by C. Night
“Here,” Cazing had said, his voice hoarse in the early morning. “Happy Name day.”
He handed Rhyen a black cloak, finer than the one he had worn at the Academy and far more formal.
“Thanks,” Rhyen smiled wanly. He had forgotten—he was twenty-nine today. “What is this for?” Rhyen asked, donning it.
“They’re sorcerer’s robes,” his master replied as he pulled his own grey set over his head. “Strictly ceremonial, of course, but it might impress the gravity of our meeting with the king.” He grinned at Rhyen.
Rhyen grinned back. “You’re embarrassed by my wardrobe, aren’t you?”
Cazing laughed. “Really, Rhyen, you should take more care about your appearance.” Rhyen seriously doubted that Cazing even owned a mirror, let alone used one, but the exchange eased his nerves a little, and they left Thom’s house with light steps.
“What did Caliena say last night?” Rhyen wondered as they made their way to their appointment.
“There are less than a half dozen pieces left out there, including the one the Zirite was carrying.”
“Was she all right?”
Cazing smiled. “She’s strong. She wants justice for her family, and, even though it was painful, she was happy to give me any information that would help bring the Zirites down.”
They fell into silence as they walked, both lost in their own thoughts.
The Palace occupied the entire fourth level of Conden, and the hill rose far sharper between the third and fourth ovals than it had between any of the other walls. They made the steep climb to the elaborate golden gates and stood in the short queue of palace workers, sleepily waiting to be admitted by the green and gold clad guards. When at last they were directly before the grand gates, the two soldiers crossed their spears to bar their way.
“State your name and business, strangers,” the bearded one spat.
“Cazing of Avernade,” said the master, and his apprentice echoed, “Rhyen of Avernade.” It felt good to own their titles again. They did not have to fear Zirites searching for Rhyen here. Everywhere were the green and gold soldiers of Conden, patrolling, alert, and ready for action.
“Sorcerers!” said the younger guard, his voice sincere with real awe.
“What is your business here, Sorcerers?” The bearded soldier was more respectful in his tone and manner now.
“We have an audience with his Majesty the King,” Rhyen said when it became obvious Cazing was too distracted to answer. Rhyen glanced over at his master and saw him staring with distaste and disbelief at the golden spears and helmets of the guards, which blended into the gold gates.
“Of course, Sorcerer,” the guard replied, bowing low with his fellow. He briefly consulted a scroll. “You are to have a page escort you to his majesty’s throne room, sirs. Please come this way.” He nodded curtly to his younger partner before bowing again and gesturing Rhyen and Cazing inside the palace grounds. He led them up another hill, the steepest yet, until the ground suddenly leveled out. The soldier indicated they should sit at a private outdoor bench, surrounded by beautifully landscaped bushes and trees yielding fragrant flowers of every kind. He bowed once more before respectfully saluting, snapping his spear to his side, his boots clicking smartly together. Then he was gone, returned to the gate, and the two sorcerers were left waiting.
Rhyen took in his surroundings with enthusiasm. “This is nice!”
The feeling of worry lingered in his gut, but he was enjoying the royal style of the place. It was just like in a children’s story, with its golden arches overhung with flowering vines, well-manicured gardens, and fountains splashing every few feet. The Palace itself was already the grandest building Rhyen had ever even imagined, and he only had glimpses of it through the leaves. The view of the city was unimpeded and spectacular from this height. Rhyen was surprised at just how high this royal level was above the rest of the city. He could barely make out the outer oval, the first level, from this distance. But the sea was very blue from up here, and the sky larger than life. “I could get used to Palace life!” Rhyen chuckled.
Cazing didn’t share his apprentice’s enjoyment. “It is very different from when last I was here,” he said quietly. “Very different.”
“How so?”
“It’s too rich for Conden. This country yields very little gold or gems, and most of its wealth stems from trade and agriculture.” Cazing shook his head darkly. “It’s too wasteful.”
Just then, their escort, the page, bustled importantly up to them. “I am Wanall, his royal Majesty the King’s faithful page,” he said in a nasally voice. Rhyen disliked him immediately. He was puffed up with his own self-importance, and somewhat older than Rhyen was expecting of a page. He had heavy velvet robes that trailed effeminately after him, and gold rings sparkled from every finger. “You will follow me,” he ordered.
Cazing and Rhyen both stood very slowly. Wanall’s eyes widened, and he seemed to remember that he was dealing with two sorcerers. He hastily inclined his head in what was almost a bow, and squeakily added, “If it pleases you, Sorcerers, sirs.”
Cazing exhaled a heavy sigh through flared nostrils, and rolled his eyes. “Just take us to the king.”
“Right away, Sorcerers, sirs,” Wanall said, regaining much of his self-important tone.
Rhyen followed in Cazing’s wake, his eyes ready, taking in the Palace. They were marching through a stone courtyard of glistening, blinding white marble, and in the center stood an enormous fountain, so large it dwarfed all which had preceded it, carved from some green stone that sparkled as the water splashed around it. The fountain was three levels high, and the supports were carved mer-people engaged in singing or playing strange, reedy flutes. Their escort smirked at Rhyen’s awed expression, and steered them towards it for a closer look. The detailing was incredible. Rhyen almost believed that the mer-people were real, with their carved hair swirling around them, and their wicked triangular eyes looking cleverly up at him. The water fell like tinkling bells around them, and it sounded eerie, although enchanting, like music in the night. Rhyen unthinkingly moved forward. Their eyes were so compelling.
Wanall waved airily at the fountain. “A gift to his Majesty from the sirens.”
Rhyen blinked. The nasally voice had pulled him from his reverie. Rhyen tore his eyes away from the fountain, and looked carefully over at the king’s escort. He was sneering, and his voice was bored, as though this beautifully intricate fountain impressed him not. Rhyen could tell that he was just putting on a show for their sake. Pompous ass.
“The Jade Garden,” said Wanall lazily, studying his fingers and nodding his head over his shoulder, as though he couldn’t be bothered to look behind him. Rhyen looked, and saw to his amazement that there really was a garden behind the fountain, and it really was carved entirely of jade. The details were stunning—roses with drops of water clinging to their opened petals, thorns clear on their glass-like stems, and a myriad of other flowers whose names Rhyen didn’t know shone against the white marble and glittered under the morning sun. Everything was carved from jade and was perfect, a garden captured forever in full bloom.
Rhyen’s jaw dropped. Just how wealthy was this king that he could afford such unheard of luxuries? He remembered how his master had thought the golden gates, spears, and helmets too rich for Conden. He couldn’t even imagine how much more so this garden was.
Cazing frowned, looking calculatingly at the garden. His eyes were concerned. “This is new,” he said quietly.
Their escort nodded importantly. “Indeed,” he said, rather bored. “His Majesty just commissioned it a few years ago. They finished it last spring. Nice, isn’t it?” He laughed-- Rhyen thought at his under-exaggeration—and turned away. “Follow me.”
Rhyen started to walk, but Cazing was rooted, staring with worry at the garden.
Rhyen began to feel uneasy. It took a lo
t for Cazing to become this ruffled. “What’s wrong?” he asked his master.
Cazing continued to frown at the garden. “This is too rich for Conden,” he said again. “I don’t know for certain… but I hope I’m wrong.”
Rhyen glanced at him. “What do you mean?” he whispered urgently. If there was trouble, he wanted to be ready.
“Ahem,” Wanall whined. They both turned to look at him, then caught each other’s gaze. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Rhyen read in Cazing’s eyes that something was very wrong.
“Come on,” Cazing muttered finally. “But stay close to me.”
Rhyen nodded and continued forward, through the pillar-lined marble courtyard, and up one hundred steps of gold to the king’s new throne hall.
The hall itself was magnificent—massive golden archways were carved intricately into the sweeping boughs of oak trees, the roots rippled across the marble floor, the branches stretched to the great curved ceiling. Green gems glittered from carved leaves, and the way the light caught them almost made Rhyen believe that they were swaying in a wind. There were six of these trees along both sides of the corridor, leading the way to the king.
Rhyen walked quietly under the golden branches, mouth partially opened. His eyes were wide. The bejeweled trees stood taller than several stories, and their leaves numbered in the hundreds. He had never, in all his wildest dreams, imagined that such wealth existed. It made all the riches piled in the seventh floor of the Tower Avernade seem like the most meager of pocket change. High windows, stained with scenes of terrible battles and sweet, triumphant victory, let in light through the very tops of the trees. The sunshine was distorted by the colors in the windows, and so an eerie, watery glow was all that lighted the great hall.
The hair on Rhyen’s neck stood, and he felt chills run down his arms. For all its beauty, the hall felt dark, sinister. There was a loud blow, and Rhyen turned so quickly he cricked his neck. The giant mahogany doors, almost thirty feet high and half as thick, had been closed. Now only the rapt clicking of Wanall’s pointed boots broke the silence. As they took the long march to the throne, Rhyen glanced to either side of the hall. In the shadows stood dozens of armed guards, watching them pass with vigilant, hardened eyes. Also, between the golden trunks, were hung enormous embroidered banners and tapestries. The same person—a haughty looking man with a self-satisfied sneer—was depicted in each. The eyes of the figure were strange, as if they belonged to a mad man. Before Rhyen had time to wonder who he was, the clicking sound stopped, and Rhyen bumped into Cazing.
Cazing turned his head slightly to glare at him, and Rhyen gritted his teeth. He wanted to leave this place. He saw that they had finally reached the throne, which was elevated above them so that even Rhyen had to crane his neck to see the king. The page fell to his knees in near worship, and in his oily voice announced, “His Majesty, Ruler of Conden, Lord of All, King Terre the Mighty and Powerful.”
Terre himself was seated on his purple velvet throne, and hung so heavy with jewels and diamonds that Rhyen seriously doubted he could have stood without support for long. His hair was so blonde it was almost white, and his skin matched it, and although he couldn’t have been more than fifty, he looked as frail as an old man. His eyes were so light they were almost clear, and there was a strange glow in them. Rhyen realized this man was the feature of all the tapestries that lined the throne room. There was a ringing silence as Cazing and Rhyen inclined their heads at the king and considered him.
Cazing’s brow was lined with worry as he studied the king. Rhyen was afraid of the man—something was wrong with his eyes. They were sharp and shrewd, but there was something else shining in them. Rhyen thought at first that it was a madness glinting through his clear eyes, but that wasn’t it. Madness was easy to diagnose, and this man, the king, whatever else he was, was not mad. He tapped his finger on his throne and looked them over with the shrewd consideration of a sane person. His sanity was more frightening than any madness Rhyen could have imagined, for if Terre was indeed in his right mind, than what—or who—exactly drove his decisions?
“Greetings, your Majesty,” Cazing said finally, his voice saturated with authority. “I am Cazing of Avernade, and this is Rhyen of Avernade. We bring you tidings on the coming war.”
The king smirked and closed his eyes in a slow blink, as if greatly amused. He opened them and stared into Cazing’s face as though weighing him. “There is no war here, Sorcerer.” His voice was confident and even.
The hairs on the back of Rhyen’s neck stood up again, and he was grateful for his long-sleeved sorcerer’s robes. Something was eerily off about the king. He was too sure, too certain—he was beyond madness, but not insane. Rhyen narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the monarch. There was an aura of familiarity about the king, although what was so familiar about him was just beyond Rhyen’s grasp. He tried to place it as his master answered.
“Perhaps not, but there will be.” Cazing looked around. “Where are your advisors, my lord?”
“How dare you!” Wanall snapped. “His Majesty the Mighty and Powerful needs no advisors!”
Rhyen looked sharply at the page. “Speak again, friend,” he said warningly, emphasizing the last word. His voice, like Cazing’s, dripped with magical authority. Something was wrong, and Cazing and he needed to place their full attention upon the king. They didn’t need this arrogant escort commenting on their every word. Rhyen glared at the page, and Wanall huddled back in fright and nodded his understanding. Rhyen returned his gaze to the king, who was still smirking his hideous, overconfident sneer, his clear stare boring down into the sorcerers.
Cazing’s face was taut with apprehension. “Zirith is preparing for war. They will engage you any day now. Their soldiers are already attacking your own people, straying far from their garrisons, killing your subjects and burning their lands as they go.”
The king remained frozen, smiling down at them. “There is no war here,” he repeated, completely self-assured.
Cazing and Rhyen glanced at each other. “Sire,” Rhyen tried, all fear of addressing a royal forgotten and replaced with shock at the gruesome figure, “as king you have a duty to protect your people. What defenses have you in place?”
The king’s eyes didn’t leave Cazing’s face. He gave no indication that he had heard Rhyen.
Cazing looked around the throne hall with disgust. “I see you’ve renovated the Palace since last I was here. Did you empty the treasury in doing so?”
Rhyen thought that was brassier than they could afford, trapped as they were in the hall with the eerie king. Wanall mouthed in wordless indignation, but Rhyen’s warning seemed to say with him, and he remained silent. Rhyen watched as the guards looked at each other, unsure of what action to take. They hung back in the shadows cast by the golden trees, nervously doing nothing.
Cazing pressed on, taking a step toward the grinning king. “What kind of king would rob his own coffers? This wealth and unheard of luxury will be the ruin of Conden. What money have you left for the army? What can you do now to protect your people?”
At this, the king chuckled quietly. He leaned back into his velvet throne. Rhyen saw a red scar, almost circular, in the center of his forehead, below the silver circlet crown that ran across it. Strangely, the crown was the only thing plain in the entire hall—just a worked, circular piece of silver or white gold, free from other ornamentation. Strange that the king had not traded it in for something grander. He seemed to have done so with everything else. Rhyen frowned as he looked at the crown. Somehow, the lack of ornamentation seemed important.
Cazing and Rhyen exchanged an uneasy glance as Terre continued to laugh. His clear eyes burned as he surveyed the two sorcerers. Then, quite suddenly, Rhyen almost fell to his knees, at last placing the feeling of familiarity he had been sensing. His skin crawled and his nerves shattered at the extreme and unexpected blast of recognition. Unbid
den memories of a rider in black, silent and still, swam before his eyes. The same feeling of eerie magic that announced the Dark Rider rolled in nauseating waves from Terre while he sat, still grinning, on his throne. Rhyen gazed, horrified and transfixed, at the king.
The king wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb, slowly and delicately. His eyes never left Cazing’s face. “What enemy could you possibly imagine I need to protect them from, Cazing of Avernade?” he asked confidently, his tone dripping with intelligence and cunning. He had a low, smooth voice, perfectly controlled and certain. “Perhaps it is you who are my enemy. Why else would you bring the Eighth Born here?” The king tilted his head toward Rhyen.
Rhyen started. How on earth had the king known that he, Rhyen, was an eighth-born child?
“What did you say?” asked Cazing hoarsely. He looked even more shocked than Rhyen felt.
“I think you heard me, Cazing of Avernade,” Terre answered. He closed his eyes in another long blink, and when he opened them, he looked slyly at Rhyen.
Rhyen stared back with indignant confusion. Why should Terre fear Rhyen? Why would he have thought Cazing an enemy just because the old sorcerer had brought him along? Surely Rhyen was no threat to Terre—he was, after all, a Condenish citizen, a subject of the king. But then Rhyen remembered the familiarity. This king was somehow connected to the Dark Rider, he was sure of it. Perhaps it was no small wonder that the king knew of Rhyen’s heritage, the fact that he was an eighth-born child, if he was in contact with the Dark Rider. Did Terre know who the still figure really was? Rhyen moved forward, his curiosity getting the better of his fear, intending to ask Terre about the Dark Rider, but Cazing had flung out his arm to prevent Rhyen from getting any closer to the throne. Rhyen looked sideways at his master. Cazing looked terrified, and his fear translated into Rhyen.
The old sorcerer worked for a half a second and managed to control himself, smoothing his features into an impassive expression. “You know who he is?”
