A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga)

by Hartke, J. T.

  Renna raised a weary hand. “I know how to fence a gem. I’m the one who taught you.”

  Maddi returned a shy smile.

  Leaving here is more difficult that I had expected.

  Renna spread her hands on the counter in front of her. “If you are leaving forever, then there is something else I must tell you. It is something I have suspected for a long time, but…” She paused, her brow furrowing. “I suppose I haven’t found the courage to tell you, because it can be as much a burden as a blessing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Maddi’s voice trembled. “Is this about my mother?”

  “No, Maddi,” Renna said, “it is about you.” She crossed behind the main counter of her shop in silence and pulled out one of the large bags of mixed herbs she sold to travelers. Renna paused, working her mouth. Finally opening the bag, she found the words she sought. “My Talent in healing is limited. That’s why I spent so much of my career learning about herbs, potions, and other curative methods – to supplement its weakness.” She reached up among the dozens of jars in her personal stash of ingredients, placing several on the counter next to the travel pack. She shook her head, returning one Maddi thought contained saffron to the shelf. Renna replaced it on the counter with a jar holding wormroot. “But the part of my Talent that is somewhat gifted is an ability to see the Talent in others – to see the seed that can bloom with practice and training.” Renna picked small samples from each of her chosen jars, wrapped them in waxed parchment, and placed them in a small leather pouch. She looked up from her work to meet Maddi’s gaze directly. “You have the Talent, Maddi. I have always suspected – perhaps it is part of why I took you in with such readiness. In recent years, however, I have come to be certain.”

  Maddi’s heart leaped into her throat and her mouth clamped shut. Blood pounded in her ears with the shock of realization. Pieces of her life, moments of empathy and odd sensations, clicked into place and made sense.

  Renna spoke, filling the silence. “A Doctor that lived here many years ago opened my Talent for me. I never went to the Doctor’s College in Daynon. Perhaps that is why my Talent never bloomed enough for me to mend more than flesh wounds.” She looked up again from her packing, and the tears rose once more in her eyes. “If you get that far, you should seek the College out. I don’t have the strength to open your Talent myself, or I would have tried to do so long before now.”

  Maddi’s thoughts still swirled about inside her head. I could be a Talented healer? What does that do for me? Healers can’t heal themselves!

  “Will I need to attend this College to use my…my Talent?”

  “Not necessarily.” Renna pulled the strings tight on the pack. “If you come across a very Talented doctor somewhere else, they might do it for you. But if you want to make certain it is done right, and that it maximizes your potential, you should go to the College.” Renna smiled and tossed the pack to Maddi. “Besides, much of the other healing knowledge I have given you, the wisdom of country midwives, is likely still a secret to them. You might be able to teach them a thing or two yourself.”

  Maddi stared at the bulging sack of herbs. A gift of Renna’s most precious ingredients was not what she had expected – a fight maybe, or at least an upset argument, but not kindness and acceptance.

  I certainly did not expect to be told that I have healing Talent! “I don’t know what to say, Renna.” Maddi squeezed the words around a sob that ached in her jaw.

  “Say you’ll consider going to the College.” Her foster mother raised a brow of concern. “I know that you have chosen another path for yourself, but that does not have to last forever. A Doctor has a much safer lifestyle than a…” Renna tilted her head toward the stained bandage lying next to the naked diamonds.

  With a nod of acquiescence, Maddi folded her arms around the pack of herbs. “I will consider it.”

  “That is all I can ask.” Renna came around the counter and approached her. “You will leave today?”

  “Yes.” The pressure returned to Maddi’s head, and she fought back another sob. “I already purchased a horse.”

  Renna spread her arms with uncertainty, the tears now winding their way down her cheeks. Maddi collapsed into those arms, her headache draining away when she let the sobs come at last. The two stood there near a minute, the warmth of their embrace and the coolness of their tears the only sensations Maddi felt. “Goodbye, mother,” she sobbed at last.

  In the end, Renna let go first with a soft caress of Maddi’s cheek and a sniffle. Maddi whispered another good-bye and turned for the exit. The final ringing of the little bell brought on the threat of more tears. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, drawing a deep breath.

  The clatter of horse hooves on cobblestone shook her. Maddi dabbed her eyes with her cloak to hide any proof of emotion from the passers-by. With a quiet sniff, she stalked toward the livery stables.

  When Benicus Varlan, son of the Emerald Duke, handed his father’s head to King Aradon, not only was the Gavanor Rebellion formally ended, but the ducal line of succession remained within the Varlan family. With the line of Princes ended in Gavanor, the son now possessed much of what the father had sought— no liege lord other than a far away king and an entire Realm to rule, rather than just a city.

  — “Short History of the Gavanor Rebellion” by Jalianos Sofra

  Lieutenant Jaerd Westar struggled to hold his head high while he marched into the great hall of the Citadel of Gavanor. He forced himself to focus on following the emerald green cloak in front of him, ignoring the rainbow of nobility gathered on either side. The bees buzzing in his stomach threatened to bring up the lavish lunch laid out in honor of him and his fellow officers. The food had been rich enough that he might have felt ill despite his nerves.

  I’ve been outnumbered by brigands in a dozen fights. That never had me as shaken as this pomp and circumstance.

  A hush covered the throng within the great hall while he and his two companions in burnished armor marched down the long, stone-flagged aisle. Most of the soldiers stood in ranks near the entry. The multicolored coats of the Western Realm baronies huddled in segregated clusters near the dais at the far end, bearing the gold chains and sigils of their houses. Jaerd strode beneath corresponding pennants hung from the high ceiling, the gray stone wall on emerald green of Gavanor at their forefront. Jaerd noticed the golden cougar on maroon of Whitehall Castle drooped in a far corner, its listless manner a match to his spirit. He stared at the long aisle down the middle of the crowd as if it were a path to the hangman’s noose.

  The two officers he marched behind appeared to hold no such trepidation. They wore beaming, almost absurd smiles. Wolfsgate Captain Loren Baner marched in front of Jaerd, his uniform straining at the belly. The leader of their little procession, General Sandor Vahl, made enough money to have his uniform let out so it did not pull so tight on his even larger gut. Watching the two of them waddle forward sickened Jaerd almost as much as the ceremony. These men will outrank me forever!

  Duke Aginor Varlan rose from his chair on the lower step of the dais. Above it, on the highest step, sat the black throne that once accommodated the Princes of Gavanor. Jaerd’s stomach eased somewhat at the sight of the duke. He knew the man had proven his bravery fifteen years ago in the Border Skirmishes, back when Jaerd had played in the pond near the Sleeping Gryphon.

  Aginor waved his men to haste. It is an honor to serve in his guard. The other officers did not notice, continuing onward in their stately procession. Jaerd willed the wide men to move faster, but they would not speed their advance down the gauntlet of western nobility.

  At last, Captain Baner and General Vahl took their places in front of the duke, Jaerd on their far left. Duke Aginor moved toward Vahl, but at the last moment, turned on his heel and stepped up to Jaerd. The higher-ranking officers shuffled their feet. Even though Jaerd was not an expert on protocol,
every fool knew that the duke should recognize the senior officers first.

  “Lieutenant Jaerd Westar,” Duke Aginor intoned, his voice familiar with how to use the hall’s acoustics, “you have proven yourself a valiant soldier of the Gavanor guard. You enlisted ten years ago as a guardsman and have climbed your way up the ranks to become an officer.” Jaerd’s face shifted into the closest thing to a smile he had worn all day. “Your service was invaluable to my son in wiping out the Miller’s Creek Brigands.” Jaerd’s eye caught a nod from Doran Varlan, a vocal supporter of his promotion into the officer corps. “This…” The duke held up a silver, five-pointed star identical to the one already affixed to Jaerd’s collar. “…is well deserved.”

  Duke Aginor reached up to the emerald green of Jaerd’s tunic, and pinned the second star there next to the first. The duke then pulled down on his own matching tunic, the stone wall of Gavanor picked out in thread of silver, and straightened it with formality. He gave a sharp salute, right fist over heart, which Jaerd snapped in return. A familiar twinkle remained in the duke’s eye.

  “Wolfsgate Captain Jaerd Westar.” The duke released his salute. “We welcome you to service.”

  “With honor!” Jaerd called in a clear voice that rang throughout the hall.

  Aginor stepped to the next officer. “Former Wolfsgate Captain Loren Baner,” he spoke out, “You have served with honor in your position for a decade, managing the flux of traffic through the Wolfsgate. You caught many smugglers in your day.” The duke paused. Jaerd had never seen him with such a flat expression. “This is why I have decided that rather than make you General of Gates, you shall be transferred to Magdonton as General of Docks there. That position has been empty for many months now. Your skills will be useful against river smugglers.”

  A soft, almost imperceptible gasp rustled through the crowd. The men dressed in midnight blue of House Magdon smiled begrudgingly. One not much older than Jaerd wore a silver chain with a crescent and stars in gold and diamonds suspended around his neck.

  The duke leaned in to pin a third star upon Baner’s collar, but the man seemed not to notice. His face remained in a shocked grimace, yet he retained enough sense to return the duke’s salute.

  Duke Aginor turned to the last and eldest officer. “General of Gates Sandor Vahl, your service began when my father ruled this realm. You served me during the Border Skirmishes as a capable assistant quartermaster.” The duke stared into the general’s eyes with a commanding presence, his stony jaw locked. “Your retirement will be accepted with regrets. I have commissioned an engineering battalion to build you a fine house along the Stonebourne.”

  This time the crowd openly muttered. Vahl’s relatives barked calls of surprise. The general himself looked as if he could choke. His face reddened, and his fingers clutched into fists.

  “My liege,” he sputtered, “I was to become your Marshal!”

  “Things change, General.” The duke shrugged. “I felt it was time to shake things up in my army.” The duke turned his voice on the crowd that still had not calmed. “We have become complacent! Years of peace and good seasons have left us fat and slow.” The duke did not hide his direct stares at the heavyset officers. Jaerd sucked in his solid gut just a bit tighter. “My son Doran will serve as General of Gates until I find an officer worthy of the title. I will serve as my own Marshal of the guard.” The duke looked directly at the multihued representatives of his bannermen. “The barons of the realm should do the same. Too long has name and length of service been the major requirement of rank.” The duke’s voice took on a softer tone, one of a caring lord. “I fear we are too satisfied in our safety. I for one will not let our realm be caught unaware by the inexorable tragedies that come with the future.”

  The duke walked back toward his dais, while the multitude murmured. Many nodded their heads in agreement, while some, mostly those in the most garish or expensive dress, scowled with disapproval. Doran Varlan joined his father with an outstretched hand of encouragement, as did Baron Chalse Whitehall. The pot-bellied man in maroon heartily nodded his close trimmed, balding scalp. The new General Baner walked over to the men from house Magdon with a hat-in-hand smile. They greeted him with fair nods. The former General Vahl stormed out of the hall with grumbling members of his family. Most of the green-cloaked soldiers smiled and nodded, but the few royal Bluecloaks in attendance watched everything with intensity.

  Jaerd was about to slip away to the barracks when Duke Aginor waved his hand. “Captain Westar, please join us.”

  With a deep breath similar to the one he took before drawing his sword, Jaerd trotted over to the nobles, his well-blackened boots ringing against the stone.

  “Congratulations, Captain.” Doran Varlan smiled and offered Jaerd his hand. “I knew you were going to make good a long time ago.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me either,” Baron Whitehall pronounced. “The Westars are from Dadric, from a long line of old Gannonite stock. They’ve been out here since Gavanor was little more than a castle on a knob of stone.”

  “Thank you, sirs.” Jaerd bowed his head. “I am honored by your trust.”

  The duke pointed at him. “You’ve earned it Captain…as have some others.”

  Doran chuckled. “Already scouting for my replacement, Father?”

  “More so for mine!” Duke Aginor laughed in return. “I look forward to a measure of retirement soon.” He gave his son a poke. “It’s your generation’s turn to take the reins. I want to go hunting.”

  Jaerd shifted his feet in discomfort.

  Doran smiled at his father. “It all depends on how upset House Darilla is over your ‘retiring’ General Vahl.” He laced his voice with sarcasm.

  The duke huffed. “We shall deal with Baron Maylar when the time comes. He is not so close to his cousin as the fool might believe.”

  Baron Whitehall joined Doran in another chuckle.

  Staring at the floor, Jaerd listened to the nobles jest with each other. “If you have no more need of me, my lords,” he broke in with a bow of respect, “I have new duties at the Wolfsgate.”

  All three of the nobles laughed aloud.

  “Don’t overdo it, Westar.” The baron clapped Jaerd on the back. “They trust you’ll do the job.”

  Doran shifted his green cloak over one shoulder. “Likely the fellow has sense and wants to spend as little time among noblemen as he can.”

  Jaerd had fought alongside the ducal heir against the Miller’s Creek Brigands enough to know the man had earned those three stars on his tunic.

  “Actually, this is the whole point of my speech.” Duke Aginor nodded his head with certainty. “The average nobleman’s son would have stood here kissing our behinds until we ran him off.” He saluted Jaerd again, this time with less formality. Jaerd returned it as if on parade. “You may take your post, Captain, but I want you to understand that you are a part of this restructuring I have proposed. Some of my peers do not entirely approve of it. Your position at Wolfsgate is essential. Keep your eyes open.” The duke paused as if considering. “Have you heard of the Earl of Mourne? Do you know his face?”

  I believe they served together in the Border Skirmishes. Jaerd nodded. “Yes, sir. Black hair and mustache.”

  The duke nodded. “We agreed that he would use the Wolfsgate upon his return.”

  Lifting an eyebrow, Jaerd folded his arms behind his back. “Will he be cloaked in blue?”

  “Likely. He travels in the company of other Bluecloaks as well as a Battlemage.” Duke Aginor’s bronze eyes searched Jaerd. Apparently finding what he sought, a confident smile crossed his face. “It may be several weeks before he arrives. The Earl Boris should ask for the Wolfsgate Captain when he does. Bring him directly to the citadel upon his return.” His voice slipped to a near whisper. “Tell none in your command who he is, just for whom to look. Bring him directly here yourself.”

&nb
sp; “Directly here.” Jaerd saluted again. “Yes sir.”

  Duke Aginor shifted his shoulders into a more relaxed posture. “Well done, Captain Westar.” The duke returned the salute. “Dismissed.”

  Jaerd snapped a turn and marched with purpose from the great hall. Most of the crowd had dispersed. Only a few onlookers lingered. Some gave him an appraising stare, while one or two scowled in his direction. He paid no attention. His heart leapt with unexpected excitement over his new position. Yet his gut sank at the same time with trepidation at its challenges. Jaerd clenched his hands, focused on ideas of how to improve his command.

  I’ll still be standing at the gate all day, no matter how many stars I wear.

  “Fie! Turn me not into a toad!”

  — Prince Amadon to the wizard Cannor, “The Mage’s Eye” Act II, Scene iii

  Dorias Ravenhawke, last of the rogue wizards, sighed while contemplating the trees of Ravenswood. The Gray Mountains loomed in the distance, their white peaks sparkling in the sun. Dorias reveled in the forest hued with the pale green of rising spring. Tumbled black stones lay cast about among the ancient trunks, carved with the ravens that gave the forest its name. Dorias had built the very tower on which he now stood out of similar blocks. No one owns the stones any longer. Those that carved them died a thousand years before the Dragon Wars began.

  A flutter of black wings drew Dorias from his reverie. The bird was late.

  “Merl!” A hefty raven landed on its pinewood perch set into the parapet. Dorias handed him a strip of jerky. “You’ve had fun on your little ‘sabbatical’, eh?”

  The raven let out a brash caw and rubbed its head on Dorias’ cloak. “Ladies!” it called in quite clear Common Tongue.

  “Ah, yes.” Dorias’ laugh carried out over the forest. “I assume there will be a rash of rather large young hatchlings born this year?”

  Merl cawed again in the affirmative.