Or could he? The elements obeyed his command. That was how he had called the wind in the first place. Wasn’t the ocean another of nature’s elements?
He stretched his hand out, palm towards the water, taking in the ocean as far as the horizon. Weather magic was dangerous, Rhys had been right about that; but if he stood here in the bow, his eyes open to take in as much as he could see, then he could command the ocean just as he called up the wind.
He recalled a verse from his book, one that Lord Garda had recited and the students had copied down laboriously. It was intended to calm storms that pounded against a fragile shore, but what was to stop its use on the open sea?
Who would doubt the strength of tides
Of crashing waves and howling gales
Yet in the fiercest water hides
A gentle heart of modest scale.
There seemed little change in the minutes that followed — the first failure Marcel’s magic had known for many months. He would have to put up with this swell all the way to Elster, he’d decided, when he realised he hadn’t been drenched by a heavy spray in minutes. The bow wasn’t digging as deeply into the waves, that was why. Either they had slowed down or …
Marcel worked his way forward, hand over hand, until he could see the ocean spread out before him, left and right and all the way to the horizon. The swell settled as he watched. By the time the first mate brought the captain to the bow so he could see for himself, the late-afternoon sun was reflected perfectly in the mirrored sea.
‘I’ve never sailed an ocean like this,’ the captain told his mate. ‘I’ve seen still waters, yes, but only when my ship was becalmed. Look at our sails — every one is bulging with the breeze. At this speed we’ll be in Elsmouth by noon tomorrow — and the outward journey took a week! No ship has ever travelled like this. It’s as though we’re in the grip of mag —’
He didn’t finish the word. Instead his eyes sought out Marcel and, for the first time since the young wizard had turned Termagant on him, he spoke to him in a civil voice.
‘You’ve done this, haven’t you? It is magic, the greatest I’ve ever seen.’ His last words were muttered in awe. ‘How long can you keep it up?’
‘As long as I stay on deck, controlling the wind and the sea.’
‘But it will be dark soon. You can’t stay awake all night.’
‘Bring me a warm coat and something to eat,’ Marcel ordered.
If his words seemed abrupt once again, the captain didn’t complain. ‘You’ll be able to tell your grandchildren about this voyage,’ he told the crew.
From one end of the ship to the other, resentment turned to delight, and all through the night sailors on watch brought Marcel warm drinks and titbits from their rations. He barely noticed their tribute. All that mattered was the speed of the hull as it cut through the glassy sea and how quickly the wind could carry him over the horizon.
The moon watched, white-faced, as the ship skimmed across the water, until it was chased away by the sun. As the captain had predicted, a shout came from the lookout early in the afternoon. ‘Land! I can see the coast of Elster.’
The rooftops and spires of Elsmouth started as faint lines in the distance, then made definite shapes until finally Marcel could recognise landmarks in the port he’d sailed from four months earlier. At last he could let the bustling wind drop to become a natural breeze. With the tide in her favour, the ship slipped past the shoal of rocks near the river mouth and looked for a berth among the barges that plied the river between Elsmouth and Elstenwyck.
As the crew stood ready with ropes, waiting for the dock to come into range, Marcel’s eye caught movement on the shore. A figure was running towards them. He stopped to shield his face from the sun, then came running on again as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When the figure was close enough for Marcel to recognise the features of a young man like himself, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing either.
‘Fergus!’
‘It is you, Marcel. I thought I’d be waiting here for days, but Nicola knew better. She said I should get here as soon as I could,’ he shouted across the gap.
‘Yes, well, we were lucky with the breeze,’ Marcel called back.
The sailors close enough to hear his reply laughed loudly, drawing a confused look from his cousin.
As soon as the boat was tied to the heavy timbers, Fergus jumped aboard. Recovering his balance quickly, he rushed straight at Marcel; then stopped an arm’s length short. He thrust out his hand and, after a brief pause, as though he was wondering what to do, Marcel grasped it.
‘It’s good to see you …’ they both began to say, and then it was all too ridiculous and, releasing their hands, they hugged each other tightly.
‘A year and a half! I’ve missed you. You’re not much good at letters, are you?’ said Marcel.
‘Letters! I’d rather talk to someone face to face. And look at you, you’re as tall as me!’
Not as broad in the shoulders though, Marcel saw as they stepped back, and where his own skin was pale from so many hours spent studying indoors and his hands were soft from writing, his cousin’s face was browned by the sun and his hands were calloused and strong.
‘I was beginning to think you’d stay a farmer the rest of your life,’ he teased Fergus.
‘It’s a good life, but, well … I was born with another and I’d be letting my mother down if I didn’t see what it has in store for me.’
‘You’ve come just in time. This message from Bea … Has Nicola heard any more?’
Fergus shook his head. ‘No, but it’s been two days since I left Elstenwyck. I’ve brought soldiers with me to escort you back safely.’
‘Two days,’ Marcel muttered.
‘If we set out this afternoon, we could be in the palace by dusk tomorrow,’ said Fergus. ‘The men have gone off to the taverns, but I can round them up soon enough.’
Marcel stood staring blankly towards the far hills where the road began its winding path to the capital. Had he even heard Fergus’s offer? Still without a word, he strode to the far side of the ship and peered at a line of barges waiting to dock after their journey downstream.
‘Those barges are no use to you,’ said Fergus, joining him at the rail. ‘They have to be towed back to Elstenwyck by horses,’ and he pointed towards the bank where a barge was just starting out on the laborious trudge against the current.
‘Cast off again,’ Marcel called to the crew.
‘Why?’ asked the captain. ‘You’re here in Elsmouth, where you wanted to be.’
‘I want to be in Elstenwyck,’ Marcel corrected him.
‘Well, we’re no good to you now. This is an ocean-going ship. It’s not meant for rivers. Besides, the current is too strong.’
‘Get us out into the middle of the river,’ Marcel demanded.
Termagant was sunning herself on the top of a water barrel nearby, paying no attention to the argument until he scooped her up and stood stroking her gleaming black fur. The captain’s eyes fell on her. There was no Rhys Tironel to back him up this time.
‘Do as he says,’ the captain called, none too happy, but he had no choice. Once the lines were unhooked, the ship began a slow drift outwards from the dock to where the tide fought an even battle with the river’s current. They were soon becalmed with the bow facing out to sea.
‘What are you doing?’ Fergus wanted to know.
‘Wouldn’t you rather sleep in a soft bed tonight, instead of on the hard ground by the road?’
‘Well … yes, but in case you’ve forgotten, Marcel, Elstenwyck is that way,’ he said wryly, pointing back up the river.
Marcel’s reply was to nod at the captain, who immediately barked at his crew. ‘Get the sails aloft.’
‘What good will that do? There’s no wind,’ said Fergus.
‘Not yet,’ Marcel answered with a wink.
Once the first of the sails was hoisted into place, he passed his hand before his face and felt the ai
r around him come alive. It likes to flex its muscles, he decided, as though the wind were a breathing beast that swirled and blustered whenever it could.
‘Stronger, make that canvas strain against the mast,’ he cried.
The ropes snapped tight above their heads, the canvas filled out and, with the captain spinning the wheel to face them upstream, the ship began to make way.
Word had spread quickly along the docks. A ship was taking on the river currents with nothing but sail. Unheard of! Faces crammed into every window along the waterfront. Bodies spilled out of taverns and came to stare from the river bank, four startled soldiers among them, the tankards of beer still in their hands. Progress was slow so the crowd had plenty of time to jeer at such madness.
‘At this pace it will take three days, not two. We should have gone by horse!’ Fergus complained.
Marcel doubled his concentration. The breeze grew into a stiff wind that carried them clear of Elsmouth at last. That should silence Fergus, he thought, slackening his magic for a moment to open his eyes. He caught sight of the water streaming past and saw how the current was holding them back. If he could calm the sea’s surface, perhaps the river waters would obey him as well. He called up the spell, altering words where it suited. He’d done this years before and almost sunk his ship, but he was a better sorcerer now. He’d claimed as much at the dock in Noam, and the Grand Master had agreed, however reluctant he’d seemed. This ship was safe in his hands.
The current gave way before them, circling in soft eddies as they approached so that the force of the onrushing water no longer grabbed at the hull. Their speed doubled. Fergus must surely see now: it wouldn’t take three days, or two, or even twenty-four hours. He and Fergus would sleep in the palace tonight, just as he’d predicted — as long as he kept up the magic.
He saw Fergus move forward to the bow where he clamped a hand around the rigging and stretched out his other arm to feel the power that surged through the ship’s timbers. Yesterday and all through the night, Marcel had only been able to share this with the crew, who were wary of him and kept their distance. Fergus was his friend, his cousin, almost a brother. He hadn’t felt a pleasure in his sorcery like this for a long time and, for a few minutes at least, he forgot about Bea and the danger faced by her grandfather.
As long as I keep up the magic, he reminded himself, and turned his entire mind to the task. That was why he didn’t see what was happening until a shout came from Fergus.
The wind snatched at their faces, stealing words from lips before they could reach an ear, but Fergus was pointing behind them and towards the shore.
Why bother, thought Marcel, when it’s only what lies ahead that matters?
Fergus called to him again, then left his post near the bow and spoke directly into his cousin’s ear.
‘The farmhouses close to the bank. Look what the wind is doing to them.’
Careful to keep his mind on the magic so their speed wouldn’t slacken, Marcel flicked his eyes between the river ahead and the shore.
‘What? I can’t see anything.’
‘The roof, look at the roof,’ Fergus shouted.
At that instant, a clump of thatch the size of a cow whirled into the air above one of the cottages, turning end over end in a frenzy before it struck the ground. Even then it didn’t lie still, but cartwheeled along the river bank in the direction they were travelling.
‘The wind!’ Fergus cried into Marcel’s ear. ‘It’s too strong. Every house we pass is losing part of its roof. And there, look, some poor woman’s put out her sheets to dry. They’ve been blown into that oak tree. And what about that?’ he said, turning suddenly to examine the shore they hadn’t yet passed.
As they watched, a surge of water the height of a man’s waist mounted the bank and swept into a field of wheat that stood ready to harvest. Before it was spent it had flattened half of the crop.
‘It’s the water coming downstream with the current,’ Fergus realised. ‘It’s backing up against the eddies you’re making ahead of us. The water has nowhere to go but over the bank. You have to stop it happening, Marcel.’
‘We have to reach Elstenwyck. That’s what we have to do.’
‘Then slow down at least. Lower the wind, let the current flow so the river stays between its banks.’
‘Every hour counts. That’s why I crossed from Noam so quickly. We’re almost there.’
‘But the damage!’
‘I’ll make sure Father sends men to repair the roofs.’
‘What about the wheat fields? How will the king’s men repair ruined grain? That farmer’s lost half his summer’s work.’
‘I’ll see that he’s paid for what he’s lost.’
‘You don’t understand, Marcel. He’s worked all summer for that wheat. It’s not just the money. If you’d been a farmer’s son like me, you’d have more respect.’
Marcel called to the wind and their pace slackened, but not by much. No more waves flooded the riverside farms, but animals continued to bellow and bleat in fright as the wind swept whirlpools of dust and straw around them, and more than one haystack was spread across the field from which the hay had recently been cut. There was no damage that couldn’t be set right with a little sweat and Fergus kept silent, but his eyes glowed with anger, and for the rest of the journey Marcel preferred to keep his own eyes on the river ahead.
At last those eyes found the walls of Elstenwyck emerging through the summer haze. Then he could see the towers of the palace. Only when the dock came into view around a bend in the river did he release the wind from his command.
By then, Fergus was furious and when the ship came to rest before open-mouthed workers on a dock that had never seen a vessel larger than a barge, he jumped ashore and strode towards the palace without waiting for Marcel.
CHAPTER 8
King Pelham and his Daughter
‘LORD MARCEL, IT IS YOU!’ said the startled dock captain when Termagant was passed down to him. Marcel needed both hands for the rope ladder since the dock wasn’t built for ships this size. ‘I didn’t believe my lads, but they have better eyes than me, I suppose. They’ve gone off to alert the palace.’
Termagant didn’t think much of being handled like a pet and promptly jumped down to the rough timbers and set off into the town. Before Marcel had walked twenty paces, three striding figures swept around the last of the storehouses and made straight for him through the bustle of the busy wharf. The first two were soldiers who cleared a path with more courtesy than soldiers are generally known for. The third wore a colourful gown that caught the late-afternoon sun.
‘Didn’t take Nicola long,’ said Marcel brightly, but he was talking to himself since both Fergus and Termagant had deserted him.
Only four months had passed since his last sight of the brass-haired Nicola yet she seemed to have grown many years older. Could there really be less than two years between their ages?
When she was close enough, he called, ‘You were right to send Fergus to Elsmouth when you did.’
‘I knew you’d find a way to get home quickly,’ came Nicola’s reply, as though it were no great feat to travel such a distance in only two days. ‘I saw Fergus just now, with a face that would curdle milk.’
‘We argued about … well, a farming matter. Have you heard any more from Bea?’
‘No, nothing.’ Nicola’s eyes flicked towards the guards who’d accompanied her. She drew her brother away to where they couldn’t hear before saying any more. ‘I’m worried, Marcel. The letter I sent you couldn’t explain the fear hidden behind her words. It’s more than Long Beard. She’s frightened for every elf on the mountain. Father’s been waiting for you before he decides what to do.’
‘What to do! He shouldn’t do anything. That message was for me, not Father. Bea wants me to come alone. I can’t believe you told him.’
‘How could I ask for a ship to bring you back from Noam if I didn’t tell him why? This kingdom’s not a playground for you and m
e, Marcel. Of course I had to tell him.’
Nicola’s attendants led them back along the bustling streets and into the palace. ‘Father wants us to join him in the Great Hall,’ she explained, ‘but he’s with the ambassador from Grenvey. That old windbag will keep him a while yet, so you’ve got time to change out of those wet things.’
Wet? Marcel had been too focused on his magic to notice. He climbed to the first floor and followed the familiar passage to his chamber, where he found Fergus rummaging through a sack at the end of his bed.
‘Sorry, they gave me your room to sleep in until you got back,’ Fergus explained.
‘You’re welcome to it. I’ll be gone in another hour anyway.’
Marcel opened his wardrobe to find a shirt and pair of britches suitable for an audience with the king. When he turned back, Fergus was shrugging his broad shoulders into a roughly sewn sheepskin coat.
‘You can have something of mine if you like. We’re much the same size.’
‘Thanks, but I’m wearing this in honour of the chancellor,’ said Fergus.
‘The chancellor! I don’t think he’d …’
Marcel stopped when he saw the impish grin on his cousin’s face. A similar smile warmed his own and the chuckle they shared seemed to smooth things over between them.
Then it was back along the corridor for the pair of them, down the sweeping staircase and into the Great Hall. Here, the gold and silver of evening sunlight fell diagonally from high windows onto a magnificent tapestry that adorned the full length of the opposite wall. The tapestry depicted scenes from the kingdom’s past. Staring up at one of these scenes was the princess. Since there was still no sign of the king, they joined her.
‘The Battle of Cadell,’ Marcel read from the stitching. He quickly identified himself on the citadel’s wall; Nicola too, in the armour she had worn that day; and Fergus swinging the enchanted sword that would later kill Lord Damon. The embroiderers had depicted the sorcerer, Ismar, as a black cloud ranging above them, and that was close enough to the truth, although Marcel would have chosen a chilling grey sky splintered by lightning with each bolt gouging into his own chest. If they hadn’t stopped Ismar in Cadell, the fiend would have enslaved all of the Mortal Kingdoms, starting with Elster.
The Book from Baden Dark Page 6
