Consequences (Majaos Book 2)

by Gary Stringer

  The companions had instantly recognised Prince Garald sitting in the chair to what would be the king's right if he were present. Even though the king was too ill to hold court and the prince was fulfilling those duties admirably, still he was only the Prince Regent and would therefore not presume to occupy the king's throne.

  He was deep in the study of very important papers and without looking up, he said, “I am told this is important, so please say whatever it is you have come to say. I regret my lack of hospitality but I'm afraid I have much to do.”

  “Father,” came the voice of Mystaya. A single word, spoken softly, but filled with such love, respect, happiness, relief, concern and a hundred other emotions, that it seemed as if surely the whole world must have heard it.

  Upon seeing his daughter, he looked at her strangely, as if not fully believing his eyes. “Mystaya?”

  “Father, it's me,” she coaxed, gently. Still she did not raise her voice, despite the power of her feelings. Joy filled the prince's face as he shot from his seat. Those documents that had seemed so vital a moment ago scattered over the floor and he cared not one bit. He ran down the steps from the podium upon which the throne stood and Mystaya, too, discarded all royal dignity as she raced to meet him. Tears flowed from both of them...and why not? The most precious thing in Prince Garald's world had been taken from him and was now returned, safe and well.

  Safe? Eilidh wondered, ever the realist. Was anyone truly safe these days? Perhaps they were relatively safe for the time being, she conceded. Let them have this moment, she decided. The gods knew they deserved it - they all did. Mystaya had borne her kidnap and captivity with righteous royal courage, and had been gracious to her rescuers. Now at last she could cry.

  When at last she and her father broke their embrace, they approached Eilidh, and her two companions. “My friends,” Prince Garald began, “I just can't thank you enough for bringing my daughter back safely. Since you’ve been gone, I’ve replayed my actions over and over in my head, and part of me is ashamed. Your Knight friend, Lady Hannah, was right: to blackmail you into helping me was not honourable. What you are doing is, I'm sure, far more important, from the world's perspective...ah, but my objectivity and my honour are uncertain where my daughter is concerned. Therefore, ashamed though I am, I can live with it.”

  “I understand, Your Grace,” Eilidh replied with a bow.

  “Aye,” Granite agreed. “In dwarf clans, there's nothin' more important than family.” “No problem at all, Your Grace,” To liechoed. “It was a really great adventure and Mystaya is a really nice girl and - sorry, I mean Princess Mystaya, I don't mean to be disrespectful, it's just with everything that's happened and the ride home on the sea serpent-”

  “-Sea serpent?” Garald interrupted.

  “Oh yes! It was terribly exciting, you see-”

  “--Why don't you tell me the whole story, from the beginning?” “Father,” Mystaya chided, gently, giving him a playful shove. “These people have come a long way and risked many dangers for us. The least we can do is offer them some comfort and refreshment. Come to that, I wouldn't mind some, myself; I look simply frightful and probably smell even worse.”

  Garald smiled. “You're quite right, my dear -” he began, then seeing his daughter's arched eyebrows, amended quickly, “-that we should offer our friends every hospitality.” To the trio, he said,“Please forgive my enthusiasm. Just one question before I let you go,” he added as an afterthought. “I can't help noticing there's only the three of you...I trust nothing untoward has happened to the rest of your party?”

  “Not at all, Your Grace,” Eilidh replied. “In fact our numbers grew significantly after we reached Avidon and I'm pleased to say there were no casualties.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realised she was wrong. In fact, she was appalled that it could have slipped her memory even for a moment. “Ah, actually, Your Grace, I'm afraid that's not quite true.”

  “Oh?” “Yes, I'm sorry to say we did lose one companion. I don't know how to break this to you gently, I know he was kind of a friend of yours, so I hope you'll forgive me if I just say it: Your Grace, Kismet is dead.”

  Garald laughed. “Kismet?” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “He's indestructible.”

  “I told them as much myself,” his daughter agreed. “With respect, Your Grace-”

  “You don't know him like I do, so you'll just have to take my word for it.”

  “But, Your Grace, we saw-”

  “Whatever you think you saw, I'm sure there is another explanation. Now, not another word until you are refreshed.”

  Moments later, palace servants were leading them away to bathe and change. Eilidh could only wonder at Prince Garald's refusal to accept the truth….if it was the truth.

  * * * * * “...And so the serpent dropped us off at the river to the North, before speeding away again with Artisho clinging on for dear life,” Eilidh concluded, several hours later in a relaxed lounge room. “The rest you know,” she added with a shrug.

  The furniture on which they sat had the ingenious feature that the individual could adjust their height off the ground. This was obviously designed for diplomatic reasons, so as not to offend the smaller races, whilst still being comfortable and relaxing for humans or even tall elves. Eilidh was a bit suspicious at first, but after some gentle magical probing, she discovered that her chair had at least been constructed with the aid of magic, even if it did not require magic to adjust it. That made her feel a little better about things.

  “So, this Z'rcona was an agent," the prince mused. "Well then, it seems there was a connection to your main quest after all. How interesting.”

  “Father…” Mystaya spoke up. She was now dressed in a silken gown of her favoured shade of blue, with slim corseted waist, full skirt and low-cut bodice in the modern style. Her raven black hair was done in tight curls and sported a delicate silver tiara, matching her necklace and the bracelets she wore over her long white silk gloves. Her face was lightly painted just to highlight and soften her striking features. She was every inch the regal princess - a far cry from the girl they had rescued. Indeed, it was hard to believe this was the same person - apart from one particular accessory. A sword hung in a scabbard at her hip, and if Eilidh wasn’t mistaken, it was the one she’d `borrowed` from Bunny in Marina Fells mine.

  Bernice, of course, was looking out for Phaer and despite certain misgivings about the sumorityl, on balance Eilidh was glad he wasn’t all alone out there. She hoped her half-elven friend was alright. Still, it was not in Eilidh's nature to worry about things she could not change, so she did her best to put those concerns to one side in favour of more practical ones.

  “…I can’t help thinking,” the princess continued, “that this is precisely the sort of story the people need to hear right now. A tale of modern-day heroism coupled with the return of their Lavender Rose.”

  Lavender Rose was an affectionate title that the Shakaran people had bestowed upon their beloved young princess.

  Prince Garald considered that for a moment. “You’re right, my dear,” he agreed. “It would inspire them to the courage they will need in the days ahead.”

  It seemed to Eilidh that the Shakaran people's courage needed very little support. “However,” the prince continued, “we must be careful not to jeopardis e the secrecy of Eilidh's mission. Unless I am very much mistaken, it is vital to all of us that she and her followers are allowed to continue unhindered.”

  Mystaya directed a dazzling smile at the dwarf sitting opposite her. “Why, I'm sure a bard of Mr Longbeard's distinction could compose a suitable ballad that would put over the essence of my rescue, whilst maintaining a certain discretion towards the parties involved.”

  The dwarf knew he was being flattered into submission, but he laughed in spite of himself. “Aye, Yer Highness, I'll do that for yeh. I'll get onto it straight away...or at least as soon as I get paid for services already rendered.”

  It was Garal
d's turn to laugh. “Subtlety notwithstanding,” he said, “I shall send for your gold forthwithand have training arranged for all of you, at a time that suits you.” “All of us?” Toli wondered. “You mean me too? I mean you already sent me that book to help me with my magic, are you saying you'll train me to yet another grade? It's really incredibly generous of you, but I wouldn't want to think I was stretching our agreement or anything, because that wouldn't be fair at all.”

  “One grade or two,” Garald shrugged. “Who's counting? I cannot possibly be generous enough to properly repay you for bringingMystaya home to me.”

  “Speaking of repayment, Your Grace,” Eilidh prompted. “You promised to give me information about someone who may have knowledge to help me?” Shakaran Palace naturally had easy access to good Techmagic communications and a quick bit of research had confirmed enough of Gamaliel’s story to be confident of the truth of the whole. Every citizen of Mythallen had been registered by law for centuries. Most of the details were, of course, confidential, but Eilidh didn’t need any of that. Just names, places and dates, which were public record. Normally, information on citizens who lived under the rule of the Hand of Darkness in Avidon or other Libration Front controlled villages were an exception, but the fact that Gamaliel knew of two appearances of a Niltsiar in Avidon meant those records existed in Merlyon and so that took care of that.

  Gamaliel had not told Eilidh specifically what he believed connected these Niltsiar women, so the Catalyst could examine the evidence with a critical eye. First appearance of the name was indeed a sixteen year old Spirit mage during the Tech Wars. After that, the name popped up just six more times up the present day. If Niltsiar was a name from legend, why did the name suddenly pop up only in the last two centuries without any such legend becoming popular? Gamaliel had been right to dismiss that theory, Eilidh accepted.

  Futhermore, there was no birth or death record for a Niltsiar. They simply appeared, happened to have an exceptionally strong Life Gift, rose rapidly up one particular branch of magic and disappeared again. Almost as if she had learned all she needed in each case. But that didn’t make sense…unless…

  …unless it was the same person each time, Eilidh concluded.

  She knew itwasn’t exactly conclusive proof. It would imply that Niltsiar was more than two hundred years old, but it was the only working theory she had. Now she needed help. “And I will withhold the information no longer," promised the prince. "In a small hut in the wilderness at the edge of the Shakaran Borderlands, there lives a wise sage who seems to possess the knowledge of the ages. It was my father who first stumbled across his hut and told me about him. Known only as the Wise One, he sells his knowledge - for no small fee, I might add, which is why you might find that my chief treasurer has `miscounted` slightly with your gold. If you visit the Wise One, believe me, the gold will not be yours for very long.”

  “I suppose we can hardly blame him,” Toli decided. “After all, everyone's got to make a living somehow haven't they? If you're strong you can be a warrior, if you've got magic you can sell your skills in that area. Bakers sell their bread and artists sell their paintings, so if this man knows things that no-one else does, it's only fair that he should make money from it. So long as the knowledge doesn't fall into the wrong hands, or someone is intent on harming him, or-”

  “ --He has ways of safeguardingagainst unwanted visitors,” the prince interrupted. “That's why I said you would never find him without my help - his hut never seems to be in the same place twice.”

  “Are ye saying that he can teleport his entire home wherever he wants?” Granite wondered. “Actually, the truth is stranger than that. As much as I understand is that the Wise One's hut stays put - it's everything else that moves so the route is constantly changing. In some ways, it's a little like Corridor travel: you just focus on your destination; the route is irrelevant. This magical phenomenon of the Wise One’s hut works against teleporting, also. I heard one unconfirmed story about someone who tried to teleport to the Wise One and materialised on another continent. No-one can reach the Wise One unless they are invited.”

  “Then how did your father manage to `stumble across` his hut?” Eilidh questioned. “And, more importantly, how are we to get there without an invitation?” “Oh, my father was invited - he just didn't know it - and so shallyou be.” Prince Garald took off the ruby ring from the little finger of his left hand and put it into Eilidh's palm. “Take this ring - it was the Wise One's gift to my father. The wearer has standing permission to visit him.”

  “Isn't that a little dangerous?” Toli wondered. “I mean we'll take good care of it, obviously, but it could be given to anybody, or lost, or stolen...”

  “No, Miss Tolbrietta, the ring cannot be taken - only given. Even then it is not my choice who should have it. If you were not intended to have it, it would not even have come off my finger.”

  “This Wise One thinks of everythin' doesn't he?” Granite observed. Toli shrugged. “I guess that's why he's called the Wise One.” Then, after a pause, “What?” she demanded as everyone stared at her, startled by the most concise statement any of them had heard her make.

  Eilidh hid a smile. “Nothing, my friend, nothing at all.”

  * * * * *

  So, here we are, Eilidh thought, as the Wise One came back into the room with a steaming mug of herbal tea. He took a sip and sighed contentedly. “Oh, I'm sorry," the Wise One apologised. "I should have thought to ask; would you like some? I have plenty and I can always pick more of the leaves myself. They grow quite abundantly in Shakaran Borderlands.”

  “What kind of leaves are they?” Eilidh inquired.

  “The leaves of the Kij vine, would you like some?” Eilidh's face turned pale and her companions tried hard to keep from laughing. “I think I'll pass, thank you,” she insisted, firmly. “Please just explain to us what Merlyn's story has to do with Niltsiar, would you?”

  “Ah, well now,” he began, pausing as he sat down and took another sip of his tea. “When the Terran mages settled here on Majaos, many things changed. Not least their relationships with each other. No longer the feared and threatened minority group, they were free to practise magic in the open and free to pursue personal feelings. Most notable among these mage pairings was Merlyn and his long time love, Ganieda. In due course, they were wed and Ganieda conceived a child. When that child was born, it was a girl; a daughter theynamed Niltsiar.”

  Chapter 2

  “I don't like it here!” Callie complained. Far from the city of Shakaran, or any other city for that matter, two mismatched dragons flew over a desert furnace. One was a silver female, her scales shining with dazzling brilliance. The other, a male, one could be forgiven for thinking was a black, but the keen observer would notice a sparkle to his scales, growing in the blazing sun, that spoke of a jewelled dragon - an obsidian.

  “It's so hot, so barren...so dry!” continued the silver. “My scales are starting to itch,” she added, sullenly. Her discomfort was understandable. Silvers were, after all, forest dragons, fond of lush greenery, teeming with life. They especially loved to make their nests in high places - hills and mountains above the treetops, though not too high so as to be cold. Silvers, like most dragons, disliked the cold, but when it came to heat, they preferred the steamy, humid kind of heat of the rainforest. Dry desert heat caused their scales to become flaky and that, as Callie said, made them itch.

  Quite frankly, Loric was getting a little sick and tired of hearing the female dragon whine, understandable or not. He knew the litany by heart now: she didn't like the heat, didn't like the desert, the air was too dry, not enough life, flying here was boring, why couldn't they stop for a break, where were they going to find water to drink or bathe...and so the list went on, incessantly. It wasn't as if this was an ideal environment for an obsidian dragon, either, native to the swamps, tar pits and marshy wastelands of Majaos.

  Calandra/Callie seemed to have almost dual personalities. Calandra was a seriou
s, wise elven priest, filled with a faith in the Light personified in the god Patrelaux, Father of Light. Callie was a young silver dragon, an immature adolescent, or at least the dragon equivalent, who whined continually when things were tough and awkward and she wasn't getting her own way. It wasn't that Callie was physically so young - by dragon standards she was old enough to be considered an adult. A little young to be thinking about her first mating flight or her first clutch of eggs, perhaps, but still physically an adult. Emotionally, she was underdeveloped at best, childish at worst.

  Dragons did not measure their lives in numerical terms based on the cycles of Majaos - years, decades, centuries. Since their natural life span was indefinite – perhaps infinite - such numbers would be meaningless. To draconic thinking, one was an adult as soon as one was physically and emotionally developed enough to be ready for independence. Metallic dragons did not like to push the emotional development of their hatchlings the way jewelled dragons did, preferring to allow such development to occur in its own time. After all, what was time to a dragon?

  Chromatic dragons showed no patience at all with their offspring. Tending to belong to considerably larger clutches, a chromatic wyrmling spent the first moments of its life fighting and killing most of its brothers and sisters. All newborn wyrms were starving when they hatched, demanding to fill their bellies from the outset. However, among chromatic dragons, the mother -(the male having long since been ejected from the nest, if not killed)- offered no help to her young, beyond providing some suitable live prey - something weak and defenceless before even a small and awkward hatchling. The food was limited, forcing her young to instinctively compete for food. Some would steal a kill right out of the mouth of a brother or sister. The mother would look on without mercy toward those that moved too slowly, those that hesitated and were killed by their peers. Once the surviving few had each eaten enough to take the edge off their hunger, they would begin to play with their food. Finding new and inventive ways to torment the creatures, the wyrmlings would torture them, take them to within a scale's breadth of death and then sit back to watch, fascinated to see how long it took for the pathetic thing to die. The dragon mare would take pride in the handful of survivors from her clutch. Often she would favour one true heir - the biggest, the fastest, the most vicious lavishing all her attention and efforts on that one. At one year old, it was not uncommon for the heir to be three or four times the size of the others and the development gap would only widen with time. For the strong to survive, the weak must be eliminated - that was the law, as taught by Divine Mortress to her chromatic children.