Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Parsec said. “The man had defeated many wizards before you faced him. To have survived the encounter… That’s something nobody else has ever done.”

  Charcoan closed his eyes. “I would have died. Should have, in fact. But, just as my shield started breaking down, a soldier in Ghealdan armor drove a sword through Eldalain.” He chuckled. “Betrayed by his own man. If not for that stroke of luck, that odd twist of fate, I would be dead like all the others who had faced him.”

  Parsec shook his head at the irony. After Eldalain had hired a thief to kill Gilda, Parsec had forced the same thief to kill Eldalain, which had saved Charcoan from defeat. While Eldalain got what he deserved, a new wizard now stood between Parsec and the throne he longed to claim. His wife may no longer be alive to rule by his side, but the dream remained. He only needed to find a means to remove Charcoan.

  A knock came from the door.

  “You may enter,” Charcoan said.

  The door opened. A man dressed in a black coat entered, his collar starched, his white hair slicked back. Parsec recognized him as Ruthers, the head of the palace staff. The man had held the position for many years and was reputed to be extremely thorough.

  “Pardon me, Your Excellency. Dinner is ready,” Ruthers said with a bow of his head.

  “Very well,” Charcoan replied, rising to his feet and redirecting his attention to Parsec. “Shall we move to the table?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Parsec stood and crossed the room, the two wizards settling at one end of the long table with Charcoan at the head. Four servers poured into the room, each moving with practiced efficiency as they set the table, filled cups with wine, and delivered plates with generous cuts of steak and steaming vegetables.

  In moments, the servers fled the room and all fell quiet.

  “Very good, Ruthers,” Charcoan said. “You are dismissed.”

  Ruthers backed to the door and bowed. “Ring the bell if you need anything further, Your Highness.”

  The man departed, leaving the two wizards alone. With a fork in one hand and a serrated knife in the other, Parsec cut into his steak. He brought the first bite to his mouth and glanced toward Charcoan. The man’s face was twisted in a grimace as he fumbled with his fork, his misshapen hands struggling to properly grip it. The process went on for over a minute before the man was able to attempt his first cut. The fork slipped, fell into his lap, and hit the floor.

  Charcoan slammed his fist against the table. “Damn Eldalain!” He lifted his hands and scowled at them in frustration.

  This is the man who would rule Fastella?

  Parsec knew Charcoan’s power. Other than a wizard lord, and possibly Eldalain, the man was the strongest magic user he had ever encountered. However, the battle with the prince had left scars, and Parsec began to believe those scars ran far deeper than what had happened to the man’s hands.

  Parsec reflected on the uncomfortable meal with Charcoan as he followed Ruthers down the corridor and to the stairwell. He suspected Charcoan had invited him to dinner as a form a goodwill, hoping to reconnect after two decades. Parsec’s influence over the guild made him valuable to Charcoan, and both men knew it. However, even while attending the University in Tiadd together, he and Charcoan hadn’t been close. More often, they had been rivals, but that was the way of it at the University. It always felt as if Parsec was competing with the other students, at least those with ambition. Such was a wizard’s life.

  While descending the stairs, Ruthers paused and turned to Parsec. “Pardon me, sir. I was wondering about your relationship with the High Wizard.”

  Parsec shrugged. “We attended University together many years ago. In truth, we are acquaintances at best.”

  Ruthers nodded and continued to the next landing before again pausing with a sigh. “Fastella has been my home for forty years, a city I have grown to love. Much has changed over the past few weeks, the Killarius line ending with Eldalain’s death.” The man frowned. “The purple flame in the tower shifting to blue.” Tilting his head, his gaze met Parsec’s. “Did you know they wish us to now pray to Farrow? I am a man of Gheald, born and bred.” He shook his head. “Why would I pray to a foreign god?”

  “Yes,” Parsec agreed. “It is wrong, but what can we do? Charcoan has plead fealty to Farrowen.”

  “Precisely.”

  The man turned and resumed his descent. Parsec hesitated for a moment before following. Why is he telling me these things? Is it a test for my reaction? Did Charcoan put him up to it, or is it something else?

  They reached the main floor and headed down a corridor, stopping just inside the door leading to the courtyard. Ruthers turned toward Parsec. They were alone, the corridor dimly lit by an enchanted lantern near the foot of the stairs.

  In a quiet voice, Ruthers asked, “If you had the ability, would you see Fastella regain our independence? Would you see the tower flame return to purple?”

  This is it, Parsec thought. He wishes me to commit. Is he working for or against Charcoan? An internal struggle ensued, Parsec weighing his choices and the repercussions should he make the wrong one. Ambition won out over caution.

  “I would see Fastella, and all of Ghealdor, remain loyal to Gheald.”

  Ruthers gave a slight nod. “Prince Eldalain’s ability with magic was feared by others, his power outstripping that of anyone, other than his father. I once overheard a conversation between Eldalain and his older brother. At the time, Trandain was the second most powerful wizard in Ghealdor. He also wore a ring, an oval of black onyx mounted in gold. Since Trandain’s death, Eldalain had worn that same ring. I never saw him without it.”

  Parsec’s brow furrowed. “He must have loved his brother very much.”

  Ruthers shook his head. “I do not believe that was the case. Few know the truth, but both of Eldalain’s older brothers were found slain in Trandain’s chamber, their heads bashed in from behind. No intruder was ever found. Eldalain was just a teen at the time.”

  Blinking at the revelation, Parsec realized the implication. Eldalain killed his own brothers.

  Ruthers continued. “If the ring held such value to Eldalain, it might be an item of greater worth than others believe.”

  The man pushed the door open to the moonlit courtyard. Parsec followed, his mind turning the information over as he walked toward his carriage and climbed in. Lang sat across from him. The door closed and the carriage lurched into motion, but Parsec’s mind was elsewhere.

  He had a job for a thief.

  7

  From the Grave

  Rindle was sore, his muscles beginning to bind. The compartment was cramped, dark, and forced him to bend his body with his knees against his chest. He had been a thief half his life. As a result, having to endure discomfort while stuck in tight spaces was nothing new. Still, he fought the urge to push against the seat above him and escape from his little box.

  Just a few more minutes, he told himself.

  Van Parsec’s voice came from the darkness. “We are entering the palace grounds,” the wizard said. “Remain still.”

  Rindle knew better than to reply.

  The carriage slowed to a stop. Parsec and his bodyguard climbed out, jostling the carriage. A muffled exchange came from outside, the sound fading. The carriage jostled again, followed by a knock, three raps of Lang’s knuckles, carrying through the carriage frame.

  Rindle lifted the seat and peered through the crack. The interior was empty, nobody in sight. Outside, the sky was dark.

  Moving with care, he climbed from the narrow compartment and replaced the seat. He drew the curtain aside and spotted two guards outside a palace entrance illuminated by an enchanted lantern. Through the opposite curtain, hedges grew beside the courtyard where the carriage was parked, the light from the other side casting a long shadow. Beyond the hedges, trees lurked in the darkness.

  Easing the door open, Rindle climbed out and huddled in the shadows. While in a crou
ch, he scurried to the hedges and ducked through a gap. There, in the darkness, he gathered himself.

  According to the information Parsec had given him, the courtyard was on the eastern side of the palace. The Killarius family mausoleum was to the southwest, outside the temple, adjacent to the pens where palace dogs were housed. Choosing to avoid risking the kennels, he and Parsec had agreed to enter through the opposite gate. From there, the only routes to the mausoleum were through the palace or around the exterior grounds. Rindle chose the latter route.

  He moved silently through the garden and found a paved path, the pale, stone walkway visible in the darkness. Creeping silently, he followed the path to an outdoor theater, the reputed sight of Taladain’s murder. Stifling the urge to investigate, he focused on his task and continued. A small wall required him to climb a tree, ease along a branch, and drop down on the other side, where an orange grove, rows and rows of shadowy trees, greeted him. With haste, he scurried between the trees and past another courtyard with a fountain, the quiet evening broken by the sound of running water until it faded behind him.

  Finally, he reached the north end of the palace and stopped just inside a row of hedges.

  The north gate was closed, the paved path from it to the stables empty save for a cluster of guards stationed at the gate. Unfortunately, the moon shone brightly. Rindle doubted he could cross to the hedge on the opposite side without drawing their attention. An exchange occurred between the guards’, muffled voices followed by laughter. Two guards broke off from the group and strolled down the path, toward the stables, the men passing within two strides of where Rindle crouched.

  Parsec said he would do his best to give me time. However, the man would promise no more than an hour. I cannot wait for an opening. I must create one.

  Rindle backed away from the shrubs until he reached the first row of orange trees. It only took a moment to find an orange that had fallen to the ground. He hefted it, the fruit filling his palm. It was soft and smelled bad. He grimaced. Rotten. His gloves would stink, but it was too late now. It will work well enough.

  He scurried back to the hedges and waited for the patrolling guards to return to the gate. As they walked away from the stables, he crept toward them. Stopping at the end of the hedge, he cocked his arm back, took aim, and threw the orange as hard as he could. It flew through the upper portion of an orange tree, rustling the leaves before it struck branches and fell to the ground with a thud.

  “Someone is in the garden!” a guard exclaimed.

  Another man said, “Irvin, Jonas, you guard the gate. Everyone else with me.”

  All but two of the guards rushed into the garden, spreading out in a search. The two men left to guard the gate stood beside the hedge and watched. This is my chance. Rindle darted across the driveway and slipped into the hedges on the far side. There, he held his breath and listened. When he heard nothing from the men at the gate, he knew he was safe and continued.

  He soon came to a courtyard, empty and quiet save for a nightingale serenading the moon. Rindle pushed his way through thick trees and came to another wall, this one fifteen feet high and covered in ivy. Gripping handfuls while attempting to avoid the worst of the thorns, he pulled himself up, hand over hand, until he reached the top. He peered over the other side.

  Rows of stone mausoleums filled a paved plaza, each structure pale and ghostly in the moonlight. A single shade tree stood in the heart of the cemetery. All was quiet, nobody in sight. For a full minute, Rindle watched the shadow-filled spaces between the buildings. He told himself it was to ensure no guards patrolled the area. The true cause of his hesitancy continued to bubble up, giving him chills and leaving him wishing he could turn and run to the nearest tavern. Ghosts are not real.

  Steeling himself, he climbed over the wall and crawled down the ivy on the other side. With his final handhold, when his feet were just a few feet off the ground, a thorn pierced his glove, stabbing deep into his finger. He jerked his hand back and fell to the ground with a grunt. The injured finger went to his mouth, filling it with the metallic taste of blood, the musk of leather, and something else. He spat, trying to clear his mouth of the sour remains of the rotten orange.

  I hate thorns, he thought, trying to shake away the pain.

  An owl hooted in the night. He spun around, eyes peering down a narrow, shadow-filled alley between two rows of crypts. A flicker of movement sent his heart racing…until he realized it was a shadow cast by the branches of the lonely tree rustling in the breeze.

  He closed his eyes. There is no such thing as ghosts. He repeated it twice more, hoping to talk his fears back from the edge before he opened his eyes and advanced.

  Each footstep crunched softly as he crept down the path, focused on the doors of every building he passed. Above the first door, he saw ancient script, a text he could not read. The door itself was dark wood etched with ornate carvings, including the crest of a dog. A stone plaque hung on the wall beside the door, inscribed with Olaphanti in large letters. Below the heading was a list of eleven names and dates, ranging from the year 868 to 1014.

  He moved along, examining the dates marking each building. He reached an intersection and turned, only to discover older buildings in the next row. Reversing direction, he ventured deeper into the graveyard, the dates growing later and later until he reached the final row.

  A building, so pale it may have been white, stood alone to one side just strides from the tall wall encircling the palace. The crypt was the largest he had seen, twenty strides long and five strides deep. An elaborate mural graced the wall, lit brightly by moonlight. Rindle stopped and examined it.

  Upon a hilltop stood a wizard, his robes flowing in the breeze. The man’s arms were outstretched, bolts of lightning arcing from his fingertips. Below the man was an army, the lightning blasting through the ranks, apparently felling every enemy soldier.

  To see better, he moved closer to the door and read the stone plaque beside it. A sigh of relief slipped out when he saw the name Killarius at the top. Below it was a list of over thirty names with dates beside each, Taladain and Eldalain among them.

  I found it.

  Rindle gripped the knob and tested the door. Locked. Reaching into his coat, he withdrew his picks, knelt, and began to work the rusty lock. He had picked many locks in his life. This one should be no challenge.

  As he tripped the first tumbler, a memory flashed in his mind, one he hadn’t recalled for years. Jerrell teaching a much younger version of himself how to pick a lock. A dozen years had passed since those days, a time when he and Jerrell were close. Rindle corrected himself. Jerrell never cared about me. He only cares for himself. It was the harshest lesson he had learned from Landish.

  When the third tumbler clicked into place, he slid the tip of his knife into the lock and turned. The rusty lock resisted, so he turned harder. It rotated slightly. He jiggled it and applied more pressure. It suddenly turned, his blade snapping. He fell back off the step and landed hard on his backside as the door creaked open. A flash lit the night, bright and blue as electricity crackled, arcing from the knob to the doorframe. It lasted for a dozen beats of Rindle’s racing heart before stopping.

  He blinked at the spots before his eyes, stunned. His gaze shifted to the dagger, lying just a few feet away, the tip broken off. If the dagger hadn’t broken…A chill wracked his spine as he realized how close he had come to death. The door had been armed with an enchantment, likely to stop grave robbers like himself.

  He rose to his feet and stared at the open doorway, the gap of no more than six inches. Reluctant to touch the door, he went in search of something to push it open. A fallen branch, less than three feet long and an inch thick, lay near the lone tree. He fetched it and returned to the crypt, using the branch to push the door open, then discarding it. He pulled an enchanted disk from his coat and held it up, the pale light bleeding into the dark interior as he slowly stepped through the doorway.

  Shelves lined the walls, each seven
feet long, each occupied by a coffin. The shelves ran from floor to ceiling, two in each column. He walked down the corridor and eyed the shelves warily, noting the names below each. He recognized some. Reladain, Nordain, Trandain. Others, he did not know. At the end of the room was a single opening, housing a black coffin gilded with gold. The sign below it read Here lies Lord Taladain Killarius, the 13th Wizard Lord of Ghealdor, 1760 – 2026.

  Rindle’s gaze locked on the coffin, and he felt a longing. How much is that worth? What items might I find inside?

  The memory of the trap at the crypt door doused his curiosity. He shook his head. Focus, Rindle.

  He turned and headed the other direction, past the open door, reading each plaque until he reached the end. There, he found Eldalain.

  The coffin, dark wood with brass corners, was simple in design compared to Taladain’s. He gripped his broken dagger, found a crack between the lid and the base, and began to pry on it. Since the blade was already beyond repair, he strained hard, not caring if further damage occurred. When it opened a bit, he found another spot and pried again. Having enough room for his fingers, he sheathed the knife, gripped the coffin lid, and lifted, the nails squeaking in resistance until they finally gave.

  A stench arose, forcing Rindle backward as he coughed and gagged. After a bit, he composed himself and pulled his tunic up over his nose. He lifted the glowing disk and moved closer to peer inside.

  Eldalain lay there, his face withered, gaunt, and gray. The man’s hands were clasped together on his chest, the ring on his right hand beckoning. Rindle grit his teeth and reached for it. The ring turned, but would not come past the knuckle. The corpse cracked and hissed when a lesion formed on the wrist and another on the finger. Rindle’s stomach recoiled. I just want to get out of here. With his dagger, he began cutting the finger, severing it at the knuckle. He then grabbed the finger and pulled the ring free. Tossing the severed digit aside, he turned and headed toward the door.