“You summoned a storm in the True Wood, did you not?”
Gwyn’s mouth fell open. Why did everyone assume he’d done so? It wasn’t possible. Kive had summoned that storm. “I don’t understand, sire. There was a rainstorm in the woods while I was there, but I summoned nothing; although it was fortuitous, as it slowed the march of a Fraeli force considerably.”
“An army marches this way?” asked the Crow King, smiling faintly. “And your storm slowed them?”
“Not my storm, sire,” Gwyn said. “A storm.”
“You refuse to confess? But this misdeed might be considered more noble, and certainly more patriotic, than your other. Would you refuse the credit?”
Gwyn didn’t flinch. “I would confess, had I the responsibility.”
“Hm.” The king folded his arms. “You’re either a stubborn fool, or an ignorant one. I wonder which.” He turned toward the men seated on his right. “Lord ren Lotelon, show me.”
The familiar name startled Gwyn. He watched a tall man rise from his seat, bow, and move behind the row of chairs toward stairs Gwyn hadn’t noticed before. The man descended the few steps and approached Gwyn.
“Raise your arms.” His voice rang familiar in Gwyn’s memory.
Gwyn complied, raising them, palms forward. He flinched as the man caught his right wrist and held it higher. “Your Majesty, behold the mark.”
“Ah ha,” said the king, smiling softly. “Then this is the little mage, whatever he might say.”
Gwyn’s mind reeled. “But,” he stammered, “that means this is a mage as well, Your Majesty.”
“Ah,” the Crow King said, “then you no longer deny being a mage, Gwynter ren Terare?”
Gwyn flushed. “I only meant that he must be a mage, if he marked me, sire. Yet you don’t accuse him of breaking the law.”
The king quietly laughed. “True enough, young mage. Allow me to introduce you to Lord ren Lotelon formally. He is my master mage, head of the Order of Corvus, and my right hand. And you, should you prove as smart as you appear, shall be his apprentice.” He smiled gently, but Gwyn found himself shivering as though the gesture had summoned an ice storm. “If not,” the king went on, “you may, of course, choose to burn at the stake instead. I’ll not force you.”
A frown touched Gwyn’s lips. “I don’t understand this, Your Majesty. Your edict states that the use of magic is an evil and a blight. None may use it. But what of the Order of Corvus? What of your head mage? And I, his apprentice?”
“It is very simple. The law is to prevent the common masses from using what they don’t understand. The consequences could rupture the very fabric of magic itself. Magic thrives by carefully heeding its natural laws. When broken, chaos reigns. Lord ren Lotelon will teach you how to abide by those laws, so that when next you summon a storm or use a gem to heal a family member, you won’t compromise the very ground beneath your feet.”
The king rose from his throne. “Besides, Gwynter ren Terare. I am the Crow King, crowned by heaven itself, divinely appointed by Afallon to lead Simaerin. What I deem truth is truth. What I call an evil is evil insofar as I declare. Thus it is.” His eyes glittered in the guttering flames surrounding the chamber. “Now, make your choice. Make it carefully. There is no backward path from whichever you decide.”
Chapter 24
After a week of grueling practice, Gwyn longed to concede defeat. He wasn’t a mage. Even Lord ren Lotelon, at first confident he could awaken something within Gwyn, began to doubt.
“You summoned a storm, didn’t you?”
Gwyn lay sprawled on the floor of the private dueling hall within Crow Castle, sweat beading down his face, scorch marks covering his bare arms from the conjured fire of his mage opponent. Fire he’d managed to dodge, though it singed him still.
“I told you,” Gwyn said between panting breaths, “I summoned no storm, sir.”
“That storm wasn’t natural. It was certainly the work of a mage, or I’d never have been drawn to its core. It must have been you.”
Gwyn peeled his eyes open to stare up at the lord mage with pale hair and dark eyes. “It must have been an Ilidreth.”
“Why would Fraeli allies conjure a storm that would slow their progress?”
“Not them,” Gwyn said. “Perhaps one of the Ilidreth who detest Fraeli as much as Simaeri do. Could that not be possible?”
Lord ren Lotelon considered that. “But you reek of magic. You have it within you. It isn’t merely from possessing an infused gem, or it would have worn off by now. You also rode a unicorn. You must be a mage.” His tone strained with every word.
Gwyn struggled to sit up, muscles objecting. He’d been dodging fire for the past three hours, and he’d only been allowed to rest half the night before. “So even Aluem believes, but I’ve seen no trace of magic inside me.”
“Are you certain of that?”
Gwyn started to nod but paused as he recalled the arrows that veered off course every time someone tried to shoot him. Should he say something? The alternative to training under Lord ren Lotelon was death. If the Crow King deemed him unable to use magic, Gwyn knew too much about the Order of Corvus now. He’d not be allowed to leave alive. But could he endure becoming one of its members?
The past week had been dreadful. Every waking moment the mage worked to stir his dormant magic, until Gwyn collapsed. He still slept in the windowless cell, not yet to be trusted. But why did the Crow King bother to train him at all? What did anyone have to gain by forcing Gwyn into service? Why not burn him and be rid of a potential threat to the laws of magic?
“You’ve thought of something?” asked ren Lotelon.
Gwyn shook his head. “I merely wondered why the Crow King desires you to teach me magic. Aren’t I more of a liability than not?”
“The Crow King always has his reasons. Rise. We’ll go again. This time try to strike me. Stop defending. Fight back. Conjure fire, or storm, or anything at all.”
Wincing, Gwyn pushed to his feet. His leg twinged, an earlier burn flaring up. “How is Lady Nathaera?”
Lord ren Lotelon tossed fire at his face.
Gwyn dodged left — back — slid to one knee to miss a third bolt of fire. He hadn’t been able to determine whether Lord ren Lotelon was Nathaera’s father, uncle, or a more distant relative. He knew the line of Lotelon was an old one, and well protected by many heirs. He could be a cousin. Whatever his relationship to the young woman, he refused to divulge it.
Fire loomed ahead. Gwyn flinched as he narrowly escaped losing a limb. His skin stung as smoke filled his nose.
“Too close. You’re growing sloppy. Attack me!”
Gwyn sighed and raised his hands. “I cannot go on this way. I must have rest.”
“Magic often stirs when you’re on the very brink of death, ren Terare. You will either awaken to your power, or you will burn. Here or at the stake. More likely here. Now attack!” The lord mage summoned wreaths of fire above his hands and threw them hard at Gwyn.
Gwyn remained still, too weary to dodge. The fire would consume him, or it would miss its mark, just as those arrows.
But the fire did neither. It stopped just short of Gwyn’s face; and in a puff of dark smoke, it vanished.
Lord ren Lotelon pointed at Gwyn. “There! You see? What do you call that?”
Gwyn frowned, shaking his head. “But I feel no different. I gave no command. Are you certain I did that?”
“None but a mage could destroy my work, and I certainly didn’t.” He strode close and seized Gwyn’s shoulders with each hand. “You’re a mage. I was right about that. Now to find how it works.”
“I still can’t summon storms or fire,” Gwyn said.
“Yes, yes. So you say. Perhaps it’s true, but that doesn’t matter now. We must discover what form your magic takes. Not all mages are conjurers, though it is the most common manifestation.” He released Gwyn and began to pace. “Is yours purely a defensive form? Does it respond to your distress? Perhaps you s
ummoned a storm in defense.”
Gwyn stifled the urge to refute bringing the storm. It might be best if they believed he’d done it. He certainly didn’t want the king or his order to find out about Kive. He hadn’t even told the priest that part of his tale.
Is Kive all right? Before he left Vinwen, he’d begged Nathaera to try keeping the fallen fae hidden unless it risked herself. She’d smiled with perfect confidence.
“I’ll see to it,” she’d vowed.
Gwyn felt ill at the very thought of what Kive might be doing now. Had he reverted to eating people, or had someone taken Kive’s life instead? Might that be better? Should Gwyn have killed him after all? The thought sent a shiver down Gwyn’s back.
“You, boy.”
Gwyn blinked at the finger hovering in his face. “Yes?”
“Has anything like what you did to my fire ever occurred before?”
Should he mention the arrows? He already knew the answer. If this man could teach him, if Gwyn did possess magic, shouldn’t he learn it? Full disclosure would bring him closer to knowledge. Gwyn nodded. “Several times arrows missed me, yet those who shot them were skilled. It was as if a great wind rose up and tossed them aside.”
The lord mage tapped his chin. “That still suggests defensive magic. Useful in some situations, though not the most impressive manifestation. Even so, if your magic could be used in defense of others…” He turned away and paced again.
Gwyn watched him, thoughts straying back to Swan Castle. To the Ilidreth shooting arrows at him. To the wind that rose to protect him. Had he assumed at the time that it was the spirits of that place, just as the Ilidreth had? Would they protect a Simaeri against one of their own? Had he knocked the arrows off course? Had he perhaps conjured that storm, and only assumed it was Kive?
Was he a mage? He, second born of a lesser lord, and from a second wife?
Then again, if Afallon above sought followers from the humblest huts, and if magic was Afallon’s domain as Aluem eluded to, why couldn’t Gwyn wield magic as greater lords did?
“I’ve spared you too much,” Lord ren Lotelon said.
Gwyn winced, anticipating the lord mage’s next words.
“Your magic thrives under threat. I can’t hold back, if I’m to waken it fully.” He grasped the hilt of his broadsword and drew it with the sharp ring of metal against his sheath. “Prepare. I shan’t hold back any longer. Either you will awaken, or you will die this day, ren Terare.”
Gwyn moved back, staggering in his haste to escape the blade as it swung toward his face. The lord was fast. He swung the opposite direction and Gwyn dropped to one knee to avoid being cloven in two. He rolled back, rose, and charged toward the far end of the dueling hall. Lord ren Lotelon raced right on his heels.
“Running is rarely the best defense, boy.”
Gwyn had no alternative, unarmed and unused to magic. Unless his power stirred on its own, he would soon be a dead man.
The blade swung again, singing across the open air. A wisp of Gwyn’s hair floated to the floor as he scrambled from death. But the lord mage was faster still. Gwyn heard the blade whistle toward him; he winced. No escape.
His heart stopped.
The world stopped.
Sound stopped.
He spun, arm raised. The lord swung his blade, but his motion was so slow, as though ropes restrained him as he fought to break free. Gwyn’s hand moved on its own; he caught the blade between two fingers, snatched the hilt with his other hand, and yanked it free.
The world moved again. Lord ren Lotelon tottered forward, disarmed, eyes wide and clouded.
Gwyn dropped the heavy broadsword to the floor with a clatter. He gasped for air, as though he’d run ten miles rather than the length of the room. Sweat ran down his face. He wiped his brow with his tunic sleeve as his knees began to tremble. With a groan, he sank to the floor, too weary to stand.
“Congratulations,” said ren Lotelon. “You’ve come into your power, little mage.”
Gwyn shivered, limbs trembling. He bowed his head and concentrated on breathing.
“It will be a few days before you recover. Despite that, you’ll need to train during this time. If you don’t, your magic may grow dormant again, and you’ll have to start over.”
The lord’s words gave Gwyn pause. Hadn’t he taken sick just after the storm struck in the True Wood? Did that mean he had conjured it?
“Get up.”
Gwyn lifted his head slowly. “I don’t think I can.”
Lord ren Lotelon bent down and took up his sword. He turned it over and examined the blade. “I think I can persuade you.” He swung straight down. Gwyn couldn’t move—
But he did.
In an instant he stood across the room, wind rushing around him. The sound of metal striking stone rang through the hall. Gwyn turned as the lord straightened, sword in hand.
“Excellent. Again.”
Gwyn tripped backward and leaned hard against the wall. He shook his head, panting. “I…can’t.”
“You must.” Ren Lotelon pointed his blade and charged.
Gwyn pushed himself from the wall and tried to run, staggered, fell. He caught himself, hands smarting against the marble floor. His neck tingled. He glanced up, rolled to his side, and lifted his hand in the only defense he had.
The sword shattered. Shards of metal flew in every direction — except toward Gwyn.
Lord ren Lotelon wiped a trickle of blood from his cheek and examined a cut in the fabric of his sleeve. “Well done, ren Terare. Again.” He drew a dagger from his belt.
When Gwyn stumbled to his straw pallet, he collapsed and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the door locking. The rattle of keys. He didn’t bother to light a candle with the flint and steel given to him after his trial. He laid in the dark long after the warden’s footsteps faded, leaving the faint sound of his own breathing and the soft scuttle of mice wandering the cell.
Lord ren Lotelon had pushed Gwyn for hours; pushed him until he finally passed out. The lord mage then woke him with a bucket of water, ordered him to rest, and assured him training would recommence before dawn the next morning.
It was almost morning now. He imagined he could feel the sun beginning to rise. He would barely have enough time to dream before his tyrant mentor returned to claim him.
Gwyn yearned to bask in silence, in not moving. He almost didn’t want to sleep, just to soak in one moment of solitude.
His body trembled. He’d reached his limit long ago, and like an overwrought horse, he feared his heart might burst at any second. Gwyn willed his thoughts to wander, anywhere, any place but this wretched circumstance. Think of Vinwen, of Mother and Lawen, of Nathaera. Even of Kive. Anything but here.
The clatter of keys intruded on his thoughts. Dread doused him, colder than the mage’s bucket of water. Had dawn come already? Surely, he’d only lain here for a few minutes, not a few precious hours.
He tried to lift his head, but he couldn’t move. His body shook more for his effort, that was all.
The door swung open on shrieking hinges. Faint light flooded the room behind him. Gwyn tried, but he couldn’t turn his head toward the door to see the lord mage’s face.
Silence filled the open space of the little cell. A heartbeat. Two. Three.
“Shall you not rise for your king?” asked a soothing, silken voice.
Gwyn twitched. The Crow King had come here? In the dead of night? To what purpose? Gwyn tried to raise his head, tried to push himself up by his hands, but he only twitched again.
“Lord ren Lotelon tells me you’ve awakened to your power at last. I am glad. It means you’re more useful alive than dead.” The soft tap of shoes against stone approached Gwyn. He heard the rustle of cloth, and faint breathing close by. “Are you ill, ren Terare?” He was very near, leaning close.
“Yes, sire.” His voice rasped, faint and hoarse.
A cold hand touched his brow. “So you are. But your training has only begun.
Can you endure it?” The hand withdrew. “I thought to inspect the strength of your magery for myself. Shall I?” Cloth rustled again. “Turn over.” Fingers caught his arm and pulled Gwyn onto his back. He stared into the shadowed face of the Crow King. Pale eyes studied him back with a strange hunger smoldering in their depths.
“You intrigue me, Gwynter of Vinwen. You bewilder me. To love your brother so much that you would risk all. You, second born, second always. You could have been heir of Vinwen. Or was that too small a realm for your ambition?” The king leaned closer and his voice turned into a whisper. “I have heard a rumor that you desired to join my army.”
Gwyn held his gaze, though his frame shook with tremors. “I did.”
“And now you have. Rejoice.”
Gwyn said nothing.
The Crow King drew back with a soft laugh. Jewels sewn into his cloak glittered in the torchlight beyond the open door. “You are mine now, Gwynter. There is no greater station for a Simaeri than to be at my side. You will become one of my elite, my order of mages. You will defend my lands against Fraeli and Ilidreth. You will protect your people. This is an honor.” He climbed to his feet. “I expect great things of you, Gwyn. Very great things.”
Chapter 25
Nathaera marched into the dim stable with hands on her hips. “No, Kive! How many times must I tell you, you can’t eat the stable boy!”
Kive’s mouth snapped shut and his hands fell away from the boy’s shoulders. He sank back to rest against his heels as the stablehand scrambled to his feet and scurried away, pale and shaking.
Nathaera sighed. “You’re not supposed to be in the stables at all. We’ve talked about this.”
“But all the rats are here. Allll, and now the big juicy one got away.”
“Remember what Shiny said?” She strode forward and knelt beside Kive, ignoring the dirt and hay that clung to her dress. “You can only eat the little rats. Got it?”
“Shiny said that?” asked Kive, perking up.
“Yes, he did. Remember?”
“Shiny?” Kive scooped up a handful of hay and squeezed it between his hands. “Where is Shiiinyy? I need to seeee him.” His drawling tone pitched into a whine. “Shiny is gone. So is Shiny Uniiicooorn.”
The Complete Duology Page 14
