Cecil lay on dusty ground that, despite morning dew coating leaves of the trees above, smelled vaguely burnt. The acrid, unpleasant scent was an indication of how sickly the land of Acedor had become under dominion of the demon. With his eyes closed and Paedris laying still and quiet beside him, Mwazo subtly sent his presence through the spirit world, seeking signs of enemy soldiers and wizards. Sensing nothing in the immediate area, he searched farther in ever-widening circles until he found a group of mounted soldiers hurrying their horses down a road in the semi-darkness. That group of soldiers were headed toward Tokmanto, having received word of the attack there. Curious, Mwazo sent his consciousness along the road behind the soldiers, wondering where they had come from. Through the shadows of the spirit world, he passed by one, two, three outposts manned by soldiers, then saw another group hurrying along the road, this group of soldiers on horseback escorting two carriages that-
Cecil froze and carefully, slowly pulled himself back. There was a dark wizard in one of those carriages, and he dared not investigate more closely. He was certain the enemy wizard had not detected his presence, as the subtler forms of wizardry were poorly practiced by wizards of Acedor, and because Mwazo’s brief glimpse had told him the enemy wizard was intensely focused on marshalling his dark powers for use at Tokmanto. The enemy had no way of knowing the attack there had been only a raid, never to be repeated, and the wizard was preparing to repel an invasion or fling back into the sea any soldiers of Tarador who dared set foot on lands under control of the demon.
Satisfied he knew where the enemy was located in the area and what path they should walk that day, Mwazo began the process of pulling himself out of the spirit world. As he came back to reality, he opened one eye to see Paedris laying flat on the ground a few feet from him. The other wizard was resting peacefully, keeping watch and making no disturbance that might distract his companion’s search. Cecil smiled, thinking the formidable Lord Paedris don Salva looked deceptively angelic while resting, his face childlike and-
And, Cecil realized as his eyes narrowed with suspicion, Paedris’ lips were moving silently and his fingertips were twitching. The movement was almost imperceptible, but the other wizard was clearly doing something when he had promised he would do nothing while Cecil sent his consciousness through the spirit world. What was Paedris doing? Cecil briefly dipped back into the spirit realm and-
Gasped. “Paedris!” He exclaimed, not worrying about being heard in the emptiness of the landscape.
“Huh?” Lord Salva’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“What? You know what? What are you doing? No, forget I asked that, I know what you are doing. What were you thinking?”
“Oh,” Paedris was crestfallen, then sat up with a grin and a wink. “You saw that, eh? Damn it, Cecil, can I not hide anything from you?”
“You idiot,” Cecil turned away in disgust, lest in his anger he say something regrettable. “The question is whether you can hide it from the enemy. The answer is no, you cannot. Why would you take such a risk? I know you are not so sentimental.”
“I am also not so hard-hearted as to ignore sentiment,” Paedris defended himself, then again smiled. “I do have a larger purpose to my actions. Cecil.”
“Oh,” Mwazo crossed his arms. “This I must hear. I am waiting.” Inside, he was fuming. What he had caught Paedris doing was conjuring a wind from the northwest, using powerful and wide-spread magic to change the weather pattern. That unnatural wind would blow steadily for two days at least, speeding the passage of Captain Reed and his people back toward Tarador and relative safety.
“Yes, I am sentimental enough that I wish to aid Captain Reed. He and his sailors acted bravely, and their good ship sacrificed herself to give her crew a chance to live. We owe them, Cecil, I feel that strongly.”
“Strongly enough to risk our vital mission?”
“My actions do not risk our mission, they aid us on our journey.”
Mwazo did not bother to reply, his tilted head and rolled eyes speaking for him.
“Think on this, Cecil,” Paedris continued. “The enemy will surely detect, by now surely has detected, that powerful wizardry has been used to create a wind to speed the escape of a pirate ship that was stolen from Tokmanto. The enemy knows our attack could only have been accomplished through use of wizardry, and that our attack was entirely successful; dockyards burned, ships sunk, slaves freed. So, a wizard of Tarador participated in the attack, and now an unnatural wind whisks a stolen ship away toward Tarador. The enemy could only conclude that the wizard who conducted the attack on Tokmanto is aboard that stolen longship, using magic to speed his escape. Thus,” he made an exaggerated wink, “there is no reason for the enemy to search for, or suspect, a wizard within the borders of Acedor. We may stroll unhindered through this land, safe in the knowledge the enemy’s focus is elsewhere.”
“Hmm,” Cecil grunted sourly, forced to concede Paedris was right. Wagging a finger, he scolded the court wizard. “Why didn’t you tell me your plans?”
“Because,” Paedris sighed. “We would waste precious time arguing about it, then you would be distracted with worry at a time when you needed to concentrate on your own search. It will not happen again,” he cast his eyes downward sheepishly.
“Hmmmph. Until the next time, you mean.”
“Oh, you do not keep secrets from me?” Paedris wagged a finger back, although he did it playfully.
“Let’s not get into that now,” Cecil said hurriedly. “We have many miles to walk today, we must get started. And, Paedris?”
“Yes?” The court wizard asked, hopeful any hard feelings were over.
“I agree we owe Captain Reed, and I am grateful you are able to help them. Just, don’t do it again without asking me?”
Kyre dropped the wooden practice sword and picked up a real metal sword, fitting a bronze safety guard over it. The bronze sheath made the sword heavier and less well balanced, and it took more effort to handle it with finesse and accuracy, and those were all good things in practice. He had practice swords with a blunt tip and dull edges and those swords were used for practicing forms, training his muscles to act without thought, but that day what he wanted was effort, extra effort. He had felt weak laying in a hospital tent up near the Kaltzen Pass after the wizards brought down the Gates of the Mountains and the army of Acedor had been destroyed. He had felt weak during the long carriage ride back to Linden, and he had chafed at the forced inactivity while resting in the royal hospital. His wounds were fully recovered, he knew that and even the fussy doctors admitted as much. Now he needed to recover his lost strength and stamina, and a hard session working with heavy swords in the sparring ring was just what he needed. His guards had offered to spar with him but he knew they would hold back for fear of embarrassing him, and anyway he knew he was not ready to spar against an opponent. So he thumped the leather and canvas practice targets by himself, and later he would hike and run out into the countryside rather than riding a horse.
Grunting with effort and dripping with sweat, he was disgusted to see his sword hand was struggling just to maintain a firm grip. He was not wearing a glove or using the sticky rosin substance provided in the sparring arena, because he wanted his hands and forearm to become strong enough to securely hold a sweat or blood-soaked sword hilt. He had learned that in battle, weapons are often coated with sweat, or blood, or merely wet from rain. He should not plan on having proper gloves, he could not even count on using his own sword or bow in battle. The greatest lesson Kyre had learned about combat is that it was complete, utter chaos and that anything could happen. His injury had been caused by a wizard, and none of his time in a sparring ring had trained him to fight a wizard.
“Watch your footwork,” called a voice behind him.
“Sire,” Kyre turned quickly and used the sword to salute his father. “Forgive me, I did not know you were here,” he said in a formal fashion devoid of familial warmth.
“I arrived only a moment ago,
but long enough to see you dragging your back foot,” Regin said without a smile. “An enemy would exploit such a weakness.”
Kyre nodded stiffly. Many sons would think their father too harsh, while knowing the father acted out of concern for the son’s well-being. Kyre no longer entertained such illusions, knowing his father reproached him from disappointment rather than any sense of protection. “In the sparring ring, or a duel, yes. In real battle, I have found there is little time for studying an enemy’s footwork,” he said to remind his father that he was no longer the pampered eldest child. He had been in desperate battles that stretched over days, and he had faced an enemy wizard when he thought he would die.
Regin nodded without speaking, understanding his son’s meaning. Kyre had seen combat, had nearly died. Regin remembered the first time he had fought a real battle and how that had changed him. He had a scar across his left shoulder from an orc’s axe, a wound that still ached when before a rainstorm.
Father and son spoke awkwardly for a while, until Kyre put away his sword and picked up a bow for archery practice. His arms were trembling from exertion and that was the perfect time to test his skill with a bow, for in battle he would need to shoot arrows whether his arms had strength or not. “Father, I heard you inspected the palace before the princess arrived. I thank you for that. She has many enemies, we must protect her.”
“I failed,” Regin replied stiffly, not wishing to address the subject.
“You did your best, Madame Dupres told me only a wizard could have noticed the danger.” Kyre paused from shooting arrows and turned to look at his father. “Did I tell you I swore an oath to protect Ariana? It was after the battle at the Gates, when I was in a hospital cot. Before Lord Salva pulled down the Gates I thought our princess was weak for allowing the enemy across the river to spite Duchess Rochambeau’s vote against her in the Council, but Ariana was not weak, she was very clever.”
“She is a clever girl,” Regin said through clenched teeth. “Mind your aim,” he pointed to the archery target, “you are pulling to the right.” With that, the duke of Burwyck walked away, mindful not to stomp the ground in his anger. His eldest son and heir had pledged to protect the very girl who stood between Regin and the throne of Tarador! Regin needed somewhere quiet to think, and he knew just the place.
“My father seems,” Kyre hesitated, realizing he was speaking of his family to a man who was only a guard. A trusted guard, a man Kyre had known for years, but the guard was not part of the Falco family. “Different,” he finished the thought in as neutral a way he could.
The guard smiled to himself, knowing what his young charge had been about to say. “Your father’s own guards have noticed a difference in him after your stirring victory at the Gates, Your Grace.”
“It was not my victory, Jonas,” Kyre protested from genuine modesty. “I never witnessed the final battle,” he added, with genuine disappointment. “The truth is, if I had halted the enemy before the Gates, I would have ruined our Regent’s careful plan.”
“You did not know that, Your Grace. You acted bravely.”
“And stupidly,” Kyre said ruefully. “Jonas, if you are ever faced with a wizard, take my advice and run. That is what I should have done. My father’s guards talk about him?”
“They talk to other guards,” Jonas explained.
“I see,” Kyre mused, wondering whether his guards talked about him. Of course they did, they must. “What do they say?”
“Only that,” the guard looked away.
“Jonas, you may speak freely. Consider it an order,” Kyre smiled, “if that helps.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Your father is unhappy, distracted, he is often alone and he does not seek the counsel of Mister Forne. After the princess was nearly killed here in the palace, your father was very fearful, his guards thought him depressed.”
“Did my father really inspect the palace before we returned from the Gates?”
“According to his guards, yes, he crawled in every nook and cranny. It was most tiring, from what I heard. The enemy assassin getting into the palace was not due to lack of effort by Duke Falco.”
“Hmm,” Kyre took the bronze sheath off his sword and placed it back on the rack. He was done with sword practice for the day, his arms shaking from the effort. “Yet, an enemy assassin did gain access to the palace. And a magical device was somehow planted in the Citadel.”
“It is said your father apologized to the princess.”
Kyre did not reply, his thoughts elsewhere. When his father spoke of how sorry he was about the attempt on Ariana’s life, he had avoided Kyre’s eyes, and his words had rung false to Kyre’s ears. He knew his father, and he knew his father was lying about something, something important. Regin Falco played no games of small stakes, so whatever his father was hiding, it was something big.
It made no sense that his father would have somehow been involved in the assassination attempt, for Regin desired nothing more than to put a Falco on the throne of Tarador, and he needed Ariana and Kyre for that. Or, Kyre remembered sourly, Regin needed Ariana and one of his sons, not necessarily Kyre. When he first saw his father at the royal hospital, and Regin had talked of how proud he was about Kyre’s bravery in battle, Kyre had sensed a hint that Regin Falco would have preferred Kyre to be a dead hero, so his more trustworthy younger brother Talen would be clear to marry Ariana.
Kyre slid his sword into its scabbard and decided he needed to get back into fighting condition sooner rather than later. “Jonas, tomorrow we will spar together.”
“You feel ready for such exertion, Your Grace?”
“No, and that is the point. I need to be ready.”
Regin Falco slowly ran his fingertips along the arm of the throne, a shiver of thrill traveling up his spine as he touched with his own hands the carved wood of the ancient chair, the surface worn smooth by centuries of royal hands both male and female. Yes, he thought, his expression darkening, the hands that had lawfully owned that chair had been both male and female, and there had been another, more important distinction. Those hands had belonged to the rightful rulers of Tarador, as well as more recently the usurper Trehaymes. The throne had belonged to the Falcos long before any unworthy Trehaymes sought to foul the throne by their presence. The throne had been stolen by the Trehaymes, who had schemed to keep it ever since. As current head the Falco line, the throne belonged to him, Regin thought as his fingertips pressed harder on the chair, his anger growing. When the Trehaymes stole the kingdom, they didn’t even have the decency to use their own chair as the throne. No, decency was not a trait of the Trehaymes, and Regin knew they had kept the old throne as a symbol of legitimacy for their illegitimate rule.
“Your Grace?”
“What?” Regin spun to see who had intruded on his thoughts, holding behind him the hand that had been caressing the throne. “Yes?” He asked, straightening and throwing his head back haughtily, hoping to keep the guilt he felt from showing on his face. “Captain Temmas?”
The chief of the palace guard tilted his head questioningly as he kept his voice neutral. “May I help you, Your Grace?” Regin Falco was not supposed to be alone in the throne room, even though the duke had been invited to stay in the palace by the crown princess herself. While Temmas would not intentionally offend the powerful duke, Regin Falco had no authority over him. Temmas was motivated by a deep-seated mistrust of all Falcos, by disgust at the duke touching the royal throne, and most of all by something basic: he had seen the guilty expression on Regin’s face as the man turned, and Temmas knew the man had been up to nothing good.
“No, I,” Regin could not prevent a flash of irritation from flitting across his face and he knew Temmas saw it. Any time Duke Falco was questioned by an underling, he felt a flare of rage and this time his usual arrogance was intensified by guilt. Temmas was no fool, Regin knew that, yet he also knew the palace guard captain had no proof of wrong-doing. “I was only thinking,” he tapped the throne lightly, “this throne will s
oon belong to my daughter-in-law, and someday by my heir’s oldest child. My grandchild. It is a remarkable thing to think of, isn’t it?”
“Er, yes, Your Grace,” Temmas replied stiffly, not moving from where he stood. Regin Falco did not belong in the throne room by himself and certainly should not ever be standing on the dais, touching the throne itself. Captain Temmas was prepared to stand right there all day if necessary to make it awkward enough that the Duke took the hint and left. As a duke, Regin Falco could not be touched without his permission, or orders from the Regent, or very strong evidence of treasonous activity. To prove treason, Temmas had the two royal palace guards behind him, but he could not even prove Duke Falco’s intent was treasonous, unless the mere fact of his being a Falco was sufficient. “The maids will be here shortly to polish the floors”, he hinted, knowing that was a lie and knowing Regin Falco also knew it was a lie.
“Oh, yes, certainly,” Regin tried to pass the moment off lightheartedly and failed miserably. “We must not keep maids waiting,” he frowned haughtily. With a nod to the captain and the other guards, he stepped off the dais and walked toward the far door. “Good day to you, Captain.”
Outside in the hallway, Regin continued on as if nothing had happened, striding purposefully up steps and continuing on up, up to the battlements that ringed the ancient castle. There, he dug his fingers into the old gray stone until his fingertips turned white and ached. He didn’t mind the physical pain, it distracted him from the far worse pain of knowing all the lands he could see should be his.
Would be his, he told himself and pushed aside his nagging thought that he would be king in Tarador only as a vassal of Acedor. No matter, he lied to himself as he turned back to look over the roofs of the royal palace, a palace that had been built and paid for by Falcos. Regin’s enemies would be vanquished, he would sit on the throne in Linden, and he would strive to ensure the best outcome for Tarador. The enemy’s victory was certain, their forces overwhelming, and Regin Falco was, in fact, a patriot rather than a traitor. So deep was his need for self-delusion that he believed his own lies. Yes, he was a patriot, seeking to salvage what he could of Taradoran culture in the face of his country inevitably being conquered by Acedor. It was silly, deluded fools like Ariana and Paedris who were the real traitors, wasting the lives of brave soldiers in their desperate attempt to cling onto power until the last moment.
Deceptions (Ascendant Book 3) Page 20
