The keep had been theirs for years before it fell to Trinda Hollis upon his mother's departure, and perhaps it had truly belonged to Mael all along, but now he, too, was gone--or at least Sinjin presumed. The mysteries of Dragonhold were far from solved, and no one could guess what they might yet discover.

  For the next week, Catrin and those temporarily under her command did everything within their abilities to restore the hold to its former glory. Deep within, where the Fifth Magic had detonated, there was little to do but remove the remaining dust. Stone floors that had perhaps never before seen the open sky now bathed in sunlight. After sealing many damaged halls, their exploration a task for some later date, Martik declared the keep once again defensible, if barely.

  "There's a great deal more work to be done," he said. "Perhaps more than any of us might achieve in a lifetime. But no matter what some may say"--he looked crossways at Miss Mariss--"my generation knows the value of what will remain when we're gone and of tasks not to be achieved in our lifetimes. That which is not begun now will only be delayed, and I very much wish to leave this place better than when I first arrived here, better than when the Herald herself discovered it."

  Sinjin half expected his mother to voice her disagreement, knowing it was her father and Benjin who had truly rediscovered the place and the ancients who had made it what it was. In days past, his mother would have made certain everyone knew to whom the true credit belonged, but she had changed. All of them had changed. The validity of what one believed was sometimes secondary to what those beliefs drove one to achieve. Sometimes it was better to leave those to believe what they will so long as it serves the rest. Truth was a rare thing and did not always lead to salvation.

  When Miss Mariss and the others returned to the great hall, their expressions spoke volumes. "You mean to tell me we spent weeks shoveling that forsaken dust and all we had to do was wait for you all to arrive? The gods have a twisted sense of humor."

  Few had the courage to laugh in the face of her anger, but Onin of the Old Guard proved himself either brave or foolish. Sinjin suspected both. Ruddy from barely suppressed chortles, Onin found himself confronted by a red-faced and puffing Miss Mariss. What would have cowed most men sent the old warrior into a hysterical fit threatening to consume him.

  "Men!" was all Miss Mariss said before walking away in a huff.

  "You're going to pay for that later," Martik said in a low voice.

  Onin barked a laugh. "That I will, m'boy. That I will. But I like a woman with fire, and sometimes you just have to fan the flames."

  It took time to gather all those who chose to continue residing within Dragonhold. Their numbers had dwindled from war and from peace. Many the invasions had forced underground sought new lives outside the hold. Those who remained were committed, out of love for either the hold itself or others who remained. Still, Sinjin was grateful for those hearty folk, ready to take on the task of several lifetimes.

  "You've done well," Catrin said when everyone had gathered. "You've served me well. You've served the people of the Godfist well, and you should be proud of yourselves."

  "We knew you would return to us," someone said from the back of the crowd, and Sinjin wished he knew who had spoken. In the end it did not matter since the same sentiment was echoed by many of those gathered. It was then he sensed his mother's will faltering.

  "I'd stay with you if I could . . . but I cannot." Her voice trembled.

  Dismay rolled through the hall. Sinjin had heard the talk; many believed her the rightful ruler of this place. These people had endured Trinda Hollis's rule on the hope Catrin would come back. Some of those had blamed Catrin for failing to adequately protect them long ago. Emotion thickened the air making Sinjin queasy.

  "I've done what I can do here, and now I must move on. Great things remain to be done. You all are the heart of this hold. Without you, none of this would have been possible. I am forever in your debt, and I leave this place to you. It's yours."

  The silence that followed was like a living thing devouring them all.

  Morif finally spoke. "It is the greatest gift I've ever known." All eyes turned to him. "I don't deserve this honor, but I pledge myself to all those here. I will do everything within my power and until my very last breath to see Dragonhold restored and inhabited by the people of the Godfist."

  Millie stepped forward and echoed his vow. One by one, people joined them. Bradley, Simms, and others made their solemn vows before the Herald, though she'd asked for none. When all who wished to do so had offered themselves to this task, silence reclaimed the hall.

  "It is truly the greatest gift," Bradley said. "But who will lead us? Who will guide us so that we share common purpose and goals?"

  "I do not know," Catrin admitted, "except that it cannot be me. I'm sorry."

  "A vote," Morif said at last.

  Others within the hall murmured in agreement. Not all of those gathered could read or write and a silent ballot was abandoned. "I say it should be Martik," someone shouted from within the crowd. Again, Sinjin did not know who it was who had spoken but he agreed.

  "The choice is yours," Catrin said, unwilling to cast her own vote.

  "Martik," came another cry, and Bradley stepped forward to add his agreement. No other names were offered, and soon the name Martik was repeated everywhere.

  The man who'd come to them as a conscripted soldier in the Zjhon army stood stunned and speechless. "Why me?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper. "Surely I cannot."

  "Ah, but you must, Martik Tillerman," Catrin said. "As my last act within this hold, I declare you steward. In accordance with the vote just passed, this place is granted to you and your line for all the days to come. Consider well your actions from here on out, my friend, for many will count on you." She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, "You can do this, Martik. You were born for this."

  Chapter 18

  Those with a hero's soul are often unaware until need arises.

  --Morif, soldier

  * * *

  Nothing moved within the black spike, and a foul smell clung to the air. Kyrien snorted in distaste. Patting him on the neck, Catrin dismounted. Pelivor followed; he'd refused to do anything else. This pain was personal, and he knew that; he knew far too many things, as did she. Acceptin
g it, she walked slowly, as if rushing would change what she would find. Wilted, twisted, and blackened, a saltbark tree reached out of blasted and scorched soil. Now covered in soot, the walls had lost their sheen.

  "Larissarelatarenfall."

  Dying leaves shifted at the sound of that name, some dropping to the ruined ground below. When at last a hand appeared on the tree trunk, sliding around the tree from behind, it moved with painful care and slowness, trembling all the while. The dryad looked every bit as bad as the rest of the place and Catrin sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

  The wounded dryad responded with nothing more than a trembling wave. Catrin understood. She'd been given the dryad's gift long ago; she knew their secrets and weaknesses. Mael did as well, and Catrin's fury raged. Dryads, even those of saltbark trees, whose leaves bring tremendous healing to all the world's creatures, could not heal themselves. An undamaged tree would eventually heal the dryad's form, given sufficient time, but a dying tree and a wounded dryad meant a long and unenviable end.

  Walking forward, Catrin knew what she had to do. Just as Brother Vaughn had taught her years before, she embraced the tree and pressed her forehead against the bark. A price would be paid for taking on the tree's pain, but she didn't hesitate. This she could do. The tree did not yield, and bark painfully pressed into her face. The tree did not want to hurt her; the sense of it was overwhelming. They both knew what would come. Catrin had brought this tree here, planted it herself. What had once been a striped seed that fit in her palm was now a beautiful saltbark tree, so full of vigor and life. These thoughts she projected with gentle might.

  At a gradual but consistent rate, her head moved forward, into the dying tree. When she'd been given the dryad's gift, she hadn't understood. Only later, when another dryad woke the gift within her, had Catrin begun to understand. Planting the seed the dryad in the shallows had given her, she'd gained better understanding. Over time, her relationship with the remarkable tree blossomed, just as the tree so swiftly grew in that magical place.

  With growing empathy came greater anguish, and she could not contain her screams. Through fire and pain, Catrin felt cleansed, her sacrifice enough to counter damage done. When misery reached its height, at a point she could no longer withstand, a familiar calm came over her. Kyrien wrapped himself around her, perhaps in physical form, outside the tree, but also within. She'd never considered the possibility of dragons communicating directly with trees, but now it seemed so obvious. Pelivor lent them his energy like so many times in the past. Together they bore the brunt of Larissarelatarenfall's pain. Images of what had taken place between the dryad and Mael flashed over Catrin's consciousness.

  The end came. Pain relented, ebbing as they reached a vision of Catrin, Kyrien and Pelivor, come to save them, tree and dryad alike. Scars there would be, but that which had been broken was mended. The connection ended without warning. Perhaps that was why she felt so dizzy afterward, or maybe it was the other way around. Falling to the ground, her hands came up covered in blackened moss.

  From behind the tree, the dryad moved more steadily, though still with a pronounced tremble. "Rest." The word came as barely a whisper, as if from parched lips long unused. Catrin did as she said, her hand resting on Kyrien, who slept. The tree's appearance hadn't improved, nor had the dryad's, and Catrin despaired; she'd wanted so badly to heal them. Perhaps they were just too far gone; perhaps Mael had made certain she would fail. The last thought struck a sour note; he'd saved her. How could she loathe one she owed her life, to whom they all owed their lives. It was irreconcilable.

  Larissarelatarenfall reached out her hand, though always remaining in contact with the tree. "Look," she said. Turning tear-filled eyes up, Catrin saw the dryad lift away a dead leaf, its crystals falling away and crumbling to dust. It was painful to watch, but the revelations touched deeply. A single, emerald green leaf coated in gleaming crystals protruded from where the dead leaf had fallen. From old life came new. "Thank you," the dryad said.

  Catrin cried.

  * * *

  Watching the trade fleet approach Windhold was difficult to believe, and Durin had to wonder if his eyes were working properly. Having the Trader's Wind come to the Firstland would have been cause for celebration; such a sizable ship could carry enough goods to modernize the Firstland and feed the people for a year. Smaller trade vessels and swift defensive ships accompanied her, bringing goods and skilled workers. Airships hovering above dwarfed them. Surrounded by scouting ships, including the Dragon's Wing and a growing myriad of aircraft, the trade fleet was unlike anything else in the world.

  The Kraken's Ghost, though smaller than the Trader's Skies, stood out from the rest, perhaps because of its unpredictable movements, but more so because it so closely resembled its namesake. Where the Vengeful Shark was sleek and smooth, the Kraken was ready to envelope anything that came too close within barbed tentacles and devour it. Lightning pulsed over the engines, and the cacophonous roar grew as they approached.

  Jessub Tillerman was the first to reach land, and he soared past the wind channel where Durin stood, waving on his way by. Others gathered around to watch the spectacle, and in some cases awaiting someone in particular. Casting a sideways glance at Onin of the Old Guard, he noted a twinkle in the soldier's eyes he'd never seen before. It was a good day.

  Sinjin and most of the Drakon had flown out to welcome the fleet, and they added to the aerial chaos. Shouts of greeting and warning mingled in the air, as those airborne did their best not to collide with each other.

  Brother Vaughn walked up alongside him. "Never thought I'd see the day."

  "Hard to believe, isn't it?" Durin asked.

  Nodding, the monk said, "For most of my life, I dreamed of soaring the skies. Now I can do just that, and it terrifies me."

  Durin laughed. "Thank the gods for those with less sense than us. I’d just as soon watch from here."

  "A sound plan if you ask me," Brother Vaughn said. "There'll be plenty of work to be done on firm ground."

  The truth of his words struck Durin. Cut off from so many things he'd taken for granted, they had struggled. The Godfist was a difficult place to live, requiring the people to be clever and hearty, but they had nails and leather and anvils and books, none of which existed here. The Firstland was the kind of place where everything was improvised and nothing done as his grandfather would have seen fit. It had bothered Durin all along. He'd been raised to meet a certain standard with his work, even if he'd failed to appreciate it in his younger years. Here that level of competence was simply impossible. Anything they achieved was a lot of hard work combined with a healthy dose of luck.

  When the Trader's Skies blocked out the horizon, everything changed. Extending from her deck was a loading ramp wide enough for a verdant dragon. Steam rising in gouts and a roaring howl accompanied the lowering of the bridge but was silenced once the mighty structure rested on stone. Durin didn't know if such a ship ever visited Windhold in the past, but he doubted anything had ever matched this.

  From within the holds, walking up long ramps with a gentle slope, came pack animals loaded with goods. Watching the animals go by was like being in a dream. Tools, metal goods, rope, and canvas passed. So many things that had been impossible to create on the Firstland were now carried past him as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Truly, everything had changed.

  When Miss Mariss appeared, a cloud cat running alongside her, attacking invisible things along the way, Durin smiled. Again he cast a glance at Onin, who'd flown in a month before with a long list of preparations to be made. Never would he mention the tears running down the man's face.

  * * *

  "This thing itches," Onin said, fussing with the frilly shirt the girls had picked out. Sinjin stifled a laugh.

  "The last thing I saw dressed up like this was a turkey," Kenward added. "It was delicious."

  Shaking his head, Sinjin could no longer hide his mirth.

  "What are you grinning at?" Onin asked.

/>   Shrugging, Sinjin remained silent, knowing what side he was on. His entire reason for being there was making sure neither groom ran off under pain of his wife's wrath--and that of Miss Mariss and Allette Kilbor. No, he would say nothing. They knew.

  "I've married people on my ship a number of times," Kenward said. "It's a half-a-day affair at the very most. A few words, a little food, and the rest takes care of itself."

  At that even Onin laughed. Planning for this affair had been going on for weeks. Sinjin suspected half what the trade fleet brought had been solely for this wedding.

  "Stand still," Nora said a moment later. Sinjin hadn't even seen her approach, or he might have remembered having something else to do at that moment. "I've got two weddings to plan and you two look like a couple sheep headed to slaughter. Sloppy sheep at that. Stand still!"

  By the time Nora was done fidgeting with his beard, Onin's patience was at its end. Sinjin had to side with him on this point since he'd never seen either man look sharper. Onin had combed his beard for what felt like hours and had redone all his braids, using his finest beads and circlets. Polished boots wore a reflective sheen, his leathers showing no signs of wear or holes. Kenward's clothes were a slightly different style but were in no worse condition. His shirt was similar to Onin's, but his pants and boots were lighter in color and with a textured surface as opposed to Onin's gloss.

  "I've a swift ship in dry dock," Kenward said when Nora walked away.

  "And I've a dragon waiting with his tierre on," Onin added.

  "Neither of you are going anywhere," Sinjin said. Both men turned on him, making it clear he was as likely to stop an avalanche, "without leaving me with at least a couple black eyes. A fat lip wouldn't hurt."

  Barking a laugh, Onin slapped him on the shoulder. "It would either be us or them, m'boy. Either way, your luck's run out."