The Forgotten Magic

by Kelly Peasgood

  When Whillim managed to jerk his attention up to the fat man, the placid, almost satiated look the wizard returned quelled his outrage and loosened his bowels. Trying to master himself, Whillim swung his glare to the wizard holding him, but again, fury found no purchase in light of the inhumane face staring back at him.

  Any thoughts of trying to trade on his royal status obliterated into terror; his new ambition now turned to escape with his life by any means possible.

  "My brother sent me into exile, but I escaped. I don't know how long until pursuit finds me. But if your goal lies with finding Desi and Wizard Marcus at Dalasmar Castle, then I can help you reach it unseen."

  "And why would we need your help?" the fat man asked softly, wiping Otto's blood from his knife before sliding it back into a sheath at his waist. "We can conceal ourselves well enough."

  "The tunnels!" Whillim blurted, his voice pitched frighteningly high. "The secret tunnels beneath the castle. I can take you there while avoiding the more travelled roads!"

  He didn't know how to find those tunnels, nor where they led, but these wizards wouldn't know that, and he couldn't think of any other bargaining chip these ruthless men might accept. Until he could escape, he would stick to the bluff and pray for any form of deliverance. Curse it all, Otto, why did we leave Cranshaw?

  So close to the border, and now his only hope of survival lay in a lie told to soulless men. If they believed him, he would again lead wizards to his home. Only this time, he feared he might not arrive safely.

  Might I live long enough to see this man take Stefan down? he thought suddenly, the possibility sending a brief thrill through him. The man holding his chin saw it and his demeanour subtly shifted. He released Whillim, speculation in his gaze as he crouched at the same level as the Prince. With an unreadable expression, the wizard glanced up at his rotund companion before rising to his feet. The pair turned and walked away.

  "Tie him to one of the trees," the dark-haired one called back over his shoulder. "If he gets me and Tyrandel close to Girl and Marcus without a great expenditure of magic, all the better. And if he lies, his mutilated body will serve as a warning to any who oppose us."

  Whillim didn't bother to stifle his shudder of relief as gruff men hauled him unresisting to his feet and dragged him away from Otto's body. So they would tie him to a tree like a prize pig, so he would likely suffer further humiliation and degradation, a prisoner and not a Prince, so he would have to grovel and try to avoid drawing the attention of immoral and callous wizards and the scum who worked for them. He yet lived, and while he lived, he had a chance that Stefan's men would find him and effect an escape, and for that, he needed a clear head. Because if they reached Riverbend and found out that Whillim couldn't find those tunnels, they would kill him without compunction.

  A sad irony that his only hope for survival rested in discovery by someone sent to bring him back to a life of exile.

  ***

  A right royal mess, Cristof thought shakily as he slowly backed away. To have come so close only to have his quarry snatched away frustrated the assassin spy.

  Prince Whillim and his valet had made surprising progress in their first night of freedom, gaining several more kilometres in the dark hours than Cristof had expected, long before Cristof had even set out in pursuit. By the time he had realised their resourcefulness and his own error in underestimating them, they had already secured a second day of freedom. But Cristof had made steady progress on the pair and had calculated that he would reach them by the evening, determining to steal into their camp unawares to retrieve the errant Prince once they let down their guard. Rather than keeping to the main roads, they had taken a lesser-used route, one Cristof felt certain they had used before. It made them more confident of avoiding other travellers, and so less inclined to expect interlopers. The perfect opportunity for someone like Cristof.

  Except others had found the Prince first, and no matter his skills, Cristof couldn't prevail against sixty-some soldiers and the callous duo who led them. After the startling murder of Otto, witnessed from the outskirts of a strange camouflage that masked the camp while somehow keeping himself hidden from the rough men handling Prince Whillim, Cristof retreated to regroup and devise a new strategy.

  He headed back to the little copse of trees just off the path where he had tethered his mount, and that's when he encountered those pursuing him. Rounding a tree, he came face to face with a short, wiry man sporting two red braids. Both of them dropped to a defensive crouch, eyeing each other. Cristof already had a dagger in the hand held behind his back, and he suspected his counterpart held a similar weapon just out of sight. But then the other man held out an empty hand, palm facing Cristof as though asking him to wait.

  "You Cristof?" he asked, and Cristof paused, balancing on the balls of his feet as the man continued in a low voice. "King Stefan sent us to find you, and the man you track."

  At that, Cristof scowled and rose from his crouch, mirrored by the red-head, though neither man relaxed. Had Lord Prichard sent this man after him with new instructions? Although he had two small homing birds caged with his horse to send messages, he had no way to receive missives until he slipped into one of the villages equipped to handle Prichard's network. No way other than another operative tracking him, though he didn't recognise the man facing him.

  Before he denied or confirmed the man's query (although his posture surely spoke volumes), the ginger pursed his lips and gave a sharp whistle. Cristof braced himself, mapping out his escape if it became necessary even as he held himself still, waiting for the arrival of whomever the man had just summoned.

  He hadn't expected Captain Milos, leader of the mercenaries who had briefly ruled the streets of Riverbend, nor, and more surprising, Corporal Joseph, one of King Stefan's own personal guards. Although he had never interacted with Joseph, nor the Corporal with him, Cristof had made of point of knowing everyone close to the King. He could hardly serve Lord Prichard as clandestine guard, spy, or assassin among the royals if he didn't know those around the men he secretly served. Joseph's presence here now with members of a Mercenary Company piqued Cristof's curiosity, even as he flexed his wrist to feel the comfort of the concealed blade up his sleeve. He trusted King Stefan's man, but he trusted his own ability to stay alive more.

  Members of the merc company, perhaps three dozen men, gathered behind their Captain, subdued and orderly. Still, Cristof spared a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping they stood far enough from the enemy camp that no sentry would hear or discover them. While the odds had strengthened in his favour―assuming the King had indeed sent these men and he didn't face a trap―Cristof didn't want to pit these forces against each other without a more certain outcome.

  Milos followed his glance, then dropped his gaze to a ring on his left index finger with a frown. A gaudy bauble with a large round stone, the ornament pulsed an angry maroon. Cristof had never seen the like, certainly not gracing the hand of a mercenary, but a feeling of unease settled deep in his bones. The red-head flicked his eyes toward the ring, then back to Cristof.

  "We followed the tracks you followed," he said softly, reading Cristof's cautious stance. "You returning empty-handed coupled with that," a head tilt to the signalling ring, "tells us that the spoiled brat met with someone unexpected?" The question in his words heightened Cristof's curiosity. What kind of trinket did Milos wear?

  With a voice coarse from years of bellowing commands during the heat of battle, the dusky Captain spoke, his hand with the ring closed into a fist and held at his side.

  "A fit man with black hair and a fat friend perhaps?"

  Cristof slid his gaze to Milos and inclined his head slightly, his wariness increasing as his muscles tightened in fight or flight mode. How would the mercenaries know who stood with the Prince in that meadow unless they worked together? Only Corporal Joseph's presence with the group gave him pause as he awaited an explanation that didn't involve treachery.

  "King Stefan sent us to
aid you," Joseph said, accurately reading Cristof's doubt. "But more, he sent us to scout for an incursion by two wizards and their guard, men intent on finding Wizards Destiny and Marcus, possibly using their imprisonment as an excuse to cross into our lands to cause mischief."

  "Mischief," Cristof snorted. A laconic man to begin with, making his guise as deaf-mute all the easier to maintain, Cristof felt words bubbling up his throat now if only to share the horror that he had just witnessed. Not the fact of Otto's death―Cristof had seen plenty of blood in his time, had shed a fair amount with his own hand―but the utter callousness of the unnecessary act. The fat man―wizard?―hadn't needed to kill the valet, but he had wanted to. The death served no purpose beyond intimidation. More useful to keep the man as hostage to the Prince's good behaviour, even as a slave; but to slit his throat with impunity, giving no warning, not even really intending the act as a means to control Whillim (though of course, the fear engendered would keep him in line), spoke to a mind lacking remorse, void of restraint. And that man wielded magic. The mischief he and his companion could cause if left unchecked staggered the assassin. "Two men who can hide the presence of an entire camp of more than seventy soldiers and trained guards until one blunders into it within the borders of Dalasham, who kill a citizen of the kingdom without a second thought, and the King calls it mischief?"

  "Actually, he called it scouting," Milos said bitterly. "They've killed the Prince, then?"

  Cristof blinked at him, then shook his head.

  "Otto, his valet. Prince Whillim offered to lead them to the heart of Dalasmar through secret tunnels while he pissed away his courage. Save his life, betray his people."

  "Same old toad," Milos agreed.

  "But he doesn't know how to get into the tunnels," Joseph said with a frown. That got Cristof's attention.

  "They're real, then? Not just rumour?" The assassin hadn't attended the trials, already prepping for his job at Cranshaw, so he hadn't heard the full details, just snippets and surmises.

  "Yes," confirmed Joseph. "I've walked them myself. Whillim hasn't, nor does he know how to find them."

  "Then it seems the Prince has found a bluff to placate his captors," Milos drawled. "I wonder how long it will last?"

  "You're sure he doesn't know how to find them?" Cristof demanded, his attention firmly on Joseph. "Certain enough to risk the life of the King?"

  Joseph hesitated only an instant, just enough to send prickles up Cristof's spine.

  "He knew enough to lie in wait, though he never entered the system," the guard admitted. "I'd bet my life; no one bets the King's life."

  "Lady Destiny tracked the librarian, not the tunnel," Milos admitted. "She had us look for likely outlets to watch, but had no luck figuring out how to open any."

  "Could these wizards succeed in finding a key that Destiny missed?" Cristof pressed.

  "Hellfire, I look like an expert on magic?" Milos' broad shoulders hunched as though cushioning against pain. "If these wizards have power enough to best Lady Destiny, the shite's gonna fly, and I won't stick around for that, no matter what Stefan pays."

  "We can't take the chance that the Prince will lead them undetected into Dalasmar," Cristof stated. "Even if he can't find these tunnels, he knows the streets of Riverbend, the defences, the weaknesses." Just as he had at Cranshaw, aiming for the most vulnerable exit. "If we can't take him back from this enemy before they reach Riverbend, then we must eliminate the threat."

  "Kill the wizards, or the Prince? Which threat would you eliminate?" Joseph asked quietly, his guarded expression telling the assassin he well knew the answer. Cristof didn't flinch from his green-eyed stare.

  "No confrontations, no heroics," Milos said, a hard bite to his words. "Direct from Captain Frederick's own lips. You feel free to get yourself killed going against someone who thinks he can best Lady Destiny. Me and my men have our orders, and they don't include suicide. Scout and report only. So once we've had a little look around their camp, we head back to Dalasmar Castle, get our full pay, then get the hell outta this shitty kingdom."

  Cristof nodded, then gestured behind him, back toward the hidden camp.

  "Mind the concealing mist," he said. "Unless you want to join the Prince."

  Milos eyed him, then the path Whillim and Otto had made. He glanced back at his men, holding the gaze of the red-head.

  "If it's a magic mirror," the braided man said, "I'm more likely to stumble through it than stop in time."

  "Then we pull back, set up our own watch, and wait for them to move out in the morning," decided Milos. "They might hide their camp, but moving men cause a ripple, no matter the skill of the wizard. Scout and report, but from behind." He studied Cristof. "Your birds go to the King?" he asked.

  Cristof inclined his head. In a round-about manner, he amended to himself.

  "Then we report what Cristof saw now, confirm it in the morning."

  As Cristof had planned to send his own message, he didn't object to Milos' assumption that he now commanded the assassin and his resources. Their goals, however, differed. If Cristof found the opportunity to remove Whillim from his captors, he would do so, even if that removal involved a knife to the Prince's heart. The safety of Dalasham came before the safety of a traitor, and it most certainly came before the well-being of one of the kingdom's enforcers. If Cristof had to sacrifice himself in an attempt to remove the threat of Prince Whillim, he would not hesitate. But he could hope circumstances didn't become that dire.

  Unfortunately, Cristof didn't believe in fairy tales.

  Chapter 19

  Shades of black danced in the depths of the chair, the circle of light from the lantern glinting on the polished quartz. Em stood riveted by the sight, wondering at her strange sense of calm and well-being as she shared space with the altered Focus, the device that had nearly changed the kingdom she called home.

  A device which had changed Dalasham, though not in the way Whillim and Destiny had originally intended. For without the Destiny Seat, and the forces Whillim had hoped to employ (not the least of which currently slept under guard next to Em's own empty bedchamber as the night slowly stretched into the pre-dawn hours), none of them would have known about Lesser Magics, the truth behind Henri's Rebellion, or the fear of battle backed by magic should Nathan come to claim his sister. This last had prompted Em to push aside her exhaustion and leave the warmth of her bed in search of answers.

  Although she had accepted the small group of people who now surrounded and conferred with her on a daily basis, by nature Em preferred the peaceful solitude she currently found only at night. No Chief Librarian helping her search out old records; no wizard made her responsibility because she had argued for the woman's fair treatment; no spymaster curious about her insights―whether at Council meetings where she scribed and listened to the discourse of those in power with the unique opportunity to share thoughts that might reach the ear of the King, or in a secluded sitting room trying to find a solution to the strengths and weaknesses afforded by Constance's Great Magic. Not even her own personal guard, who inexplicably continued to show up at her door each day in time to escort her to breakfast. For the few brief hours between retiring for the night and waking the next morning, Em had complete privacy. Unfortunately, too often of late, she had simply fallen into a bone-weary slumber, unable to truly appreciate the aloneness.

  Not so on this very early morning. After returning yesterday afternoon from the Fields of Erinnerung and the remnants of power spent there, Em had allowed the discourse of how to exploit the spell to flow around her, knowing she had little to contribute that two wizards, a world-wise merchant noble, a master spy and the Chief Librarian wouldn't already consider, Darien having joined them on their return. Her thoughts had turned instead to a promise she had made to Destiny. You teach me how to guard these Lesser Magics, how to use them, and I'll help you regain your brother, she had told the woman. Thus far, they had explored the nature of those Lesser Magics, yet they had no plan on how
to deal with Nathan beyond the nebulous concept of make sure he doesn't learn what we of Dalasham can do.

  Em had pondered what Destiny had created in the form of the Destiny Seat, wondering how the woman had hoped to adapt the spell to work on Nathan. It seemed unlikely that she had intended her brother to actually sit on the quartz throne―the spell involved a specific false memory meant to usurp the King, not a general spell to affect memory―suggesting she had intended this particular Focus as a model. The form of something the size of the chair made sense for the complex scope of Whillim's spell, the curve of the seat able to contain and amplify the magic's focus (or so Em believed, based on the scant resources on magic she had found in Darien's private enclave), but overall unnecessary for one recipient with fewer layers on the spell, as Destiny surely intended for Nathan. So what Focus would work on Nathan?

  Em had fallen asleep wondering whether Destiny could adapt some part of the Destiny Seat into a smaller Focus object, which led to her memory of having shifted the purpose of the spell, reinstating the truth over Whillim's lie in order to save King Stefan. She had woken with a desire to see what her actions that night had wrought. Like Destiny, she had only heard about the transfigured appearance of the Destiny Seat through the recounting of others; unlike Destiny, Em had freer run of the Castle and had determined to take a look for herself.

  She hadn't recognised the man set to guard the door to Destiny's former Sanctum, but after a nervous moment under his careful scrutiny by the combined light of the wall sconces and her own lantern, to Em's great surprise he had allowed her access, keeping the door to the room open to watch over her and the hallway both. Otherwise, he allowed her privacy.

  So now she stood, staring at an object once imbued with strong magic, trying to decide why the dark mass didn't fill her with dread. She made a slow circuit of the Seat, her lantern stretching the chair's shadow long before her as she moved.