Shadow and Flame

by Gail Z. Martin

  “I made an oath and I’ll stick to it,” Folville said. “As long as McFadden and his people keep their side of it. But before more Curs die, I’ll find out who we’re really fighting, and why they want this godsforsaken city.”

  “Better make it soon,” Betta said. “Because I imagine they won’t wait long to try again.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHAT YOU’RE ASKING IS EASIER SAID THAN done.” Mersed replied, shaking his head. The mage looked from Blaine to Kestel. “Very difficult, and dangerous.”

  “Especially since we don’t want a repeat of what caused the Cataclysm in the first place,” Cosmin, another of the Quillarth Castle mages, added.

  Blaine, Kestel, and Piran sat in a small parlor within the partially rebuilt castle. The Great Fire had badly damaged the old fortress, and subsequent attacks and looting had left the castle far from its old grandeur. With the pirates pushed back for now, Blaine had sought out the mages to see what additional precautions could be taken to protect the port and enable the city to rebuild.

  “That’s the question,” Blaine said, leaning back in his chair after they had finished dinner. “What can our mages do, with the way magic is now, that can protect the kingdom, or at least the harbor?”

  “Oddly enough, probably the single biggest way to use magic to protect Castle Reach would be to crown a king,” Viorel remarked. He was the third mage to join them, and together the three were the most senior and most powerful mages working with the artifacts and magical items that had been salvaged after the Cataclysm.

  “What do you mean?” Kestel asked, purposely not looking in Blaine’s direction as she leaned forward, anxious to hear Viorel’s response.

  “You know all about anchoring the magic and the Lords of the Blood,” Mersed answered. “We’re still trying to figure out how the magic that was finally brought under control is similar—or different—from what it was like before. What we do know is that prior to the Great Fire, when the battle mages all did their worst, Donderath received a level of magical protection through its king.”

  He hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Think of it like a sort of immunity. With a properly crowned king, the kingdom had a basic level of protection against minor magical threats. Not something as big as the Great Fire, but lesser attacks, the kind most likely to be launched by a single mage or a few mages working together.”

  “The kind of things we’ve been fighting off one at a time,” Piran observed.

  Cosmin nodded. “Exactly. When the Great Fire killed the king and the Lords of the Blood, it untethered magic from our control. That eliminated the magical ‘immunity’ as well, including any power that might have built up over the years through an unbroken line of succession.”

  “So we have to start all over again,” Kestel supplied.

  “Yes,” Viorel said, nodding. “The first step was to re-anchor the magic correctly, which Lord McFadden did when he reestablished the bond and the Lords of the Blood.”

  “But we can’t complete the rest of the protection without a properly crowned king,” Cosmin said. “And kings, at the moment, are in short supply.”

  “What do you mean, ‘properly crowned?’” Kestel asked.

  Mersed looked as if he had been waiting for the question, and warmed to the subject with a scholar’s zeal. “We’re still piecing that answer together from the documents we’ve found. Needless to say, that kind of information was closely guarded. No one wanted enemies to find out the extent—or the limits—of their magical immunity.”

  “Makes sense,” Piran said. “Kings usually have more than their fair share of enemies.”

  Cosmin nodded. “Exactly. And there would be additional incentive if, on top of the political ramifications, killing a king—especially ending a dynasty—left a kingdom open to magical attack.”

  “What we know so far,” Viorel continued, “is that the coronation ceremony is key to conveying the magical immunity. Not unlike the ritual that anchored magic through the Lords of the Blood,” he said with a nod toward Blaine.

  Blaine repressed a shiver. Anchoring the magic had nearly killed him, and it had taken several near deadly attempts to get the ritual right. Mersed guessed his thoughts. “We intend to do our research thoroughly, m’lord, before we expose anyone to such magic, especially our future king. And that’s the sticking point,” he said. “The mages who presided over King Merrill’s coronation are dead. If they understood the power conveyed in the ceremony, they aren’t around to ask.”

  “We’ve found a few scrolls from mages who might have been part of the coronation of Merrill’s ancestor who founded the dynasty,” Cosmin added. “And there may be more down in the catacombs, but you’ve seen for yourself how dangerous it is to go exploring down there.”

  “Not my favorite place,” Piran said adamantly. “Ghosts fighting old battles. Dead Knights of Esthrane that don’t stay dead. Dark, spooky tunnels filled with things that try to kill you. I could do without going down there again.”

  “Agreed,” Viorel replied with a nod. “But General Dolan, being one of the Knights of Esthrane, has had better luck than the rest of us retrieving artifacts and scrolls.” Dolan, a talishte-mage, would be under the protection of the watchful spirits of the dead Knights of Esthrane buried in the catacombs. “In fact, we believe that the Knights are an important part of the ceremony—but we’re not sure of the details yet.”

  “Interesting,” Blaine remarked, “since the Knights would have been in exile for the last several coronations. If they were supposed to be part of the ritual and weren’t, might that have affected the protection for the kingdom?”

  “Perhaps,” Mersed said. “I’ll look into that.”

  “We’ve been working with the mages at Mirdalur and at the Citadel,” Cosmin said. “I believe that with all of us working together—including the Knights—we’ll figure this out. Of course, it’s not much use without a king.”

  Blaine felt himself flush, and a nervous knot formed in his stomach. Piran and Kestel both gave him a telling look. Mersed’s lips twitched into a knowing smile. “Your name has come up more than once as a preferred candidate, Lord McFadden,” the mage said. “In fact, yours was the only name that has support from all factions.”

  “It’s a bit premature, don’t you think?” Blaine replied. “We’re still under attack.”

  “Of course,” Viorel said. “But when the day comes that the kingdom’s borders are secure, this is a conversation that must continue.”

  Blaine sighed. “I know. And when that time comes, I’m willing to discuss it further. But right now, we’ve all got to live long enough to get to that point.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE SEA DOESN’T AGREE WITH YOU.” ZARYAE came over to sit near Connor, who was clinging to his hammock and trying not to throw up.

  “Not really,” he managed to say without losing his meager supper. Rations had been much tighter on the panicked journey that set out the night of the Great Fire, but the nature of seafaring argued for lean portions. Given the state of his stomach, Connor wasn’t certain whether that was good or bad.

  “Chew on this.” Zaryae reached into a pouch on her belt and withdrew a pinch of leaves, which she placed carefully in Connor’s outstretched hand. “It will settle your stomach.”

  Connor did as she bade, and in a few minutes, his gut stopped clenching. “Thank you,” he said, only now realizing that he was holding the ropes of his hammock in a white-knuckled grip. Gingerly, he flexed his hands, noting the rope marks pressed into his skin. “It was worse the last time.”

  Zaryae smiled. “I imagine so. Or rather, I’m glad that I can’t really imagine it. You were very brave to climb onto a ship in the middle of the world catching fire.”

  Connor chuckled ruefully. “Actually, I wasn’t brave at all. I was frightened to death. My master, Lord Garnoc, had just been killed and so had the king. Garnoc gave me a mission I didn’t understand, and all I could think about was how awful it wou
ld be to fail him if I died that night.” He sighed. “I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t run into Engraham from the Rooster and Pig. He’s the one who got us passage. He saved my life.”

  Their ship, the Nomad, was one of the few surviving large ships from before the Cataclysm. Most of its sister ships lay at the bottom of Castle Reach harbor or the bottom of the Ecardine Sea.

  Their accommodations were purely functional. Nidhud had a coffin in a lightless interior room in the hold. The crew slept in shifts in another room strung with layers of hammocks, and the captain had his own cabin above deck. Connor and the others had a third room for their hammocks and supplies. That left the fourth compartment for supplies, including a dozen goats brought along to ensure that Nidhud had fresh blood. Blaine and Penhallow had rounded up whatever supplies could be spared to send with them for the colonists, trying to send as generous a bounty as possible. At a premium was anything that could not be made or grown in Edgeland, though since the Cataclysm, many such items were either in short supply or impossible to get. The stockpile of crates, barrels, and bins in the hold would guarantee a warm welcome once they got to Edgeland.

  “Forty days,” Connor moaned.

  “Come on now,” Borya said from where he and Desya were playing cards. “You can play cards and dice with us to pass the time. We’ll keep you entertained.”

  Connor rolled his eyes. “That’s almost as bad as playing with Piran. By the time we get to Edgeland, I’d probably have lost everything but a loincloth!”

  Verran chuckled. “That’s generous. Piran wouldn’t have left you that.” He had a pennywhistle and a few other small instruments in his sack, and as the others talked or gamed, Verran played quietly.

  Connor looked over to Verran. “How are you about going back? I’m not thrilled, and I didn’t go to Edgeland under the same conditions you did.”

  Verran laid his pennywhistle aside. “You’d be surprised how often I dream about that place,” he said with a sigh. “Not all the dreams are bad. Mick and the rest of us made a pretty good go of it at the Homestead. We eked out some good times, from sheer stubbornness. But I can’t say it was where I’d most like to go, if there was a choice.”

  “How do you think we’ll be received, by the people you left behind?” Zaryae asked.

  Verran crossed his arms and leaned back against the bulkhead. “Don’t rightly know. I’ve asked myself the same question.” He sighed. “I guess we’ll know when we get there.”

  The next day was the fourth since the Nomad set out from Donderath, and thus far, the weather had been good. The days were sunny and it was hot on deck without shade. Borya and Desya enjoyed the sea air, and adapting to the rolling motion of the ship did not seem to pose them any challenge, with their natural acrobatic talent. On the other hand, Zaryae had to cajole Verran and Connor to go up on deck at least once a day.

  “The fresh air is good for you,” Zaryae said, bringing up the rear as she and the others climbed from the hold.

  “I’m not having any trouble breathing down below,” Connor grumbled.

  “What I object to,” Verran said, “is how the horizon goes all tippy when you’re at sea. Not like a proper horizon should be, staying, well, horizontal. It goes up, it goes down, and then up again. Downright distressing.”

  “I try not to think about it,” Connor said. “Best all the way around.”

  Zaryae gave an exasperated sigh. “You need to get out of the hold. People need sunlight.”

  “I’ve spent a lot of time lately in crypts. I’ve gotten used to the dark.” In his mind, Connor could hear the Wraith Lord’s distant chuckle. Connor was being difficult and he knew it. But although he had resigned himself to the trip, part of him was annoyed at being conscripted for the mission, and he was indulging a well-deserved—and totally useless—moment of pique.

  Cheers and whistles rang out from the crew as they climbed onto the deck, but after a moment’s confusion, Connor realized that the shouts were not directed at them. Borya and Desya were up in the rigging, putting on a fine show of climbing and acrobatic prowess. Even Captain Whitney watched, grinning his approval.

  Since everyone else’s attention was focused on the twins, Connor took the chance to get a good look at their captain. The ship’s abrupt departure had allowed little time before this to interact with the crew, and Connor’s group had stayed largely in their quarters, out of the way.

  Sol Whitney was in his late thirties, with a weathered look that attested to long years spent out of doors. He had a wiry build with ropy muscles from the hard work of sailing a ship like the Nomad. Most of his pate was bald, and what remained of his dark hair was shaved close along the back. From what Connor had seen so far, the crew respected their captain, and Whitney acted with the calm assurance of someone who knew what he was doing. I hope so, Connor thought. Since all our lives are in his hands.

  The wind was warm, and Connor raised his face to it and shut his eyes. It would probably take the entire voyage for him to get used to the continual rocking of the ship beneath his feet. Just in time to sail back, he thought.

  “It’s a fine day, m’lady. Glad to see you taking advantage of the chance to be up on deck,” Captain Whitney said, and Connor opened his eyes to see the captain talking with Zaryae. She had dressed with practicality in mind. Her dark hair was caught back in a long braid that reached nearly to her waist. Today, she wore a plain work dress, though in her pack she had brought a heavy coat, tunic, and trews as well as sturdy boots for the hard trek inland on the ice once they reached Edgeland.

  “Always good to see the sun,” Zaryae replied. “What do your instruments tell you of the weather?”

  Captain Whitney chuckled. “Perhaps I should ask you that question.”

  Zaryae smiled. “I wouldn’t want to put your storm glass out of a job. And I daresay its insights occur more regularly than mine.”

  “Very well,” Captain Whitney concurred. “I will take your word for that. But we’re in luck: The readings look very good. That should mean clear sailing, at least for the next several days.”

  “I’d certainly appreciate that,” Connor said, walking up beside Zaryae. Verran was standing where he could hold on to the railing, gripping the wood for dear life.

  “Your friend isn’t much of a sailor,” Captain Whitney observed, with a nod toward Verran.

  “I have to admit I share his sentiments,” Connor admitted. “I’d much rather be on dry land.”

  “Those two certainly don’t seem to mind,” Whitney said, and glanced toward where the twins were tumbling down through the ropes to the applause of the sailors.

  “I’ve never seen either of them mind being anywhere so long as there’s something to climb,” Zaryae said with a chuckle.

  “They’ll get plenty of exercise, then, between here and Edgeland. Might even let them help with the rigging if they’re so inclined.”

  “I suspect they’d jump at the chance, and it would keep them from gambling away their buttons and coins,” Zaryae replied with a smile.

  Whitney laughed. “I’ll see what I can do about that.” He turned to Verran. “I heard you play when I was up on deck last night. You’re quite good.”

  “Plenty of experience, playing in taverns for my supper,” Verran replied.

  “Ah. That explains it,” Whitney said. “Well, if you’re ever in the mood to play for an audience, I’m certain that my crew would enjoy some music with their dinner now and again.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Verran replied, his gaze shifting everywhere but the constantly moving horizon.

  “I have to admit that the idea of going to Edgeland on a few days’ notice surprised me,” Whitney said, watching as the crew went about their duties. “I’d made that trip a time or two before the Great Fire. Not the most pleasant sailing, up in the Northern Sea, especially toward the winter.”

  “Not too bad this time of year,” Verran said. “The later it gets, once the Long Dark sets in, sailing gets tou
gher. Too much ice in the water.”

  Whitney regarded Verran at that, eyeing him as if reconsidering his original appraisal. “You sound like someone who knows.”

  Verran shrugged. “Live somewhere for six years, you learn how things work.”

  Connor could see the curiosity in Whitney’s eyes, but the captain did not press for more information. “I’ve been up to Edgeland as well,” Connor said, thinking to deflect Whitney’s attention from Verran’s past. “I was on one of the ships that sailed the night of the Great Fire.”

  “Which ship?” Whitney asked, his gaze turning sharply to Connor.

  “The Prowess, under Captain Olaf,” Connor replied.

  Whitney’s eyes narrowed. “The Prowess was lost at sea.”

  Connor nodded solemnly. “I know. I was on her when she went down.”

  Whitney raised an eyebrow. “So there were survivors?”

  “A few,” Connor said sadly. “Engraham from the Rooster and Pig made it. He and I were together. Some of the others made it as well. Captain Olaf didn’t get to shore.”

  Whitney nodded. “I figured as much. Things were bad that night. Kind of amazing you made it out, given the circumstances.”

  There was something in Whitney’s voice that made Connor look at him again. “How about you?”

  Whitney looked away, toward the horizon. “I was out at sea,” he replied. “On a cargo ship coming back from the Cross-Sea Kingdoms. We weren’t sure we’d ever make it back—they’d set up a blockade due to the war between Meroven and Donderath—but I guess they wanted rid of us. The storms were terrible. Several ships were traveling together, and some of them foundered in the waves. Then the magic failed, and another of the ships sank because its owner had scrimped on repairs and used magic instead.”

  He sighed. “When we finally got back to Castle Reach, we couldn’t even sail into the harbor for all the sunken ships blocking the wharves. And the city itself…” His voice drifted off, but Connor knew the scene Whitney was reliving in his memories. It was the same that haunted Connor’s dreams: Castle Reach, in flames.