by K. C. Julius
“But to cast the spells in the Hud Twyll is punishable by law!” Whit swallowed hard. “I’ve already—”
He fell silent as Grinner thrust his head through the tent flap. “Ye’ve a caller, Master Morgan. Arrived in a fine coach. Th’ night watch has it under guard.”
Morgan got to his feet, his eyes still locked on Whit’s. “We’ll continue this discussion later. In the meantime, I suggest you get busy.”
Outside, the wind had picked up, sailing through the boughs of the trees on a sea of twirling leaves. Grinner, hunched under his hooded cloak, pointed to where Sir Wren waited, mounted and holding the reins of Morgan’s mare.
“It’s the Tribus coach,” the young knight informed him as they headed for the
perimeter of the camp, and now Morgan could see the dark hulk of the familiar carriage through the trees. There was no accompanying escort, only the same taciturn driver who had transported Morgan to his last meeting with Celaidra. Perhaps he’d learn now why she hadn’t supported him at his trial.
But when he climbed into the carriage, Audric greeted him with a weary smile, and offered Morgan his frail, cold hands. “I see I’m a disappointment. Celaidra would have come herself, but she’s been called to Mithralyn.”
“It’s never a disappointment to see you, my old friend. Is all well with Elvinor? I’d thought to hear from him in the past days.”
“As far as I know, the summons was not urgent. You know how Celaidra pines for her own kind.”
Morgan did know, and it had ever pained him how much she suffered in isolation in Drinnkastel.
The lantern illuminated the deep furrows in the older man’s face and the grim set of his mouth. “You must realize why I’m here, Mortimer. I’ve come to beg you to take this young Konigur in hand, lest he and his wayward supporters wreak even more havoc than they already have. For the sake of the realm, and on your honor as its faithful servant.”
Morgan frowned. “You admit that Fynn is Urlion’s son, and yet call to question my honor? I’ve never swerved in my loyalty, Master Audric, and that is to serve the rightful High King.”
“Now, Mortimer, I meant no offense, but Roth Nelvor is also Urlion’s son, and by the Tribus’s accord, he has been proclaimed and coronated as our new sovereign.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you just how all that transpired.”
Audric sighed. “In truth, we came to an agreement on Urlion’s successor long before he died. Roth was the reasonable choice. Why, I understand this younger ‘supposed son’ was raised as a Helgrin! How can you possibly think he would make a better ruler of Drinnglennin than Roth Nelvor?”
“To begin with, unlike you, I know both of them. Your new king ordered Fynn’s murder—are you aware of this? If Roth is Urlion’s bastard, which has never been proven, it amounts to attempted fratricide. And I’ll remind you, once again, that Roth was never acknowledged by Urlion, whereas Fynn was—I heard it from Urlion’s own lips. And his final charge to me was to find his son, born in wedlock, and see that he claimed his birthright.”
Audric’s expression remained skeptical. “I read the proclamation sent out from Cardenstowe, Mortimer. But unless you can produce unmitigated proof of this claim—”
“I can. I have it in my possession.”
His old mentor’s eyes widened. “Truly? May I see it?”
“You may—at the same time we present it to the people of Drinnkastel.”
Audric sat back. “I see. Then it appears you’ll not be swayed from this course.” He fumbled in the folds of his robe, withdrew a narrow scroll, and held it up to the lantern’s light. “In that case, I am instructed by King Roth to ‘offer Master Morgan and Fynn Konigur safe conduct to the capital, and protection for the duration of their stay there, including immunity from prosecution for crimes against the Crown, until this matter is resolved.’ ”
“Crimes? Do you too believe I killed Urlion Konigur?”
“No,” Audric said. “But what I believe hasn’t persuaded King Roth.” He pressed his fingers against his rheumy eyes. “You’ve served as a Tribus member, Mortimer; you remember what it’s like. Despite our best efforts, at times our royal charges can be headstrong.”
“The High Kings I advised,” Morgan retorted, “weren’t fools—or attempted murderers. Roth has proven himself to be both, and I would ask you to reconsider where your loyalties lie. I can assure you that you would be well satisfied to serve Fynn Konigur. He’s noble in character, intelligent, and heedful of advice.”
“Only because he’s young. If he really is a Konigur, it’s just a matter of time before he, like his father before him, believes himself the wisest man in Drinnglennin.” The old man’s laugh was rueful. “Forgive me, Mortimer. I mean no insult to the boy. But we have diverted from the purpose of my coming here. We must come to a better resolution than civil war. Particularly if Lazdac has resurfaced.”
“Not if, master. I’ve heard from someone who’s seen him—he’s in the Lost Lands with a host of abominations he’s wrought. The Strigori has gone beyond conjuring to actually creating an army of monsters. Who knows what these creatures are capable of?” He leaned forward. “Lazdac is coming, Audric, and he’s coming with a vengeance.”
“All the more reason, then, for you and the young Konigur to return with me to the capital. I give you my personal word the High King’s promises will be kept.”
Morgan’s laugh held no mirth. “Yet you just admitted Roth doesn’t listen to you. I cannot answer for my sovereign, but I don’t share your faith in your king’s word, and I will advise Fynn against this.”
Audric gave him a wounded look. “Mortimer… the truth is, treating with Roth is your best chance—not only for your boy’s survival, but for all of us. It’s a waste of good men to pit the might of the Nelvor army, combined as it is now with Tyrrencaster’s numbers and substantial reinforcements from Albrenia, against the rest of the lower realms. Even if you further unleash your imprudent protégé, Whit of Cardenstowe.”
The hairs on Morgan’s neck prickled. “What do you mean by that?”
“Cardenstowe used magic to kill a Nelvorbothian knight—one Sir Orvin Talwall. Graham DuBleres reported seeing the young lord cast the spell himself.” Audric’s brows lifted. “You didn’t know?”
Morgan’s gut clenched—this was why Whit had been acting so aloof.
Audric sighed. “Well, you know the law, Mortimer. Cardenstowe must be stripped of his staff and submit to having his magic bound by one of us. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you come with me now. You, Whit, and the boy. It will signal your good intentions for the realm. Then perhaps I’ll be able to convince our fellow mages to be lenient in Lord Whit’s case.”
Morgan was careful to maintain an outward calm. “There must have been extenuating circumstances for the magic.”
“The Tribus will judge this for ourselves when you bring Cardenstowe to Drinnkastel. If we are to preserve unity in Drinnglennin, we must respect its laws. So—will you come with me now?”
Morgan gave a slow shake of his head. “Do you take me for a fool, master? We defeated Nelvor’s force once already. Why would we now meekly lay down our arms and abandon our just course?” He reached for the handle of the carriage door. “We will come to Drinnkastel—but not at Roth’s bidding. We will come to introduce Fynn Konigur, the one true king, to his people. The lords of eight realms have already pledged their allegiance to him. I’d say that’s a damning indictment of how poorly esteemed and mistrusted your choice of High King is.”
He opened the door and stepped down from the carriage, then turned to his old mentor.
“I tried once before to convince Roth of the urgent need to prepare for what Lazdac has in store for us. He paid me no heed. Gods’ blood, master, you know as well as I do that if ever we needed a true leader, that time is now! So you
can bear this message back to Roth Nelvor: if he should agree to surrender the throne, Nelvorboth and Tyrrencaster will suffer no consequences for their part in the attack on Cardenstowe. But if he should choose to fight on for a throne that is not rightfully his, we’re prepared to take it from him by force. And when we do, it will be up to Fynn Konigur—who is no one’s ‘boy’—to decide his fate.”
Audric looked stricken. “Mortimer—we’ve been friends for so long…. I beg of you, can we not come to some compromise?” The old man reached out and laid a trembling hand on Morgan’s sleeve. “If your evidence proves beyond a doubt that Fynn is the legitimate son of Urlion, this is a powerful argument in his favor. Give Roth the chance to see it for himself. He’s not the foolish tyrant you believe him to be, I swear to you. He can be made to listen to reason. We can choose a neutral place for a meeting between him and your young lord. Please, Mortimer—I, too, want Drinnglennin’s future secured.”
Morgan folded his arms across his chest. “And if you, Selka, and Celaidra are convinced by the evidence, yet Roth refuses to step down—what will you do then?”
The old wizard straightened. “I took a vow, as you once did, Mortimer Morgan, to serve the realm. If your evidence is sound, I will not shirk my duty.”
Chapter 40
Whit
When Master Morgan returned to Whit’s tent, the wizard was in a foul mood—and immediately informed Whit as to why. Yet strangely, even as Whit endured the barrage of Morgan’s anger, he felt a sense of relief that his damning deed had at last come to light. But when the old man, having delivered his tirade, demanded to know how much time he planned to devote to studying the Hud Twyll from here on in, Whit was stunned.
“I thought—”
“I’m relieved to learn you’re still capable of the process,” Master Morgan growled. He released a slow breath. “Forgive me—I spoke in anger. But you must master as much dark magic as you can before Lazdac looses his monsters on the world.”
“But—”
“There is no ‘but,’ Whit,” Morgan said. “And until your magical… malpractice is addressed, you can’t enter into the capital with us—it’s far too dangerous. You’ll stay behind on the Tor when we go to present our evidence to Drinnkastel.”
Although bitterly disappointed by this pronouncement, Whit accepted it in silence.
“That’s settled, then.” With a curt nod, the wizard left the tent.
Whit took up the long-neglected book and lifted its cover. It was written in a fine hand, which surprised him, although he couldn’t say why. From the first lines, he found himself beguiled by the anonymous author’s eloquence and the fascinating anecdotal details he shared surrounding the magic he recorded, including a chronicle of who had cast each spell and under what circumstances. All but of a few had been in the Before.
The first spells in the book were really more spiteful than evil—how to dry up a cow or enthrall a resistant lover—the sort of mischief a faerie or a hedge witch might get up to. But as Whit leafed ahead, the magic became more sinister, dealing with the laying of curses, the extraction of poisons, spells used as torture, and rituals involving blood sacrifice. But however malignant, none of these were likely to help him defeat the most powerful dark wizard of all time.
His heartbeat quickened when he turned a page and came to the section entitled Wizard Warfare. Unlike the dueling spells Whit had learned under Egydd, this magic was intended for battles to the death. Conjuring and transformations were the weapons of choice, but advanced hexes, curses, and binding spells—all of them fatal—were also detailed. And perhaps more importantly, the spells to defend against these attacks were also included.
Whit felt a tingling in his blood, for he knew he was about to embark on a very risky journey. Since the close of the Before, only a few wizards and sorceresses had mastered such malevolent magic, and most of them were now dead. But not all; he realized then that Master Morgan must once have been able to wield these spells, too. Otherwise he could never have dueled with Lazdac.
So much could go wrong when attempting this sort of complex magic, as the abundant footnotes indicated. Apalo Grinsten of Morlendell had burst into flames while trying to conjure up a firebull. A freezing hex had backfired on the Palmadorian sorceress Penerella Devant, and she’d shattered into a thousand crystals of ice. In Olquaria, the great wizard Al-Jenj managed to transform himself into a spirit, enter his enemy’s body and stop the man’s heart… only to become forever trapped in the corpse.
In addition to the life-threatening dangers were the hazardous influences that came with possessing this sort of knowledge. A wizard or sorceress had to be extremely strong of character to resist the lures that attended such malevolent power. The infamous Strigori brothers were prime examples of how dark magic could manipulate its possessors as much as they manipulated it.
By the time Whit stowed the book away, it was the middle of the night. Yawning, he blew out the guttering candle and fell back on his bedroll. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the wind still gusted, sending shadows cavorting across the canvas above his head. Then beyond the smattering drops from the waving tree limbs, he became aware of another sound. Beating wings.
Suddenly the tent flap blew open and a dark form rushed in, circling above Whit’s bed. The Cailleach! Whit bolted up with a garbled cry, only to find the wind billowing the tent walls, with no sign of the witch.
He forced himself to get up and secure the flap, then lay back down. But the instant he closed his eyes, the dreamwitch appeared again, this time flying in a patch of grey sky where the tent roof should have been, her feathered robe of crows streaming out behind her.
His eyes flew open as realization dawned on him. This was no dream, but nor was it reality. He was having a vision. And he would have to let it come.
He closed his eyes once more.
The Cailleach appeared before him, spreading her arms and dropping earthward, dry leaves skittering in circles in her wake. A massive fortress loomed up before her, and she shot into it and down a series of corridors that flashed by in a blur, with Whit, like one of her crows, peering over her shoulder.
When at last they slowed, skimming over richly mosaicked tiles and past exquisite tapestries and portraits in gilded frames, he realized he’d been here once before, in the grips of a nightmare he’d had in Mithralyn. But then he’d been pursued by something nameless and terrifying, while now he—or rather the Cailleach—was the hunter.
They barreled toward a set of great brass doors that swung wide to a cavernous room. A musty smell prickled Whit’s nose, evoking the solarium where he’d studied at Cardenstowe. He scanned the ornate ceiling and the heavy burgundy drapes with gold-tasseled pull cords that shrouded the walls.
And then he saw the shelves of books stretching into the shadows. Row upon row of precious books, bound in leather and stamped with gold, filigreed with tiny gems and artfully embossed. And the most beautiful of all these priceless tomes rested on a pedestal of burnished dark wood in the center of the chamber, covered by a glittering, crystal dome.
As the dreamwitch raced toward the pedestal, the dome slowly rose and hovered in the air above it. But strong magic cast her back, and in a blinding flash, the Cailleach vanished, the echo of her shrieks assaulting his ears.
Whit, however, remained in the chamber, gazing down at the title, set in gold, on the ancient book’s cover.
The Drinnglennin Chronicles.
As he bent to retrieve the long-lost treasure, a cowled figure surged out of the shadows. The hovering dome crashed to the ground, showering Whit with tiny fragments of glass while the air imploded around him, hurling him to the ground.
Flames leapt up around him, climbing the drapery and igniting the bookshelves. Whit rolled away from them and caught a final glimpse of the cloaked stranger, now fleeing, before black smoke swallowed him up in its suffocating maw. Choking, Whit lurched
to his feet and plunged after him—only to land with a thud on the ground.
He was in his tent, alone.
Shakily, he splashed water over his burning eyes, and poured himself a mug of ale to cool his singed throat. Then he sank onto his bedroll to try to make sense of what the vision had revealed.
There had to be some explanation as to why his mind had opened to this particular vision. He wondered if these unwelcome glimpses into another time and place might be somehow linked to his scrying or performing meddwlmenns—but he feared they were related to those terrifying moments when his bleeding wrist had been joined with that of the High Priestess Encertesa of Velicus.
He tossed and turned in the gloom, but at last was forced to accept that there would be no sleep this night. Resignedly, he lit the stub of his candle with a snap of his fingers and slipped on his cloak against the cold. But instead of returning to the Hud Twyll, he took from his pack a little grimoire he had rediscovered while at Cardenstowe. It had been written by a long-ago local mage of dubious distinction, and most of the spells were, in Whit’s eyes, superstitious nonsense. Still, it had been his first book of magic, and he’d pored over its pages for hours on end.
As he opened the grimoire, a single black feather slipped from it and drifted onto his lap. He recalled the days he and his tutor had spent observing the crows on his estate. It was on one of these that Cortenus had mentioned an odd spell, and Whit had looked it up out of curiosity, then promptly dismissed it as of no value to him. But he must have left the feather there to mark his place.
With a strange tingling in his blood, Whit peered down at the page.
* * *
Four days later, several miles outside Drinnkastel, Whit watched Master Morgan, Halla, and Fynn, amongst a host of his supporters, ride away across the Tor toward the pavilion where Fynn was to meet Roth Nelvor. If the old wizard had his way, they would come to terms over Roth’s abdication of the Einhorn Throne; Whit considered this outcome about as likely as his cousin Halla sitting meek and silent throughout the summit. For Roth was said to be, in appearance and temperament, much like his Albrenian uncle, Seor Palan—the man who had purchased Halla and had her trained as his bed slave.
