TRANSCENDENT
By Craig Alanson
Text copyright 2016 Craig Alanson
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER ONE
The evening breeze blew a stray lock of hair into Nurelka’s eyes, and she brushed it away in irritation. The light, swirling breeze danced the lock of hair straight up, then back into her eyes. Huffing in frustration, she took firm hold of it and tucked the end up under her scarf, tugging the scarf down to secure the hair in place.
The guard next to her leaned over in his saddle to whisper "You missed a-"
"I know," she whispered back, more loudly than she intended, and ignored the stray hairs as best she could.
The man looked stung, and turned away.
"Sorry, Duston," she said to the man, "I didn't mean to snap at you. I am only, oh, how many nights are we going to do this?" She nodded toward the setting sun, toward the silhouette of the young crown princess, sitting still and silent on her horse, with another riderless horse beside her. The crown princess of Tarador was gazing sadly into yet another sunset.
"Until it's enough," Duston announced with the wisdom of his years. "Until she decides it is enough."
"It will never be enough," Nurelka declared, "not until that boy returns."
"He's no boy," Duston replied, twisting in the saddle to ease his stiff back. "Not anymore. Not after all that has happened to him. Not if he is out there, on his own."
"He is out there?" Nurelka asked, not expecting an answer.
"Most likely. The wizard says he would know if Koren were dead. I don't know how he would know, he seemed pretty sure of it, I tell you. Best to stay out of the affairs of wizards."
"It's best," she agreed. "Still, I don't know as to why Lord Salva is so concerned about one servant running away. He's had many, over the years."
"Any of them ever been accused of injuring the princess?" Duston asked. "Or being a jinx?"
"No, but-"
"That's why the wizard cares. Something's going on with that Koren. I don't know whether the wizard feels guilty that he is somehow at fault for Koren leaving," Duston frowned. Someone in the castle knew the full story, and whoever they were, they weren't talking. "Or that he didn't stop the Lady," he meant the Regent Carlana Trehayme, "from accusing Koren of being a dangerous jinx."
"Is he?" Nurelka asked.
"A jinx?" Duston rubbed his beard. "Talking to the soldiers who were with him and the wizard, when they were attacked, most of them think Koren's quick action saved them. He certainly saved the wizard, all by himself. Others, ah, they're not sure. It was certainly very odd bad luck to be attacked, deep inside Tarador, on a fine, clear spring morning. That was bad luck, you could say they were jinxed. So, I don't know. The wizard says there is no such thing as a jinx-"
"You'd expect a wizard to say something like that, wouldn't you?"
"I suppose. Yes, they would have to say something like that."
The two, the former royal guard who now watched over the young crown princess, and the woman who had been Ariana's maid since the girl was little, sat silently on their horses a moment, looking into the setting sun. Looking at the princess, who was alone. Alone, except for two trusted personal servants just out of earshot. And a hundred members of the royal guard, mostly staying out of sight but forming a secure perimeter around their precious charge, the future leader of Tarador.
“She never smiles anymore,” Nurelka sighed. “She used to smile all the time. It was such a joy to see her happy.”
“She didn’t smile for a long time after her father died,” Duston observed. Her father. The man Duston knew as the king of Tarador, back then. Duston reached over to the maid and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "She will smile again, someday. Someday, you'll see, Nurelka," he added with a smile that he didn't feel.
"It had best be soon, Duston, before the enemy falls upon us. None of us will be smiling then."
Duston nodded grimly. After the enemy attack on the court wizard, the whole nation seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the enemy to strike again. "Soon," he said, "it will be soon."
As the sun touched the horizon, Ariana almost held her breath. She had done that, holding her breath, the first time she watched a sun set after Koren had fled. At the time, she had told herself that Koren would return, if only she could hold her breath from the moment the bottom of the sun kissed the horizon until it disappeared entirely. That first time, she had gasped for breath in panic before the orb had sunk halfway, alarmed at how long it took for the sun to set. Usually, it happened within seconds, it seemed! Perhaps time slowed when you held your breath. Knowing she was likely being silly but desperate to do something, the next time she was able to view a sunset, she had timed it with a glass. Over three minutes! Could she hold her breath that long? No matter, it was silly anyway, something she did for herself and not to help Koren in any real way. The time for her to indulge in silly things was long past. She needed to put little girl things aside and lead her nation to victory. Or, survival. Survival first, then perhaps they could begin thinking of eventual victory. Survival, in her lifetime, might be the best she could hope for.
Not taking her eyes off the setting sun, she reached out with her left hand, and Thunderbolt stepped close enough for her to pet the horse's head. After Koren left, the horse had been frantic, nearly breaking out of his stall. The stable master had not known what to do, he had been almost in tears the day Ariana visited the stables. Ariana had ordered that the great horse be released from the stables into the high-walled paddock, and allowed to wander in and out as he pleased. No one, Ariana decreed, would ever put a saddle or bridle on Thunderbolt, until Koren returned to do that by himself. Ariana leaned over to scratch the horse's mane, which was tangled and needed brushing. Thunderbolt only allowed two people to groom him; Ariana and Lord Salva, both of whom were extremely busy, and both of whom came to the stables several times each week anyway. Ariana enjoyed spending time with Thunderbolt, she felt close to Koren while she was grooming the great horse. As she tussled the horse's mane, and he leaned in close to her, the last rays of the sun fell behind the western hills; the sun had set on another day. Another day when Koren Bladewell had not returned. "What do you think he's doing right now?" She asked the horse. "Is he watching the sun set?"
Thunderbolt tossed his head, looked at her with one eye, and snorted sadly.
Lord Paedris Don Salva came back to awareness with a gasp, pulling himself from deeply within the spirit world. His eyes not focusing properly, he blinked and looked around, wondering where he was. Then realized with a shock, and looked to the west. He was at the platform on top of his tower, and the sun was almost touching the horizon. "Cecil!" He tried to shout, all that came out was a thin croak. How long had they been there? They had begun the spell after mid-day. Hours? They must have been there, unaware, for hours.
"Cecil!" He swallowed to soothe his raw throat. "Mwazo! Lord Mwazo!" He shook the other wizard, wh
o lay slumped on the platform, having fallen off the bench they had been on. The man did not respond, even when Paedris shook him. Glancing at the sun, which had now slid down so that its bottom edge was below the horizon, Paedris felt fear. The darkness of night was the province of the enemy; Paedris knew that Mwazo was in grave danger. He gathered his strength, thinly stretched as it was, touched a palm to the man's forehead, and delivered a shock. Strong enough that Paedris felt the shock up his own arm to his shoulder and neck.
It worked. Mwazo gasped, his eyes fluttering, as he was rudely pulled from the spirit world. "Wha-" he choked, rose onto one elbow, and collapsed.
"Rest, my friend," Paedris managed to say, and pulled Mwazo's head into his lap. "Drink," he said, as he pulled the cork from a flask of water and held it to Mwazo's lips. The other man drank sloppily, most of the water pouring down into the platform. No matter, Paedris had plenty of water. "We were gone for far too long. That was foolish of me."
"S-sorry," Mwazo stammered, his mouth still parched.
"Sorry? For what?" Paedris asked, as he opened another flask of water and drained the whole flask. His hands shook so much that half the water spilled out onto his clothes. He was weary, weary deeply into his bones; he knew that he and Mwazo would be weak and exhausted for many days.
"I failed," Mwazo explained. "Even with you lending your power, I could not discern the enemy's mind." The wizard had traveled the spirit world, seeking to penetrate the enemy's mind, to learn the thoughts and plans of their ancient enemy. "All I can tell you is that I received an impression of great eagerness, a terrible impatience, a longing. The enemy will strike soon. Beyond that, I cannot tell you anything. I'm sorry."
"Cecil, you tried to enter the mind of a demon from the underworld. You could have been lost to us, forever. You did not fail, my friend," Paedris assured the other wizard, and he watched the last rays of the setting sun. "I lack the ability to see into the enemy's mind, only you can do that. It is perhaps past the point where even my power can make any difference."
"Perhaps," Mwazo agreed. Lord Salva's power was truly impressive, beyond anything Mwazo could imagine. But the enemy's power was greater still, great enough to evade even Mwazo's skill. To penetrate the shield the enemy had around its mind would take the power of a wizard more powerful, far more powerful than Paedris Don Salva. There was only one such wizard Mwazo knew of who had that much power, and that young wizard had fled Tarador. "I am certain of one very important thing, Paedris," Mwazo said quietly.
"What is that?"
"The enemy has not captured Koren Bladewell."
"No," Carlana Trehayme, Regent of Tarador, said. Then she sighed. "Must we have this argument every time we talk, General?"
Grand General Magrane was as weary of the argument as Carlana was. "Every time you seek my advice in military matters, yes. The enemy is poised for attack along our border. Our scouts, and wizards," he glanced out the window to Lord Salva's tower, "report that the enemy is massing forces in three areas, and that wagon trains of supplies extend back at least thirty miles. They will attack this summer; such a large force cannot be sustained in the field indefinitely. So, again, Your Highness, when you seek my advice I will tell you that we must attack. We must strike before the enemy is ready, if only to conduct a raid for the purpose of throwing off the enemy's timing. To remain on the defensive, especially pulling back our main force to defend the capital, is certain to fail. We must go on the offensive, we must seize the initiative, take the fight to the enemy. Then we can dictate the terms of the fighting. All my years of military experience tell me this; yet when you seek my advice, you ignore my council."
"Seeking advice does not mean always agreeing. I have many advisors, General," Carlana looked out the window to where the sun was approaching the horizon. "The decision ultimately rests with me."
"Then, again, I offer my resignation."
"And again," Carlana managed a hint of smile at their little dance, "I refuse. Your nation needs you, General. An old soldier like you would not shirk your duty in time of war."
Magrane nodded curtly. As long as there was a chance, any chance, that he could prevail in his ongoing argument, he would remain in command of Tarador's army. "If we are done, Your Highness, I will take my leave of you?"
Carlana nodded, and turned her attention to a pile of scrolls on her desk. Magrane bowed slightly, strode purposefully out of the room, walked down a long hallway, and stepped through a door onto a battlement. The guards there saluted stiffly, and backed away, to give the general privacy. With hands scarred from many battles, and calloused from years of hard toil, he gripped the edge of the stone that was also worn smooth from years of use. Looking into the setting sun, he knew that same sun would soon be setting on the enemy's forces to the west, just across the border.
The enemy would be coming, soon. And Tarador was not ready.
Kyre Falco was also standing on a battlement watching the sun setting on a bitter day, only Kyre was atop the outer wall of his family's keep, not the royal castle in Linden. After the attack on Lord Salva, Ducal families had been allowed to bring their eldest children home from Linden, to make preparations for war. Kyre's younger brother Talen remained in Linden, as hostage against his father attempting to use the Falco's ducal army to overthrow the Trehaymes, it had always been that way. The fact that the royal family needed hostages to avoid a civil war, Kyre thought sourly, was a sign of the divisions within Tarador that made the realm weaker in the face of the enemy. In the case of his father, he had to admit, the Trehaymes were wise to require a hostage; his father burned inside to take back the throne that he thought rightfully belonged to the Falcos.
"Don't you worry about it, young sire," The soldier said quietly enough so that only Kyre Falco could hear him. "Your father will see your qualities soon."
Kyre turned away from gazing at the sun, which had just touched the hills to the west. "Jonas," he addressed the man by name, something that his father would never have done. Regin Falco would consider knowing the names of the common soldiers in his army to be beneath him. "Thank you. How is your son doing?"
Jonas brightened. "Much better, thank you, Your Grace." His son had been injured when a farm cart fell against his leg; Kyre had sent the Falco's personal surgeon to look after the young boy. That was another reason Regin Falco was not happy with his son, and had spent much of the afternoon railing against Kyre's weakness and lack of focus. "He was walking this morning, he will be healing right soon, thanks to you."
"Thank our surgeon, Jonas not me. I am only sorry that he was called away on an urgent matter." There had been no urgent matter, and Kyre and Jonas both knew that. When Regin Falco learned that the family's personal surgeon had been sent to care for the son of a lowly foot soldier, the Duke had called the man back to the keep, and angrily instructed both Kyre and the surgeon never to do such a thing again.
Jonas coughed. "Yes, Your Grace. No matter, my boy will be fine, up and around in a week, the surgeon told us." The man glanced quickly left and right, assuring they were still safely out of earshot. "There are others who," he hesitated, seeking to choose his words carefully, "appreciate when a leader sees that loyalty runs two ways, not one."
Kyre looked at the man sharply, thinking he was being baited. Seeing the almost pleading look on the man's face, Kyre relaxed slightly, and nodded. Jonas had been with Kyre on the night that Kyre had given up his tent, to let a sick soldier get a comfortable night's rest. Regin had not been happy about that either, but the majority of the soldiers had heartily approved, and word had spread quickly within the ducal army. "With war coming," Kyre responded, choosing his own words carefully, "we will need to rely on loyalty more than ever."
Jonas nodded silently, and stepped back to give the ducal heir privacy, as they watched the last rays of the sun disappear behind the hills.
Inside the secure walls of his keep, Regin Falco stepped back from a balcony, and closed the door behind him. He stood facing the window, watchi
ng the sun set over hills that defined the border of his ancestral lands.
Once, all of Tarador belonged to the Falcos, before the upstart Trehaymes used a crisis to greedily seize power, and they had held the throne ever since. Seeing the shrunken border of his land only made Regin angry, he sought to use that anger as energy to feed his resolve. Regin was in a foul mood, having once again been compelled to correct his eldest son and heir. Kyre, who had as a young boy been so promising, had grown soft during his years in Linden. The boy had fallen under the influence of those people in the capital who sought to curry favor from the Trehaymes; weak people who had no minds of their own. Regin himself had experienced such influence when he was a boy in Linden; he had resisted the usurper Trehayme family's attempts to make him betray his legacy. Regin had stood fast and remained true to the Falcos, never wavering from the family's cause that had consumed every duke and duchess for hundreds of years; recapturing the throne. Now, Regin feared that Kyre, because of weakness and self-doubt, preferred the false comfort of popularity to the hard path of power. Regin knew his son was popular with some soldiers in the ducal army, popular for the wrong reasons. Popular because Kyre was soft on the men, because he took the easy path of popularity, rather than maintaining the distance a commander needed. What did Kyre think would happen, Regin asked himself bitterly, the first time the boy led men into battle, the first time he had to order men forward to their deaths? How popular would he be then, when the soldiers saw their fellows lying dead on a battlefield, knowing Kyre's actions led to their deaths?
Not so long ago, Regin had high hopes for Kyre, that the boy could gain the favor of princess Ariana, and the Falcos could regain the throne through marriage. Now, Regin concluded bitterly, his heir might someday catch the eye of the princess, but it would be due to Kyre's softness and weakness, and he would no longer truly be a Falco. Any alliance between Kyre and Ariana, Regin saw, would be the Trehaymes seeing a way to absorb and corrupt the Falcos. The opposite of what the Falcos had sought for centuries.
Transcendent (Ascendant Book 2) Page 1
