The Wizard's Heir

by J. A. V Henderson

  “What I did was nothing,” Deran replied. “Anyone could have done as much. We were all just in the right place at the right time…with the right wave.” He eyed Alik almost surreptitiously, then rose abruptly and headed for the door. “Yes, without that lucky wave, we all would surely have been dead.” He patted Alik on the foot as he passed. There was a ruffle of cloaks and the light in the room was slightly dimmed for a moment. Heao came running in.

  “Is something the matter?” Jevan asked Saria. Alik could not see her but he could tell by the feel of her hand she was afraid. He tried to open his eyes again. They opened, or seemed to open, but he could see nothing. Fear struck him.

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “We are nearly ashore,” said Jevan.

  “Master Delossan,” spoke up Heao, “there is a soldier sloop to star and they wanted to talk to the master of the ship. I told them what you said to, and they are going to tow us in.”

  “That sounds good,” said Jevan. “Good boy. Stay here for a moment and I will speak with them.”

  “Aye, Sir,” Heao replied. Jevan left.

  Heao was silent. Saria said nothing. Alik was nearly in terror. He closed his eyes again with a surge of pain and opened them again, and he could still see nothing.

  The yacht shuddered as the Anthirian sloop took hold of it and began to tow it in. Alik was helpless, blind and aching and every moment closer and closer and closer to the harsh vastness of land going on and on and on. He wept.

  He did not fall unconscious from the pain but he lapsed into insensibility. He could feel other people, could hear their voices, could smell salt and smoke, but his mind recoiled from all these things, and he became limp and apathetic. If he could walk he was not aware of it. The very idea of travel seemed painful to him now. Even the idea of walking made him nauseous. Now he would not see the spires of Anthirion. He would not see the trees of Ristoria. He would not stand beneath the northern dragon, eyes aglow in amazement, or delve the southern wilds. He would see nothing. Thoughts of these far-off places alone floated through his mind, and they built up slowly into a bitter rue. He drifted.

  This was disturbed by faces; one in particular. The names and places in his mind were all jumbled up. He felt himself picked up and felt the echoing of shoes upon a wooden gangplank, slightly resilient, and the thought passed through his mind that they might spring up into the air. Instead, they suddenly landed on the dry, heavy ground. With desperation he felt the sea calling behind him, aching for him, pleading for him, and he struggled in the hot smithy of the arms that were carrying him. They slipped on him but a rough, stony hand caught hold of his neck, and he groaned weakly and sunk back.

  The sea receded, the streets became smoky, and the din of people engaged in the calamity of life grew louder and louder, more and more senseless. Then all at once the light and breeze were blotted out entirely and replaced with a stifling, stinking, smoky heat. He succumbed, and became dead to the world.

  “Give him to me. Is he all right?”

  “He’ll be fine in a minute. I’ll get a room.”

  “Heao.”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Would you ask around the inn to see if anyone knows of a medic? Thank you.”

  “Room Two. I paid him for one night.”

  “Thank you, Master Deran. Could you buy something edible for Saria and put Alik in bed? I mean not to infringe on you at all, but I need to see the king at once.”

  “They won’t see you, but I will be glad to do it for you.”

  “I believe you are a good man, Master Deran. Yes, Heao?”

  “Nobody knows about a doctor. Shall I go out and try to find one?”

  “Come with me; the king will have a physician. Deran:”

  Jevan and Heao burst out into the hazy, bustling air of the city as the shadow of a hawk arced across the sun. The cobblestone streets of Anthirion City, the capital of the Anthirian nation, were lined with fishmongers and traders, beggars in tattered rags masked in clouds of steam at makeshift camps, and travelers of every culture and nationality under the sun. Skeins of cloth fluttered in the breeze; traders exchanged gold and silver coins over piles of shining fish; a Yllani circuser with a whip and a bear in a cage was calling out and waving his hands in excited gestures; a drunken Therian soldier danced in the street; and an ancient, nearly-blind elf-woman was telling fortunes at a booth at the corner of an alley.

  Jevan strode through the crowds briskly so that Heao had almost to run to keep up with him. “Do you know who is the king of Anthirion?” Jevan asked him.

  “No, Sir,” said Heao. “I think it begins with a ‘T.’ I know the king of the north is Emperor Morin the Second.”

  “Yes, true,” said Jevan. “The king of Anthirion is Tyrrhaeus, son of Thandaria, of the line of Anther—as it is thought, the founder of the city. They pride themselves that their line is unbroken to the foundation of their nation. That is rare.”

  “And what do you think?” asked Heao, because of the tone of voice Jevan used.

  “I also think it is quite amazing they have lasted so long,” said Jevan. “When you see the king, you must not speak unless spoken to. You must not laugh, giggle, fidget, or become upset. Bow when you enter: like so. When you are inside the palace, you must not run or be excited, and you must not under any circumstances criticize the king, even if others are doing so, or even if we are made to wait a very long time, or even if we are thrown out entirely.”

  “Thrown out!” exclaimed Heao.

  “We are a little ragged and humble but I think we will pass because of the urgency of our message,” said Jevan.

  “But we have to be seen, Master Delossan,” said Heao. “What will we do if we are thrown out without a hearing?”

  “We will try again,” said Jevan.

  “How unlike the island it all is,” said Heao.

  “Our government is much smaller and much younger, and is still somewhat experimental therefore,” said Jevan.

  “Are you saying that it would not work as well in Anthirion?”

  “No,” said Jevan. “I do not know. Perhaps it would.”

  They reached a river, the Toris, a tributary of the Aris River that marked the entrance into the old city. Anthirion City was built at the confluence of three rivers: the Aris, which flowed westward from the mountains far away; the Toris, which flowed southward through the Anthirion River Valley to the city; and the Oris, which flowed westward along the Aris from Oris City and the borders of Therion. A grand bridge with low arches and towering marble statues spanned the rivers four ways across the junction of the rivers. Barges and scows rowed underneath it on the waters, traveling north and south, east and west. Flocks of gulls and ducks gathered above in the air and below on the stones of the walls fencing in the mighty rivers. On the far side of the bridge, a majestic wall rose up above the bridge, and above the walls, the shear spires of the palace ascended turret over turret into the sky. “Poara Bridge,” said Jevan. “The Anthirion Old City. Arthril Palace.”

  As Heao and Jevan stood staring at the glory of Anthirion, a blare of trumpets filled the air as though from every side. Jevan took Heao and moved him to the side of the road out of the way just as a cavalcade of richly caparisoned knights bearing pennants sable and azure with fish and dragons in gyronny thundered down the street from behind them onto the bridge.

  “Camidar,” Jevan told Heao. “Decked out for war, for all appearances. Come.”

  Jevan and Heao ran over the bridge after the rear guard of the captain of Camidar. Trumpets answered the announcement of the captain’s arrival from the spires of the palace, and other trumpets responded from all around. As Jevan and Heao reached the gates of the old city, they found the courtyards round the palace filled with military detachments and embassies, floating with brightly-colored pennants of war.

  “Look at those...,” Heao began to say, but his exclamation was lost. Jevan grabbed him by the hand and plunged into the crowd as though into a brothel, ma
king straightway for the palace gates.

  Eight steps like plateaus rose up to the palace gates, and eighty-nine pillars banded with argent garlands spired up around the doors. The doors were azure marble, laced with silver knot-work of the highest quality. A phalanx of knights in the azure and argent colors of the king with sweeping purpure cloaks and sashes and with falchions and ivory-handled tridents stood at attention. Jevan and Heao dashed up the stairs to the first platform, then the second, and finally the eighth. At the top Heao caught his breath. The view swept out over the haze of the city all the way to the waterwoods south of the city, verdant and green mile after mile, down the rivers to the east and the north, and far out over the west to the sea where they had come from. His heart stopped.

  “Sir,” Heao stopped Jevan. “Sir!” he had to shout, as Jevan hadn’t noticed him stop.

  “Heao, stay close. If….” He stopped. There were storm clouds far out there, north by northwest. “I should have known it,” he murmured under his breath. Then, in a different tone of voice he said to Heao, “You know, storms are not uncommon in this season.”

  “Yes,” said Heao, confusedly. Jevan tugged him toward the last set of stairs, broad and grand, leading to the Terrace of the Kings. As they pushed their way up the steps, a new outburst came from the castle trumpeters, more pompous and ornate than any previous refrain, and the captain of the king’s guards darted for Jevan, taking hold of him by the arm.

  “Sir!” Jevan exclaimed, diving to his knees and bowing, “as you love Anthirion and its great king, we bear military intelligence vital to the nation!” Heao followed after Jevan’s example and bowed, touching his head to the ground. The captain stooped over them, uncertain, balancing their humble appearance with the significance of their claim.

  Before he could decide what to do, the palace doors swung open and the king of Anthirion himself, with his son and closest retainers about him, issued forth onto the patio in formal arms and uniform. The king bore in one hand the rod of state, the head of which was carbuncled by a giant sapphire and circled by a civic crown, and in the other hand he bore an antique greatsword, the legacy of his ancestors. His hair and beard were raven black and his build strong and kingly, and he wore a violet-dyed lion’s hair cloak and a battled crown. His son was slightly younger than Heao and a near image of the king.

  King Tyrrhaeus noted Jevan’s presence at once and was on the verge of demanding of the captain of the guards what he was doing there when another man whom Jevan had not heard approaching, a page of some sort by the look of him and fresh from battle with a long, black-feathered arrow protruding from his side, ran up the steps and threw himself down at the king’s feet.

  “A messenger from Cashlant,” exclaimed the king. “A medic—quick! Rise, boy, and unburden yourself.”

  “My lord, Sire,” spoke the page, remaining on his knees, unable to rise, “my Lord Cashlant has been waylaid by warriors or brigands, and the lot of us were destroyed, Sire. We were on the road to Oris, as you instructed, but could not fulfill your commands. My Lord Cashlant sent me while he was still alive, but thrice within a second at half a mile’s distance I was struck down by their archer, and my mount was clean slain.”

  “A doctor!” shouted the king. “Where is Kerderan? Someone fetch him. Boy, valiant boy, what force struck you, say! From Oris? Ferria? Ariante?”

  “I know not, Sire! They were unliveried and far away.... Please!”

  “Where is the physician?” the king fumed. Even as he spoke, the king’s physician scurried out onto the patio and darted to the wounded boy.

  “Father, what archer could fire so far and fast with such accuracy?” the king’s son asked. “It is unnatural.”

  “A scoundrel!” replied the king. “Physician....”

  “Sire, he will live,” the doctor said, “but I must bring him inside.”

  At that time Kerderan, the king’s chief hunter, a lean man with a sniper’s cloak, a sheaf of arrows, and a compound crossbow, arrived at the bottom of the steps and bowed. King Tyrrhaeus bent down and snapped one of the arrows violently from the wounded page’s body and flew down the steps to Kerderan. He gave the hunter the broken arrow, with the fletching, and said, “Find him and bring him to me, dead if needs be.”

  “Sire,” the hunter replied, and abruptly gripped the arrow and dashed away.

  “Let us go!” declared the king.

  The king’s son and councilors followed after him as he hurriedly strode through the parting legions in the courtyard. The captain of the guard fingered Jevan to follow, and he did.

  “My warriors and lieges,” announced the king to the entire crowd, “we go forth today in guise of war, in order to secure the lasting peace of Anthirion and the obeisance of its constitutory states. May we be wary of fraud, keen in vision, swift in justice, and, if needs be, lethal in our vengeance.”

  “Long live the king!” the shout went out across the courts.

  “Sire,” the king’s chief councilor joined him as he strode through the ranks of soldiers, “I suspect deep fraud in this matter, as I have also before. This page is disturbing. His attack was not the random strike of any brigands or thieves.”

  “Well I wot,” the king replied. “If the Orisians have trouble in mind, trouble will redound upon them, and all the help they may have coddled out of Ariante or Steed, or Andel or Sedar, or even Lar or Ferria...it will not suck them well.”

  “Let me help,” Jevan urged the captain of the guards.

  “If you know something, throw yourself at the king’s feet,” the guard replied, “else begone and good riddance to you both.”

  Immediately, Jevan dashed out in front of the king and threw himself down, face to the ground. “Forgive me, Your Highest Majesty, Lord King of Anthirion, my presumption in disturbing the course of one so high above myself and all my land!” he begged quickly.

  “Who is this impertinent fool?” the king declared.

  Jevan answered hurriedly, “He is no one, Your Highness: a courtless scribe, uprooted by a calamity of such account as may threaten to swallow even Arthril’s house. I have come to warn you....”

  “Warn me, what?” King Tyrrhaeus demanded.

  “You must, Your Highness, go yourself to the councilors of Oris, and to the queens of Andel and Ariante and to the Ferrian duke, and whoever else, and do everything you can for an immediate armistice and peace, on any terms, and prepare your respective states for imminent invasion.”

  “Ha!” shouted the king. “Invasion from who? Tryphallia? I scorn the day! Or perhaps you were thinking of Sûrthia: a surprise attack. Woe to Sûrthia on that day! The surprise will be theirs! Ho-ho! Or perhaps that cowardly dog who rules in Lossia has found a way to transport all his worthless armies across the Therian Plains and the Sarranor Mountains, and the fire plains of Caranis, and the blistering drought of the Sandrill Desert, and would dare thereafter to attack a superior enemy on hostile grounds. No matter how many armies he has amassed of late, there is no hero in their midst of stature grand enough to merit the soiling of Anthirion’s blades.”

  “Most gracious king,” Jevan replied, “do not think ill of me if I ask you the question of a foolish foreigner: are you the servant of Anthirion, or of that ‘cowardly dog,’ as you call him, Emperor Morin of the north?”

  The king’s hand went to his sword, but he refrained from drawing it. Instead, he said, “I sense you are an honest knave, and in earnest on this subject. Tell me your name and your information and from whence it comes.”

  “King Tyrrhaeus; I am from the western isle, where I have given all the years of my life since the completion of my training as a scribe for the noble Chairman Halaeius, whom you knew personally while he was alive. My name is Arran Delossan. I left there three days ago to petition you for your mercy and to give you this warning. At that time, a great storm rose up from the north, similar to that you may observe far to the north over the sea right now. This storm hid within its clouds a fleet of Tryphallian warships load
ed with a detachment of Tomerian soldiers of the Eleventh Command. They attacked and overwhelmed the island, defenseless as it is apart from its economic allies. Chairman Halaeius was killed and the city besieged, and as far as I know it has fallen by now. I have seen all of this myself, and have barely escaped, by providence alone, to tell you. This boy is nearly of legal age, and can testify to all I have said; also, the owner of the vessel we escaped upon can also testify if I call him, as can the navigator of the ship and the other passengers.”

  “What interest could motivate Tryphallians and Tomerians to work in common to such a costly and unvaluable goal?” asked King Tyrrhaeus.

  “We believe the Emperor Morin II means to incite war between the Anthirian states and Tryphallia, a war in which both Tomeria and Lossia will be obliged to participate, as well as Emperor Morin’s southern and western allies. Now I hear you say that Morin is indeed mobilizing armies, and I see what a miserable state of civil war is threatening the Anthirian Alliance, by whatever chance or malice. I implore you: since the death of the Emperor Morin I two hundred forty years ago, the Anthirian states have been strong in the sight of the northlands, and that alone, perhaps, has prevented them from trying a new war of conquest against the world. Now it appears that the son, Morin II, is ready to follow in the footsteps of his father. How much easier would it be for him, I ask you, if Anthirion, his strongest enemy, were to fall apart on its own, or if he could win over some of the stronger cities in their contest for independence? Judge for yourself! Only Morin can be behind the attack on the isle, to whatever end. Only he has the power to ally Tryphallia and Tomeria, and only he is capable of exercising such unnatural influence over weather that could hide the Tryphallian fleet from us until it was too late to send for help. He stands most to gain if the Anthirian Alliance falls, and as for transporting his troops long distances in almost no time…Sire, you must have heard such rumors.”

  “His story is implausible, Sire,” one of the king’s councilors said.