by GJ Kelly
Crown of Kings
GJ Kelly & Linda McNabb
Copyright © GJ Kelly & Linda McNabb 2014
www.mcnabbnz.com
GJ Kelly & Linda McNabb assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
Cover art © Sashkinw
Also by GJ Kelly & Linda McNabb
Dragons’ Roost
Also by GJ Kelly
The Longsword Chronicles: King of Ashes
The Longsword Chronicles: Sword and Circle
The Longsword Chronicles: Sight and Sound
The Longsword Chronicles: Sticks and Stones
The Longsword Chronicles: Light and Shadow
The Longsword Chronicles: Elayeen
A Country Fly
Considerable Advantage
Heart of Stone
Ratcops
The Healer
The Teller’s Tales
Webspace
Also by Linda McNabb
Circle of Dreams: Runeweaver
Circle of Dreams: Timeweaver
Circle of Dreams: Starweaver
Crystal Runners
Dragon Charmers: Alyxa (short story)
Dragon Charmers: Mountains of Fire
Dragon Charmers: Valley of Silver
Dragon Charmers: Caverns of Gold
Dragon Valley: The Dragon’s Apprentice
Dragon Valley: Shadow Hunters
Dragon Valley: Dragons’ Bane
Last Star
Maze Keepers
Puppet Master
Realm of Shadows: The Guardian
Seventh Son
Shades of Freedom
Stonekeeper’s Daughter
-1-
Garin looked across the fields as he swatted a swarm of tiny buzzing insects away from his face. A movement in the long grass caught his eye and he stopped, alert and ready to run. He knew things lived in the wild that were not to be trusted. It came again and Garin relaxed, it was just a feather stuck in the grass. He bent down to retrieve the purple feather and marvelled at its brilliant colour. He’d never seen a bird with feathers like that. He resisted the urge to hunt for more feathers as his errand was too important, time far too precious, for dawdling.
The fields on the gently sloping land below the crest of the steep rise where he stood were dotted with workers, bringing in the last of the crops as the weather hinted at the approaching bite of winter. The fields spread for miles ahead of him and gave way to the cobbled streets of Portsan almost on the horizon where the ocean met the land. The heavy grey clouds hung low and threatening as he began his descent. A small patch of grass came loose in the sandy soil and he quickly readjusted his step to avoid falling. The satchel strapped to his back didn’t even bounce but Garin slowed his pace, unwilling to risk damaging the small vials of potion he carried to his master.
His master was Eyan the Elder. Once the Grand Wizard to King Othel, King of Kings, but now he was a shambling ruin, ancient beyond his years. The old man was barely able to shuffle from his chair by the fireplace to the great oaken tables cluttered with bottles, vials, herbs and the wreckage of Garin’s failed experiments. Eyan the Elder. An old and wizened man, slowly dying in the humble waterside village of Portsan.
And Garin? The apprentice fool, the villagers called him, but not too unkindly. Although Master Eyan was now a faintly ridiculous figure, haggard, bent double, bald-headed, and with his overlong white beard trailing down to his knees, he had once been Grand Wizard to the King of Kings, and the villagers granted him a grudging respect for that. But the King of Kings had been dead many a long year, and with him died the age of wizardry, spells, and magic. These days, Eyan’s glorious powers had been reduced to making the occasional medicinal potion or poultice, and then it was only the old-timers in the village that bothered to seek his assistance.
Several hours later, the path levelled and the sea, roiling dark grey under the overcast sky, disappeared behind the huts and houses on the inland outskirts of the village. It was here, in the poor quarter of this poor village, that Eyan the Elder lived in his ramshackle wooden cottage, and here that Garin served his apprenticeship.
The youth paused, resettling the pack on his back after checking that its expensive contents weren’t spilled or broken. For five years now Master Eyan had laboured to instruct the young man in the ways of wizardry and alchemy. For five years now, Garin had tried desperately to learn the ancient arts. And for five years the true power of his magic had lain hidden, just out of the young man’s reach, as if tucked behind a veil through which Garin’s grasp could not pass.
His footsteps crunched on the shingle path. Cobbled roads were only for the rich, and when the winter storms broke the paths and tracks here would soon turn to ankle-deep mud. The cottage where he lived and studied was as drab as all the others and the faint wisp of smoke curling lazily from the chimney offered small comfort. Already it was chilly and the cracks in the cottage walls never seemed to close up despite the wizard’s chants and spells.
Garin felt suddenly uneasy as he approached the cottage. So few people could read here in Portsan, and Eyan had fixed his gnarled elf-tree staff above the door to mark the cottage as the home of a wizard. The staff, fully six feet long, had been hewn by magic from the massive and ancient elf-tree in the very heart of Elvenglade forest, hundreds of leagues to the north. In ancient law all wizards passing through the four kingdoms must wear the white robe and black cloak, and carry the staff, so that all might recognise them for what they were. So the staff had been placed over the door, and whenever the old man had ventured outside, he’d taken it down and carried it with him; the habits of a lifetime hard to break.
But to Garin’s sure and certain knowledge the old wizard hadn’t ventured out of doors in more than a year. Still, the staff was gone.
Garin lifted the latch and pushed open the creaking door. The fire was smoking from damp wood and gave off very little warmth. His master’s chair beside it was empty and the lamps had not been lit in spite of the gloom. All the shutters were closed against the cold causing the inside of the cottage to be as dark as the night that was only a few hours away. Garin shrugged the pack off his back and rested it carefully on the oak workbench.
“You are late, Apprentice.”
Garin jumped, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears and his stomach lurching.
“Master Eyan?”
“Light the lamp, Garin.”
Garin hurried to the fireplace, lit a taper from the embers and touched it to the wick of the cracked oil-lamp that hung above the bench. When the weak yellow flame caught, and its pale glow flickered around the room, the youth saw his master seated on the edge of his sleeping-cot with the threadbare curtain drawn back. Garin saw his own shadowy reflection in the polished metal mirror on the wall behind the wizard. Sixteen years old last summer and barely as tall as the hunched old man before him. He had a shock of unruly black hair, and was so painfully thin that some of the crueller Portsan children used to call him ‘the wizard’s walking-stick’.
“Come closer, Apprentice, here, before me.”
Garin did so and the butterflies in his stomach swarmed again. Something was definitely wrong.
Eyan mumbled, his voice weak, “I must leave.”
“Leave, master? Where are we going?”
Eyan chuckled and the sound was barely audible. “Not we, young Garin. This journey I must take alone. You have known this day would come, and so it has. No doubt you wondered why I
ordered to you to visit Scaret to fetch expensive oils?”
“Yes, I did wonder.”
“I knew you would, and yet after all these years you still obey without question. Ah, Garin…” the old man’s mind wandered for a moment and his watery eyes gazed off into the shadows before he came back with a suddenness that made Garin start. “My journey is one you cannot take. Yet. My staff cannot go either. You must care for it.”
Garin gasped. His mind reeled as Master Eyan drew the elf-tree staff from a dark corner as if by magic, and held it out for the youth to take.
“Master!” Garin cried, “I can’t! I’m not ready!”
“It is not for you to decide if you are ready.” Master Eyan withdrew the elf-tree staff and leaned it against his shoulder. “The staff will accept you when it considers your magic strong enough.”
Garin withdrew a further step from the elf-tree staff knowing full well that it would reject him. His magic was limited, flawed, and more often than not a complete failure.
“Pass me the oil.” Eyan’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I must travel to Mount Renga to renew this tired old body.”
Garin walked quickly over to the pack on the workbench and wondered how such an old man as his master was going to make such a long trip. Mount Renga was weeks of travel by foot and Master Eyan was barely able to walk across the room. Garin did not ask though, his master had taught him well, and so he carefully untied the leather thong that held his backpack closed. There were three small bottles of essential oils, wrapped carefully in soft cloth, and he took all three out as quickly as he dared. He placed them on the workbench and pushed aside a charred lump of wood that had been his last attempt at restoring life to a dead tree-branch. Two were in clear bottles, one purple oil and the other a hint of yellow. The third, however, was in a brown bottle and drawn on the outside was a skull. The apothecary had been very clear that he must not let the oils in that one touch his skin.
“Which one master?” Garin turned to look at the old man but his face was cloaked in shadows.
“… brown bottle.”
Garin barely heard the words and he picked it up, wondering what it was used for if it was dangerous even to touch it. Perhaps it was inhaled? Garin knew many oils but he had not seen this one before. It was only a few steps over to the far side of the cottage and he placed the bottle in his master’s wizened and gnarled hand.
“Open it for me.” Eyan held the bottle up and Garin quickly pulled out the small cork.
To his utter shock and horror, Master Eyan lifted the bottle to his lips and threw the contents back in one gulp.
“Master!” Garin gasped, snatching the empty bottle from the bent and twisted fingers. “The apothecary said…”
“Apothecary Istar knows many things, Garin,” the old man said calmly as he held one hand up to stop his protests, “but he is not a wizard.”
“Then it won’t harm you?” Garin asked as he sank onto a small wooden stool, feeling weak with shock.
“A wizard can never die but the body that ties us to this world can become weak and useless. This will enable me to travel to Mount Renga, but to return I will need my staff. It is up to you, apprentice no longer, to bring it to Mount Renga for me.” Eyan fell silent, the words seeming to have drained him of all energy and he leaned heavily on the elf-tree staff to stay sitting upright.
A small smile lingered on Master Eyan’s lips as a haze of green mist began to form and spun around the old man with ever increasing speed. Then in a split second the mist enveloped the old man completely and vanished as if it had never been there. Garin blinked several times before he realised that his master was gone as well. Only a small dent on the bedcovers showed that he had ever been there. The staff clattered to the stone floor noisily but Garin had neither the courage nor the desire to stop it falling. He was not ready!
For a long time he crouched on the cold ground and tried to work out what had just happened. His master was gone, he was no longer an apprentice, and he had a task to do. He had to take the staff to Mount Renga. With great reluctance he leant forward and picked up the elf-tree staff, meaning to stand it in the corner of the cottage, but as soon as his hand touched it he felt an icy chill. It spread up from his palm and into his arm as he quickly carried the staff across the small cottage. By the time he leaned it up against the wall next to the door the coldness had reached his shoulder. He let go, trying to shake his right arm to warm it up but it was stiff and numb.
He rubbed his arm with his left hand and slowly the feeling began to return. It was a stinging, throbbing pain, similar to when he had sat on his foot too long, listening to Master Eyan’s tales of times long ago. Garin had never thought about it before, but how did Master Eyan know about the events that had happened in the dim and distant past? The detail he spoke of could only have come from someone who had been there. The colour of the flags carried by the armies, the sound of the hooves on the flagstones and the joy on the faces of the peasants were details usually lost in the retelling of stories passed down the generations. Just how long had his master lived?
Garin stared at the staff, leaning innocently against the wall, and knew that he had been rejected by it. The elf-tree staff had judged him and found him unworthy. It was hardly a surprise but it did hurt his pride a little. It wasn’t through lack of trying that he hadn’t attained the full use of his magic. Something just didn’t seem to be right whenever he called up the magic within himself. It was as if he was speaking a language that his inner-self didn’t understand and the results were often disastrous.
“Open! In the name of the king!”
A pounding on the door, only inches from where he stood, made him jump several feet backwards. He stared at it and wondered if he should open it. The person on the other side didn’t sound very friendly and as far as he knew the king that had sat upon the throne for almost fifty years did not like wizards.
“Open up wizard, or we’ll break down the door!”
Garin stepped quickly towards the door and pulled it open. If they broke the flimsy door in there was nowhere to hide anyway. Outside stood two men carrying ornate lamps and dressed in strange uniforms. A scarlet red and gold longcoat, covering crisp black trousers, topped off by a short red hat with a stiff peak. Garin had never seen anybody dressed like it before but he recognised it instantly from Master Eyan’s stories; they were king’s honour guards. The taller of the two was the one close enough to have been pounding on the door. He did not lower his face to look down at Garin and his eyes narrowed in a sneer at the young lad.
“Wizard.” The word came out as an insult. “The king demands that you present yourself at court seven sunrises from now.”
“But the wizard is… gone,” Garin protested. He couldn’t say that his master was dead, for he wasn’t.
“If you are not a wizard then why do you wear that?” The second honour guard drew a short club from his belt and poked it directly into Garin’s stomach.
Garin looked down and to his amazement he saw that he was wearing the white robes of a wizard. Where had they come from?
“I thought that King Ramas didn’t hold with wizardry?” Garin tried a different approach since his clothes marked him as a wizard and denying it would be futile.
“King Ramas is dead. His son, King Peiter, will ascend the throne in seven days. He will claim his rightful throne as King of Kings and reside in Castle Kinlock.” The honour guard stated it bluntly as if it should not need explaining. “I see that word has not yet reached your little town.”
“Find another wizard for I’m not the one you want,” Garin said and moved to close the door. There would be no way he could pass for a real wizard or perform any of the services a wizard might be expected to undertake for a king. Besides, he had to take the staff to his master.
“You are the Wizard of Portsan?” the smaller honour guard queried as he put his foot in the way to prevent the door closing. He unrolled a scroll that he pulled from a tube of stiff le
ather and glanced quickly at the words upon it.
“I…” Garin didn’t really know how to answer. Master Eyan was the Wizard of Portsan but he was not here. “I guess so.”
“Then present yourself, seven days from now, at Castle Kinlock!” the taller honourguard said and without even a farewell he handed Garin the scroll and they turned upon their heels and marched off.
Garin watched, totally dumbfounded, until the two men disappeared into the gloom. He closed the old wooden door and dropped the latch that secured it. The door had never been locked since Garin had come to live here five years ago but now for some reason it felt safer.
He turned the lamp down to a mere flicker and sat in an old rocker chair. It had been his master’s favourite chair when he'd had something to think through. ‘Had been’, no that wasn’t quite right. His master would be back. He sat and rocked, thinking, yet not finding answers to his problems. He slowly nodded off to sleep and awoke with a start as the sun finally struggled into the early winter sky.
As the sun touched the small, curtained window Garin went outside to walk off his confusion. He began to walk up the path towards the village but a shuffling noise behind him made him stop. He turned to see a young girl standing by the side of the cottage. It was Taya, the elderly Ban Tomas’ granddaughter, and she stood waiting patiently to be noticed.
“Wizard Eyan,” she said, with her eyes respectfully downcast. “Grandfather has the chest pains again.”
Taya's grandfather had been suffering from a constriction of the lungs ever since he'd become entangled in the fishing-nets and held beneath the waves longer than any man should have been able to survive. Since that day, only the soothing vapours of limeberry juice, mixed in with lamp oil or worked into the tallow of a candle, would bring relief from the crushing pain. Limeberry juice! Garin smiled. Master Eyan had foreseen this! Which meant, of course, that the purple oil of the dragon's wort flower must be for Mistress Janna, the inn-keeper's wife, and that knee of hers that always “grieves so sore in the cold an' the damp, good Master!”
