The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  “I didn’t think the Druids took on helpers?” he queried.

  “They don’t, but times change.”

  “At any rate, that is not why I have come to you today. There are things we need to discuss, about people back home, about my new role in Bottom Dell.”

  “My cousin has an agenda. That’s not so surprising. But let’s not stand out here all day, jawing into the wind; come inside and I’ll fix you a half of whiskey along with something to eat in more comfortable surroundings. You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?” he teased.

  “A mouthful of whiskey would go down well,” he responded, ignoring the taunt, “maybe more than a mouthful?”

  Together they walked inside, Daaynan leading his cousin into the building’s vast, domed hall and through a doorway at the other end that led into a series of interconnected rooms until they arrived at a large chamber inviting them with an arched, open entrance. Jareth gazed at the intricate depictions carved into the rock along the walls they travelled past. There was a look to his face that approached something like wonder. It had replaced his previous expression, which Daaynan hadn’t been able to fully identify. It was as if he were studying something which, for reasons of his own must remain a secret. He hadn’t trusted the look and it made him more curious as to why his cousin had chosen to visit him now. He would get the answer in time, of course, Jareth had never been one for secrets.

  “I won’t ask you if you miss Bottom Dell,” Jareth said, gazing at the depictions.

  “It was not really my place,” Daaynan admitted.

  “Joren and Sera miss you though.” Joren and Sera were his brother and sister, Jareth’s aunt and uncle.

  “Do they?” The older man’s voice carried an amused undertone.

  “They fight like they always have done, all the family does, like they did with you when you were around, but they seem sad whenever I bring up the subject of you, almost as if they regret their behaviour. The fighting you know, it’s only because they live in each other’s back pockets. Given time and distance they would realise how close they all really are.”

  “The images on the stones are of the world Fein More used to inhabit,” he told Jareth, changing the subject.

  “The Faerie world?”

  “Not as far back as that. This world came into being later and was more of a halfway state between life in the Northern Earth as we know it and life in the age of Faerie. The figures you see are men and women engaged in various activities. Their bodies are different to ours, hence the speculative nature of the depictions.”

  “I see.”

  There was a table in the chamber, surrounded by chairs of a uniform sort. Daaynan gestured the other to sit down and did the same. There was bread and dried fruit on the table in small bowls. Beside one of the bowls stood a jar of whiskey and some glasses. He indicated the food and poured whiskey into two glasses, a measure in each. He passed the liquid beneath his nose, inhaling deeply, then sipped some. Jareth did the same, helping himself to the fruit and bread. Leaning back in his chair, Daaynan regarded the younger man.“Now cousin, what has you out here all the way from Bottom Dell?”

  Jareth looked at him, his eyes sharp, glistening. “Actually, I’ve been spending my time in Brinemore the past few years. City life appeals to me more, anyway I’ve never been able to spend more than a few weeks in the Dell without getting bored, as you know. I joined a league which the steward of Brinemore set up last year.”

  The Druid nodded. “Karsin Longfellow. I know of him.”

  “Yes. Brinemore is in a politically tight situation. It’s in danger of losing its hold over the northern territories to the Cru dynasty which is on the rise, has been ever since they discovered gold beneath their lands. Their political and economic influence has increased considerably. The league I’m a part of has the task of attempting to provide solutions to this problem. There are many other such leagues scattered around Brinemore. We mostly sit around and talk, but occasionally we’re provided with the opportunity to act. Longfellow visits us from time to time. I met him once and all the things they say about him are true.”

  Daaynan leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And what is that?”

  “He’s a powerful man. He radiates charisma and intelligence. On the occasion we met he talked about you, about how you bested that Faerie creature. He admires you.”

  “How did he find out about that?”

  Jareth smiled. “Cousin, you’ve maybe spent too much time holed up in your castle. It’s the talk of Brinemore. I believe the creature was seen approaching Fein Mor. Someone must have witnessed your struggle with it.”

  “And this Longfellow, he wanted you to come out here with a proposition of some sort?”

  The young man nodded, giving the other an admiring smile. “A Druid would be a powerful ally to stand against the Cru. He wants you to assist Brinemore in its struggle against them. By doing this you would teach what you know of sorcery to the inhabitants of Brinemore, that number restricted to individuals he would select of course, lesser magicians if you like. He would keep their learnings secret from the rest of the population. You have an opportunity here to help the city stand against any form of opposition, to protect its inhabitants.”

  “Hmm. Would you say that, for the steward of Brinemore, you are a strange choice of messenger?”

  “I took the opportunity. He knew I was your cousin and he approached me with the idea. Sure, he could have sent one of his envoys but you don’t know them like you do me.”

  The Druid studied Jareth for a time. “I see,” he said finally. “Cousin, I would like to take you on a tour of the keep but there is something that I must do first. I’ll leave you here but will return shortly. Help yourself to some more food and drink if you like.” He left the room.

  Daaynan returned soon as promised. Jareth seemed relieved, standing up in acknowledgement of the other’s presence. He really was forbidding, he thought, that face and those dark robes lending him an almost sinister bearing. He could see burn marks on his face, probably from his encounter with that Faerie. He had given nothing away in their earlier conversation. He supposed that he was now in the business of acquiring information, not giving it away for free. Jareth wondered if all the Druids had been like this? Things had been different when they were younger, Daaynan happy to teach him all that he knew at a time when he was discovering something new about sorcery every day, Jareth happy to absorb everything he had been given. Yes, things were different now.

  Daaynan took the other out of the guest chamber and through another series of interlocking rooms until they stopped before a grand entrance in the East wing of Fein Mor. “This is the conference chamber,” he told Jareth. “Many discussions of great importance took place within its walls over the years involving tribal leaders and heads of state.” They went inside, Jareth looking around him with a cursory sort of interest at the long, oak table, ringed by plush chairs and windows which offered a view of the Eastern Gardens.

  “When was the last time there was a meeting here?” he asked.

  The Druid was watching him, gauging his interest. “Years ago, as many as a hundred and fifty, during the Punic Campaigns. I believe one of your steward’s predecessors was present, defending the expansion of Brinemore when it was no more than a small city state. It had ambitious plans, even then,” he smiled thinly.

  “That was when Brinemore was intent on reclaiming sacred relics they had found in other states,” Jareth said.

  Daaynan nodded. “That’s what they said. Whether it was true or not is another matter.”

  “You told me that years ago, when I was growing up. I wish we’d seen more of each other since then.”

  “It wasn’t possible, Jareth. I had accepted my calling as sorcerer and wished to move away from Bottom Dell.”

  “I wanted to move on too. I left the Dell for Brinemore, remember? I wanted to stay in touch with you. I came out here five years ago, looking for you.”

 
; “Did you?”

  “You weren’t here, or you weren’t available. I remember being very disappointed.”

  Daaynan was looking at him closely, his expression sharp. “Is this the real reason you came today, to express your disappointment?”

  “In a way,” Jareth responded, “but I also wanted to deliver you this.” In a flash of movement from beneath his robing he produced a knife, long and serrated on one side- a hunting blade- and in one, quick action delivered its length into Daaynan’s midsection, the blade cutting easily through the cloth protecting the other’s stomach, burying itself to the handle.

  “Karsin Longfellow wanted me to give you this,” Jareth said. He pulled the handle down, slicing through the contents of the older man’s lower stomach before letting go.

  Daaynan fell to the floor, shock flooding through his body and he heard his cousin’s voice as if from far away:“That’s the end of you now, Druid. Your body will soon let go and you will have a relatively painless transition to the Netherworld. You’re luckier than most, Longfellow told me to kill you quickly, afraid as he was of your sorcery.” Jareth laughed. “He doesn’t care for your assistance, he’s not interested in any shared venture between you and Brinemore, he simply wants you removed from the picture.

  “It’s funny, with all your power, with everything you could do, all it took was a simple blade to put an end to you. I ought to thank you, I’ll be telling this story for the rest of my life, how a lowly steward’s clerk put an end to the Druid of Fein Mor. I think I’ll take a souvenir...your heart, while it’s still beating. I’ll display it in a case on my...”

  A flash of something white issued from Daaynan’s fingers, shimmering faintly, weakened by the Druid’s near lapse into unconsciousness. It spiralled up toward Jareth, the grains of light turning in a disorganised coil, curving toward the younger man. The light covered the young assassin in a bright shroud, at first no more than a pale webbing of light, then strengthening in density, becoming something physical, it slipped around Jareth’s head and face like a hood. It tautened suddenly and the young man cried out, uncomprehending. It tightened further until beads of water and blood pooled in the spaces between the webbing and Jareth issued a single, hoarse bray, the skin on his face torn to shreds, his jaw and cheekbones snapping as his skull collapsed, and he lapsed into silence.

  Daaynan lowered his hand, satisfied that the other was dead. He had been lucky, he reflected darkly, that the Ceylon fire had worked; he had never used it before. He’d known that his cousin was lying when he said that he was sent here as the steward’s messenger, but not of his intent. He would not make that mistake again, he thought. Mistake. The shock had worn off and now he was very tired, his breath faint and uneven. He would welcome death like this. It came to all of us.

  The Druid closed his eyes and descended into darkness.

  3.

  The sun crested the horizon over the mountains of Manor Harmon, far to the south of Brinemore, spreading great swathes of red and yellow across the sky as if from the brushstrokes of a gifted artist. Early morning light spilled over the land, over the hills and dales, through the windows of houses and cottages, stirring their inhabitants to life and the morning risers washed and cleared their throats from the sleep of the previous day.

  Tolke Straat dressed and left his cottage, making his way toward the healing centre at the edge of the Manor. He greeted or nodded at those he encountered on the way, never stopping once to hold palaver. The injured and sick needed attention, as they always did and the past night’s rest, supervised by healers’ aides, provided but a brief respite.

  Straat entered the building’s complex of rooms and corridors, headed for the ground floor station, known as the Watch. On duty were two apprentice healers and a supervisor. Straat greeted the supervisor, a large orderly named Marek Lend and with him went over the notes of the previous night’s activity.

  “Any change in the Druid’s state?” he inquired of Lend.

  The other shook his burly head. “The wound is long and deep. He came awake once last night but was ranting and seemed unaware of his surroundings. We administered sleep droplets to put him under again but his sleep was feverish. The medicine we gave him yesterday hasn’t had time to work its effect yet, I’m beginning to wonder if it ever will.”

  Straat nodded. “Increase the dose and monitor him closely.”

  As Lend went about his duty, the other considered their most recent patient. It was the first time they had treated anyone from Fein Mor, let alone one of its Druids. Normally those sorcerers took care of themselves, with magic and healing salves from roots and herbs the Manor healers were unfamiliar with. It was said that there was only one sorcerer there now and he had been subject to attack ever since his induction as Magus. Apart from his stomach wound there were burn marks on his face and upper body but these were superficial. His main wound, caused by what appeared to be a hunting knife, was far more problematic. The knife had cut several organs yet not sufficiently to warrant surgery. The loss of blood was a problem. They had cauterised the wound and stopped the bleeding but not before an enormous amount had escaped.

  The Druid possessed healing magic. Perhaps, Straat thought, they could wake him and get him to use it on himself. Tolke Straat pondered this decision, then put the matter aside and went on his daily rounds, his thoughts on the other patients at the Manor.

  Daaynan awoke to find himself surrounded by black light. Or was he really awake? He couldn’t tell. Darkness swept all around him, enfolding him in its embrace, comforting him. It seemed to move with him, its presence a gentle pressure against his robing, protecting him. It was good here.

  There were boundaries to the dark light, however. Beyond it, he sensed, was a hostile world. If he ventured too far, if he stepped through the boundary lines that separated this place from that other, anything might happen. It was crucial that he stay within the protective cloak provided by the darkness. There were others beyond the light, indistinct shapes that took human form, peering in at the darkness, at him, he felt certain, whispering to each other before moving away. Every now and then they would return, but the interval provided by their absence grew longer and longer. He hoped they would leave for good, yet there was an air of study about their movements that suggested this was not going to happen. He was being examined, to what end he did not know. All he knew was that he must not leave this place.

  Things were returning to him now. He was a Magus of some kind, a sorcerer of the dark arts. He lived alone in a large fortress. There had been a confrontation, more than one, between himself and an opponent. Ah yes, he knew now. There had been two of them, the first a creature of magic like he was, the other an ordinary person. When he thought of the second a feeling of great betrayal swept through him. A member of his family, a close relative, come to visit him to do him harm. Was nothing sacred out there? Better to stay here.

  He remembered details of the second confrontation. He had suspected his cousin was up to no good, had left him in the guest chamber while he prepared the...Ceylon fire?...and returned with the deadly white flame. But it had been too late. His cousin had taken him by surprise, plunging a knife into his guts. He had never really thought Jareth would betray him like that, not his own kin. Clearly there was no place safe out there.

  The others returned, bent over him, examining him, examining his wounds? He was in a medical centre of some sort. Yes. After putting an end to Jareth, he had fallen unconscious only to awake in great pain moments later. He had summoned what was left of his strength and crawled across the castle floor outside to the stables. He had entered the stallion Pendrax’s box and, after several attempts, managed to sling himself on the horse’s back. Pendrax was wearing his reins which was a mercy as he did not think he could have fitted them on the large animal’s head. He had arrived at Manor Harmon a day later, having slipped in and out of consciousness on the way, a miracle that he did not fall or lose his direction, the horse following the bridal paths that led so
uth to the Manor. The healers, when they took charge of him, must have given him something to sleep as his next memory was of this dark place.

  He turned in the blackness, the dark shrouding him like a familiar robe, rippling against his movement. It was cool here. It gave him space to think. He would eventually have to return, he knew. There were things out there that demanded his attention, duties and responsibilities that must be carried out. A confrontation with Karsin Longfellow, for one. Perhaps one day he could negotiate with the stewardship of Brinemore, he thought, but it would be with Longfellow’s successor. This man had ordered his assassination and the only appropriate response was to put an end to him. The reputation of the Druids demanded such a retaliation. He could not do this alone however. It was not simply a matter of walking up to his residence and confronting him flat. Longfellow was well protected, Brinemore a fortress city with the steward’s citadel built high in its centre and ringed by a patrol of formidable home guards, some of whom it was rumoured had knowledge of the dark arts. Longfellow was not a proponent of sorcery yet this did not preclude him from using it to serve his own ends.

  Then there was Fein Mor. He needed to recruit assistants to tend to the many duties the keep required on a daily basis. Also, he had to train and recruit other Druids, for if the order were to survive it would need to be greater than just one man. This last would prove difficult. He had eschewed his circle of connections in the Northern Earth for too long, the people he had known before he had begun his own training as Druid no longer in touch with him. He supposed he could try to resume his relationship with them, but this would be difficult at best. Relationships weren’t his strength. And he had cut off most or all of his ties with the people he knew in Bottom Dell.

  He had an idea of what he could do, but he would develop it later.

  Tolke Straat stood over the patient in the large healing chamber, flanked by helpers either side of him, studying the expression on the Druid’s face. He had earlier shown signs of recovery from the coma he had fallen into, nothing more than a flickering of his eyelids and slight movement of his right hand, but it was promising. They had administered potions to assist his return to consciousness, Tolke making sure the dosage was kept low; too much and the patient would have reacted adversely by falling into a permanent coma. Now it was perhaps time to feed him more drops. He leaned over the bed, the small glass jar containing the accelerant known as Liquid Velvet in one hand, the other twisting the cap that was attached to a syringe. He opened the patient’s mouth and let the potion drip inside. He stood back, placing the jar on the night table and watched for any sign of a reaction.