Tallin gritted his teeth. Elias started to understand Tallin's distaste for the elves. Everything Carnesîr said was condescending. The elves treated mortals like ignorant children.
A wisp of smoke escaped from Duskeye's nostril. The dragon tensed during the discussion, sensing Tallin's discomfort. The elves' dragons said nothing, but at one point Poth snorted.
Tallin leaned in and whispered in Elias' ear. “Speak softly or not at all, and keep refreshing your wards. I can feel Carnesîr trying to pierce mine-it's subtle, but I know it's happening. They're trying to sway our emotions, trying to gather more information. It's a passive attack. Elves are masters at this type of spellcasting. Don't let your guard down for a second.”
Elias nodded. Carnesîr caught Elias' eye, and Elias felt something like an itch on the back of his neck. His protective wards activated, and he felt a subtle drain of energy. Like their first encounter in the desert, Elias felt mildly nauseated.
“Tallin, I feel sick-like I'm going to vomit,” whispered Elias.
“That's normal,” replied Tallin quietly. “It's a reaction to the elves' magic pushing against your wards. Just concentrate. Once they leave, the feeling will go away.”
Elias nodded and bit his lip, trying to keep his breakfast from coming up.
Tallin faced the elves again. He needed to end this conversation-and fast, before Elias threw up. “Carnesîr, what is the official reason for your visit?”
“Of course. How silly of me, I get distracted so easily,” said Carnesîr, waving his hand nonchalantly. “We've come to help guard the city.”
“I see. Well, thank you, but no. We're managing fine without your help,” said Tallin. “I have no intention of leaving Parthos at this time, and I haven't received any orders to the contrary.”
“Tsk, tsk, Tallin,” said Carnesîr, wagging his finger as though he was scolding a child. “Think carefully. You're the only dwarf rider in the kingdom, and your presence at Mount Velik is imperative for treaty talks to succeed. Rali needs your support. You must realize this.”
Tallin frowned. Carnesîr had a point. “I'm aware of the current dilemma, but I have my duties here. I must continue to train Elias and Nydeired.”
“Tallin, let's put aside our petty disagreements for a moment. I'm fully capable of running a little mortal city like Parthos. And don't you think it's time for Elias to move to the next step in his training?”
“Next step? What do you mean?” asked Tallin.
“Shouldn't the boy be training with his father?”
“What?” asked Elias, the blood draining from his face.
Tallin groaned. “Carnesîr, don't…”
“What does he mean?” asked Elias. “Tallin, what is he talking about?”
“So, the boy still doesn't know about Chua?” said Carnesîr. “Typical. You mortals are so delicate.”
Tallin turned to Elias. “I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out like this.”
“My father is alive?” Another wave of nausea hit him, and Elias clutched his stomach. He struggled to maintain his wards.
“Yes, it's true,” Tallin admitted. “Your father is alive. He lives in the east.”
“W-why didn't you tell me? How could you keep something like this a secret?” Elias said.
“Elias, I had good reasons for keeping this information from you,” said Tallin, “not the least of which was your father's own request to keep his existence a secret.”
“But…” said Elias.
“I'm sorry, Elias,” said Tallin quietly. “But this conversation must wait. This was an attempt to shock you and weaken your resolve. Don't let them break through your shielding. As soon as the elves leave, I'll answer all of your questions, I promise.”
Elias nodded, gagging through another wave of nausea. Tallin was right-the elves were trying to shatter his wards. He tried to empty his mind and focus.
Tallin faced Carnesîr. “How did you know that Chua was alive?” he asked.
“Oh, Tallin, surely you can't think that our queen would be ignorant of Chua's existence? He's the living oracle! His magic affects that entire region. We've known about him for a dozen years.”
“But how…?” asked Tallin.
Carnesîr rolled his eyes. “Tallin, the Elder Willow is thousands of years old. Its existence predates mortal records. That sacred grove was planted by my people. You must have known this. The tree sprites are cousins to the elves; those that safeguard the grove have been providing Queen Xiiltharra with regular reports.”
“If you knew this all along, why get involved now?” asked Tallin.
“Because of the prophesy… a mageborn boy and a white dragon-there could be no other. Until now, the elves have observed closely but declined to get involved. All was well until Chua decided to surrender his dragon stone to the boy. That changed everything. Even now, I can feel the presence of Chua's stone. You have it on your person, don't you, boy?” Carnesîr's piercing eyes fixated on the leather pouch hanging from Elias' neck.
“Yes,” said Elias. “I'm carrying the stone. I always have it with me. Nydeired and I haven't gone through our binding ceremony yet.”
“Of course you haven't,” said Carnesîr. “But soon you shall. And then you'll be bound to Nydeired forever, and the prophesy will unfold like a bedroll. It was a brilliant move on Chua's part, leaving his dragon stone where he knew that his son would find it. What a thoughtful and inventive way to start a war, don't you think?”
“It was never Chua's intent to start a war,” said Tallin. “Chua was only trying to protect his son.”
“Protect his son? At the expense of the entire mortal kingdom? It boggles the mind how shortsighted you mortals are. Chua is a mystic-he knew what would happen if he planted his dragon stone in the forest, and he chose to do it anyway. He bears the fault in this, and there's an element of revenge in his actions. Chua was tortured and disfigured by the emperor, and this is his chance for retribution.”
“You're wrong. This is not about revenge. Chua was merely doing what he thought was right.”
“The emperor has always been rather unstable. But now, with news of the prophesy spreading like wildfire, Vosper has been whipped into a frenzy. It's just a matter of time before he attacks your precious city in earnest.”
“Vosper's victory isn't guaranteed. Chua told me as much, and you must know it too,” said Tallin.
“Victory or no, Vosper won't rest until Elias and Nydeired are dead, and Parthos is destroyed.”
“We are perfectly capable of defending this city. In fact, we defended Parthos against the orc siege quite recently.”
“You were lucky,” said Carnesîr. “The attacks on Parthos shall escalate. You can't defend Parthos alone. Admit it. You need our help, Tallin. To refuse our goodwill would be a mistake.”
“We're not asking for your assistance!” said Tallin.
Duskeye looked at Tallin, reaching out silently with his mind. My friend, set aside your anger. I know that the elves are insufferable, but we could use their help. Someone needs to watch the city. The elves are strong enough to defend it. With them here, you could go to Mount Velik and help Rali. And it's time for Elias to meet his father.
“Golka's curses,” said Tallin, running his fingers through his red curls. As much as he disliked admitting it, he knew that Duskeye had a point. “Give me until sundown. I must contact Sela and Rali. The final decision is theirs.”
“Good,” Carnesîr said, nodding. “That's a much better attitude. I'll expect your answer tonight then. If you prefer to speak with me in person, I'll meet you at Salamander Caverns after sundown.” The elf smiled and turned to leave. A few seconds later, they were gone, leaving Elias and Tallin on the rooftop in the blistering heat.
As soon as the elves were a safe distance away, Elias walked to the wall and vomited over the ramparts. His head pounded; the nausea was overwhelming.
“Sorry, Elias. I should have prepared you better for this. Learning to resist elf magic is di
fficult, especially at first,” said Tallin sympathetically. “It gets easier with practice.”
Elias turned to Tallin. “So it's true, Tallin? What Carnesîr said? My father is still alive?”
Tallin sighed. “Yes, it's true. Chua is alive, and so is Starclaw, his dragon. They live inside the Elder Willow. Your father is the living oracle of the east.”
“Why didn't you tell me this before?” said Elias, his voice breaking.
“I made a promise to your father. And you weren't ready. In fact, you still aren't. But the die is cast. There is nothing we can do about it now. It's time for you to meet him and learn about your past.”
Elias looked in Tallin's eyes and saw that he was sincere. He wanted to ask more questions, but his head was pounding. Elias groaned. Another wave of nausea hit him, and he retched into a nearby trash bin.
“Why don't you go lie down in your quarters? The nausea will go away in few hours. There's no remedy for it-you just need to sleep it off. I'll come to your room later and answer any questions you have, I promise.”
“Okay,” said Elias, nodding. Although he desperately wanted to know more about his father, his head felt like it was going to split open like a ripe melon. It seemed impossible that his headache could actually get worse, but once the elves disappeared on the horizon, the pounding between his ears got even louder. Elias left the sweltering rooftop, followed by Nydeired, who offered his wing to steady his swaying rider.
“He'll feel better in a few hours,” said Tallin, watching Elias leave the roof. “Let's go, Duskeye. It'll be easier for me to concentrate away from the city. I have to contact Sela-the sooner the better.”
Duskeye nodded, and the two of them took flight, moving in the opposite direction that the elves had gone. Tallin would contact Sela telepathically and give her a brief description of what was going on, and then he would prepare a more detailed message and send it along with a bird messenger. He knew that Sela's limited telepathic skills would not allow for a full description of what was happening, and it was just as well.
The bigger question was-what would happen when Elias met his father?
Qildor
In the capital city of Morholt, empire troops assembled in the morning sun. Hundreds of soldiers marched in formation through the streets, their steps in perfect tandem. As they marched past the castle walls, the soldiers looked up and issued a sharp salute.
The emperor's sprawling castle overlooked the metropolis. The castle was a fortress, made of iron and brick with extraordinarily high walls.
There, in his throne room, sad Emperor Vosper dressed in flowing black robes. He reclined in an enormous carved chair, his ragged breath echoing softly in the chamber. A thin spellcaster stood on his right side, observing the emperor intensely.
Vosper's black eyes were sunken, and his papery skin was pale-a side effect of the charms that lengthened his life. Vosper coughed into his hand, and a spider web of bloody spittle appeared on his palm. He wheezed for a few minutes before settling back down in his chair.
The spellcaster said, “My lord, let me see your hand.”
Vosper wiped his palm on his robe. “I am fine, Qildor.”
“Forgive me, your highness, but your longevity charms are failing. Please allow me to strengthen them.”
“Qildor, don't be an idiot,” hissed the emperor. “If you strengthen the charms any further, I shall die. My insomnia is crippling, and I have lost the desire to consume food. You must find another solution.”
“But sire, your health…” said Qildor.
“Shut up, you fool!” said the emperor. He glanced anxiously at the two necromancers swaying in the corner of the throne room.
The necromancers' mouths gnawed constantly, a byproduct of the magic that kept them “alive.” They levitated silently in place, just off the ground, staring silently at nothing. The necros never slept, never ate, and rarely spoke. They smelled faintly of licorice and rotting flesh.
Both necromancers had recovered from their short captivity. Komu, the leader of the High Council, had succeeded in capturing them in the desert. For a while, the necromancers were entirely at Komu's mercy.
But not for long, Vosper thought, smiling. It was a testament to Komu's ineptitude that both necromancers escaped mere weeks after their capture. That, coupled with the fact that Councilmember Delthen was sympathetic to the empire, ensured that Komu or Miklagard would never be a real threat.
Although Vosper was glad to have them back, having them present at the palace was a mixed blessing. The necromancers always made him uncomfortable.
Vosper whistled. The necromancers snapped to attention, turning their ghostly-white faces toward the emperor. “Yessss…your highnessss?” they asked in unison, their raspy whisper echoing through the chamber.
“Come here,” said the emperor, waving his hand. The necromancers floated slowly over to him, their red teeth gnashing back and forth inside their blackened mouths. Qildor stepped away, giving the necromancers a wide berth.
“I have an important task for you. Something both of you will enjoy.” Vosper wanted them out of the throne room, and it was always easier when he gave them an interesting job to do.
“A young nobleman was captured and brought here today. He's the governor of Pine Grange. Well… not anymore. Now he's our prisoner. We discovered he was working for the Shadow Grid.”
“What issss… your… bidding, ssssire?”
“I want you to question him. Thoroughly. He promises to be full of useful information.”
“Yessss, your highnessss,” they replied, bowing deeply.
“Don't be too eager. You know the punishment I reserve for traitors, correct? I want you to question him before he dies, understood?”
“We hear… and obey, ssssire…” said the necromancers.
“Excellent. You are dismissed. Do not return until the prisoner is dead,” said Vosper.
The necromancers bowed and left the room, floating noiselessly down the hallway. As soon as they were out of earshot, Vosper turned on Qildor and hit him on the side of the head. Vosper's signet ring caught on Qildor's skin, tearing open his cheek.
“Aughhhh!” Qildor screamed, tumbling to the floor.
“You worthless fool!” spat the emperor.
“Y-your highness-w-what did I do?” said Qildor, reaching up to touch his injured cheek. Rivulets of blood streamed down his face.
“How many times? How many times must I remind you?” said Vosper, placing his foot menacingly near Qildor's head. “Do not speak of my weakened condition in front of the necromancers.”
“Forgive me, sire! P-please, sire-I meant no disrespect,” said Qildor. The spellcaster trembled violently.
“It's a miracle that I haven't killed you already,” said Vosper, rising to strike again.
Qildor flinched, covering his face with his hands. The mage braced himself for another blow, but it never came. Instead, Vosper hissed and turned around, his black robes trailing behind him.
Vosper placed his hands behind his back and walked over to the window. He watched the marching soldiers below in silence. Minutes ticked by.
“S-sire?” said Qildor, still on the ground.
“Qildor, be quiet. You haven't offered me a useful piece of advice in months.”
“Y-yes, sire.”
Vosper took a deep breath and spoke again, his voice calm. “Qildor, observe these men, my soldiers. They are willing to die for me, to the last man. If I asked any one of them to fling themselves from the nearest cliff, they would do so, at my command. Would you be willing to do the same?”
“O-of course, sire. I am… devoted to the empire,” said Qildor, rising up cautiously from the floor.
“Good, good… I'm pleased to hear it. Leave me, Qildor. I need to rest. Tell my staff that I am not to be disturbed until nightfall.”
“As you command, sire,” said Qildor, backing out of the throne room quietly. Once he reached the hallway, he exhaled, clutching his stomach. His hea
rt pounded in his chest. Qildor relayed Vosper's order to the guards before rushing downstairs.
As he walked through the corridors, the palace servants stopped and bowed. Everyone respected and feared Qildor. He was the leader of Vosper's spellcasters, after all.
The only people who didn't respect him were the necromancers… and Vosper himself. Qildor passed a mirror and paused, stunned by his appearance. The right side of his face was mottled purple. Streaks of dried blood ran down his cheek, disappearing into his robe. He opened the neck of his garment; the blood had dripped all the way to his stomach. He touched his cheek gingerly and winced. The bump pulsed with its own heartbeat.
Another spellcaster walked into the hallway and noticed Qildor's swollen face. It was Islar, a talented young mage who had just recently been promoted to Master.
“What the heck happened to you?” he asked. “Vosper gave you another punch in the face? What did you say this time?”
Qildor shot Islar a withering look. “I merely suggested that he strengthen his longevity charms. He lost his temper.”
“Ah… well, did you say it in front of those deadrats of his?” said Islar. “You know how much he hates it when you talk about his age in front of the necros.”
“Uh…no,” Qildor lied. “Uldreiyn and Uevareth… weren't present.”
Islar chuckled. “Too bad for you, chum. It looks like you just caught him on a bad day, eh? I'm glad I'm not his favorite.”
“I need a healer,” said Qildor, touching his throbbing cheek again. He groaned. The bump was the size of a duck's egg. “Come on; let's finish this conversation inside the mage's chambers. I don't want to discuss the emperor out here.”
Qildor and Islar walked down a short hallway and passed into an atrium. From there, they took another door into a sealed room. The room was vast, but windowless, illuminated only by two light crystals. The crystals suffused the chamber with dim artificial light. Qildor closed the door behind him, ensuring their privacy.
Vosper's Revenge Page 5
