The steward shook his head and Branock released the spell. The man fell in a heap on the floor. He moaned and rubbed his throat as he gasped for breath. Branock gave the man what he felt was a reasonable amount of time to recover, then he kicked the man.
“Now wake the Prince,” he growled.
“Yes, sir, right away.”
The steward hurried to a flight of stairs, and they made their way up two flights until they were at a large wooden door with horses carved into surface. There were guards standing like statues on either side of the door. The steward produced a key and opened the door. Branock followed him inside.
The room was large with lavish furniture scattered about and thick rugs overlapping each other and covering most of the floor. On one wall was a large fireplace that was full of smoking ashes. Opposite the fireplace, on the far side of the room, was a large desk, littered with parchments and slate tablets. There were candles and jars of inks. A large peacock quill lay atop the heap, and Branock was reminded of Simmeron's vanity.
There was a door on the far wall and the steward opened it slowly and shut it behind him. Branock waited in the large outer chamber. After several minutes, the steward stuck his head out from the door and spoke.
“He'll only be another minute.” Then he ducked back into the bedroom without waiting for a reply from the Wizard.
When finally the door opened again, Prince Simmeron walked into the room. His hair had been combed hurriedly, his clothes were regal, but his face was swollen from sleep. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. His checks were red and his weak chin was spotted with stubble.
“Who are you?” the Prince demanded.
“My name,” Branock said, “is not as important as you think.”
“This realm pays the Torr for protection. You've come to the wrong place if you think you can bully me.”
“I am not here to threaten you, lord,” said Branock in a somber tone. “I wish to be of service.”
The Prince's eyes narrowed. It was no mystery that every king wished to have a Wizard in his service. But the Wizards of the Torr had overcome any who resisted them, and they claimed to serve the Five Kingdoms equally. Branock's master had grown wealthy and powerful over the years and had provided a measure of equality among the kingdoms. But Branock was sick of waiting in the shadows, oppressed by his master. It was his time to rule, and all he needed to succeed was Zollin. But to get Zollin, he had to remove Wytlethane and whoever else his Master might have sent against the boy. Prince Simmeron's vanity and lust for power would provide Branock the resources he needed to bring the boy under his control.
“Service how?” the Prince asked.
“The time of the Torr is passing. Two of the Wizards who visited you a month ago are now dead.”
“That's impossible.”
“Is it? I suppose they told you they were here for a boy. They did not know that the boy was my apprentice for they do not know me. I was born here in Yelsia, and I've come now to break the power of the Torr and see that the Five Kingdoms are united under Yelsian rule.”
“You'll forgive me a little skepticism,” said the Prince. “I've never met you before. And if there were a Wizard living here in my kingdom, I would have known it. Nothing happens in my lands that passes my knowledge.”
Branock bit his tongue. The fledgling Prince was already claiming sovereignty over the kingdom, despite the fact that the King still lived, as did his older brother Prince Dewalt, who was the rightful heir to the throne.
“I've been away for many years, honing my craft, my liege, but I assure you I have the power to save the kingdom. The Master of the Torr is planning to subdue you – surely you are aware of it. Why else would your father have sent your brother to Osla?”
“He was sent away because he displeased my father. King Felix intended for me to rule, not my arrogant brother. He shall be dealt with at the proper time.”
“You have plans. Well, perhaps my services are not needed,” Branock said, bluffing. “I shall not take up any more of your time.”
“Hold,” Prince Simmeron said, the tension in his voice evident. “I have many plans but I also have a nose for opportunity. You say you are a Wizard and that you have killed two Wizards of the Torr. How can I be sure of your strength?”
“I'm sure a man of your quality can devise something.”
“Indeed,” said the Prince. He walked over to where a velvet rope hung and pulled it.
From the corridor outside came the sound of running feet. Suddenly the door burst open and ten elite soldiers came in, weapons drawn. They were men of the King's Guard and they rushed toward Branock. He pushed against them with his magic and it was as if they had crashed headlong into an invisible wall. They all staggered back. Then Branock lifted them, cracking their heads against the wooden support beams in the ceiling and then dropping them in a heap of clattering weapons and armor. The men were dazed and slow to move. Branock had seen no reason to kill them, and so he turned to the Prince, who was smiling deviously. There was an evil gleam in his eye that reminded Branock of Cassis. The elder Wizard was forced to suppress a sudden urge to choke the life from his royal body.
“Convinced?” Branock asked.
“Party tricks,” said the Prince lazily, as if single-handedly defeating ten of Yelsia's most accomplished and deadly warriors was child's play. “Show me some real power.”
Branock's eyes narrowed. He had thought the Prince to be somewhat reasonable, but it was apparent that he cared nothing for his people. Not that Branock cared about the soldier's lives, but he appreciated their value. He let the magic build in him for a moment, the raw power scorching his wounded arm, side and leg. He endured the pain for a moment and then released a surge of blinding, white-hot flame that engulfed the royal guard. The heat was so intense that Prince Simmeron staggered back, but Branock's work was quickly done. He let the flame dissipate, leaving only the charred remains of the men's armor and bones in a heap on the floor. The thick rug beneath them had been burned away, but the floor was solid stone and was only blackened from the heat. Some of the furniture around the room was burning, but Branock extinguished it with a wave of his hand. His side was aching and felt raw – obviously his work to heal himself was incomplete, but he would deal with it later. He had plans to make, and now that he had pacified the Prince, he intended to see his plans move forward.
Chapter 23
The snow finally stopped, and the village of Brighton's Gate began to dig itself out again. Brianna was troubled by the thin stranger who had disappeared shortly after his confrontation with Quinn, but nothing else had happened. Mansel was sick, but Quinn's cure for too much ale was to work hard. He cleared a path through the snow with the other townsfolk while Brianna stayed busy bringing warm cider, bread, and cheese to the working men. The day passed quickly and Quinn ate a quick supper before retiring early for the night. Brianna also went to bed, but she couldn't sleep. Zollin was never far from her thoughts. She wondered what he could possibly be doing and battled the fearful thoughts that he was perhaps hurt or even dead, buried beneath the snow.
Her thoughts also never strayed far from the stranger whose threats she had dissected a hundred times in her mind. She was positive that people at least guessed the truth of where they were from. How news of the battle at Tranaugh Shire had reached into the mountains ahead of them, she could not guess, but apparently it had. If the stranger knew who they were, then surely the people of Brighton's Gate had their suspicions, and it was only a matter of time before it became an issue. She realized Quinn's rescue of the Inn Keeper's daughter Ellie had been all the confirmation most people would need. It was obvious that Quinn was no stranger to violence, and only an experienced man such as he could have escaped into the mountains from the armed mercenaries that had attacked them at Tranaugh Shire. She wasn't sure how much information about the Wizards had been spread. It was likely that most people wouldn't believe it even if they heard it.
Of course, she had heard of
Wizards and knew about the Torr, but other than the occasional traveling showman, like the one from the Harvest Festival, magic was as far away from her as the moon was. She had never given it much thought, not since as a little girl when she had sat in her father's lap, listening to him tell stories before bedtime. She smiled at the memory. Her father had always been kind, doting on her and her sisters. He had no sons but didn't seem to mind. He loved to create beautiful clothing from the bolts of cloth he ordered from Isos City and Orrock. He could have been a king's tailor but was content in Tranaugh Shire, raising his girls and somehow living with her mother. She didn't miss her mother, who was always prattling on about how to do this or how to do that. She and her sisters had done all the work while her mother stood back and criticized. A pang of guilt sprang up, but she pushed it away. She didn't miss her mother and would not feel bad for thinking the truth. Her mother used her and her sisters, and she would be very unhappy when the last of them was married and moved out, when she would have to actually do something for herself.
Quinn was snoring again, and it brought her mind back to Zollin. She saw the outline of his face as she had seen it the morning they had awoken before the others, sitting under a canvas and collecting wood for the fire in the predawn light. He had seemed so close one moment, so distant the next. She knew he grieved for Todrek. They had been friends for as long as she had known either of them. It must have been terrible for him to see his friend cut down so ruthlessly. She felt another pang of guilt, but she had not known Todrek that well. He was big and strong but as clumsy around her as a newborn calf. He had staggered around their house on their wedding night, drinking strong wine while she prepared herself in the bedroom. She had taken her time, and when she had called to him, he hadn't come. She had assumed he was nervous like she was, but in fact he had fallen into a drunken stupor by the fireplace. When she’d finally come out and found him asleep in a chair, she had felt relieved. She had covered him with a blanket and gone to bed. The next day he had been slain, and she had left her life forever behind to go with Zollin and his father.
Sleep was finally overtaking her. She swam in the wonderful darkness, with vague images of Zollin drifting past her, as if she were floating down a slow-moving river. Then the darkness turned cold and she felt scared. Someone was coming, his face familiar yet unrecognizable. She couldn't see details, only vague perceptions. There were daggers being slowly drawn from silent scabbards while the sound of marching soldiers filled her ears – then shouting and screams and fire, the lurid yellow and orange light casting shadows in the darkness.
Brianna awoke to darkness and the grinding sound of Quinn's snores. She was cold and pulled her blankets tightly around her. She was worried. She remembered her dreams of Zollin riding off from her, the dreams she had had before the events in Tranaugh Shire. This dream had the same eerie realness that frightened her so much. At least she hadn't woken up screaming.
***
Zollin's lessons began slowly. He was searching for the source of his power. It was hard to keep his mind from wandering. He could feel the magic flowing around inside his body, feel his heart beating and lungs moving back and forth as he breathed. There were other organs too, but he was less familiar with them. He tried to stay away from his stomach, which always seemed to be hungry. He tried to keep his mind from thinking about Brianna. He was looking for something, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. A reservoir of power, the source of his magic, as Kelvich had described it, like a well brimming to the top with power. As it began to run over the top and spill into him, he had discovered it – the day they were framing out the new Inn in Tranaugh Shire, the day he had lifted his tool bag. That power, according to his mentor, was much deeper than he had imagined, but since he had not found it, he could not use it. That was why he was so weak without the staff and willow belt. He could tap into their power when in direct contact with those objects, but his own was still hidden. When he used up the overflow of his own power, his magic came from his physical body, his strength, his mental and emotional energy. If pushed too far, that draining effect could cripple or even kill him. He needed to find the source of his power so that he would not be dependent on other things, but so far he had failed.
“Let's take a different approach,” said Kelvich. “To perform more complicated spells, you must understand what you are doing. You can cast a spell just by thinking it, but you have to know what you are doing.”
The Sorcerer held up a hunk of rotted wood. “Let me show you. I want you to transform this wood into a knife.”
“How do I do that?” Zollin asked.
“Just imagine the wood becoming a knife, and push with your magic as you do so. You need to see the picture of the knife clearly in your mind or what you are left with won't be complete.”
Zollin imagined a simple knife: a short, slender blade of gray steel and a handle of polished wood. Slowly he pushed the thought forward, and the magic inside him churned. He had to concentrate to keep his mind from wondering why he could feel the magic but not find its source.
The wood began to tremble, then it seemed to blur. Suddenly it was moving, like mercury, liquid and solid at the same time. Then it took shape, the exact shape of the knife Zollin had imagined. He focused his power and gave a final push, and the knife was finished. It rested on the table, just where the wood had been.
“That's unbelievable!” Zollin exclaimed.
“Yes, now pick it up,” Kelvich instructed.
The knife was incredibly light, but solid and real. The steel felt cool to the touch. He ran his thumb gently down the edge of the blade. It was sharp.
“Now, shave off a sliver of wood from the table,” said Kelvich.
“Are you sure?” Zollin asked.
The Sorcerer nodded, and Zollin placed the knife blade at an angle to the edge of the table and began to push. The knife began to slice a thin sliver from the table and then suddenly, the blade snapped clean off.
“What happened?”
“Let me see the knife,” Kelvich said, holding out his hand.
Zollin gave it to him and the Sorcerer took the handle in both hands and snapped them in half. Then he showed Zollin the inside of the handle. It was still the rotted wood he had begun with.
“You see, you transformed the shape, but you didn't change the basic components of the wood.”
“What are the basic components?” Zollin asked.
“Ah, the secret of the ages,” Kelvich said smiling. He stepped outside and came back in with a handful of snow. He sat across the table from Zollin and shaped the snow into a goose. “Is this a goose?” he asked.
“No, it's snow.”
“Yes, you know this because you see the snow fall. You see thousands of tiny flakes falling from the sky, but when they are lumped together you get what seems like a solid object. You see we are all made up of tiny little particles, smaller than dust. These tiny things are so small you can't see them, but you can feel them with your power. It takes intense concentration, but as you move farther and farther into an object, you can feel each part, how it fits with the others to make the whole. Move deeper and you come to find what each part is made of. So, to transform a piece of wood into a piece of steel, you would need to go deep into the object and transform the smallest parts, those basic components. Take a look at this.”
He pulled what looked like a rock from a wooden box near the fireplace. The rock was red- colored and tiny, dust-like flakes seeming to fall from it where Kelvich handled it.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“It's iron ore, right?”
“That's correct. Now, you can transform an object just like a blacksmith. He takes this raw iron, heats it in his forge, and creates steel. Then he fashions and shapes it with hammers and tongs and molds until it is exactly what he wants, a sword, a hammer, a pot or kettle. We do the same thing, only we don't need the forge, and we don't have to use excessive heat or force to transform an object. We use magic.”
>
“That makes sense. Could I turn that iron ore into a knife?”
“You could, but it would be brittle and weak just like the ore is. You would need to transform the ore into steel to get what you really wanted.”
“But how do I do that?” Zollin asked.
“Time, concentration, practice, those are the traits of a true Wizard. It is simpler to use your strength to take what you want. But that makes you no more than a bully or a tyrant. You must learn to tap the strength deep within yourself and take the time to see things the way they truly are. So here is your lesson for day.” He handed Zollin a thick book titled “Anatomy” and smiled.
“This book shows you how your body is made, the bones, the muscles, the organs and so on. I want you to study the book and then search yourself to find what you have learned. Look deeply until you can feel the blood moving through your body. Practice when you eat, feeling the food as it enters the stomach, what happens to it, how it moves through your body. As you go back to town today, practice feeling each flake of snow. See if you can fine a quicker way to move through the snowbound land than simply digging a trail.”
Five Kingdoms: Books 01, 02 & 03 Page 21