by K. C. Julius
Whit’s expression soured. “I… I don’t know what you mean. I’m frustrated, is all, as I still haven’t managed to raise the Shield of Taran.”
Morgan lifted his brows. “That is a feat of magic that requires years to master, Whit. I myself only raised it once, and at the time I’d already been practicing magic for much longer than you’ve even been alive.”
“Against the Helgrins, wasn’t it?” Whit flushed, then darted a look at Fynn, who was hunched over a chatraj board opposite Grinner. Neither appeared to be listening in on their conversation.
“It was,” Morgan replied quietly. “In the time of Gunnar Yarl. We had forewarning of the raid, for longboats had been sighted the previous week off Valeland’s northern coast. The royal Drinnglennian army was on the march to defend us, but Gunnar’s fleet managed to sail downriver to Morlenstowe before the king’s men arrived. As you know, the Konigurs originally hailed from Morlendell, and High King Owain was visiting kin with only a small entourage in tow. When the Helgrins attacked, we were sorely outnumbered, and so it fell to me to protect the castle as best I could. Necessity lent me the power to raise the Shield.”
“Egydd told me you held it through an entire night and kept the Helgrins at bay until the full royal force arrived the next morning.” Whit’s eyes shone with a rare admiration. “What did it feel like?”
Morgan laughed. “Heavy! Once I released it, I had to be carried to my bed, where I slept through the entire routing of the Helgrin invaders.” He shook his head at the memory—how long ago it all seemed now. He’d been at the height of his power then, and the magic coursing through him as he conjured the Shield was a sensation he would never forget, along with the thunderous shouts of acclaim when he finally awoke from his restorative sleep and descended to the great hall.
Whit’s smile faded, as if he guessed the bittersweetness of the memory.
Morgan clapped his hands on his knees. “But we were speaking of what you’ve been working on.” He dropped his voice. “Have you familiarized yourself with… what I left for you with Elvinor?”
Whit hesitated before nodding, not meeting Morgan’s eyes. “I wondered if you could have a look at my shadow-casting.”
It was clear he didn’t want to discuss the contents of the book. Well, who could blame him? Morgan thought grimly. They’d have to eventually, but he didn’t press the issue now.
“Very well,” he said. “Let’s see what you can do.”
They had moored off the far side of a little island, so there was no danger of Whit’s performance being observed from the shore. Morgan was astounded when the young lord didn’t reach for his rod. Instead, he simply vanished.
The air between them rippled when he reappeared. “Could you see me?”
Morgan released an appreciative breath. “Only because I knew what to look for. You don’t need your staff to do magic?”
“No, not anymore. I thought at first my spells were stronger when I used it, but now I’m pretty sure it makes no difference.”
Morgan sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “You do know this is unprecedented work—or nearly so. Few wizards, throughout all recorded history, have been able to wield magic without their rods. And even fewer could free-cast their shadows.”
Whit nodded, his expression wary. “The Strigori could.”
“Yes, they could do this. Do you fear that your extraordinary gifts make you more susceptible to the Dark?”
“Didn’t you tell me once I have reason to fear this?”
“Only if you don’t remain vigilant in guarding against its lure. But your accomplishments should be acknowledged. You’ve achieved something truly amazing, Whit. Truly amazing.”
Whit looked out over the water. “I read all I could find on the Strigori in Elvinor’s library. There was surprisingly little, but there was a tale about a pact Rendyl Strigori’s grandfather, Gorton, made with the daemon Drwg.”
Morgan felt an old, familiar chill tingle in his veins. “A very dark tale, that. Some believe this pact with Drwg was what made Lazdac and Bedjel such powerful virtuosi. I assume you know its nature?”
“It was… a blood binding,” Whit replied.
Something in his voice gave Morgan pause. “Whit? Is there—”
A thud in the bow cut him off. Grinner and Fynn were lying prone on the deck. “Get down!” the å Livåri hissed.
Morgan and Whit dropped below the gunnels, but not before the wizard caught sight of the prow of a ship nosing round the headland to the west. The darkness suddenly deepened as Whit cast his shadow around their boat.
“They shouldn’t be able to see us now,” Whit murmured, “but if they spotted us beforehand…”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Morgan stuck his head up over the port side, then released a relieved breath. The big carrack continued to come about until it was parallel to the shore, and none on board appeared to be looking their way. The ship flew no identifying flag, an indication that its crew was likely involved in smuggling or piracy. It meant the captain of the mystery ship would be just as eager to avoid any interaction as they were.
To be on the safe side, the four remained low until the ship disappeared behind the small island.
“All clear for now,” Morgan said softly.
“Why don’t I go and have a look from the island to see if the ship is sailing on?” Fynn volunteered. “I don’t need the dory. It’s a short distance to swim. Don’t worry—I’m a strong swimmer.”
Whit frowned. “So am I.”
“But you’re needed here to keep the boat hidden,” Fynn pointed out. “I’ll just have a look and then come back.”
Grinner folded his arms across his chest. “I shoulda taken ye up on th’ swimmin’ lessons,” he grumbled.
“Yes,” Fynn said, his voice muffled by the tunic he was already pulling over his head, “you should have.” Then he dropped over the side and struck out for shore, cutting through the water with strong, steady strokes.
Morgan couldn’t help feeling misgivings. If anything should happen to Fynn now, it would be on the wizard’s head and heart for the rest of his life. But Fynn returned shortly, as promised.
“They’ve dropped anchor,” he reported, as they hauled him into the boat. “I counted ten shoreboats—long ones—with three men in each, rowing to the mainland. They must be collecting a fair bit of something.”
“Smugglers, most likely,” Whit said.
“Maybe. It’s a big ship. Whatever they’ve come to fetch must take up a lot of space.”
A sudden suspicion bloomed in Morgan’s mind. “Fynn, did you get a look at the men rowing the shoreboats? Was there anything special about them?”
Fynn frowned. “Not particularly. They were heavily armed—swords, pikes, axes. They all had a similar look about them—dark hair, drab clothes.”
Morgan recalled the story Lehr had told him the last time he was in Glornadoor, about Craith, the dying man found on a beach not far from where they were right now.
Craith told me he’d taken work on a merchant ship bound for Olquaria. The captain was a kinsman of his, and all the crew were å Livåri.
“We have to go ashore,” the wizard announced. “Quickly—before they start to load their cargo.”
Whit’s eyes widened. “Why?”
Morgan had already begun tugging in the little dory. “This could be the chance I’ve been hoping for—to discover exactly what’s become of the missing å Livåri. Which means we’ll have to cast out a line to reel in one of that ship’s crew.” He lifted his chin toward Grinner. “And you, my friend, shall be our bait.”
Chapter 14
Whit
“Stay close to me, all of you,” Whit cautioned.
The deep underbrush into which they had pulled the dory was dark enough so that he didn’t need to cast his shadow over his compa
nions, but he wanted them near should the need arise. The surrounding low grassland would offer no cover if anyone chanced along.
The seamen from the ship were nowhere in sight, but only one path led away from the beach to wind up to the headland. The moon was in its dark cycle, so Whit conjured a faint glow at the end of his staff to guide them. It was a calculated risk, but they’d have little warning in any event if the smugglers came back down the path, and a fall was a surer death than a fight.
Halfway through their climb, Whit held out a hand to stay the others. A cluster of lights flickered further inland.
“It’s all right,” Morgan said. “That’s Gloorhilly down there.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Not this exact trail, but I believe it leads to the same å Livåri camp I visited last winter. The head of this clan is Lehr—one of his kin is a good friend of mine.”
The path ended on the top of the promontory, beyond which a sweeping moor stretched, the dark hulking shapes crouched upon it resolving themselves into a small camp of wagons. The scent of horse and wood smoke was on the air, and while there was no sign of life, there was none of violence, either.
Whit sensed a presence only an instant before two men sprang up from the grass and lunged at him. Too late, he turned to warn his friends. Fynn had a knife to his throat and a hand clapped over his mouth. Four other men held Grinner and Master Morgan fast.
“Don’t try anything,” the man who’d seized Fynn growled. “Just come along quietly and join the rest of your company back at camp, or this one”—he waggled the knife at Fynn’s throat—“will pay the price.”
“We should slit their gullets like we did the other,” hissed the man holding Grinner. He said something in Livårian to his captive, then shook him hard.
Whit realized then that these men weren’t from the ship, but they thought he and his companions were. “We aren’t here to harm anyone,” he said. “We saw the ship in the harbor and followed its crew to investigate what the crew is up to. That man there is Master Morgan, a proven friend of your people.”
The man holding Fynn peered at the wizard through the gloom. “Master Morgan? So it is! Let him go, Danior. He is indeed a friend.” He crossed to the wizard and shook his hand warmly. “You appeared in my dreams just last night, master.”
“Barav. You’re a sight for sore eyes! I’m happy to see you made it safely south. I should like to hear all about your dream, but first, please ask your men to release my friends. Then you must tell us how we can assist you.”
Barav signaled to his comrades, then clapped Master Morgan on the shoulder. “You mean with the kidnappers? I think we have things under control, master. Our sentries reported the ship’s presence as soon as it sailed into view. When the crew climbed the headland and asked to enter our camp, making their false claims of kinship, we invited them in—and then turned the tables on them. Come and see for yourself.”
Barav led the way inland to their camp. By one of the fires, a line of men knelt, their hands tied behind their backs. The å Livåri overseeing them speared something into the ground, then signaled for another to take his place. He strode toward the newcomers and exchanged a gruff greeting with Master Morgan, who introduced the stocky fellow to Whit and the others as Lehr, the clan’s patriarch.
Lehr coolly scanned their faces before returning his gaze to Morgan. “I thought you were supposed to be off looking for our disappeared, master. And now you arrive in the wake of those who take them.” The å Livåri’s tone was reproachful, but then he shrugged. “No matter.” He stalked over and kicked the boot of one of his captives. “This one will soon tell us what’s become of our people. We were just about to get down to particulars.”
All but one of the bound seamen were sweating freely, and several were already stiffening with spasms. It was clear they were rushers—crennin addicts—too long without their drug, and the jits were taking hold.
Lehr bent and pulled the iron bar he’d previously driven into the ground, then stuck it into the fire. When Whit realized what the man meant to do with it, he felt his mouth go dry.
“You bastards are charged and found guilty of a most heinous crime,” the å Livåri growled. “A crime that you’ve likely committed many times over—pretending kinship with countless of our clans, accepting bread and salt by our fires, then butchering our children and elders and selling off the young and able into a life of slavery.”
Grinner crouched before one of the prisoners, whose blue facial tattoo resembled his own. “I done some bad things in my day,” he muttered, “but I ne’er murdered no one, nor betrayed a soul who shown me kindness, ev’n when the jits was comin’ on.” He rocked back on his heels before the quaking man. “Ye’ve a fearsome night ahead, and I reckon ye’ll wish t’ die long b’fore th’ cock crows. Mayhaps someun’ll show ye mercy an’ put an end t’ yer sufferin’… but if it t’were up t’ me… well, be thankful it ain’t.” With a grunt of disgust, he rose and turned his back.
Only one of the sailors showed no sign of fear—a surly fellow with a sharp, narrow face who claimed to be the ship’s captain. When he caught Whit’s eye upon him, he laughed defiantly. “It makes no matter what you do to us,” he snarled through his broken teeth. “Your doom is nigh.”
Lehr lifted the glowing iron from the fire and brought the bar level with the man’s face. “Tell us about it, why don’t you, vermin?”
The captain flinched from the heat, but his smirk remained. “Gladly—but first you’ll need to lay the poker aside.”
Lehr brought it closer still. “You’re in no position to bargain with me, gresitè.”
“If you kill me, you’ll never know where the disappeared have gone.”
“You’ll survive the loss of an eye… or two. But I don’t need you to tell me anything. Gilreana!”
A woman currying a horse looked over at his call.
“Bring your stores!” Lehr instructed.
Gilreana ducked into a wagon, then reappeared carrying a battered leather case.
“You have crennin among your potions?”
Silently, Gilreana extracted a jar and handed it to Lehr.
He passed the iron bar to Barav, then crouched before the quivering, blue-faced man and lifted the lid of the box in front of his nose.
“You’ll be happy to tell me what I want to know, won’t you?” Lehr said pleasantly.
“Anything,” the man moaned, tears leaking from his eyes. “Please… just a little… I beg you.” His bound companions began to writhe in agony and call out as they caught a whiff of the sickly-sweet scent.
“I’ll tell you!” cried one.
“For the love of the gods,” whimpered another, “give me a taste!”
Their weasel-faced leader raised his battered face. “The rushers’ll promise you whatever you ask, but it won’t suit your purposes. This crew was only taken on for the collecting a few weeks ago.”
Lehr dropped the lid of the box. “Which brings us back to you.”
The man spat at his feet. “I’ve nothing to gain by singing your tune.”
The å Livåri snatched the poker from Barav’s hand and thrust it back into the fire. “But much to lose. Let’s start with that eye.”
Whit’s stomach twisted, knowing what was to come. Grinner looked unperturbed, but Fynn’s face was drained of color.
Master Morgan laid a hand on Lehr’s forearm. “Wait. There is another way, one that will reveal an unassailable truth.” The wizard turned to Whit. “If you’re willing, I can guide you through the process of meddwlmenns.”
Whit was certain he’d misunderstood. The art of meddwlmenns was a practice of seers, not wizards.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Master Morgan said, “but the elements of the art are similar to scrying, which you’ve already mastered, and Barav is a dream reader. He can support you.
”
Whit’s curiosity was piqued. He looked to Barav. “Have you practiced meddwlmenns?”
Barav shook his head. “I’ve never even heard of it before now.”
“Enough talk,” Lehr complained. “Explain your ‘other way,’ or let me get on with mine.”
Master Morgan eyed him sternly. “The methods you would use will bring the same shame on you and your people that these sorry souls must bear for all eternity.”
Lehr stared hard at him, but offered no further argument.
“Meddwlmenns has been used by seers through the ages to delve into another’s mind,” Morgan explained. “Normally, a seer can envision in much the same way that a wizard or sorceress can read a scrying stone, or a dream reader a dream. But to employ meddwlmenns, a seer must physically engage with the person in possession of whatever information he or she seeks to learn.”
The knot in Whit’s stomach tightened as he recalled how the Vidantia had tried to physically bind him. And although the incident hadn’t appeared to impact his life so far, there was no certainty this would always remain the case.
“Must… must I mingle my blood with his?” he said.
Master Morgan looked startled. “Nothing so drastic as that! But you must lay your hands on his head.”
The bound man snapped his teeth menacingly at Whit, but a flicker of fear sparked in his eyes.
“How long will this meddwlmenns take?” Lehr demanded.
“Less time than it would for you to torture the rogue, and without the risk of him dying in the process and leaving us none the wiser,” Master Morgan replied sharply. He turned back to Whit. “The delving is not without risk, as I’m sure you know.”
Whit knew from Halla the lurid details of the å Livåri women’s enslavement in Albrenia, and he’d seen them himself in Nicu’s camp. If his attempt at meddwlmenns could spare any more of the å Livåri the suffering so many had already endured, it was worth trying.
“Tell me what to do.”
Master Morgan lifted his chin toward the man on his knees. “Best to truss him to something first.”
