The Forgotten Magic

by Kelly Peasgood

  For the first time, Marcus wondered how much strength Norbert had. He had only ever heard him referred to as Administrator, never Wizard, but then, he realised, he had basically dismissed the little man as unimportant next to the likes of Castillo. It had never seemed important before, and honestly, how much magic could an administrator possess? Marcus suddenly suspected he wouldn't like the answer to that question, and he began to worry. Where did Norbert's talents lie? What strength curled in that wiry frame? He wanted to scoff at the idea that this man held any threat, yet something lurking in those too-perceptive eyes as they bore down on him warned Marcus that perhaps he had overlooked a dangerous enemy.

  "Now I understand you had an ulterior motive, not just for coming here, but, I suspect, for your arrival and tenure at the Frontier School. Tell me, Marcus, how long have you hunted for Wizard Destiny?"

  The effrontery of the man, refusing to grant him his earned rank of wizard while bestowing the very same on a Girl who had stolen both strength and life from a man far above any in this accursed place! Had Marcus had access to his magic, he would have shown this pompous fool just what powers Wizard Shelton had taught those privileged to study with his son. One area of expertise indeed. In lieu of that possibility, Marcus satisfied himself with thoughts of what Nathan would do to these people when he arrived. And that brought a twisted smile to his lips that made Norbert pause.

  Sadly, not for long.

  "What spell did you use to incapacitate Dalasmar's leaders?" he demanded. "And how did you expect any paralysis to last long enough for help to arrive? I'm told you expressed your intent to give King and Council over to one Wizard Nathan, yet I have strong assurance that this Nathan has not approached Dalasmar, doesn't stand within a day's ride out, likely doesn't haunt Dalasham at all. So how did you expect to keep a room full of dignitaries subdued for hours, let alone days, without someone noticing? And how did you plan to circumvent the strictures of the Peace Accords? Or did you bother to think past the moment at all?"

  Marcus tried to ignore the goading and bluster. Norbert couldn't know Nathan's whereabouts or intentions, and he certainly wouldn't know Nathan's mind. His friend might stride through these very halls in the next moment, come for his comrade and his prize. Norbert wouldn't know what to track so couldn't possibly know whether Nathan approached unless―

  Unless the ward surrounding Dalasmar warned Girl of his proximity. Could these mundanes now rely on the very person who had so nearly overthrown them? Did Girl's ward still stand and could she still sense it? He had assumed the woman these Dalashamites had so keenly wanted to put on trial sat in her own cage, likewise blocked from any magic (not that she could possibly do as much as he when he found freedom). Now he must entertain the possibility that they had released her, perhaps only having the one strange cell that now housed him.

  Not his concern, Marcus decided. If they let Girl walk around their castle unfettered, that just made it easier for Nathan to grab her when the time came.

  "If Nathan is as careless as Marcus," Lord Prichard spoke in an aside to Norbert, but Marcus had no difficulties hearing him, "perhaps all we need is an intrepid librarian to foil his plans. If he comes here at all. Emily and Destiny defeated Marcus handily enough; surely Nathan will fare little better."

  Norbert snorted while Marcus seethed. That damnable librarian again?

  "Nathan will eat that child alive, whether she's a conduit or not," Marcus snarled. "Use her up and spit her out. He will take Girl from your very clutches and avenge our master, and then, if you're very lucky, he'll let you live long enough to see your pitiful kingdom fall. And I will stand at his side and smile."

  Three pairs of eyes stared at him, contemplation rather than shock or fear etched on each face. Their casual dismissal of his sincere claims only angered him further. No pity for fools too ignorant to understand their peril. Which would make Nathan's conquest all the sweeter. Marcus swept a hand at the trio in a disgusted gesture of rejection as he turned his back and slumped down on the hard stone bench these mundanes expected him to sleep on. Let them suffer their fate; he would walk free at Nathan's side soon enough.

  "It seems Lady Destiny had it aright when she affirmed he wouldn't see Emily's gift for truth," the pale haired man said to his companions, the lantern picking up shades of blue and green in his hard gaze. "But a conduit?"

  Norbert shook his head briefly.

  "What do you think Nathan will do if he comes here?" the little man asked. "Do you think Dalasham will stand unprepared? Do you think they learned nothing from Wizard Destiny? Or from your own unthinking stunt? What could your Nathan possibly do that others haven't tried?"

  "Nathan will squash you and barely have to lift a finger to do so," Marcus scoffed, leaning against the stone wall and presenting an image of utter confidence and comfort, despite the cold and unyielding surface behind him. "His power surpasses any that Bakaana could ever offer and his ambition knows no bounds. You hold what he wants, and he won't stop until he's taken it from you."

  "How?" the unnamed man asked in a quiet voice. Marcus found himself turning to look at him, for some reason willing to provide an answer to this question asked so earnestly.

  "Tyrandel accompanied him to the border, and while the fat sloth enjoys his comforts, he also has a keen mind. I imagine he will council a modicum of prudence, so you're unlikely to see Nathan approach in a blaze of glory. He will come when you least expect it, perhaps even hide in plain sight, steal through your defences to his goal before you even know he's arrived. Girl's ward can only tell you he nears; it can't protect you, or her. And an administrator from a wizarding school hardly has the necessary skill to counter a Level Five Prime adept, let alone two wizards of the highest order."

  "An arrow or unexpected sword thrust has ended many an unsuspecting hero," the man said, a hint of sorrow and, perhaps, sympathy deepening his voice. "How would your Nathan prevent that if he keeps his eye too fixed on the prize and not on the journey?"

  "Bah," Marcus waved his hand, sweeping the thought aside. "In the unlikely event that any found a way to neutralise Nathan's defences―I assure you, his magical shield has as much potency as his fist backed by power―Tyrandel would protect him. And barring that, he has his guards, ruthless in their own way, even if they lack the gift of magic. When Nathan arrives, nothing will stop him from claiming what belongs to him."

  "And you feel certain your Nathan would want to claim more than just you and Lady Destiny should he reach Dalasmar?"

  "I don't see why he should limit himself," Marcus said. "I can't speak with utter certainty that he would bother with taking your little kingdom, but you have no defences to stop him should he turn his eyes to your throne."

  "And you believe he will enter in secrecy, using his powers to thwart any who might resist him, up to and including the authority of the King. In effect, declaring an act of war upon us."

  Marcus shrugged.

  "As I said, you won't see him coming, and you won't keep him from taking what he wants."

  "What of the Peace Accords?" the pale-haired man asked, head tilted to one side as he pondered Marcus' words, reintroducing Norbert's question. "Surely Nathan won't so blatantly act against the rules which protect non-magical kingdoms such as ours."

  "Who would stop him?" Marcus demanded, leaning forward and holding the man's blue-green gaze with quiet intensity. If the man knew Nathan as Marcus did, he would understand the sheer strength his peer could command, and thus understand the futility of making any attempts to stand in his way. Only one had ever opposed Nathan, and she would soon pay for that effrontery.

  "The Enforcers who keep the Accords won't sit by while a wizard tries to steal power," cautioned his questioner.

  "Bah," Marcus waved away the objection. "By the time any Enforcer deigned to trouble us with his presence, Nathan would already hold sway. Or have abandoned the project as too troublesome, whichever he saw fit. Either way, nothing you do will stop Nathan. He's too powerful."
<
br />   The man frowned, his features pinched tight, before turning to look at Lord Prichard and Norbert. Prichard didn't return the glance, his eyes glued to Marcus.

  "Then perhaps we owe you our thanks for the warning," the nobleman said. Marcus blinked. Warning? He hadn't meant it as such. A niggling thought pressed against his mind, but Prichard turned his back before Marcus could explore it, and he lost the moment.

  "I think we've heard enough for the moment, gentlemen," Prichard said, gathering his companions and the lantern. "Let's give Marcus some space."

  Without a backward glance, they shut the cell door, locking Marcus in with his thoughts and the renewed darkness. Marcus nearly lunged up off the stone slab, an urge to call them back if only for the company dying on his lips. Instead, he forced himself to sit back and consider what had just happened. Prichard had given the impression that he thought they had learned something important from him, but what? He had only expressed his firm belief that Nathan would come, and surely they had known that before. You told them about Tyrandel, a small voice sneered at him. About Nathan's shields and guards.

  So what? he snarled back at himself. They had never seen Nathan in a rage, nor truly understood his vendetta against Girl and the lengths he would go to to reach her, Peace Accords notwithstanding. Marcus hadn't given any real details on what Nathan could do. Let them think they could plan for the storm that the greatest wizard in the world would bring to their doorstep. Nathan would sweep these mundanes and their paltry ally from the planet. No amount of forewarning could change that.

  And Girl? demanded that small voice.

  She wouldn't have the element of surprise this time, and Nathan would retrieve her stolen magic. After all, who in this non-magical kingdom had the ability to stop him?

  Chapter 14

  It chafed, oh it chafed. Bad enough to face exile from court, but a lifetime trapped at Cranshaw Fortress? Whillim seethed, his only consolation being that Stefan hadn't exiled him to some other barbarous land; although in a foreign country, he might have better luck gaining a sympathetic ear. Here, he had his valet Otto. No other servants to tend him save a deaf mute who delivered his meals―horribly common fare that the garrison cook slapped together for the soldiers stationed here―and a hall guard who shadowed his every move outside his chambers, and that enraged the Prince. Such disregard to one's person hardly befits royalty!

  He wouldn't find himself in this humiliating situation if the Destiny Seat had worked properly, or if that little commoner hadn't told the whole Council about Whillim's stipulations to Desi about how he wanted her magic to unfold. Of course Stefan should have died to seal Whillim's reign; what man in history hadn't eliminated such an obvious threat to secure his power? But that Emily had spelled it out, deflecting blame from Desi back onto Whillim, pointing out that Prince and Wizard had stood as equals in their plot against Stefan, and so should suffer equal punishment. Why the voice of a simple librarian should carry such weight, he couldn't fathom, but the Councillors had accepted her tale and proclaimed Whillim exile.

  What they had done with Desi, the Prince didn't know, other than that she hadn't come to Cranshaw with him.

  So now he fumed, already tired of his environs. Yes, Cranshaw served as the King's private retreat and thus had many amenities (other than additional servants to wait upon Whillim, even the cook barring access to his domain), but stone walls, no matter how well decorated with tapestries and gilt, kept him enclosed. Refused even the pleasures of hunting or riding, Whillim had only the inner courtyard as a retreat from oppressive hallways. All of three days here, and he felt he might go mad with boredom.

  Or he would, if Otto hadn't helped him plot the beginnings of a new plan, an escape from this prison Stefan had forced him into. Otto had more freedom than Whillim, and both men sought to use this oversight to their advantage.

  "Milos' group sits here waiting for their Captain to return," Otto had reported on his reconnaissance of areas the other servants haunted. "Held without pay and under guard, though a clever man might make forays into their ranks, determine feelings. Any merc denied access to funds long enough will start to seek other forms of entertainment. Might be we can find one or two eager for a change."

  "And how would we pay them?" Whillim had demanded. Otto had merely glanced around at the wealth of Cranshaw with a raised brow.

  Whillim gave his valet (and oft times co-conspirator) permission to put out some feelers, try to find someone willing to aid their former employer out of a tricky situation. He didn't need much, just a diversion. While Stefan had sat at Father's hand to learn the rigours of ruling whenever they had come to Cranshaw as children, Whillim had more often slipped away to explore. Anything to avoid the undue responsibilities Father might try to foist off upon his younger son. On days where adverse weather curtailed any ideas of riding or other outdoor pursuits, Whillim would wander the lower halls; storage for the most part, but enough nooks and hidey holes to occupy a mind determined to slough off duty. So he well knew the layout of every entrance and exit to the Fortress, including those lesser used ones in the bowels of the retreat. Guarded still, yes, but by far fewer men than elsewhere. A diversion orchestrated at just the right time and place, and Whillim might find the opportunity he needed to escape.

  While leaving Otto behind to cover such a feat would give Whillim more time to flee (where, he hadn't considered yet―he had to get away from this ridiculous exile first), he had already determined the man had more use at his side. The Prince could admit to himself, if no one else, that he needed his wily valet. Whillim could hunt, and had watched how to build and stoke a fire to cook the meat, but he didn't have the knack of creating the spark to light the flames, nor the skill to properly prepare a fresh kill. And one simply couldn't expect a Prince to carry his own belongings or see to their care.

  Otto would procure suitable mounts and provisions, arrange to have them ready but out of sight for their escape. Assuming he found an amenable mercenary and they could execute a well-timed diversion; something that wouldn't lead back to the Prince right away, giving Whillim as much lead time as possible before anyone thought to launch a search. Much hinged on finding the right man to help which, based on Whillim's experience with mercenaries, depended mainly on how much of Cranshaw's wealth would soon change hands. As this exile likely spelled the extent to which Whillim would ever hold any of said wealth, he had no compunction about spending as much as it took to find freedom once more.

  Otto found him as the deaf mute removed the remains of lunch. When the pair stood alone in the chamber intended to hold Dalasham's Prince for the duration, the valet spoke, two simple sentences that stretched a wide grin on Whillim's face.

  "It's all set. We leave tonight."

  "How do we get past the hall guard?" Whillim demanded. In response, Otto tossed him a sheathed dagger, purloined from somewhere in his wanderings. Whillim snatched the blade from the air, studying its heft and balance. He met Otto's eyes, gave a firm nod, and tucked the forbidden weapon behind his belt, draping a fold of tunic over the handle to disguise its presence. Only he, Otto, and the deaf mute might see the dagger before he brought it into play this evening, but Whillim didn't intend to take any chances that today, of all days, someone new might cross his path. With new hope to slip free of Stefan's clutches a very real possibility now, Whillim took his first breath unencumbered by ire.

  "Let's make sure we have everything covered," he crooned, and the Prince and his valet settled down to a long afternoon of detailed planning. They must leave nothing to chance.

  ***

  Cristof had arrived at Cranshaw Fortress two days before Prince Whillim had. Lord Prichard made the arrangements before the outcome of Whillim's trial when the nobleman felt certain the Prince would suffer exile here, King Stefan in full accord. Cristof had one simple task; keep an eye on the Prince. In the guise of a deaf mute (not only could he speak, but he also had exceptional hearing), Cristof would watch over the disgraced royal and hopefully
have advance warning of any troubles the wily Prince would inevitably concoct. Unfortunately, Whillim only allowed Cristof into his inner chambers to deliver meals and then remove all traces of said food once consumed. He and his surly valet spoke but little even in the presence of a supposed deaf mute―though Cristof felt certain he overheard more than any others at Cranshaw. Thankfully, Cristof could read as much into body language as actual words.

  Which let him know the Prince planned something. His disposition had undergone a marked difference between the meal at mid-day and the evening repast, even taking into account the man's mercurial moods. A light of anticipation had entered his cold eyes and he held himself in place as though his entire body would rather launch into motion as Cristof had cleared away the supper dishes. But Cristof had to maintain his mask. If he broke character too soon, his usefulness to Lord Prichard and King Stefan would falter.

  So Cristof had gathered the plates and silverware without undue haste or fuss, as he had the past few evenings, and seemingly unaware of the hushed words of Prince and valet. Nothing stood out in their quiet conversation, yet the air of action put on hold didn't lessen. The past five days had seen a routine, first so that all would stand ready and flow smoothly once the Prince arrived, then with trials put into actuality. All food came from the garrison cook, healthy and hearty fare, if simple, shared by Prince and soldiers alike. A servant would bring a covered platter intended for Whillim to the service entrance of the kitchen, delivering the meal into Cristof's hands. The 'deaf mute' would then convey the tray up to the Prince's rooms, inspected by whichever hall guard stood duty―Ansel had the dawn to noon shift, Trantor from noon til dusk, and Jensen guarded overnight―for anything he thought Whillim might try to use as a weapon, before allowing entrance to the Prince's chambers. Cristof would then set up the meal in the receiving room before withdrawing to a quiet corner as far from Whillim as possible. Once Whillim finished and ordered the remains removed, Cristof would clean up, returning the spent dishes to the kitchen and the waiting guard who had brought the food from the garrison.