by K. C. Julius
Whit felt a stab of fear. The memory of his encounter with Encertesa, the only seer he’d ever met, still made his skin crawl. The sorceress of Altipa had almost succeeded in blood-binding him to her will, and he would bear the scar of her attempt on his wrist until the end of his days.
An uncomfortable silence ensued as the dragon continued to regard him with her luminescent eyes. He wondered what the grey streams of smoke wafting from her nostrils signaled. When at last she opened her mouth, he couldn’t help but imagine a stream of fiery breath shooting out and incinerating him.
“He is coming.”
“Who?” Whit anxiously scanned the sky.
“The other wizard. Along with my sister and her bindling.”
At last, Whit thought, with a flood of relief. Leif and Master Morgan had been absent from Mithralyn when he’d returned from his unsuccessful mission to bring Halla home from Albrenia, and he’d been awaiting their return with impatience. Egydd, the elven mage, had returned to his woodland home, and hadn’t invited Whit along with him. And while Elvinor’s library was stocked with rare texts on the magical arts, Whit craved instruction from a master wizard who could answer his inevitable questions.
Not that he could depend on Master Morgan to stay long. Over the months Whit had been in Mithralyn, he could count on his fingers the number of days the old man had lingered there. He felt a familiar stab of frustration at the thought.
This time, Whit intended to see the wizard only long enough to take his own leave. There was no longer a need for him to stay—any possible threat to him as an eligible candidate for the Einhorn Throne had ended when Roth of Nelvorboth was proclaimed Urlion’s heir by the Tribus—and he was long overdue at home. By now his mother would be beside herself with worry. It was time to take up his responsibilities as Lord of Cardenstowe.
At least, some of them, anyway. He intended for Horst, his late father’s reeve, to carry on with the actual day-to-day management of Cardenstowe, leaving Whit free to devote himself to achieving that which only a handful of wizards throughout time had accomplished: mastery of the imperative spells.
The Three Pillars.
Shade-shifting and shadow-casting, its higher evolution, was the power to harness shadows to one’s will, then move like the wind within them. Illusing was a form of glamour that made others see what one wished them to see, rather than what is. And the greatest challenge of all was to raise the Shield of Taran, the ultimate wall of defense through which not even the most powerful spells could pass.
Mastering these spells would require all his time, energy, and skill.
Whit suddenly realized he’d been staring into Ilyria’s eyes all the while these thoughts had flitted through his mind. He cleared his throat nervously. “Was there something else you wanted from me?”
Ilyria snorted. “You?” Her slender tongue flicked rapidly from between her jaws, eloquently communicating her scorn. “I only came to inform you about the wizard, lest you were feeling abandoned.”
Whit stiffened, for that was exactly how he’d been feeling. “Well then… er… thank you.” He half-turned, then froze as Ilyria’s eyes narrowed. Belatedly, he recalled Maura explaining it was always up to a dragon to conclude the discussion. “Do you know how long it will be before they arrive?” he added hastily.
“I’m in possession of the Sight,” the dragoness said with a sniff. “I’m not an hourglass.”
She raised her snout dismissively, and Whit quickly bowed.
As she glided back into the brush, he considered that Ilyria, too, might be feeling forsaken.
In any event, the exchange with the dragoness had produced one good result: Whit wouldn’t have to tangle again with Gywna’s Fire this day, for Master Morgan had been the one he’d been seeking in the scrying stone. Very soon, he’d have his final say with the wizard in person, and then be on his way.
As he headed back to the elven palace, Whit wondered if Elvinor might bestow upon him a few of his precious spellcraft tomes as a parting gift. Brightening at the thought, he took himself off to the library to compile a selection—just in case.
All thoughts of books fled, however, as Leif came bounding toward him across the bower.
“Hallo!” the elf-boy called, and might have thrown his arms around him if Whit hadn’t taken a discouraging step back. Instead Leif gripped his arms and shot a volley of questions at him. “When did you get back from the continent? Where’s Halla? Did someone tell you we’re to go to my father? Master Morgan is already with him.”
Whit realized Elvinor would at this moment be telling Master Morgan how Whit had failed to bring Halla back from Albrenia. Not that this was in any way Whit’s fault. He had found her, as he had intended—but his incorrigible cousin had chosen to stay with a band of renegade Lurkers.
His spirits plummeted. “Where have you been?” he countered.
Leif’s reply caught him by surprise. “In Helgrinia!” The lad’s bright expression darkened. “The settlement we visited had been put to the torch—by Drinnglennians. It was horrible.”
“Helgrinia? What were you doing there?”
“Master Morgan was seeking someone, but she died in the attack.” Leif shook his head. “It was horrible,” he repeated.
Whit had no idea what to say. This disheartened Leif was as difficult to respond to as the overly ebullient Leif from moments before.
“Well,” said Leif, brushing his hair off his brow. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
Whit found he had no desire to face Master Morgan just yet.
“You go on ahead,” he muttered, then brushed past Leif and hurried to his chambers.
Only to find the wizard awaiting him outside his door.
Attempting to gain the higher ground, Whit spoke first. “Have you come to tell me you’re leaving again?”
Master Morgan ignored his deliberate rudeness. “Hello, Whit.” He stepped aside to allow Whit to enter his chamber, then followed. The wizard cast a glance at the rucksack and neatly folded tunics on the bed. “It looks as though you’re the one who’s preparing to travel.”
The old man’s composure brought Whit’s blood to a sudden boil. He grabbed a handful of shirts and stuffed them into his bag. “I’m going home to Cardenstowe.”
“I see. With Cortenus? Or is he staying on?”
Whit had assumed wherever he went, his tutor would accompany him. Cortenus was, after all, in his employ. On the other hand, in the past months he’d seen little of the man, for he’d tapped the limits of his tutor’s knowledge of spellcraft long ago.
“I haven’t asked him,” he replied, “but I’m going all the same.”
Master Morgan leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. “Are you angry with me, Whit?”
Whit spun around. “Am I angry with you? Yes, I am. And why shouldn’t I be?” He cast aside the belt in his hand. “You tricked me into coming here with the promise of learning powerful magic from you, Master Morgan, the greatest living wizard of our age!” He laughed bitterly. “Master Morgan, whom I’ve only seen cast the simple spells of a hedge witch—kindling fires and laying protective boundaries and the like. Why is that? Wasn’t it you who told me I have to ‘employ my gifts’? To use my magical arts to help others? How are you helping anyone, if you won’t use yours? I’d say the accolades heaped on you are undeserved!”
Whit braced himself for a furious response, but the old man’s expression didn’t alter. “You’re right,” Master Morgan said quietly. “I am no longer the wizard I once was. Nor will I ever be again.”
His agreement took the storm from Whit’s sails. He released a shaky breath and sank down on his bed. “What do you mean? What happened to you?”
Master Morgan inclined his head to the place beside Whit. “May I?”
Whit nodded.
The wizard settled on the coverlet
and rested his gnarled hands on his knees. “You are overdue an explanation, which I have neglected to give you for the selfish reason that it stirs up unhappy memories. I know that’s no excuse.” He raised his gaze to the wild gardens beyond the window. “I believe it was Sir Gablyn, one of your vassals, who mentioned I was removed from the Tribus. It’s true. My former mentor, Master Audric, was installed in my place, for I was no longer worthy to serve on that august body. With one terrible, rash act, I cast away not only the right to the position, but the right to practice magic.”
In the stillness that followed, Whit felt the tension in his shoulders shift to his chest.
“I served three Konigur High Kings in my days on the Tribus,” Master Morgan continued at last. “Gregor was the first, and after him, his son Owain. I rode with both in the Helgrin Wars. And then came Urlion. He was a boy king at the time I was dismissed from the Tribus—and though I didn’t deserve it, I kept his trust and friendship until his death.”
“What did you… why did you lose your place on the Tribus?”
Morgan met Whit’s gaze solemnly. “Some will tell you it was because I set fire to the Alithineum. I didn’t, but the real reason is no better. The truth is that I lost my powers because of a duel—a duel I fought with Lazdac Strigori.”
“Lazdac? He was the most powerful wizard to ever live—no one could hope to defeat him! But you fought Bedjel, his brother. I read about that famous duel in Xander’s Wizard Wars.”
Master Morgan shook his head. “Xander was a fool. He wrote what had been rumored, and no one contradicted him because there were no witnesses to report what really happened. The truth would have been recorded in the Drinnglennin Chronicles, but by that time it was lost to the world. Only Lazdac and I know what really transpired that night.
“Xander was half right, though. Lazdac did not come alone for our contest. He brought his brother Bedjel, and they ambushed me before I reached the agreed-upon place. I was forced to fight them both. My arrogance, Whit, was my undoing, and the repercussions of my foolhardiness are still coming to light.”
Whit could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You’re saying you lost? But Bedjel is dead, and Lazdac hasn’t been a presence in the Known World for decades. You must have defeated him… otherwise, he wouldn’t have let you survive.”
Master Morgan’s smile held more than a hint of irony. “Lazdac was also grievously injured in our battle, otherwise he might indeed have finished me off. I believe he could have killed me and chose not to. I think he savored the pain it would cause me to live the life he’d left me with.”
“But if you didn’t defeat him, then where has he been? I thought he was believed to have perished.”
“For a time, I believed that as well. But now he’s resurfaced, apparently fully recovered, and in an arena that won’t long satisfy his hunger for domination.”
Whit stared at him with wide eyes. “You’ll have to fight him again.”
Master Morgan’s soft laugh was mirthless. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I was not only stripped of my pride. The conditions of the duel required the loser to give up all but the simplest of magic, on pain of death.”
Whit felt the blood drain from his face. “Surely you didn’t—”
“I’m afraid I did,” said the wizard. “You see, I believed Lazdac had something that I very badly wanted. When he offered to fight me for it, I accepted, and we took a binding oath beforehand. Perhaps things would have turned out differently had Lazdac and I met alone, face to face. But when both Strigori attacked me from behind… I managed to slay Bedjel, but the effort took its toll on me. And Lazdac claimed victory.”
“But he cheated!” Whit found himself on his feet. “You never agreed to duel them both.”
“Life is not fair, Whit. A wiser wizard would have exercised prudence in dealing with the Strigori. I was defeated by my own vanity.”
Whit couldn’t begin to imagine what giving up his power must have cost the great wizard. “I don’t know if I’d want to go on living.” He was horrified to realize he’d spoken aloud.
But Master Morgan merely nodded his agreement. “For many years, I didn’t. Wounded in body and spirit, I fled to the continent, traveling all the way to Far Taraia. For a time, I thought I might sail with the last of the Gothian dwarves across the Temonin Sea to the World Unknown, but… something held me back. So I traveled to Olquaria, a land I’d always wished to see, and there I served Radan Basileus, whose son Zlatan now sits on the throne. I fought Radan’s enemies at the side of the Basileus’s commander, Al-Gahzi. He became one of my dearest friends, and for a time his family took the place of the one I’d left behind in Drinnglennin.”
Whit had never contemplated the idea of Master Morgan having kin, but of course he must have. “Where is your real family now?” he asked, returning to sit by the wizard’s side.
“Dead and buried, every one. The last of them, my sister’s grandson, made the Leap nearly twenty years ago.”
Whit knew a wizard’s life might span four times as many years as that of a normal man, but it was the first time he’d considered that outliving his own family was to be his fate as well.
As if reading his thoughts, Master Morgan gave his knee a kindly pat. “Your magical gift will not be without sacrifice, Whit. It can be a lonely life. You will see those you love grow old and make the Leap while you go on. You will experience more loss than anyone can prepare you for. That’s why it’s so important to find worth in your craft, and to dedicate your rare talents to the greater good. If you don’t seek to serve, there’s always the danger your otherness will make you bitter, and that is when your power can corrupt and alter you, as happened to the Strigori.”
If that was meant to comfort Whit, it had the opposite effect. The idea of being corrupted by the dark sent a shiver down his spine.
“What… what did happen to the Strigori?” he asked.
The wizard frowned. “That is a long tale. Suffice it to say the name Strigori was not always synonymous with evil. Since the dawn of time, the Strigori were respected wizards of great skill. It wasn’t until Rendyl Strigori grossly abused his powers when, as a member of the Tribus, he murdered his king, the ill-fated Lindic the Younger, then enslaved the dragon Chaos and used her to terrorize the Isle, that their family fell to dishonor. The scorn Rendyl brought upon this once noble house drove the last of the Strigori—Lazdac and Bedjel—to seek glory through the dark arts. And that power stirred within them a terrible appetite, one that could only be sated by committing wanton acts of violence.
“It wasn’t long before they took a more calculated approach to their terror, manipulating men and women in positions of power to their own destructive ends, and fomenting fear of magic as a means of enlisting these leaders to aid them in eradicating any who opposed the aims of the Strigori.”
Morgan suddenly grasped Whit’s arm, and his voice was stern. “You must be ever guarded against the temptation to stray to the other side, Whit. The line between good and evil is more difficult to discern than you might think.”
Whit was taken aback by this declaration, as it seemed Morgan had meant him to be.
The wizard’s expression softened. “To be sure, there are consolations to be had as a result of your gifts. If you’re fortunate, young wizards will seek to learn from you, and you might take pleasure in teaching them. Although I could train Leif only in rune raveling, I quite enjoyed it. Of course, now he no longer has need of me.” He levered himself up with his staff. “Nor, I imagine, do you, now that you know the truth.”
Whit stood with him. “There must be a way to free you from this terrible oath. You say Lazdac bound you to it, but how? With what dark magic?”
In answer, Master Morgan pulled back the sleeve of his robe and extended his left arm. The sun slipped below the trees, casting the room in shadow so that Whit had to lean forward to see the crude scar marking
the wizard’s wrist.
Whit felt his heart turn to ice. He had a scar just like it, carved into his flesh by Encertesa’s cruel blade.
“By blood, Whit,” said the wizard, his voice starkly hollow. “My blood, mingled with Lazdac’s.”
Chapter 3
Borne
The rogue knights’ attack on Latour’s camp came just before dawn. The sentries, their horns blaring, roused Borne from his bedroll, and he sprang up, sword in hand. Emerging from his tent, he immediately threw himself to one side, warned by the hiss of the blade falling toward him. He felt its bite nevertheless. He dropped and rolled, then thrust out his legs, sending his attacker slamming to the ground.
Borne clambered to his feet as his opponent, a giant of a man, lurched up, a great sword clutched in his huge hands. Borne parried the next strike, then returned one of his own, sidestepping as he brought his blade down. He leapt forward and brought the heel of his boot down hard on his attacker’s knee. The man groaned, his leg buckling under him, and reeled back clumsily to avoid Borne’s following slash.
Borne felt the sticky warmth of his own blood running down his arm. He’d apparently received more than a nick, which meant he’d have to finish the rebel off quickly. Feinting, he tossed his sword high in the air, and as his startled foe flicked his eyes upward to follow its arc, Borne pulled out his dagger and sent it spinning toward the man’s heart. With a soft whistle of air, the giant pitched to the ground.
Borne caught his falling sword and selected his next target, stealing a swift glance around at the swarms of his comrades-at-arms rushing to meet the invading horsemen. The renegade knights were disorganized and appeared to have underestimated the size of the royal Gralian force. He judged the fighting would soon be over.
The knight bearing down on him must have come to the same conclusion, for as Borne ran at him, the man wheeled his horse and galloped off, shouting to his fellows to retreat. A party of Latour’s soldiers gave chase, and Borne was looking around for a horse to join them when Sir Glinter hailed him.
