Warcaster (Mage Song Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  She caught Darion looking over at her. She could tell he’d been deep in thought. When their eyes met, neither smiled. Has he been thinking ill thoughts of me? she wondered. Has he been thinking of me at all?

  When they arrived at the inner gate—which Alynor supposed was a moot point, given the break in the wall where Rylar Prince had blasted through it—Darion handed the king’s note to one of the guards. He read it, then spent a moment sizing them up.

  “You’re awfully well-provisioned for a short trip beyond the town gates,” he said.

  “I will treat with the enemy for as long as it takes to ransom Maergath,” Darion replied. “I’ll take no chances once we’re outside the city.”

  The guard glanced at the mounted Dathiri soldiers the king had sent as escorts. “That right? You planning to be gone for a while?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” said one of them.

  “His majesty left you ill-prepared, then,” Darion said, turning around.

  “We were not told to expect an overnight outside the city walls,” said another.

  “Then I hope your tabards are nice and warm,” said Darion. “The south winds will be strong tonight.”

  The gate guard handed back the note. “I pray you good fortune, Sir Ulther. We are all counting on you. Maergath’s future rests in your hands.”

  Darion glanced at Alynor. “So have I been told.”

  They rode on, passing through the castle’s outer gate and into the city proper. The commonfolk were girding themselves against the hardship to come; those who had not already fled for the mountain passes were either readying their families to do so, or they were boarding up their windows as if expecting a sandstorm. Alynor knew they would stand no chance when Rudgar’s armies flooded through the city gates, but if they hadn’t left by now, they were destined to face what came.

  “This is where we say our goodbyes,” Darion said, reining up where Maergath’s main road forked, one path circling back toward the mountains and the other heading straight toward the city gate.

  “What? Who?” said one of their Dathiri escorts.

  “My envoy and I must part ways, for the sake of what is to come.”

  “His majesty expected this,” said the soldier. “He told me I should remind you of your charge, were you to deviate from his will.”

  Darion ignored him, turning to Sir Jalleth instead. “Now, my friend. Before I go, I owe you an apology. For all these years, I have been false. This is not easy for me to admit, but it is the truth. In the days following what I believed was your death, I accepted honors undue me. I took credit for your sacrifice at the Seaspire. The people of the realms believe it was me who defeated the Ogrelord’s armies. I admit my transgression to you in hopes you might one day find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “Oh, my boy. I forgave you for that long ago.”

  Darion blinked in surprise. “You did what?”

  “As I said before, I have watched over you for a long time. I was there each night as you told your stories by the fire. You once said I was like a father to you. I am not your father, Darion. But ever since you came into my service as a boy, I have always thought of you as my son. A father must forgive a son his slights. Where does a man learn forgiveness, if not from the one who made him?”

  “I… I do not know what to say.”

  “Then say this: fare thee well, Sir Jalleth. And take care of my lady wife.”

  Darion smiled. “Take care of yourselves, both.”

  “We shall all take care. You had best do the same.”

  Darion turned to Kestrel. “As for you, singer… I still think you fight like you sing.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Passing well. Keep practicing, and don’t quit one for the other. Should we meet again, you’ll need them both.”

  “Then I should hope we’ll meet in much the same condition,” Kestrel said with a grin. “I’d clasp your hand, were we not ahorse—”

  “You’d likely try to pull me in for a hug while you were at it. Thank you, but no.”

  “You know me better than you think.”

  “I do not know much of you, archer,” said Darion, turning to Triolyn, “and we may agree on scarce few subjects. But it is safe to say you saved my life when you killed Partridge’s man. Thank you.”

  Triolyn snorted. “You owe me for that. If you do pledge your sword to Rudgar King, I’ll consider the debt repaid when you send our brave Dathiri men home from Korengad.”

  “I may send them home in tatters, but they’ll be back either way.” He put a hand on Jeebo’s shoulder beside him. “Keep this one in good health, though it may pain you to do so. He is made of better stuff than you may think. It’s a shame his heart is so big, or the prince’s spell may not have come so close to it.”

  Triolyn shrugged. “The half-breed will be fine. We’ll have him in fighting shape before you can blink.”

  Darion dismounted. He came round to Alynor and helped her down off her horse. He pulled her aside, out of earshot from the soldiers and their companions. From his bags he drew a long bone scroll case with a bronze clasp. “This is one of Geddle’s scrolls. Keep it close, for it is the only copy of this quarter of the ritual. I scoured Geddle’s study and found three duplicates, which I destroyed in the hearth. The king will be cross if he ever finds out I took it, but we cannot allow him another chance to enact the ritual. When the ward wears off, Sir Jalleth will become a bird again. The only way to turn him back will be with this. Though it only works for a short time, I suggest you use it often. Sir Jalleth is as pure-hearted a man as I have ever known. Learn everything you can from him. And if I should not return from this meeting, do not condemn me for it.”

  “What happened to our simple life? To raising our children together? It wasn’t everything we both wanted, but it might’ve been good. We might’ve grown to love each other in time.”

  “I have grown to love you, Alynor. Very much.” Tears came to his eyes. “I would be here, with you, if I had my choice. Rest assured, I will not go to Korengad unless it is my final recourse. I must—”

  “I know, my dearest,” she said, despite her every wish to the contrary. “I know what you must do. For the good of the realms.”

  “My lady. You mustn’t wait for me. If I can turn these armies away without pledging my sword, I will catch you up on the mountain road. Do not slow down, and do not look back. Even the mountains will grow dangerous in the days to come. Desperate refugees will turn to thieves. Deserters from both armies will look for unsuspecting travelers to take unawares. Ride swiftly, and stay with our friends. And know that even if I must go… we will be together again.”

  “Darion, I—” she began, and broke into tears. She didn’t know what she’d been about to say; only that this was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  When he took her in his arms, it did not feel at all like being held. His plate armor was cold and unyielding; the gorget over his neck and shoulders prevented her from burying her face in his chest. Even the touch of his hands, gloved in steel, was hard and severe. He could not wipe away his own tears, so when they separated, Alynor dabbed his face with a kerchief.

  “How will we know whether you’ve gone or not?” she asked.

  “I’ll find you,” he promised. “But you mustn’t wait for me. Whatever you do, you mustn’t wait.”

  “As you say, my dearest.” She gave him one last, tearful kiss before he helped her onto her horse again.

  Then, as though the last few years of Alynor’s life had been nothing more than a dream, Sir Darion left her there. Sitting atop her mare, watching him ride down the Maergath road with Rylar Prince and his escort in tow, Alynor felt as though she might break in two. The hot desert wind was not enough to dry her tears, though its stench was sufficient to remind her of the army waiting at the gates. She wanted to stay and watch Darion go through, but the others cautioned her against it.

  “We must away, milady,” Kestrel urged. “However Sir Darion fare
s, there will be armies on the move before nightfall.”

  “Kestrel is right, I’m afraid,” said Sir Jalleth. “We must make for the mountains.”

  Grudgingly, Alynor wheeled her mare and followed the four men in the last direction she ever wanted to go. They rounded the castle and ascended to the heights, where a long line of commonfolk, laden with what few possessions they could carry, snaked along the mountain road in both directions. Some were making for the docks, hoping to find passage across the sea to the Eastgap. Alynor and her four companions, along with hundreds or thousands of others, headed westward into the rocky wilderness.

  They continued on into the afternoon until Alynor found an overlook beside the road. From this vantage point she could see the dark and distant specks of men and tents and midday cooking fires. Even though Darion had told them not to stop, Alynor insisted they stay to watch.

  And so, as the line of refugees passed them by and faded down the road, and the sun retreated over the mountainside, they waited there in the high foothills of the Mountains of Driftwater for Darion to come. Several times the others insisted they should leave, but Alynor would hear none of it.

  They waited until sundown. When the sky grew dark, and the campfires of dwarf-kind and men began to appear as tiny golden sparks beneath the stars, she finally gave in to the demands of her companions. They rode through the underbrush and returned to the deep mountain road, leaving Maergath and its troubles behind.

  For the next few days, Alynor waited for her husband with great anticipation. Darion never came. Time passed until her hope of ever seeing him again diminished, and her time with him became truly like a dream. Every dream must end. But as long as she lived, she would always bear the hope of another.

  Epilogue

  It was Lady Alynor’s time.

  Outside the thatched cottage, Kestrel and Jeebo paced like nervous fathers, one eye on the door and the other on their surroundings. Triolyn was off somewhere in the Sparleaf, watching the forest path for signs of danger. And Darion… her dearest Darion, whose memory seemed only to fade as the next wave of birthing pains came sharp and sudden, was gone.

  The midwife hummed to herself as she bustled about the room. Alynor guessed the old crone had more fingers than teeth, though she had fewer of each than most. If the baby were born with all of one and none of the other, Alynor would consider it a blessing. She gave a grunt to ward off the pain.

  “There, there, milady. It’ll all be over soon. We should hope.” Sidarga cackled, then resumed her humming. White hair hung from her shoulders like the dry strands of a spider’s web. Where Alynor bore only nervous energy, the crone’s momentum was of practiced routine.

  A kettle was boiling on the hearth as Sidarga prepared the bedside table. The door was locked and barred, and Alynor was alone with this old woman who seemed to bear her no sympathy at all. Pain shot through her, so sharp she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. The day was bright and hot, and the tiny cottage felt like an oven. Her eyes stung with sweat. She wanted to cry, to scream, to leave her body behind. She clutched the ivory pendant around her neck, a birthing gift Sir Jalleth had given her a few days before. If only Darion could be beside me to hold my hand and comfort me.

  I can’t do this without him, she thought suddenly. I can’t do this without him. Panic washed over her. What if he doesn’t survive the war? What if I don’t survive this? What if the baby doesn’t survive? The air was too hot to breathe. She panted like an animal, shallow breaths and a thousand emotions running through her.

  “That’s it. Breathe, milady,” said the midwife. “Slow down and breathe. You’re going to be fine.”

  But I’m not fine, she thought. Nothing is fine. I can’t do this. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. I want to go back. When she tried to remember where she wanted to go back to, there was nothing. Where could she go? To before she’d been locked away in his majesty’s dungeons? To before she’d taken that long, arduous journey with Darion? To before she’d married him? The pain intensified again until she forgot everything else.

  She screamed.

  “Hush now, milady. Hush-hush.”

  “Sidarga, it hurts too much.”

  “I know, milady. I’ve borne six sons and two daughters of mine own. The first is always the hardest.”

  I’ll never find out how hard the second is, Alynor promised herself. I’m never having another child. Not after this. “You must have a spell to ease my pain,” she said.

  “Now now, milady. If we went round solving our every problem with a spell, we’d all be toads by now. Be a brave soul and bear with it.”

  “I can’t,” she breathed. “I can’t anymore.”

  Sidarga circled to the foot of the bed and gave things a look. “Ah, now that’s a fine thing. You’re crowning. Breathe, milady. The way I taught you. And for the love of all the gods of monsters and men… push. Push.”

  Alynor pushed. She pushed until the veins in her forehead stood out and the place between her legs felt like a bow pulled on too short a string. The struggle was all she knew.

  It seemed hours before she made any progress. For all she could tell, it might’ve been. By then every muscle in her body ached. The pain came in waves, building and receding and building again.

  Then the sensation of release rushed in like the tide, and she felt the pressure slip free of her.

  Sidarga was doing something at the foot of the bed. Alynor did not hear a baby’s cry. A feeling of dread washed over her. Was something wrong? She wanted to know, but she was too weak to call out.

  There was a slapping sound, and the smell of blood. The child’s voice pierced the silence, shrill as any mage-song. Alynor breathed a heavy sigh.

  “Ah, yes,” said the old woman, holding the tiny shape aloft. “Just as I suspected. You’ve got yourself a strong son, milady. See there? That’s his little winkle.”

  “Is he healthy?” she asked, breathless. Her head was swimming, her sight dim. Everything felt far away, like the fading edges of some half-remembered dream.

  “Far as I can tell, he’s a regular brute, milady. He’s got the grip of a jötun and a voice like a chisel. Get your rest while you can. This little lord won’t grant you much of it in the days to come.” Sidarga swaddled him and laid him in Alynor’s arms.

  There were no words for what she felt then, as she stared into the tiny pink face of her firstborn. It took her a moment to remember it was real. When she did, she could not stop the tears from flowing. “Fetch Kestrel and the others,” she finally said.

  The midwife unbarred the door and invited the men inside.

  “Glory be to Faranion, the maker of all things good and pure,” said Jeebo with a wide smile.

  “Faranion never made a thing unless he meant to destroy it,” said Triolyn.

  “You’re both delusional,” said Kestrel. “Alynor clearly means to dedicate the lad to the musical arts. He’s a singer, through and through. Listen to that cry.”

  “That decision will be left up to his father,” Alynor said.

  “There’s time before that happens,” said Triolyn. “For now, we must away. A Dathiri search party rides the forest road.”

  “Are you daft?” asked Sidarga. “Milady has just pushed a melon through her loins, and you expect her to scamper about the countryside like a mare in heat? She needs rest, and so does the babe.”

  “What she needs is not to be turned on her ear and dragged back to Maergath to face the king’s wrath,” said Kestrel. “That’s like to happen if she stays here.”

  Sidarga screwed up her wrinkled mouth. “Perhaps a simple illusion is in order.”

  Kestrel smiled. “I knew the old lady was a caster. From the moment I saw her, I knew.”

  Triolyn shook his head in exasperation. “You’re every bit as smart as you look, singer.”

  Kestrel’s smile changed to a look of confusion, then back to a smile. “Right then,” he said. “Give us a word and a wiggle, granny. I’m ready to be illusioned.
”

  The old woman frowned at him. She crossed the room and lifted a curtain. “They’re coming, alright. They just broke the treeline. Help milady up, now. She’ll want to be standing for this.”

  Jeebo and Kestrel lifted Alynor tenderly to her feet. Her head was spinning, and the child in her arms was squalling, but somehow she stayed upright.

  “Cast the spell, marm,” Jeebo urged.

  “Ah yes, the spell. I almost forgot. Each of you take a corner bedpost at the foot. You, the big brute, there. And you, the ‘orrible singer, there.”

  “Horrible?” said Kestrel indignantly. “I beg your pardon.”

  “It’s not my pardon you’ll be begging for if you don’t do as I say,” she said sharply. “Pull.”

  Kestrel and Jeebo, one at each bedpost, did as instructed. When the bed slid away from the wall, there was a shallow circular depression in the floorboards beneath. A brass ring lay flat against it.

  “There’s your illusion, lads,” said Sidarga. “The root cellar is no place for a newborn, but it should suffice for the nonce. On your way now, and be quick about it.”

  The darkness of that cellar was the last place Alynor wanted to be, but when Jeebo lifted the door and helped her down the staircase, she went willingly. When they were all inside, the crone shut the door above them. It was damp, and it smelled of roots and growing things. But the scent of her baby’s skin was enough to keep Alynor in a sound state of mind.

  Above them, the bed scraped over the floorboards as Sidarga slid it back into place. There was a mad scramble, which Alynor presumed to be the old woman’s roughshod cleaning of the birthing implements. They could hear the riders approaching through the vibrations in the earth as the midwife shut the last of the evidence away inside a cabinet drawer.

  The sounds of horses stopped. They heard a knock at the door. Sidarga’s footsteps, followed by the creaking of hinges. Muttered voices; first a man’s, then hers. The door closed. The riders thundered away.

  Sidarga waited a good quarter-hour before she came to fetch them out. The babe had been sleeping soundly all the while. He will be a good son, Alynor told herself as she and the others stepped out into the light of the cottage.