Mark of the Banished

by Salandra Wolfe

  One of the shadows nodded slowly, beginning to understand. “Ryland gives them a reason to remain complacent without acting for themselves. They will think he will fight their battles.”

  Devin smiled cruelly. “Exactly. They will take the easy road out of oppression: waiting for someone else to save them.” He chuckled. “Humans are so predictable.”

  The stable boy in the bushes began creeping backward—probably realizing he should tell an adult of Devin’s plot. Devin chuckled darkly, his shadow eyes rotating slowly to stare at the little stable boy just as he emerged from behind the bush. “Of course, we can’t have a little rat spying on us, can we?”

  The little boy whimpered as all the creatures turned to stare at him. He trembled, tears of fear streaming down his tiny face. They all laughed as he began to run, screaming out for his mother.

  The Tja-maq enjoyed a struggle.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Charwin leaned over the young man he had placed on the bed moments before, his face wrinkling in concern. He lifted his hand but didn’t touch the grotesque burn mark that covered the unconscious man’s right cheek.

  What is this? he thought to himself. The question had repeated several times in his mind ever since the wizard had found the young man on his doorstep, practically unconscious. He had asked the young man the question, but he hadn’t shown any sign of hearing and had passed out immediately after Charwin had opened the door.

  Algar is lost. It was another phrase Charwin was puzzling over, because the man had whispered it just before fainting. Algar sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place the name. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about such things anyway; he needed to help the young man, and fast.

  He ran into the other room and grabbed a bowl full of water, tweezers, and a rag, silently cursing himself for becoming distracted. Just as quickly, he ran back to the man’s side, where his breathing was getting faster and faster. Feeling his forehead, Charwin could tell his fever was getting stronger, and he didn’t have much time to save his life, if such a thing was possible.

  He got himself here; he has the will to survive, Charwin scolded himself. The young man’s clothing was ripped and riddled with twigs, mud, and leaves. He looked as if he had been dragged through the forest multiple times. Several small cuts and bruises covered his flesh as well, and he had a prominent black eye, but those wounds weren’t nearly as pressing as the burn on his face.

  Charwin concentrated on his hands and muttered a quiet spell. His hands glowed, and just like that, they were completely clean. He picked up the rag and did the same to it before grabbing the bowl and gently pouring water onto the man’s face.

  Using the rag, he wiped away the water that dripped through and around the wound. The liquid carried blood, dirt, small flakes of burned skin, and even tiny pieces of wood with it, the debris accumulating on the rag. Charwin noted with concern that his patient didn’t even flinch at the cleansing. He was so entrenched in fever that he probably didn’t feel a thing.

  Setting down the now-empty bowl, Charwin ran back into his kitchen and tossed the rag over a small container that served as his garbage, muttering a spell as he did so. The rag caught itself in midair and, hovering above the garbage, began to thoroughly clean itself.

  Charwin rummaged through his cupboards, muttering as he went.

  “That’s not right . . . How long has that been in there? Oh, I’ll need that . . .” were a few of the things he muttered softly as he searched. When he emerged, he had numerous bottles in his hands, and he left the room, whistling sharply.

  The cloth, which had finished cleaning itself, flew to the patient’s side, hovering there as Charwin set his bottles down.

  Ignoring the rag, he strode back into the kitchen with the bowl and refilled it from the bucket of water that always stood at the ready. As he walked back to his patient’s side, he grabbed another rag from a cabinet.

  Quickly disinfecting the new rag and his hands again, he soaked the rag with the cool water and placed it over the feverish man’s forehead, hoping to cool him down. He then grabbed the other cloth and poured some of the contents of a bottle onto it before dabbing at the large facial burn.

  Stepping back, Charwin commanded the rag to clean itself again, and as it raced off, he examined his work. The potion he had spread over the wound should thoroughly disinfect and numb it so the man wouldn’t feel pain—if he ever became conscious enough to feel anything.

  Pulling out the stoppers to the rest of the potions, he poured them all down the man’s throat with varying portions. With luck and a lot of determination, everything Charwin had given him would help the young man’s body recover quickly.

  The rag raced back into the room suddenly, but he ignored it again, instead picking up the tweezers from where they rested on the table, disinfecting them before leaning very close to the patient’s face and gently picking out fragments of wood and flakes of charred skin. This close, Charwin could smell the scent of burnt flesh, and he wrinkled his nose, wishing his potions smelled stronger. Working quickly but with precision, he cleaned out the wound. When he finished, he examined his work to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Satisfied, Charwin reapplied the cleaning potion, sending the cloth to clean itself again, then left the room and quickly returned with a bandage. The cloth returned, and he used it to spread a salve of healing onto the burn. Using magic, he sterilized the bandage before placing it on his patient’s face to cover his wound.

  The wizard collapsed into a chair nearby, studying his unexpected guest’s pale face. There was nothing he could do for the man now except clean his other wounds, though that wouldn’t help him recover from his fever.

  Unless . . .

  Charwin realized there was something he could do. He looked down at his hands. Healing magic was very difficult, and as Charwin had never needed to heal anyone using magic before, he didn’t know if he would be able to do it. Besides, healing magic took talent and years of practice to get right. He had heard of many new trainees in the art of medicine accidentally messing up the healing of practice animals, which had been hurt in the forest, killing or debilitating the poor creatures for life. He couldn’t risk trying to use his magic to heal the young man.

  I’ll wait to see if he gets better. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to chance it, Charwin thought to himself. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Caspian awoke to a pounding headache that lessened as he became more aware. He slowly opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the light around him. After a while, the headache faded to a level where he could ignore it, and he internally conducted a full-body scan. He felt fine, so he wasn’t injured. But where was he?

  “You’re awake,” said a voice from his left. Caspian jerked in surprised and swung his head to face the sound. He saw an older man, perhaps ten years his senior, with long, flowing blue robes and a bit of a beard on his face. His hair and beard were a dark brown, but his eyes were a light green that sparkled with fun. Instantly, Caspian felt relaxed in the man’s presence, somehow knowing he was trustworthy.

  “Where am I?” he asked. As he spoke, the skin on his right cheek stretched, and a sharp pain shot through it. “Ow.” He brought a hand to his cheek and grimaced, which only made his face hurt worse. The pain brought back the memories of what had happened, and he dropped his hand and frowned. As the pain grew to a point where it was unbearable, he relaxed his expression, and the pain lessened, settling to a dull ache in the back of his mind that he could ignore with some effort.

  “Yes, I’d avoid moving that face if I were you. Though it has gotten extremely better in the month you’ve been here. I can tell exactly what the shape is now.” The other man sat in a chair and stared at Caspian as if he could read his soul through his eyes.

  Caspian blinked. A month? He had been unconscious and in a stranger’s care for a month? What exactly had the branding done to his face? “Why—a month?” he managed to ask.

  The m
an nodded and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Your fever was very strong when you first came here, which was bad enough. The wound became infected after a few days, and, honestly, I didn’t think you would survive.” He smiled gently. “I kept you unconscious until I was sure your cheek had mostly healed. I didn’t want you to reopen the wound.”

  Caspian blinked. The brand had been infected? He wasn’t that surprised, but he certainly was shocked he had managed to survive if that was the case.

  Caspian was startled back to the present when his host asked the simple question, “Who did this to you?”

  Caspian looked away, unsure how to answer. He didn’t think his branding was the place to start his story.

  After a moment of silence, the other man nodded, bringing Caspian’s attention back to him. “Let’s start with something easier. My name is Charwin, and I am a wizard. Who are you?”

  Caspian tensed. The only wizard he knew was Ryland’s evil cousin, and he wasn’t sure he could trust any wizard. Then again, the man had helped him. Saved his life, even.

  “You’re a wizard?” His voice quavered, and he swallowed, trying to ensure his face didn’t move much. His mind reeled as he realized this man lived outside of Algar. If he was here, were there others? Even other kingdoms, perhaps?

  “You’ve had a bad run-in with a wizard, I see. Well, not all people are the same, and not all wizards are the same. Some are bad, some are good. I am of the good kind. I did save you, after all.”

  Caspian fingered the bandages on his cheek, finally noticing they weren’t held on by anything, except probably magic. “Why didn’t you just heal my face? Or did you?” He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted the scar. It was a horrible symbol of banishment, but it was also a testament to how hard he had fought to survive.

  Charwin sighed. “I didn’t. Healing magic is very difficult, and I have never been trained. Using that kind of magic without experience can lead to some . . . undesired consequences.” He shook his head slowly. “I would have tried had you gotten any worse. Luckily for both of us, your will to survive was so strong, you made it through. So, let me ask you again, who are you?”

  Caspian sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He needed help to take back his kingdom, hopefully before the dark wizard could do too much damage. He had to start somewhere, and this man seemed kind enough . . . He didn’t really have anything to lose, since he had nothing.

  “I am Prince Caspian of Algar,” Caspian said, then smiled ruefully even though it hurt. A lot. “Or, rather, I was.”

  Charwin eyed him curiously. “No one can change who you are. That is one thing people cannot take from you.”

  Caspian shook his head. He wasn’t so sure. Ryland had been the most honorable man Caspian had ever met, but under the wizard’s manipulating hand, he had become . . . something else entirely. “They took my throne. That’s all I know.” And his dignity, but he didn’t say that. That wasn’t important.

  “And they did that to you?” Charwin asked, leaning forward.

  “No. Yes. Well, the wizard wanted Ryland to kill me. I guess it might be considered an act of mercy.” Caspian looked down at his hands. If he didn’t have the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, he would have almost preferred death over the branding.

  Charwin shook his head angrily. “Mercy!” he said with disdain. “Bah! What kind of man would brand someone’s face like this?”

  Caspian put his head down and reached up to finger the bandages again. “May I tell you about the brand?” he asked, motioning to the cloth.

  Charwin nodded, and with a flick of his fingers, the cloth took to the air and flew off. Caspian watched it for a moment, bewildered. Taking a deep breath, he turned his face so the wizard could see the brand more fully.

  “What you see before you is the royal crest, the symbol of Algar. My family has been using the branding iron and this symbol for centuries to mark those who have been banished so the people will know who they are at all times in case they try to reenter the kingdom. So, to answer your question, my family would brand someone, and the new king did it to me. As is his right.” After such a long speech, his cheek ached even more, and he furrowed his brow, trying to concentrate on anything else.

  Caspian looked back at Charwin, who was nodding thoughtfully. “I see. Well, I assume you will change this law when you return to your throne?”

  Caspian thought about this for a moment before nodding. He would. It was inhumane to do this to anyone, even someone who was banished. “What makes you think I will return to my throne?”

  “I have a feeling.” Charwin smiled at him, then motioned with his hands. Another bandage flew into the room and fastened itself onto Caspian’s face, hiding the mark from the world. Caspian smiled at the man, his face screaming in protest. He stopped smiling, vowing silently to never move his face again.

  Charwin studied the young prince for a moment, and Caspian started fidgeting with his hands under the intensity of his gaze. Finally, the wizard broke the silence.

  “I wish to help you regain your throne, Prince Caspian of Algar. I can tell you have a good heart. Now, I’ve heard many stories about Algar, but I’ve never been there, and most of what I do know are legends unfounded on truth. So, I need you to tell me everything.”

  And Caspian did.

  Caspian watched as Charwin the wizard paced back and forth in front of the bed he was currently lying on. Charwin had asked first for the history of Algar and Caspian’s family, before getting into recent events. The thing that seemed to stick with the older man most was the prophecy.

  The wizard scratched his head as he paced, muttering to himself, “I wish I could see the thing. A very interesting premise, telling your descendants everything that will happen.” Charwin paused in his pacing and looked at Caspian with keen eyes. “What sort of things has it predicted?”

  Caspian shrugged. “It predicted the arrival of the magical sword, Mepherius, and how the dragon was slain with Mepherius’ help. It also talked about when the king put a spell on Mepherius, and when his son, the prince, took the sword and . . .” His voice trailed off. Now that he thought about it, most of the events the prophecy had predicted were centered on Mepherius.

  “Mepherius . . . Why does that sound so familiar?” Charwin asked.

  Caspian lifted the left corner of his mouth, leaving his right stationary. He had learned quickly in the last hour how to only move one half of his face. “Mepherius is famous, but I don’t know if its fame extends outside of Algar. It is a magical sword whose maker and first wielder was the first King of Algar himself, the one who came and united the first settlers after they had fled from their home countries, which were warring with one another. They left to find peace but only brought the conflict with them into Algar. The sword helped the king bring order to the land and those fighting in it. As far as we know, all those other kingdoms were destroyed, and some say the only reason Algar has endured for so long is because the sword has an affinity for our royal bloodline.” Caspian paused and bit his lip. “But we don’t have it anymore.” Perhaps that was the reason this whole fiasco happened. Perhaps if the sword had remained in Algar, Caspian, or maybe his father, or someone else, could have wielded it and saved them from the wizard’s brutal takeover. It was possible the foolish mistake of one past king spelled out the doom of them all.

  Charwin studied him quietly, and Caspian suspected the wizard understood exactly what he was thinking. “Why don’t you have it anymore?” Charwin asked. He looked as if he was trying to remember something, and it was nearly within reach, but he couldn’t quite capture it.

  “One of the Kings of Algar—after his son defeated a dragon with the sword—cast a spell on it that took away most of its powers.” That wasn’t quite the entire story, but it would do. He didn’t really want to go into the whole philosophy of how Mepherius worked. “The prince stole it and left the kingdom. He and the sword never came back, but his descendants did, so the throne remained
in the royal bloodline.” Caspian thought that was probably the most important part of the story. The line of the prophecy about the royal bloodline couldn’t have been referring to that time, so it must be referring to his. Or perhaps it was more of a permanent standard for Algar.

  Charwin’s eyes snapped open wider than Caspian thought possible. “Of course! Mepherius! How could I have forgotten?”

  Caspian watched him, hoping for an explanation. He had always been curious as to what happened to the sword after the prince had taken it.

  “The prince took the sword to a wizard, who told other wizards, who told other wizards, and so on and so on until someone told me the story. This wizard restored the sword’s power, but at a price. The sword would only work for one person—its master.” Charwin’s lips lifted upward as he remembered the story.

  Caspian’s eyes widened. He had never thought that would have been the answer. It had always been, in his mind, that the sword would have either remained useless or gone back to the way it was. The sword had always chosen its own master and given its full power to them, but it would still lend a portion of its powers to those with great need and good intentions.

  “If most of the prophecy refers to this sword, then it would make sense that the sword would show up again, at this time of great crisis.” Charwin paused, scratching his chin. “Do you remember the exact words of the prophecy?”

  Caspian shook his head. The prophecy had too many words with too many meanings, or no meaning at all. “It wouldn’t help anyway. It’s impossible to understand without knowing all the details of an event.” In fact, there were still parts of the prophecy that had happened in the past that they didn’t understand. The only reason they knew they were in the past was because the prophecy went in chronological order.