And they slipped out the door, closing it gently behind them, and walked toward the cliff path.
* * * * *
Callo remembered the layout of SeagardCastle as if he had lived there all of his life, instead of just those few, uncomfortable sennights in the fall. In the delicate light of the narrow moon, he and Chiss were able to traverse the caravan road from Two Merkhan, leave the horses loosely tethered off the road, and make their way toward the newer wing of the castle. They avoided the main entryway, which was patrolled by an unusually large number of guardsmen. Instead, they made a wide circle around the castle grounds, avoiding any patrols, and found a path that trickled down to the village from the caravan road. After a short distance, they left the village path, and Chiss took the lead as they walked through a wooded area, threading them past two sentries and bringing them to a door in the kitchen area.
The door was unlocked. Chiss had said servants were in and out that door at all hours. Callo’s every nerve was on edge as they eased into the building. The door gave directly onto a small room, off the main kitchen, with buckets and tubs stacked and mops leaning against walls. A cupboard door stood ajar, showing piles of linen within—aprons and dishrags and such, Callo surmised.
The scrub room was dark, but as Chiss had warned him, someone was in the main kitchen. A yellow light flickered, and a hushed voice spoke to someone else. Callo wondered what on earth the servants found to do at this late hour of the night. Chiss beckoned. He followed his manservant past the kitchen to a shadowed hallway. In a moment the muted activity in the kitchen fell behind them.
They approached the great hall. There were guardsmen seated nearby, with dice on the table between them. Callo veered into a stairwell before they could take notice. A servants’ staircase rose into unlit darkness before them.
They climbed and turned with the stairs and climbed again, guarding their footsteps.
There were three flights to the second floor, to allow for the high ceilings of the main floor. Here Callo stopped short; there was an armed guard at the entryway. The man was burly and mailed, and looked wide awake; he had a shielded lamp, with candlelight poking through holes punched in the tin shield.
Callo sighed. Chiss, behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, urging him on. Callo closed his eyes for a second, long enough to identify the trancelike drowsiness he wished to inflict on the guard. Boredom, exhaustion, sleep, his mind urged the lone guardsman. The man shifted his weight; he rolled his head, easing his neck muscles, fighting the ku’an influence. At last he leaned up against the wall, and his eyelids fell, so somnolent he was almost asleep on his feet.
Callo thought that was the best he would be able to do. He wondered what quirk Arias had developed to have an armed guard over the door to the sleeping quarters. Then he and Chiss slipped by the guard, nerves on edge. The man never stirred. Two more flights to the upper level, and then the tower awaited them.
Callo felt sure Arias would be in the tower. There were three Watchers only, now: Arias, Lord Forell, and their uncle Eamon. He could not see old Eamon keeping a night Watch, nor self-indulgent Forell, who would be with his concubine. Arias had always been a creature of the night; he pictured his half-brother in the dark tower, with the long windows open to the sea and the stars, and smiled. They took the last flights faster, no longer worried about guards.
He knew he was right as soon as he entered the large outer room. The couches and tables were deserted. An oil lamp turned low lit the room, but left the corners dark. A narrow doorway lay through the western wall, and through it Callo felt the draft from unshuttered windows, open to the sea air. The WatchTower.
A figure was silhouetted against the dim light shed by the slim moon. A tangled green glow rose and dissipated in the grainy dark – Arias’ mage cloak was showing the patterns of the color magic—and its master’s mood.
Chiss stayed by the door. Callo went on, walking slowly in the dark. His feet scuffed, and the black figure in the window turned.
“Who?” asked Arias. A glow rose in the room, reddish so as not to disturb the Watcher’s night vision.
“Arias, it’s me. Callo.”
“Callo?” The glow intensified. He could see Arias’ face now, burnished by the color of the magery. His half-brother’s eyes were riveted on his face; the Collar gleamed red on Arias’ neck.
“Hello, Arias.”
Arias’ eyes were fierce. “So you’ve come back.”
Chiss took the oil lamp from the table in the outer room. As he approached with it, Callo could see Arias’ hand playing with his belt knife in its sheath. His own weapon was sheathed; he spread his arms slightly, to show goodwill.
“You! Chiss! Take that light away. You’ll ruin my night vision.”
As Chiss nodded and put the lamp down on the floor outside the Watch room, Callo said, “How are you to see a Black Tide in this darkness anyway?”
“Not well. So it’s all the more important that I don’t blind myself.” Arias looked out at the night and then back to Callo. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I should not have left you to the mercies of the King’s Collar.”
“Well, I realize I may have had something to do with your leaving.” Callo’s heart warmed; Arias seemed his old self again. Then his eye caught the Collar, and Arias’ hand still at the belt knife, and he stopped smiling. Arias continued, “I can only blame the early days of my Collaring, Callo. Things were—all black and white. I pushed you away without allowing you to explain.”
“Explain?”
“How you would not be a threat to Righar.”
“Ah, Arias. You have known me all your life.”
“But apparently I have not.”
“When you were Collared, you changed—not I. When I found out about my birth, I was angry and shocked, but still the same as I have ever been.” Callo saw Arias look again out the windows into the clear cold night, looking for attack from Ha’las. “Now—I must admit, Brother, my recent travels have indeed changed me.”
Arias’ attention was on him like lightning. The colors in his cloak swirled faster, red and violet. “Have you come to kill me?”
“No!” Callo said that fast, convinced that if Arias didn’t believe him, he would strike first. “I have come to see if you would like to be freed from that.”
“This?” Arias fingered the Collar. He gave a dry, incredulous laugh. “You are taunting me. Why would I not hear that suggestion as a threat?”
“Because you know me.” Callo came closer. “You were attacked by a jealous king and Collared as revenge. You know it. All the imperatives of your binding cannot have blinded you to that.”
“No, the Collar hasn’t blinded me to that. Sharpeyes is a jealous ass.” Arias’ hand was no longer on his knife. Now it touched his Collar, almost a caress.
“Would you rather be free to make your own choices?” Callo asked.
“My duty is to Watch,” Arias said. He looked out into the night again. Callo followed his stare and saw only black-on-black, an occasional glitter of moonlight on sea, a patch of darker night that might be forest, or clouds, or rocks. It came to him suddenly that Arias couldn’t see a thing now, at night. A Black Tide could rush in at them from Ha’las on the breast of the waves and be upon them before Arias could do more than mutter a curse. Arias was no fool; he must know this, too. The Collar was indeed strong, to force a man to bear a useless vigil, night after night, with no hope of success in the event of a real attack. Callo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
“You can always Watch. You can Watch of your free will, without your King having to Collar you like an animal. Arias – I have changed, I have found some things out—I have realized what you are going through. I think I can release you. Or at least, you and I together can.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have found my Ha’lasi heritage. I have found the gift that comes with my ku’an ancestry. I might be able to help.”
&
nbsp; Red sparks flew, and Arias drew back, hand on knife once again. “Yes, you are a Ha’lasi bastard. Is that your new allegiance? Tell me no, Callo, for I don’t want to hurt you.” But energy licked around Arias’ hands, and the interior of the small room was now illuminated by a strident red glow.
“No! Arias, I am not here to harm you or anyone here.”
There was a clatter from the stairs. Chiss spun and went to the outer room. Arias drew back, haloed in twisting light, clearly on the verge of action.
“I mean you no harm,” Callo said. A door slammed in the outer chamber, and three figures scrambled towards him. Callo began to drop his internal wall, ready to defend himself. Then he saw the spiky hair lit by red magery.
“Kirian!”
She rushed at him. He saw Ha’star behind her, holding a sword whose blade was black with blood.
“Friends, Arias, friends,” Callo uttered as Chiss loomed in the inner room. He could see his half-brother’s hands shaking. “Kirian, what’s wrong? Why are you here?”
“The King is here,” she said. “We had to warn you.”
“Sharpeyes here?”
“Whom have you killed?” Arias demanded of Ha’star. Callo looked at the Ha’lasi warrior who still held the blooded blade.
“Guard, on the second floor,” Ha’star said. “He saw us.”
“The King’s guardsman,” Arias said. “Friends, are they, Callo?”
“Yes, damn it, Arias, I realize this isn’t as nonthreatening as it ought to be! Look, I still can help you. Do you want to be free of it? Watch if you will, but let it be of your own will, not the King’s.”
“I can’t.” The red energies remained, clinging to Arias’ hands. His voice was even. “Callo. You think I don’t remember our friendship. Well, I do. But it’s still everything I can do not to blast you where you stand, right now. Get out of here before Sharpeyes comes, or I lose control.”
“Jashan, Arias, I can’t leave you now!”
“It’s too late anyway.” The voice was calm and held a touch of satisfaction. Arias turned toward the door, white showing around his eyes. Chiss swore, and Callo would have echoed him if he had been able to speak.
His Majesty King Martan Alghasi Monteni strode into the room fully dressed, even to a gold circlet around his graying head. Five guards swarmed in around him. One man carried lamps he set on table and floor, so that the whole scene leaped into relief against a background of sharp shadows. The men surrounded Sharpeyes in a protective semi-circle.
Arias whirled and stared out at the night, searching as his binding dictated, then turned back.
“So you are back,” the King said to Callo. “I send men the length and breadth of the land to find you—even into Ha’las—and you turn up in front of my very nose.”
“You sent men to kill him,” Chiss accused.
“Apparently, they failed.” Sharpeyes stared at Callo, his gaze uncomfortably acute. “You could not be allowed to stay in Ha’las, giving the ku’an the benefit of your talents. Your man,” he cast an unreadable glance at Chiss, “knows this.”
Callo did not understand why the King addressed Chiss. He said, “You have discovered me. Now what?”
“How much have you changed, Nephew?” Sharpeyes, who had not even glanced at the other occupants of the room, flung an arm out in Kirian’s direction. Color magery spun from his fingers and seized her, whipping round her arms and body like a snake. Kirian shrieked as her wrists were restrained by chains of magery, and bound tightly to her body.
Ha’star came to life. His sword hissed free of its sheath, his belt knife in his other hand.
“Stop!” shouted Callo, knowing what would happen.
Ha’star ignored him. He whirled into deadly action with all the skill and power of his years of fighting.
“Ha’star, stop!” ordered Callo. There was no way one warrior, however skilled, could prevail against the five guards. The King’s guardsmen clashed with Ha’star, and his sword flew out of his hand, blood blossoming on his chest. The Ha’lasi warrior fell back, eyes rolling up, blood still pumping from a deep and deadly wound straight to his heart.
“No!” Kirian cried out, still entangled in magery.
Callo rushed to kneel at Ha’star’s side. The warrior’s dead eyes looked past him. “Go with your gods, Ha’star. I will miss you.” Shock wavered along his nerves; he felt a mighty rage rise up. As he stood and turned to face the King, he almost didn’t understand what he heard.
Sharpeyes was laughing.
The King’s gaze—in fact, every eye in the room—was fixed on Callo. With the anger came the color magery, running through his veins, escaping from its captivity behind his wall, and flowing visibly along his arms like liquid fire.
“Jashan’s eyes! Callo!” That was Arias, his own magery sparking from his eyes as he stared.
“I told you I had changed,” he said.
Sharpeyes smiled. “It worked!” he said. “Thirty years of wondering—I am an old man now. But it worked! How Si’lan must have trembled when he knew you were returning here. My nephew, color mage and ku’an! Sira Joah said it would not work.”
Callo almost choked with rage, his friend dead on the floor behind him and Sharpeyes gloating. “You thought to gain from—creating me.”
“You are angry now. It will become clear in a moment.” The King waved a careless hand, and the brilliant bonds fell away from Kirian. She stumbled a little and began rubbing her arms.
“Are you all right?” Callo asked her in a quiet tone, eyes still on the King.
“I’m fine.” She knelt by Ha’star’s body briefly, then rose and came to Callo. He saw tears on her cheeks.
“The time has come, then,” the King continued. “Sira Joah made little of my plans, but she had no choice but to do as I said. You, Callo—you are my heir.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Sharpeyes seemed to be enjoying this. For all the rage and pain flowing around the room—and Arias’ stunned incomprehension—only the King seemed relaxed, even smiling, as his great plan came to fruition. “You will be King after me.”
“Little Ander is your heir,” Arias said.
“That can be remedied. As for you”—the King looked at Arias—“you are a Collared mage now, my lord righ, and out of the succession. Callo will bring two great heritages to Righar. With him, we can invade Ha’las and destroy the few ku’an that pretend to rule it.”
“Under your rule,” Kirian said.
“For now. I will not live forever. Then it will be his. Look at him! He can barely stand it, there is so much power.”
“The lords will never accept a righ bastard as King,” Arias said.
“They will accept what they are told to,” the King said.
Callo felt himself losing control. “Arias.” he said. “Do you want to be free from that thing? I think we can do it if we work together.” His hand found Kirian’s arm and moved her aside. He decided that he may as well use this embarrassment of magery that had fountained out of him with his anger.
“I don’t want your damned throne, Uncle,” Arias said. “Nor do I want your Collar, anymore. Callo?”
Arias closed his eyes. Callo dropped his barrier, threw at his half-brother the state of mind he thought would best negate the dominance of the Collar, a sheer recklessness he remembered from Arias’ past. Arias, unbelievably, laughed with it, sounding like his old self. The Collar on his neck flamed with a bloody hue as Arias focused all the breaking power of his magery upon it. Arias’ face was lit from underneath, casting his eyes into black shadow except for the gleam of magery that lived in his eyes. Callo prayed to Jashan that he could break the Collar without breaking Arias as well; he loosed his control and let fire arc out of his hands to join Arias’ magery.
Sharpeyes let out a grunt of pain. Callo had not realized that the King, being the holder of the binding, might be affected by their attempt. There was a sharp crack and the Collar split in two, glowing within like m
etal still on the forge, and dropped to the floor. Arias fell to his knees, gasping. Callo released him from the ku’an influence.
Kirian went to him and knelt by him. “Are you all right, Lord Arias?” She took his wrist, feeling his pulse. Callo turned his attention toward the King, wary of what he might be doing.
“Gods, Brother,” Arias said, a light in his eyes. “Thank you. That was—exhilarating.” As he lifted his head, Callo could see the raw flesh on his neck, where the Collar had burned him. The edges of the wound were blackened. Kirian began examining Arias’ neck, speaking to him softly.
“Ha now!” exclaimed Sharpeyes. His face was pale but his expression still triumphant, in spite of the fact that his hands were clutched over his stomach. “Such power! You will do as I say, Nephew, and be glad of it.”
“I feel—strange,” said Arias from the floor.
“You’ll survive yet, to be a curse to me. Damned Alkirani, you all have too much temper. And even that Collar couldn’t curb your stubbornness.” Far from retaliating for the broken Collar, the King seemed more triumphant than ever at this evidence of his nephew’s unprecedented power.
“Your Majesty,” Callo said. “I will not help you invade Ha’las.”
“Why? Grown to like your father?”
Callo felt uncertain. The color magery died down, receding until it was no longer visible.
“Yes,” Sharpeyes said. “We planned it together, Si’lan and I. You would be the heir to both lands, stopping this endless Watch and the unceasing raids. We planned peace, the ku’an’an and I! At least, he planned peace. I planned to take you for my own and raise you as a righ, knowing your duty to your king. I knew that one day, when you came to your full potential, you would know how to repay me.”
“You betrayed him,” Callo said.
“Betray! You will learn that word has no meaning for a ruler. My duty is to guard Righar. I care nothing for that puny, frightened island and its few distorted ku’an—so worried about their private pleasures that they cannot rule the land. Besides, the old King died before his time, and left that travesty Ar’ok on the throne.”
Color Mage (Book 1) Page 30
