Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

“Where are they going?” Honey asked.

  “The full eclipse comes soon,” Salvon said.

  Rhoa gasped. “The lottery.”

  She watched the squad walk toward her own street, wondering if the lottery was set for Fastella this time around. It had been a few years since a family in Fastella had been chosen.

  The guards stopped outside Rhoa’s father’s shop. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “No.” The word slipped from her lips without her knowing it.

  Five guards entered the shop, disappearing, while the others formed a wall around the doorway. Rhoa bit her lip as a tear tracked down her cheek.

  This cannot be happening.

  Moments passed before two guards emerged, her mother between them. She was bound, her hair disheveled, her tunic torn open and exposing far more skin than was appropriate. Burrock, the captain of the guard, came out next, his face grim. Behind him, the last two guards followed, holding Rhoa’s father by the arms. His face was bloody, head hanging, toes of his boots dragging across the cobblestones.

  “No!” Rhoa screamed and jumped up to run toward her parents.

  Salvon grabbed her, his arms wrapping about her, spinning her around to shield her from sight. With is hand over her mouth, he whispered into her ear, “Quiet. You must remain quiet. You cannot save them.”

  She pulled his cloak aside until she could again see her parents, locking eyes with her mother. The woman stopped resisting, shook her head, and turned away, but not before the guards noticed. Two soldiers broke from the group, their gazes sweeping across the square.

  Salvon turned again, hiding Rhoa with his cloak while her mother screamed, the woman begging the men to let her go. Tears blurred Rhoa’s vision, poured down her face, and ran across the back of the hand over her mouth. The sense of loss tore her apart.

  There was no hope. She could not save them. The life she had known was over.

  23

  Fastella

  Rhoa chewed on her last bite of roast and potatoes, her eyes flicking to Salvon. He had been staring at her for much of the meal.

  “I cannot believe so much time has passed,” the old man said. “You have grown into such a lovely young woman.”

  After wiping the grease from her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she said, “Thank you for dinner. I was hungry enough to eat a cow.”

  Salvon grinned. “So I noticed.” He shook his head. “No need to thank me for the food. Horton, the owner of the inn, agreed to feed you. I did him a favor by remaining an extra night, so he owed me that much.” Salvon leaned close, his eyes gleaming beneath his bushy brows. “They love me here. For five nights, I have had this room packed with locals and travelers.”

  Jace was leaning back in his chair, nursing a tall tankard of ale. He had eaten even faster than Rhoa. “They come to hear you tell stories?”

  “I am not just a storyteller,” Salvon replied. “I am the best storyteller across the eight wizardoms.”

  A snort came from Jace. “I see you don’t lack for confidence, but how can you prove such a statement? Was there some storyteller championship I don’t know about? Did you earn a medal or something?”

  Salvon’s grin faded into his beard. “A doubter, I see. Do you believe in anything?”

  “I believe in what I can see and what I can touch.”

  The old man arched a brow, making Rhoa wonder if it took effort to lift such a weight. “What of the gods? What of the Makers or dragons?”

  Jace laughed. “Stories, old man. Those things are all just stories. I live in the real world. Why would I worry about myths, legends, or tales of long ago?”

  Salvon glanced over at Rawk, who was turned away from the torchlight. “Perhaps you don’t know all there is to know. From my experience, even the most outrageous stories are rooted in truth. The trick is to discern the embellishment from the facts. A good storyteller knows how to weave both together until the listener cannot tell which is which because they are so captivated by the telling.”

  “You aren’t likely to trick me old man, so don’t bother.”

  Having had enough of the exchange, Rhoa put her hand on Salvon’s, drawing his attention. “How is it you are still alive? You were dying when I last saw you ten years ago.”

  Salvon ran his hand down his face, appearing weary. “Yes. It appeared I was short for this world. When I left you with Stanlin, I departed for the one place I hoped to find a cure for my malady. I set out to find the Seers of Kelmar.”

  Even Jace gasped at the man’s statement. “The witches?”

  Rhoa had heard stories of the Seers, and none were good. “Did you find them?”

  “It took some time, but yes, I did.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened is I spent the next eight years in the catacombs of Kelmar. The Seers possess magic unlike wizards. While not as impressive, their magic is effective nonetheless. With it, they healed my body, but the process was slow due to the nature of my disease. Healing a body that is killing itself is no minor feat.”

  Rhoa thought of the time that had passed and how she had changed during those years. Yet he appeared no different. “You look as if you haven’t aged a day. In fact, you might be more spry than the last time I saw you.”

  He shrugged. “Old is old, my dear, and I happen to be older than almost anyone.”

  Jace set his mug down. “The stories about the witches… Is there any truth to them?”

  “They prefer the term Seer,” said Salvon. “As for stories, it depends on which tales you know.”

  “Can they predict the future?”

  “That is a difficult question to answer. Prophecy is not a frivolous thing, intended for the unlearned or those who haven’t been taught the theories of interpretation.”

  “You sound like someone who is avoiding the answer.”

  Salvon grinned. “I am.” His grin faded as he ran his hand down his beard. “You must know, prophecy is about possibility. The future is not predetermined, and the outcome of any event is influenced by the actions of people. The intention of prophecy is twofold. It can serve as a warning, and it can serve as a guide. To avoid an undesirable outcome or to achieve a desirable one, a person can follow a prophecy and act to influence events. Doing so will affect the path of destiny.”

  Jace stared at the man, leaned back, and shook his head. “Thank you for the biggest load of gibberish I have ever heard.”

  The old man chuckled. “Now you know why prophecy must be studied for years before one is properly trained to interpret it. Destiny is not something you should meddle with unless proper precautions are taken and you consider all repercussions.”

  “I am sorry I asked.” Jace finished his ale and waved to the barmaid.

  Salvon turned to Rhoa, his eyes reflecting concern. “What are you doing here? Did life in the menagerie not suit you?”

  Rhoa glanced toward Rawk. He had remained quiet, even after finishing his food. She hoped he wouldn’t say anything to reveal her plans. Of Jace, she had no concern. Thieves who could not keep secrets wouldn’t live to be his age.

  “I recently left the troupe. It was a good life, but I have decided to return to Fastella.”

  Salvon turned toward Jace, then Rawk. “And these other two?”

  “Rawk was a performer in the troupe, and he is my friend. He decided it was time for a change, as well, and wanted to see Fastella.”

  Rhoa grasped for something to say about Jace but could think of nothing to explain his presence.

  Jace answered, saving her. “I met Rhoa at Starmuth and happened to be traveling the same direction. We are simply traveling together. It’s safer that way.” He leaned forward and whispered, “You never know if thieves or bandits might be about.”

  Unable to stop herself, Rhoa snorted.

  Salvon raised one bushy brow. “I see.” He turned to Rhoa. “I happen to be headed to Fastella myself. I have my cart and a new horse. Alas, old Jibbers died six years back. Anyway, if you’d like
, you can ride with me. It would be nice to have someone to talk to during the journey.”

  With her feet, legs, and back sore after the thirty-mile walk from Starmuth, the thought of sitting for the remainder of the trip brought a smile to Rhoa’s face.

  “We would love to join you, Salvon.”

  The barmaid set another tankard of ale before Jace, grabbing the empty one before turning away. Jace lifted it to his lips, then paused. “This won’t cost us anything, right?”

  Irritated, Rhoa growled, “Not everyone requires payment, Jace. Some of us have goodness in our hearts and are willing to help others out of kindness.”

  He took a drink and wiped foam from his lips. “Yes, I am aware. Those people are doomed. I prefer the life of a hunter over that of prey.”

  Rhoa wanted to bury her fist in his face, but held back.

  “If you don’t mind,” Salvon said, breaking the tension. “I have a room here with an extra bed. Rhoa could sleep there, if you two men don’t mind sleeping on the floor. You would have a roof for the night.” Salvon smiled. “It will cost you nothing.”

  Jace shook his head. “You are a chump, aren’t you?”

  With a sigh, Rhoa let his comment go. “Again, you are very kind, Salvon. Rawk, are you fine with sleeping on the floor?”

  Rawk shrugged. “Better than sleeping on the ground.”

  “Excellent,” Salvon said. “I suggest we retire for the evening. I plan to leave at first light.”

  Jabbers, Salvon’s new horse, moved as languidly as his old one. The small, two-wheeled cart rolled down the road no faster than if Rhoa were walking. While she was thankful to sit and appreciated Salvon’s stories, she could not imagine a slower means of travel. Worse, Jace reminded her of the methodical pace numerous times an hour, making the morning pass as slowly as the countryside.

  Farms, trees, fields, and hills slipped past the cart as they traveled north. The sun rose into the sky until half of it was blocked by the moon. The partial eclipse lasted around ten minutes, casting a reddish haze over the land until the sun continued toward its apex and returned to its full glory.

  Over the next week, the eclipses would increase in fullness until reaching a total Darkening and, with it, the Immolation – the one thing Rhoa despised more than Taladain himself. The logical side of her knew the ritual had existed before Taladain, and it would likely continue after the man was dead. Still, her greatest desire was to see it end.

  The horse came to a rise and trudged uphill. Rhoa hopped out of the cart and walked, thinking to lighten the load. Rawk did the same, which was not unexpected. He often mirrored the things she did. It was annoying at first, but she had come to realize the Maker was unsure of what the world expected from him. Following her lead was simply a means for him to blend in.

  Jace remained in the back of the wagon, chewing on a stick of dried meat. “You finally decided walking is faster, I see.”

  “No,” Rhoa replied. “We are walking out of courtesy to Jabbers.”

  “Huh,” he grunted. “I’m wondering how much farther the horse can go before he falls over, dead.”

  “Shh,” Salvon said over his shoulder. “You’ll hurt his feelings. If you upset him, it’ll take hours to talk him into pulling the cart again.”

  Jace rolled his eyes at the statement. Rhoa smiled. A decade may have passed, but Salvon had not changed.

  At the end of the day, they reached another small village. Salvon performed his magic, entertaining a room full of drunken locals for hours and earning them all a room to share for the evening. The next morning, they departed at first light.

  The countryside changed, the woods thickening as the sound of running water rose above the creaking wheels and clopping hooves. The trees to the west parted, and Rhoa noticed the road drawing parallel to a rushing river, the rapids thick with white foam. Fastella River ran from the inland mountains to the bay outside the city of the same name. The cart and the road followed the river north, the river gradually growing wider.

  By the time the great city of Fastella appeared through the trees along the road, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The view expanded to reveal a city built on an island, splitting the river before it emptied into the sea to the northeast. A pair of arched bridges connected the city to the mainland, one arch over each leg of the river. Like the city itself, they were engineering marvels, remnants from the Makers. Men had studied the bridges for centuries but had yet to determine how they had been constructed.

  Similar to the bridges, the tall city walls were so pale, they were nearly white, giving the city an innocent appearance. Rhoa knew better. Here and there, spires, towers, and turrets peered above the city walls. At the heart of it all was the palace, the center of power for Ghealdor. Somewhere inside, Lord Taladain waited.

  Despaldi stood on a hilltop just outside of Starmuth, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the road below. A trail of bright, boxy wagons headed toward Lionne. The menagerie had attempted a few shows after he and his men paid them a visit. Apparently, neither performance had gone well. After an exhaustive search, followed by less-than-gentle interrogation, Despaldi had discovered the girl who had stolen the amulet was the centerpiece of the show.

  Even with his broken arm and bruised face, Stanlin had attempted to salvage something of the menagerie’s stay at Starmuth, but fewer people came to each performance. It was not surprising when Despaldi woke to find the menagerie tent down and the troupe packing up. Still, he felt no pity toward them. If they had complied with his inquiry, nobody would have been hurt and the girl would still be part of the show. By now, she was either dead or nearing Fastella.

  A trail of dust arose from the road below, stirred by a man riding at a gallop. Where the road split, the horse entered the trees, toward the hilltop where Despaldi and his men were camped.

  “Finally,” he muttered, turning and walking toward his tent.

  Moments after he had stopped beside his tent, the rider appeared, coming around a bend in the trail. The rider reined in his mount, the horse settling beside others on the grassy knoll, and dismounted. After tying the horse to a tree, he walked toward Despaldi, straightening his coat and collar on the way. His soldiers all knew his penchant for details, which included appearance. This man had shed his Midnight Guard armor to avoid unwanted attention, but not wearing a uniform was no reason to appear like a slob.

  Lieutenant Garvin stopped before Despaldi and thumped his fist to his chest. “Reporting, Captain.”

  “I pray you have something of interest, Garvin.”

  “I do,” Garvin said. “After visiting every inn and tavern in Starmuth and finding nothing of Landish, I decided to give it another go. When I returned to The Gilded Goose, I happened upon the stable hand, who wasn’t there the day we first visited. Apparently, this young man had gotten drunk and was passed out in the hay loft while we were questioning the others. When I cornered him and described Landish, the stable hand remembered him because the horse he had stored at the stable was still there and nobody had seen the owner in days.”

  Despaldi nodded. “I had assumed as much. Landish was here and has left the city, likely with the amulet.”

  “What of the girl?”

  “The amulet is all that matters. The girl is likely dead at the hands of the thief. Regardless, he is in Fastella by now.”

  “Will we pursue him?”

  “No. My orders were to find the amulet and carry out the deed. If Landish were to arrive in Fastella with the amulet first, we were to let him carry out his plan – or make the attempt.”

  “What now, Captain?”

  Despaldi turned and gazed toward Starmuth and the sea beyond the city, considering his next step. “We will strike camp and return to the garrison.” He turned toward Garvin. “You, however, will remain here. Check into the inn and watch for Landish to return. Also, pay heed to what occurs in the city. Should Landish appear, follow him. Should anything odd happen in Starmuth, ride hard to the garrison wi
th a report.”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “I won’t hazard a guess, but if Landish is successful and Taladain is dead, something will occur. A man with the power of a god cannot pass without some impact to his wizardom.”

  “Very well, sir.” Garvin gave another salute. “I’ll pack my things and head to the inn.”

  Despaldi turned and gazed toward the city one last time. He had been close to retrieving the amulet. Had he been the one to kill Taladain, it would have been a boost to his career, likely earning him a duchy at the least, perhaps something even greater.

  I’ll just have to settle for killing Landish. The thought brought a smile to his face.

  He spun and announced in a loud voice, “Attention! It is time to pack up. We move out within the hour. We will return to the garrison and prepare for what comes next.”

  24

  Homecoming

  Silver-streaked gulls soared overhead, circling the ship and diving into the sea. Moments later, one of the alabaster birds would surface, a fish in its beak. Narine watched them while holding tight to the starboard rail, the ship tilted at an angle with the wind pushing against the sails. Waves passed by at a steady pace as the ship sailed toward port, now mere miles ahead.

  Fastella’s pale walls stood over the docks where a river of the same name met the sea. Even in the full light of mid-day, the violet flame burning in the uppermost citadel tower remained visible. The sight stirred an odd blend of emotions, ranging from eagerness to dread. Eight years had passed since she had last walked those halls. The years away had changed her, shaped her from a spoiled princess with little awareness of the world into an educated woman, trained in the art of magic and possessing the talent to wield it.

  Despite the maturity and confidence gained over those years, she feared returning to her old home might result in regression. Would her father treat her any differently? Would he consider her an asset rather than a burden? More worrisome, she feared her brother might perceive her as a threat. She would need to walk a careful line to pacify one man without upsetting the other.