by Aaron Hodges
“Ensure they have no visitors,” he ordered.
He strode past them, then paused, the weight in his hand reminding him he still carried the ancient hammer. His stomach twisted in disgust. He had thought to make it a trophy, a prize that could sit on his mantle as a reminder of his conquest over his rival. But looking at it now, he felt only a deep sense of disgust.
Contemptuously, he tossed the hammer on the table alongside the wall of the guardroom. “Add it to the other confiscated weapons.”
Then he was striding through the open door, down a narrow corridor, and out into the hallways of the citadel. Yet even with the hammer discarded, his thoughts kept returning to Devon. The confrontation had not gone as he’d imagined. He’d wanted to see the hammerman on his knees, broken—and he had been so close. Taunting him with Alana had almost pushed the giant over the edge—until the old man had intervened.
“Dammit!” Quinn cursed.
He shook his head, forcing a smile to his lips. Despite the loss of face, Devon was still the one behind bars. And despite her wilfulness, Alana was truly herself once more—her betrayal of her former friends proved it. They might disagree with how to train the new Magickers brought to the citadel, but that was nothing new.
His humour returning, Quinn straightened his shoulders and took the next corridor on his left. After his confrontation with Devon, he felt a need to see Alana again. It was past time they made up. Striding quickly through the citadel, he made his way towards her bedchambers.
He was just nearing the princess’s rooms when a scream echoed down the hallways from ahead of him. His heart lurched painfully in his chest and drawing his sword, he sprinted towards the sound. His mind raced, trying to determine who or what could be attacking Alana now. For a second he wondered if there’d been another traitor working with Devon, if their capture had been some ruse…
Turning the last corner, the door to Alana’s bedchamber came into sight. The guards that Devon and Kellian had immobilised last night had not been replaced, but the heavy wooden door remained closed. Sabre in hand, Quinn charged forward, bursting into the room with a shout. His eyes swept the gilded interior, taking in the empty sofa, the open curtains, the shining sun, the bed…
He froze as he found Alana staring back at him, her eyes wide with shock. She was sitting up in the bed, the sheets tangled around her naked body, her breasts uncovered. Quinn lowered his sword, swallowing hard as he felt the beginnings of desire.
“Alana,” he said quickly, his heart still hammering. “Are you okay?”
She stared at him a moment, her lips parted, face pale. Then she blinked, a frown creasing her forehead. “I’m fine,” she answered shortly. For a moment it seemed that was all she would say, and he was about to jump into an apology for the night before, when she shook her head. “No, nothing is okay, Quinn. Everything is wrong. So wrong.”
Quinn sheathed his sword and crossed to her. Seating himself on the bed, he drank in her naked body, savouring the sleek curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the pale mounds of her breasts. He smiled and reached out a hand to stroke her hair.
“Everything is fine, Alana,” he said. Her eyes fluttered closed at his touch, and he went on. “You’re safe. Devon and his friend are locked–”
At the mention of Devon’s name, Alana flinched away from him. Her eyes snapped open, rage appearing in their stony depths. She pushed him, catching him in the chest and sending him toppling from the bed.
“I didn’t say you could touch me,” she snarled, climbing from the bed to stand over him.
“Alana…” Quinn murmured, staring at her.
A shudder went through her, and her eyes softened. “I’m sorry…Quinn,” she whispered. She shook her head and turned to the trunk at the foot of her bed.
She rummaged around inside, dragging out a pair of underwear and trousers. Quinn approached cautiously as she began to dress herself.
“Alana, what is going on?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she answered, pulling on a pair of breeches.
But her breath was racing, and Quinn could see her hands trembling as she struggled into the clothes. Pulling on a shirt, she turned and tried to get past him, but he stepped into her path.
“What is going on, Alana?” he asked again, his voice hardening.
She tried to sidestep him, but he blocked her way once more. She raised her hand to strike him, but Quinn retreated, and the blow never fell. Letting out a long breath, the anger seemed to flow from her. She lowered her hand to her side.
“I’m sorry, Quinn,” she said suddenly, a smile appearing. “I can’t right now. Later, I promise.”
Stepping forward, she stroked his arm, pulling him to her. Desire rushed through Quinn as he pressed his lips to hers. He shuddered, pulling her tightly against him, and ran his hands through her hair, tangling his fingers in her blonde locks, drawing her deeper into the kiss…
Then a bright light burst across his vision, and somewhere in his mind a voice cried out. Opening his eyes, he found himself on his knees, the strength gone from his legs. Letting out a groan, he swayed and looked around, finding Alana now standing in the doorway. For a moment their eyes met, and he realised with horror she’d used her power against him.
“Alana…” he managed, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“I’m sorry, Quinn,” she said sadly. “Truly I am. But I need to talk to my father.”
With that, she was gone, and the darkness rose up to claim him.
Chapter 29
“So, Alan was your ancestor, ay?”
It was a while before Devon registered the old man’s question. They had been sitting in silence for hours now, and the cold of the cell seemed to have seeped into his soul. The brief pleasure he’d gotten from Quinn’s humiliation had already faded away, replaced by a growing despair. Inside this cell, his physical strength meant nothing, and Quinn’s words went round and around in his head, taunting him. He shivered at the thought of spending his remaining years down here in the darkness, while above Quinn breathed fresh air, free to…
“What was that?” he asked, snapping his thoughts free of the images that were circling his mind.
The old man grinned. With an audible click of bones, he stretched his neck. “The boy said Alan would be ashamed of you—I take it that means you are his descendant.”
Devon nodded. “Ay, he was my great-grandfather.”
“An interesting family. Alan was a legend—even in his own time. But it was his father-in-law who always had my respect.”
“The Magicker?”
“You’ve heard of him?” The old man seemed surprised. “It is good to hear he has not entirely been forgotten.”
“A priest told me of him, though she did not mention his name. Apparently he placed a spell on kanker, Alan’s hammer.”
“Interesting. Does it protect its wielder from magic?” the old man questioned.
Devon blinked. “How did you know that?”
His cellmate scratched his long white beard. “He had a sword with a similar power, though it was destroyed during the final war against Archon. It seems reasonable he would create a similar protection for his son-in-law.”
“Do you know his name?” Devon asked.
“Alastair.” The old man spoke the name with a sigh, almost like a prayer. “A greater man even than Alan, though few know his name now. It was he who thwarted Archon during his first invasion. While he enjoyed an extended life span, Alastair was still ancient by the time the Dark Magicker returned. Even so, he answered the call, and gave his life to train a new generation of Magickers to stand against the darkness.”
“Like Enala?”
The old man’s head whipped up at the mention of the old woman’s name. “Enala still lives?”
Devon nodded. “She was the priest I speak of, though she went by Tillie when I met her.”
For the first time since he’d woken in the dank cell, Devon saw the light of hope on the old man’s
face. He sat up straighter, and it seemed some of the wrinkles had fallen from his cheeks.
“Truly? That…” he shook his head, tears appearing in his eyes. “Perhaps…perhaps there may be hope after all.”
“I’m not so sure.” Seeing his cellmate’s confusion, Devon swallowed and went on. “She has the boy, Braidon with her. If…if Alana is truly the Tsar’s daughter, then Braidon must be his son. What if it was all a trap, to trick Enala into trusting the boy, or to lure her out of hiding?”
The old man smiled. “Enala will not be fooled so easily. Perhaps she already knew their identity when you met—it would not surprise me. Either way, she won’t easily be taken.”
Devon sighed. “The two are in Northland. I doubt they’ll be venturing south anytime soon.”
“No…” Some of the energy went from the man then, and he slumped back against the wall. “No, I suppose not.”
A groan came from the corner of the cell as Kellian sat up. “You two are great company, you know?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “If you’re not going to let me sleep, you could at least find a more pleasant topic!”
Devon felt a sick sense of responsibility settle around him. “I’m sorry, old friend. This is my fault, I should never have dragged you into this business.”
Kellian snorted and moved across to join them. “That’s hardly fair, I chose to come, didn’t I? Alana was my friend as much as yours.”
“Some friend,” Devon murmured. “Seems she never needed our help to begin with.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” the old man replied. “But it does not lessen your sacrifice.”
“Yes, well, if I’m honest I would have preferred avoiding the sacrifice altogether,” Kellian added. “As it is, I’d rather not spend the rest of my life here.” He coughed. “Err, how long exactly did you say you’d been here?”
“I’m afraid I lost track after the first decade.”
“Great,” Kellian muttered. “Guess we’ll count you out for escape plans. What about you, Devon, any ideas?”
“No,” Devon replied, trying to keep the despair from his voice.
“What about your magic then?” Kellian turned back to the old man. “You said the bracelets keep you from using it. Is there any way to remove them? They look fragile enough.”
The old man laughed bitterly. “You think I have not tried?”
Kellian sighed. “True. Suppose it’s up to me then!” Seemingly nonplussed, he stood looking out through the bars. “What about the other cells? I…what’s wrong with them?” His voice rose several octaves as he finished.
Devon frowned at the fear behind Kellian’s words. Rising, he joined him at the bars and looked into the opposite cell, watching as shapes formed in the gloom. There were three people sitting on the floor opposite them—two women, and a man. If their cellmate had seemed in poor health, these three looked like the life itself had been drained from them, leaving only empty husks of their former selves. Little more than skin and bone, their flesh was raw and cracked, their eyes lifeless white globes, their hair hanging in tufts from their skulls.
Then he saw the soft rise and fall of their chests. Staggering back, his stomach swirled, and he struggled to keep from throwing up. With one hand he fumbled for the wall, using its solidity to right himself. Taking a great, shuddering breath, he faced the old man.
“What’s wrong with them?” he said, repeating Kellian’s question.
The old man lifted an emaciated wrist, and the dim light of the lantern in the corridor caught on the emerald bracelet. “The Tsar’s gifts are like a parasite,” he said. “To keep our power locked away, they infect us with their dark magic. It harries the spirit, devouring the soul bit by bit. Eventually, there is nothing left but a tiny spark, and the Magicker becomes a shell, a remnant that lives only to serve the Tsar’s purpose.”
“Then how have you survived so long?”
“Hate,” the old man whispered, his eyes shimmering. “Everything else has been lost to me—hope, love, joy. Only the hate remains, burning like a candle within, holding the darkness at bay.”
“What did he do to you?” Devon whispered.
“He took someone dear from me,” their cellmate replied, looking away. He gazed out at the corridor, an infinite sorrow etched across his ancient face.
Devon swallowed, unable to find the courage to ask who. Instead, he turned the conversation back to the Tsar. “Why is he keeping all of you alive though?” he asked. “I thought the Magickers who defied him were all executed.”
“Would that we were,” the old man replied bitterly. “No, he can’t kill us. He needs us. Every Magicker brought before him is offered a choice—serve him, or spend the rest of their lives rotting in these cells. Most choose a life of service, rather than this stinking pit. All but his most trusted Magickers wear the bracelets.”
Devon’s skin crawled. “What do the cuffs do then, if those above still wear them? Surely there is no need, if they’re wielding their magic in service to the Tsar.”
There was a haunted look on the old man’s face now. “A long time ago, the Tsar discovered a way of robbing Magickers of their power. But there was a flaw in the spell: it required the Magicker’s death. He did not realise it in those early days, but with the original Magicker’s lifeforce extinguished, the magic he stole could not be renewed. Once used, it was gone. So he devised a new way of taking our magic, one that would allow him unlimited power.”
“The bracelets,” Kellian hissed.
“Yes,” said the old man. “They siphon off our magic one drop at a time, providing the Tsar with a constant source of power. By now, he must have hundreds of Magickers to feed off of, both down here and in his service across the Three Nations. So long as we all live, the Tsar’s power is unassailable.”
“But if the bracelets are broken, his power would vanish?” Devon asked.
The old prisoner’s laughter whispered through the cell. “Mortal strength will not touch them. Only with death will we be released—and even that is denied to us. The other prisoners would have perished long ago, but the bracelets feed their lifeforce, holding them to this world.”
Shivering, Devon shook his head. “There must be a way.”
“Even if there were, do not forget the countless Magickers who serve the Tsar willingly. Each also lends their power to the Tsar. I see your Stalker friend no longer wears the bracelets…but he would be one of the few.”
“We could weaken him at least,” Kellian murmured, still standing at the bars to the cell, “if we freed you and the others.”
“That is true.” The old man shrugged. “But how do you plan on doing that while sitting in this cell?”
“A good point,” Kellian replied with a grin. “I guess we’d better set about getting out then.”
At his words, the bang of the outer doors echoed down the corridor. Footsteps followed, drawing nearer, though there was no sign of light. Devon frowned–usually the guards carried lanterns when they went about their rounds. As he watched, a shadow appeared in the corridor beyond their cell. The shadow approached Kellian, who smiled and leaned towards it. Soft whispers passed between them. Then it was gone.
Smiling, Kellian turned to face them. A jingling sound carried across the cell as he held up a loop of keys.
“Always have a backup plan, old friend,” he said.
Chapter 30
Wind hissed in Braidon’s ears as the dragon drifted lower, catching in his hair and sending shivers down his back through a rip in his clothing. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he gasped as they dropped towards the clouds, his stomach lurching uncomfortably. In front of him, Enala let out a whoop of joy as though she were still a ten-year-old girl, and the dragon roared in response.
Despite the cold, Braidon found himself grinning at the old priest’s youthful exuberance. Since he’d met her, he had rarely seen beyond the woman’s calm, reserved exterior. Only up here, far above the worries of the world, did she seem free. Her eyes flashed as s
he glanced back at him, a smile of her own on her lips.
“We’re close!” she cried out, the rushing air whipping away her words almost before Braidon could comprehend them.
Are you ready, young Braidon? Dahniul’s voice spoke in his mind.
“I think so!” he shouted back, his heart beating faster at the thought of the coming challenges.
They had flown all night and day, racing across oceans and desert, mountains and forests, to reach the distant Plorsean capital. Enala had filled him in on her plan while they flew, but now that the time had come, he found himself suddenly doubting her words.
After all, her entire plan rested on his magic.
“I believe in you, Braidon!” Enala said, as though reading his mind.
She stood suddenly. Balancing precariously on Dahniul’s back, she turned and lowered herself back down so she was facing him. She reached out and took his hands in hers, her aged face alight with the sun’s warmth.
“Have faith, the Gods are with you,” she said.
Braidon shivered. “Easy for you to say, you’ve seen them,” he muttered.
Enala laughed. “I’ve been them, but the point is well taken. Have faith in yourself then. You have conquered your magic once already. When you reach for it now, hold to that memory. You know you can do this.”
He smiled. “Let us see, shall we?”
And closing his eyes, he reached for his power. White light flickered in the void of his mind, rising up, the Feline taking shape. Only now, to Braidon’s surprise, he found himself able to face the creature without fear. Bemused, he watched it roar, the great jaw opening wide. Chuckling to himself, he strode towards it, and the beast’s power faded away. His hand stretched out, thrusting deep into its core, and the magic collapsed in on itself.
Braidon gasped as white-hot heat filled him, rushing to every pore of his body. Opening his eyes, he saw a world awash with colour. Enala still sat before him, only now it was not the old woman who watched him, but a figure of brilliant, shining red. Braidon gasped as he saw the amber swirling within the dragon, shining out to fill the sky. Further afield, he sensed other spirits, other powers all around, and felt a sudden yearning to go to them.