Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  She slept.

  When she awoke, pain was shooting down her arms and legs. Geddle was standing outside her cell with a crooked smile on his face. The pain worsened until she could not help but scream. She heard Rylar begin screaming a moment later.

  Another stretch of long hours passed. The pains were sporadic but frequent, coming sharp and sudden with only seconds between. By the time the spell wore off she felt as though her entire body had been through an hours-long earthquake. Yet she could find no discernible sign that any actual damage had been done.

  No sooner had she come to her senses than Geddle was casting again.

  The next several days were the longest and most excruciating of Alynor’s life. There seemed no end to Geddle’s tortures; each of his spells wracked Alynor and Rylar with a new kind of pain. Though his magics may have spared her physical harm, the effects on her mind were another matter entirely. Her constant worry over the child growing inside her had driven her to the edge of reason. Darion will hear of this, she promised. If our baby does not survive, the gods have mercy on Geddle the Wise and anyone else responsible.

  She began to wonder whether Darion would ever return to Maergath. She hated him for leaving her alone like this, even while she prayed he was still alive. There had been no news of the ford or the invading armies, and Geddle refused to answer her questions where that was concerned. In fact, each time she tried to speak to him, he only cast another spell in reply.

  One day she awoke to find Geddle gone, probably on one of his errands for the king. The chamber was filled with Dathiri soldiers as usual, but for the first time in as long as she could remember, she was not in pain. Her dress was ragged and smudged with dirt. She remembered the way Rylar’s tabard had looked the day they brought her here. Now she understood why.

  The prince looked far worse now. He lay on the floor of his cell, sprawled out as if thrown there. His eyes were closed, his face thin and pale, his long hair tousled above the sweat gleaming on his forehead.

  It wasn’t until he stirred that Alynor realized she could hear normally again. There was no muted quality to the prince’s movements on the dirt floor, and she could hear his groans clearly. Had Geddle’s ward run out? Why wasn’t he back yet? This must be some trick, she mused.

  The chamber door opened, and a fresh complement of guards came in to relieve the others on duty. Alynor shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep. When the soldiers exchanged pleasantries, she could hear even the low tones of their voices as clear as day.

  “Be sure you don’t nod off tonight,” said one soldier to another. “Word is his majesty’s coming by later to have a word with the prisoners.”

  “If you think I’ll believe that for a second, you must take me for a fool.”

  The first soldier chuckled. “You fell for it straightaway last time.”

  “What did he fall for?” asked a third.

  “He told me Esvalda Queen was taking a tour of the soldiers’ quarters two nights ago. Said I ought to hide my braies, lest I embarrass her majesty.”

  The soldiers galed with laughter.

  “Mind your tongue in front of the lady,” said a different soldier, gesturing toward Alynor.

  “His majesty really is coming this time,” said the first. “Mark my words.”

  “Your words ain’t worth the mark.”

  Alynor couldn’t tell whether the man was playing some trick or if he was telling the truth. What could Olyvard King want with her now? Or was it Rylar Prince he was coming to see? She and the prince had both endured their punishment for trying to escape. What further reprimand could his majesty be planning to dole out?

  The first soldier shrugged. “Have it your way. Sleep all you like tonight, if it please you. When his majesty’s the one to wake you, don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”

  Chapter 23

  “If I do not stay, the keep will fall.”

  “If you do not go, his majesty will never agree to Rudgar King’s demands.”

  Darion and Palavar stared at one another across the table in the Commander’s tent. They had been at this debate for hours, and their arguments were beginning to circle back around on one another.

  In the tent with them sat most of the Dathiri captains and all three of Darion’s companions. They had established that a trip to Maergath and back in three days was an impossibility. Darion could shorten the trip with magic, but not to so large a degree. And since Olyvard King would never step down as ruler of Dathrond, they were staking everything on the hope that returning Rudgar’s son to him would end the siege. All they needed to do now was find him.

  The bigger problem, as Darion saw it, was that none of them knew whether Rylar Prince was alive. Perhaps the prince had died by some accident while staying at Maergath, and this had all been his majesty’s attempt at covering it up. Whatever the reason for Olyvard’s lies, Commander Palavar seemed convinced that Darion was the only man capable of discovering the truth.

  “My companions are more than adequate to perform this task,” Darion insisted.

  “Why, Sir Darion, I’m flattered,” said Kestrel. “I believe that’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

  “Shut up, singer. I would return to Maergath myself, if I could. I know you three better than anyone in this camp. If you do not go, I fear what may happen. The ford’s defenses must hold.”

  “Do you take me for an incompetent, Sir Ulther?” Palavar asked. “I have held the ford against the Korengadi alliance for weeks now. If Rudgar King wishes to take a more aggressive stance, let him. We will be ready.”

  “It is not your prowess on the battlefield I doubt,” said Sir Darion. “Only the size of your army.”

  “Your companions lack the influence to sway his majesty,” said Palavar. “If you send them to Maergath in your stead, they will be only messengers. Your years of history, friendship, and faithful servitude to Dathrond put you in far better standing.”

  “This task requires nothing more than a reliable messenger. The threat to his majesty’s rule will be enough to persuade him toward the right decision.”

  “For most kings, that may be true. His majesty is not like most kings.”

  “That much we shall soon know for certain. Now that I am here, I will not leave the ford until the Korengadi do.”

  Palavar sat back in his chair. “I see. You fear his majesty’s wrath, if you go back.”

  “I do not fear Olyvard King. I came to Maergath as a help to him, because he asked. Because I served his father, and loved him. Should Olyvard choose not to accept what help I offer, that is his folly, not some slight on my part that I should be made to pay for.”

  “It would seem you serve our king with less reverence than you did his father.”

  “Your words border on accusation, Commander.”

  “And yours on insolence, Sir Ulther.”

  “I’ll not debate the extent of my loyalties to the Dathiri crown. I will stay here at the ford. These three will return to Maergath in my stead. That is my final decision. Let Rudgar King lead his assault. Should you decide you do not need my help when the attack begins, I shall take you at your word and leave you to your own, though the keep may burn behind me.”

  Palavar stroked his chin. “For all our sakes, you had best hope these companions of yours are as trustworthy as you say.”

  Darion was unsure how much he trusted Kestrel, but he and the others were the only men here who knew Alynor’s face. It did not hurt that they were also skilled in combat. When it came to Alynor’s safety and protection, that made them the only choice.

  When the Commander dismissed them from his tent, Darion scratched out a letter to Olyvard King and sealed it with his ring before handing it to Kestrel. They made arrangements to hire a boat and met at the docks just before nightfall. They were dressed in plainclothes, their Dathiri colors packed away.

  “Travel swiftly,” Darion said. “This is for my lady wife.” He handed Kestrel a second letter he’d wr
itten that afternoon. “After you speak with the king, you must see to her as soon as you can. Deliver this to her yourself, if possible, and do not tell the king you have it. Make sure she is safe, and keep an eye on her thereafter to ensure she remains so. I warn you… an eye is the only thing you may keep on her. If I find you’ve exceeded that, I’ll relieve you of whatever’s responsible.”

  “Milord is always such a pleasant fellow,” said Kestrel. “You’ve not a thing to worry about. His majesty shall hear the enemy’s terms; we’ll get to the bottom of this messy business with Rylar Prince; and I shall protect Lady Alynor as though she were my own wife.”

  “Your own mother,” Darion said sharply.

  “That might be a difficult role to imagine her in, given her youth. My own sister then, perhaps.”

  “No telling how your sort treat their sisters. See the only thing you imagine is that no harm comes to her.”

  “You offend me,” said Kestrel. “Do you truly think me so coarse?”

  “I think you’re an opportunist. And I think my lady wife is an attractive woman.”

  “You are right on both counts.”

  Then I pray I’m not making a mistake, Darion thought. “If you truly call me friend, now’s the time to prove it.”

  “Everyone is my friend,” said Kestrel, “until they give me reason to believe otherwise.”

  Triolyn gestured toward the boat impatiently. “We’d best be getting on. We’ve a long voyage ahead of us.”

  “Right. Until we meet again.” Darion extended a hand, which Kestrel took.

  When Triolyn and Jeebo stepped into the boat, the singer hung back. “Sir Darion. If I may…”

  “What is it now?”

  “Apologies, milord.”

  “You needn’t call me milord anymore. We’re past that.”

  “I mustn’t forget my courtesies.”

  “I wasn’t aware you had those. Get on with it, then.”

  “If you’ll forgive my impertinence… I should tell you that when it comes to your lady wife, there is no substitute for what is true, and sincere, and good.”

  Darion frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “If you think I am what she desires, you are mistaken. The thing Lady Alynor wants most in the world is the same thing she has been so eager to give to you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You know what it is, Sir Darion.”

  “I know nothing of the sort.”

  Kestrel sighed. “I was afraid of that. Let me ask you something. Do you love her?”

  “Well I—that’s no business of yours.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” said Kestrel. “Yet if it’s anyone’s business, it’s hers. Now do you understand what I mean?”

  Darion did. Or at least, he thought he did. Back home, he had resented Alynor’s frequent coolness towards him. But how could he have expected her to behave any other way? He had married the woman, yet he’d never truly provided her a safe place. A place to feel accepted. To feel loved. “You were right, singer. This is impertinent, to say the least. You ought to have kept to your courtesies and stayed out of my affairs.”

  It wasn’t often that Kestrel looked sullen, but he did then. “So much for proving my friendship. I will do everything in my power to see to Lady Alynor’s safety and set your mind at ease.”

  “My mind will be at ease when this is all over,” said Darion. “Not before.”

  Kestrel gave a shallow bow before he turned and stepped into the boat.

  Darion watched the small vessel sail away beneath the setting sun. When he returned to his tent, two Dathiri soldiers stood guard outside the doorway. He greeted them before entering.

  Commander Palavar had set up a meager dwelling for him, but at least it was his own. He removed his sword belt, leather jerkin, and undertunic, then lay down on the dust cover, beneath which a pile of rough straw bedding poked at him. The day had taken more out of him than he realized, and he was dozing off in minutes.

  He didn’t wake until dawn the next morning. When he’d dressed himself, he made his way to the commander’s tent for breakfast. Upon entering he found Palavar reading silently from an unfurled scroll while three figures stood around his chair. Darion noticed the broken seal at the top of the scroll, a faded square of black wax. The seal of Olyvard King, he knew. Yet the three figures were clad not in the livery of Dathrond, but in their own hooded gray overcoats.

  “There you are, Sir Ulther,” said one of the hooded figures, in a dry voice that creaked like a hinge. “I feared we had arrived too late. Olyvard King is most anxious to see your return.”

  Palavar looked up. “I am sorry, Sir Ulther. It seems his majesty would have you return to Castle Maergath at once. He has sent these gentlemen to retrieve you. I suggest you go willingly.”

  Darion did not like the look of these men, shadowed beneath their hoods, lithe and solidly built. He hesitated. “I will not go. Willingly, or otherwise.”

  For a moment, no one moved or made a sound.

  Two of the hooded men began circling the table.

  Darion started a spell.

  The man with the dry voice, still standing beside Palavar’s chair, lifted an arm. There was a springing sound. A small quarrel, less than half the length of a crossbow bolt, sprouted from Darion’s leg.

  No, Darion wanted to say. You do not know what you are doing. He yanked the quarrel from his thigh and bolted for the tent flap. He hadn’t taken two steps before his heart and lungs were melting into a heavy, sluggish mass inside his chest. He felt so tired it was hard to keep his eyes open, and harder still to force himself forward.

  His legs collapsed beneath him. He hit the ground and flopped over onto his back.

  Next he knew, the three hooded men were standing over him. He could see their faces now. There was something familiar about the one who’d spoken before. Something he couldn’t quite place. The last thing he heard the man say before everything went dark was, “Goodnight, Sir Ulther. Rest you well. You’ll need it, I should think.”

  When next he woke, Darion was wet and cold. The ground swayed beneath him, and the sky was moving overhead. There was the sound of lapping water and the feel of wood grain beneath his fingers. I’m at sea, he knew.

  Then there was someone beside him, taking him by the arm. He felt a pinch and looked over to see one of the hooded men poking something into his shoulder. The man’s hood was lowered, and Darion noted the strong jawline, the deep, thoughtful eyes, and the head and beard both shaved to white stubble. Why is he so familiar? Darion wondered before the sky went black.

  He dreamed. Some of his dreams were the usual ones—memories and terrible nightmares of his past. Others were strange and interminable; culminations of fear and uncertainty wrought deep within him. Then there was a new entity. The child. The life in Alynor’s womb.

  Their child was a boy, though that may have been only Darion’s subconscious wish. He taught the boy magic’s language, and there rose a great evil in the land. But it was not a foreign evil, borne of some faraway power. The evil was the boy himself.

  Darion could not seem to wake from these nightmares. Back home he had often startled himself awake, drenched in sweat and memory. Under this powerful sedation he had neither the will nor the energy, and so he was forced to remain locked within these horrors until his mind relinquished them.

  He woke several more times with no concept of how much time had passed. There was always someone there to send him back to sleep again. They are taking every precaution to keep me from casting spells, he realized, somewhere between wakefulness and beyond. Let them try. The more my mind rests, the more ready I will be when I wake again.

  Chapter 24

  The open sea had been as good a hunting ground as any. Ristocule enjoyed taking geese and gulls as much as he did squirrels and rabbits. There was more to these desperate times than the hunt, though. There were the realms to think about.

  They were on their way to the castle now, so Ristoc
ule could forget about the sea for a time. He was an old falcon, getting on in his years as bird-kind went, and by his reckoning he did not have many summers left. The only thing that mattered now, for an ancient soul like him, was to prevent the destruction of magic.

  The three men wound their way down the mountain path and entered the town of Maergath under a bright morning sky. They carried the Warcaster’s message with them, sealed in wax; perhaps now Ristocule would finally get a chance to see the king for himself. He would’ve preferred an audience with his majesty before they’d gone to the trouble of traveling all the way to the ford and back, but the Warcaster had not come through for them. We’ll size up this king for ourselves today, he thought.

  Jeebo and his companions trudged up the shallow rise of Maergath’s main road, heading toward the castle. Ristocule fluttered his wings to keep balanced atop the man’s shoulder. He liked Jeebo, and called him man though he knew that was only a small part of his bloodline. Jeebo called himself master, but Ristocule knew better. It was Ristocule who was master, and Jeebo servant, though Jeebo remained blissfully unaware.

  Perched on his servant’s shoulder, Ristocule had seen things men thought he was too simple to understand. He had flown high above the battlefields of this war and others, where humankind and its like fought for greed or love or freedom. Now all those human ambitions, both good and foul, were at stake.

  As for Jeebo’s companions, Ristocule had mixed feelings. He enjoyed the singer and his tunes, though he was not so fond of the archer. The Warcaster and his wife were a curious pair. To Ristocule, it seemed those two only liked one another half the time. The lady was precise and demanding, yet she had a fickle heart. Ristocule had seen the way she juggled her desires, weighing security against curiosity. She was a young woman, who, like all young people, bore an overwhelming obsession with her uncertain future.

  As for the Warcaster, Ristocule knew many things about him. He did not know how he knew them; only that he did. Jeebo’s decision to join the Warcaster in his travels had been more Ristocule’s doing than his own. It was Ristocule who had watched the Warcaster from the heights, picking him out with his sharp eyes and recognizing him for who he was. Ristocule who had led Jeebo to Lady Alynor at King’s Lane in Eventide, giving him the chance to pull her from the scuffle. And it was Ristocule who knew the true nature of their visit to Castle Maergath, though neither Jeebo nor his companions yet knew it themselves.