The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  “That’s right, Simon,” Christopher said patiently, “that’s why we need to wake him first.”

  Simon turned to his friend. “Where did he get his power from? Where did he acquire all the advanced knowledge he has?”

  “I don’t...”

  “The Brightsphere! The Brightsphere made him what he is.”

  “So?”

  “So, if we can’t revive him, we go to the source of all that power. We ask this Brightsphere to take us back.”

  “Or,” Christopher said in understanding, “we use its magic to bring Daaynan to life again.”

  “...yes.”

  “There’s only one problem.”

  “We don’t have the means to contact the Brightsphere?”

  “Or we don’t even know what it is let alone where to find it.”

  Simon gave a wry twist of a grin, nodding at the Drey torch. “Oh, ye of little faith, when you have the answer right there in your hands.”

  “This torch? But it only leads back to the temple and we’d be lost inside it forever if we went back.”

  “Daaynan said the green fire inside it draws matter and energy into your world of origin from another world.”

  “Yes? We’ve been through this before.”

  “But our world of origin is effectively the temple as it overrides any other world, including England.”

  “And it was the same with Iridis, hence we threatened him with the knowledge. Where is this getting us?”

  “Daaynan told us the Brightsphere also comes from the world between worlds.”

  “It lives in the temple?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps there’s more than one world between worlds. It could be there’s an infinity of them. But I think the odds are high that this thing does live in the temple. And we can summon the temple with the Drey torch.”

  “And talk with the Brightsphere!”

  “Sound reasoning, Inspector Went.”

  “Let’s try it out before Daaynan falls into a permanent coma.”

  “If this thing works, Christopher, we may not need the Druid.”

  The two Englishmen eyed each other. Finally, Christopher said “you care for him, I think.”

  “Well, let’s review what happened. He pulled us out of Italy and the world we know and love with no obvious possibility of getting back, with no regard for our safety or wellbeing, and let us fend for ourselves, trapped in a freezing castle with an unhinged monster who had the power to destroy us with a mere touch. I’d think it’s fair to say I don’t like him very well.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “What you...”

  “I don’t want to go back.” Christopher said it plainly, emphatically.

  Although Simon half-expected this was what his friend had been thinking, he felt slapped by the words as they were spoken. “You don’t mean that,” he managed to say.

  Christopher’s eyes bore into his own, ringed and hollow. “I was unhappy there. It wasn’t the drink, you know. Mama made such a fuss about it with you and Papa never had the strength to deal with it. I felt there was no one who understood me.”

  “I understood you.”

  “Did you? Yes, I can see how you thought that. You wanted to take care of me...but you had your new friends and you disapproved of mine.”

  “For God’s sake, Chris, they were hopeless.” “I didn’t mean that,” he added quickly.

  “Yet you said it. Were they quite as bad as that? Possibly they were. But they were like me.” His expression was wounded, self-pitying, enough of the Christopher of old to cause Simon to start. The unspoken knowledge lay between them: you were beyond help, a lost cause, and I only made it worse by my involvement. The fact that you made me feel guilty about it only tightened the noose strands of a twisted friendship.

  Compare that to where he was now, it was no wonder he was reluctant to go back, whatever dangers presented themselves here. Simon considered what he was about to say next. Everything depended on it, and if he misspoke, his plan would fall apart in the knowledge that he might well have to spend the remainder of his life in this place. He thought about it and decided and spoke the only words that would get Christopher to return.

  “Can you help me?” he asked.

  16.

  They drew the green fire in the chamber in which they had entered Fein Mor. This time, Simon held the sticks of the Drey torch, drawing one broken piece against another. Green flame shimmered in a brow that circled the ends of the broken sticks, and an image of the temple sprang before them. There were the by now familiar white pillars that stretched impossibly high and ranged in number as far as they could see. The green fire throbbed and pulsated with an almost tidal force, drawing the Englishmen toward it, and, as before, they were nearly swallowed in its pull.

  Steadying himself on the chamber floor, Christopher turned to Simon and asked “what do we do now?”

  “We look for the Brightsphere.”

  “Yes, but how?”

  Simon shifted his stance, moving to the right and then left. The image, however, did not change. It continued to project the same part of the temple it had shown upon being summoned. He tried calling out the name of the Brightsphere with the same result. He called its name in his mind and again nothing happened.

  “Try turning the stick,” Christopher suggested. “Rotate it like a gimbal.”

  He did so, turning one part of the Drey torch with his right hand, and the other with his left, then both together, yet the image always remained static.

  He turned to Christopher. “It’s no good, I can’t search for it. It could be we’d have to enter the temple to find it.”

  “That’s no choice. We’d be lost there forever.” “Give me one of the sticks,” he said on impulse.

  Simon did so and immediately the picture before them shifted, rolling left where Christopher had grasped and turned the stick.

  “That’s it! I love it. It recognises that there’re two of us seeking the Brightsphere. We can call out its name now.”

  “We don’t need to. Look. It’s moving of its own accord!”

  The white pillars spun past their eyes in a rapid flash, proceeding in a straight line, then weaving, snake-like between the columns, cutting diagonally then straight once more, the Englishmen unable to follow the sequence, its passage lost in a swift blur of movement. They stood there as it travelled for what seemed long minutes. When it finally stopped they found they were looking at a clearing in the temple devoid of pillars.

  In the centre of the clearing something was taking shape. Lines of power extended from the floor, converging to assemble a solid mass. Embers flew and hissed as the wellspring of something monstrous stirred to life, cloaked in molten heat, cooling in the thaw of the temple. It peered past the boundaries of the temple, through the green fire at the Englishmen who had summoned it. It called to them in a voice that was unnatural to their ears, a sound from another age. Simon remembered Daaynan telling him that it was not human but an elemental, a facsimile of human life possessing power that dwarfed ordinary understanding: power to alter life, to enrich or destroy it. Within its molten core shimmered an iridescent figure. When it spoke, they could see its lambent mouth and eyes that moved over their own.

  “Who are you?” it asked.

  “I,” Simon began, “...at least we...are friends of the Druid.”

  “I told him not to contact me further.”

  Christopher spoke, “it’s because of him we are here. He’s dying here in the...in Fein Mor, and he needs our help to survive.”

  “You are using the Druid’s magic.” It paused. “He summoned you from another world. I am familiar with it. You want my help to go back there and I cannot give it.”

  “Please,” Simon said, “we can’t stay in this place. It’s not our natural home. If you can’t help us yourself at least show us how we can revive Daaynan.”

  The figure inside the Brightsphere studied them for a long moment. “Only one of you wants to g
o back, is that not so? The Druid has all the skills he needs to survive. Perhaps he can help you.”

  “But he’s dying!”

  “That is not so. His power is mixing with that of the one who attacked him. It will take time for this to be completed. Perhaps he will help you when it is finished. Do not try to summon me again.”

  The green fire shimmered and began to fade, taking with it the image of the Sphere.

  “You said you are familiar with our world,” Simon asked quickly. “What did you mean?”

  The figure appeared to darken, growing violet. “It is a mirror world of the Northern Earth. Each place is a possibility of the other. They are connected.”

  “And what about Iridis? How is his world connected to ours?”

  “The one who attacked the Druid comes from a dimension of experience far beyond that of the Northern Earth and your...England. He is a sorcerer of immense power, a ravager of worlds. He will mould the Northern Earth to his own shaping if he is not stopped.”

  “Is he a match for Daaynan?”

  “He is a match for anyone who comes in contact with him.”

  “Even the steward of Brinemore?

  “Iridis’s going to kill the steward, isn’t he? That’s where he’s headed, to Brinemore.”

  “He must not be allowed to reach it.”

  The green fire stuttered once more and died, taking with it the image of the Sphere.

  Christopher turned to Simon. “That was pretty clear, wasn’t it?”

  “I half hoped that Iridis would put an end to the steward and solve ours and Daaynan’s problems in one stroke. Now we have two problems: Iridis and Karsin Longfellow.”

  “So, we’re going to help him?”

  “Doesn’t seem like we have much choice. Daaynan made it obvious he won’t assist us until Longfellow is no longer a threat, and if Iridis gets there first he’ll want to dispose of him as well before he tends to our concerns.”

  “He already has a good head start. What do we do now? Wait?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  They stayed with the Druid all night and into the next morning, taking turns sleeping in the nearby chamber while one of them stood watch over the sorcerer. There was no noticeable change in his condition until well into the following afternoon, when he appeared to have developed a fever. Christopher went hunting for a source of water and some cloth with which to wipe the patient’s brow. He found a disused rag and some cold spring water but had no means to heat it. The chamber was warmer than the passage outside it so together they shifted the Druid inside and lay a basin filled with the water next to him. Christopher stripped him of his broad-cloak and covered him instead with a light sheet he had found, spilling the water into his mouth as expertly as he could in order to rehydrate him, periodically mopping his brow and wiping the skin on his face, chest and shoulders.

  Two further days passed with the Englishmen performing the same routine. They discovered a sharp knife in one of the chamber’s drawers and set about pruning the hair on his chin and cheeks which had grown in wild tufts over the natural contours of his face. The patient moaned at times, turning fractionally to one side or the other, yet his eyes remained closed. If he were drifting out of unconsciousness the fever held him back.

  On the fourth day, the fever broke.

  The Druid stirred to life, looking clean and reinvigorated, thanks to the young men’s ministrations, his steel-grey beard cropped, the dark, weather-lined planes and angles of his face somehow smoother looking. His eyes were glassy, yet as he stared at them they still held enough of their old, commanding expression to cause the two to flinch from his regard. And wasn’t there something about them that hadn’t been there before, Simon wondered?

  Before he could think on it, the sorcerer was halfway to his feet, shedding himself of the cloth and sheet that lay on his person. Simon held him steady while Christopher rushed to fetch his cloak.

  He stood, pulled the heavy robe over his tall frame and looked around him. “Are we in Fein Mor?”

  Christopher exchanged a glance with Simon. “We are.”“You’re home,” he said, holding back the reproach in his voice. Just.

  “Iridis,” the Druid exclaimed softly, “where is he?”

  “It’s alright,” Christopher said soothingly, “He’s out of the picture, for the time being at least.” When the other didn’t respond, he said “he’s been taken care of.” “And you needn’t worry about the Faerie creatures. Iridis killed them all.” They told him of the events that had occurred from the time the Druid was attacked to the King’s victory over the Furies and their leader. Daaynan looked expressionlessly at them, even during the moment when they told him how they had forced Iridis’s hand to get him to help them.

  “You said he’s been taken care of. Where is he now?”

  “On his way to Brinemore.”

  “Then we must intercept him. There is no time to lose.”

  “Wait a moment,” Simon said, “are you fit to travel?”

  “I am fine, Englishman. It is important that the King does not reach Brinemore. We must confront him before he does. At all costs we must confront him. He is too dangerous to be kept alive in the Northern Territories.”

  “That’s what the Brightsphere said.”

  The Druid regarded Simon gravely. “You have much to tell me, but this is not the time. Go to the entrance hall and wait for me there. I will return momentarily.”

  The Druid had to take them there as they had forgotten the route. Quickly, they negotiated the twists and turns through the labyrinth of corridors and halls, the young men, although fit and rested, struggling to keep pace with him. When they arrived at the entrance he left them there but returned in minutes as promised. His expression was dark, inscrutable as they had known it before, yet the scar on his face was livid with the blood that pulsed beneath it, revealing a counterpoint of emotions. “The King has taken all the horses from the stables. No doubt he did not want us to follow him. Now we must go on foot.”

  “But Iridis has had a four-day head start at least,” Simon pointed out. “You said it only takes three days on horseback to get there. He’s surely there by now.”

  The tall man placed his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Do not worry. All is not lost. He would have needed to have taken all five horses well beyond our reach, perhaps a day on foot at a pace not much quicker than walking. Then he surely needed to rest and feed himself and his horse, not to mention that the animal will eventually get too tired to go on and he must find another. After that, there are the mountains to consider, those that lie between here and Brinemore. You cannot bring horses through them- there are no paths or files, even narrow ones. They effectively form a wall around the city.

  “Besides, I have a plan.”

  17.

  On the night of that same day, far to the northwest in the city of Brinemore, a thin, dark figure approached the sprawling complex of offices and residences that made up the Confederation Council. Rank moisture filled the air- the threat of imminent rain, storm clouds massing overhead, the sky filled with flares of lightening that threatened to explode in jagged bursts and long knells of pitching thunder. Cloaked and hooded, its presence ghostlike as it wove its way through the complex, the figure passed through the main gate of an external courtyard, the two guards warding the entrance unaware of its existence, even as it drew back the latch on the gate.

  Walking within the meagre shadow provided by the courtyard’s walls, it made its way across the yard and stopped at the foot of a large tower that housed the Steward’s quarters, then proceeded to the back of the tower and passed through a narrow entrance used by the Steward’s personal staff. This too was guarded by a lone sentry yet the figure passed through unseen. Security was minimal at this time of night, yet even so those standing watch should have noticed the figure as it brushed past them, almost close enough to touch. The figure ascended the tower stairway, shedding the night cloak it wore, looping the clot
h over one arm as it negotiated the steps. At the top of the tower there was a small landing, off which there were two doors, one facing it and one to its right, both of which were locked, yet both to which it held a key, in a manner of speaking.

  The figure unlocked the door facing it and stole inside. Here there was a large chamber that served as a hall, off which there was at least one other room. There was light in that room and the sound of activity. Someone cooking. The smells of fresh bread and fried meat and vegetables filled the dwelling. The figure waited patiently in the shadowed recess of the hall for the resident to emerge. There was no need for stealth at this point, the figure reflected- it had already locked the door and the guard downstairs did not possess a key, even if he should hear cries for help which it thought he would not- but patience was in its nature and held rewards beyond what was immediately apparent. Here in this dwelling, it thought, lay the power behind Brinemore and its formidable Northern Army: Karsin Longfellow himself. It could dispatch him without a moment’s trouble, it considered, and leave the Confederate Council in temporary disarray, without a successor to immediately replace him who held even a fraction of the man’s strength and ability to lead. It had thought about this previously and found it was better on that occasion to wait. As the situation hadn’t changed significantly since then, it had no reason to revise its decision.

  Longfellow entered the hall carrying a tray of the food he had been preparing. He stopped, sensing a change in his surroundings. Placing the tray on top of a nearby table, he walked over to a torch that hung from one of the walls of the chamber and fiddled with its settings. The light inside it flared to life, dispelling the shadows that cast their length across the room, including that which concealed Tan Wrock.

  “Tan,” Longfellow said in irritation more than surprise. This was not the first time Wrock had appeared before him like this. Longfellow’s obvious anger at being sneaked up on hid some deeper emotion the other could not identify. It intrigued him mildly, yet no more than that.

  “You made your own way in, I presume?”