Mizar closed his eyes, bringing the horrific images to the surface of his mind. “I saw entire villages ablaze. Smoke and ash filled the sky, and charred bodies littered the ground.” He shuddered, wondering if he would ever be able to purge them from his memory.
“I don't suppose you can tell me exactly which villages it was you saw?” Aridor asked, turning to face him again.
“No, sire. The sky was dark, so I'm guessing it was nighttime. I did not see any mountains or landmarks that might help me identify the location.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “That is a portentous image, to be sure, but it doesn't justify your request.”
“There was one other image,” Mizar said. “It was of a battlefield, where two armies were locked in mortal combat. At the center of this battle, I saw … three women. Two standing together, facing the third. They seemed oblivious to the battle being waged around them.”
Aridor's face blanched. “Three women? What general would be so foolish as to send women into battle?”
Mizar held up his hands. “It was more than that. These three women radiated power. Great power. There was an aura, an energy field surrounding them. There is no doubt in my mind this power came from Arantha.”
The King's jaw dropped open as he took another step forward, standing almost chest-to-chest with the High Mage. “You're saying … they were Wielders.”
“Yes, sire.”
Aridor turned away, snorting dismissively. “That's impossible. Never in the history of Elystra has there been a female Wielder. The only pathway to Arantha is the Crystal Cavern. It has always been thus. Only you and the scant few who discovered their abilities have done so by standing on the Nexus of Arantha. It's one of the reasons Darad has maintained its level of respect from our neighbors, for only Daradians are accorded the opportunity to become Wielders.”
Mizar squared his jaw. “What of the Agrusian Stone?”
“Rumors,” Aridor said, snorting again. “If anyone possessed such a Stone, why would they not use it? Why would they lock it up in the bowels of Castle Tynal for a millennium? Surely at some point one of Agrus's rulers would have used it to expand their borders. But there's been nothing. I have my doubts such a Stone ever existed, a myth to hold those who might sow dissension in sway.”
“That may be true, but I've been studying the teachings of Merdeen the Sage all my adult life. He truly was the wisest of all the Mages, but there's next to nothing from the year leading up to his death. Everything from that period was deemed 'Forbidden Knowledge' by King Sardor and locked away.”
“My great-grandfather,” Aridor said with no small amount of bile, “was a drunk and a letch, who single-handedly started the first war with Vanda, a war that cost thousands of Daradians their lives, including three of his sons. Had my grandfather not been too young to fight at the time, our royal bloodline might very well have ended. That being said, I can imagine his position: to come home from a brutal war only to have your High Mage forecast even more death and destruction.
“My father passed along stories about Merdeen, told to him by my grandfather, that never made it into the official records. By the time the Vandan War ended, Merdeen had grown … eccentric. His visions became ever more fantastical and unrealistic, and Sardor suspected he had become demented in his old age. After revealing his dark vision, a vision Sardor refused to accept, Merdeen lost what was left of his mind. Sardor had no choice but to lock him away for his own safety, and so his rantings would not cause a panic. Merdeen spent his final days in his room, writing. Much of it, I'm led to understand, is undecipherable nonsense. The rest is locked in the Archives vault.”
“If King Sardor suspected Merdeen's doom-saying was the work of an unhinged mind, why would he lock it away? Why not just destroy it?”
“I do not know. Perhaps it was out of respect for Merdeen's lifetime of service. If our history is to be believed, despite our losses, we would not have won the war without him.”
Mizar ran his fingers through his beard. “Maybe that is why King Sardor proclaimed that all Daradian boys stand on the Nexus of Arantha–to increase the possibility that future generations might have the benefit of a High Mage to further advise them, just in case Merdeen's final prophecy had merit.”
“That's certainly possible. But it is a question we will likely never know the answer to.”
Mizar nodded. “Have you never perused the contents of the vault yourself?”
Aridor shook his head. “No need. With the exception of the Vandan uprising forty years ago, Darad has known nearly a century of peace. Obviously, Merdeen's final prophecy never came to pass.”
Mizar had anticipated this. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Forgive me, sire, but … what if what he foretold a century ago is coming to pass right now?”
“Ahhhhh,” Aridor drawled. “This is the reason you require access to the Forbidden Knowledge.”
“Yes, sire. I do not think you would judge my visions to be the products of an addled mind. While it's true, I'm not the youth I was when first we met,” he patted his slightly-protruding gut, “I am neither sick nor enfeebled. I have nothing to gain by telling you anything but the truth, as far as Arantha has shown me.”
Aridor turned around and took a few steps forward, gathering his thoughts, kicking aimlessly at a few small rocks littering the stone pathway. After a few tense moments' deliberation, he turned to face Mizar again. “Mizar, I've never had cause to doubt your visions before, but what you speak of is … beyond belief. There has never been a female Wielder in the entire recorded history of Elystra, and now, you speak of three.”
He made sharp gestures with his hands as he spoke, as if trying to convince himself of his own words. “I mean, if even one female Wielder were to exist, it would be impossible to keep such a thing a secret. News would spread like wildfire. While I'll admit my influence does not extend to all four corners of our world, there is nothing of such overwhelming significance that could pass by unnoticed.”
He stepped toward Mizar again, his face softening. “I am sorry, my friend, but the only evidence you have of this possible future is one erratic vision that even you admit you cannot recall in its entirety. If future visions give you greater insight, or if new evidence comes to light that gives credence to your claim, I will reconsider the matter. Until then, however, I must deny your request.”
Mizar felt his chest tighten. “Sire, with respect, you did not see what I saw. In my forty years as High Mage, I have never beheld such horrific images. Arantha would not have shown them to me were it not of the utmost importance. We must not react to his message with complacency.”
“Take care, Mizar,” said Aridor, a hard edge tinging his voice. “Arantha may be all-seeing, but it is I who rule Darad, not him. My decision is made.”
Mizar considered protesting further, but thought better of it. “Yes, sire, forgive me. My only concern is for our people.” He moved to the central window, overlooking the courtyard as Aridor did before.
Casting his eyes upward, he noticed a flurry of movement. Several guards were shouting and pointing at something just outside the gates. One of them turned toward the interior of the castle, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Merychs approaching! It's Prince Warran!”
Aridor ran to the end of the bridge, descending a stone staircase that led down to the courtyard in four leaps. Mizar was right behind him. “Open the gate!” Aridor yelled.
Several uniformed guards immediately manned the large pulley-wheel, cranking it to raise the portcullis, jamming a wedge into the wheel when it was ten feet off the ground. Three other guards slid back the large wooden plank that made the heavy door impregnable from anything less than an equally large battering ram.
As both doors swung open, two white merychs dashed into the courtyard. Atop one was a young man in his late twenties, holding the reins of the merychs in his gloved hands. He had short dark hair, green eyes, and a handsome, clean-shaven face, and was the spitting image of a youn
g Aridor. He was as broad-shouldered as his father, and his prowess with a sword was unmatched.
Slouched across the back of the other merych like a sack of grain was another man, clearly unconscious. His clothes, which looked like they were of fine quality once, were burned and blackened in many places.
Warran called to some of the on-looking guards, “Help me with him! He's badly wounded!”
“Bring a stretcher!” called Mizar to two other guards standing behind them. “And fetch my apprentice!” They turned and disappeared through the arched doorway into the adjacent courtyard.
Leaping off his mount, Warran joined the guards in pulling the unfortunate man's body down off the other merych, laying him on a nearby pile of hay. Mizar saw that much of the man's face and arms were in the same condition as his clothes: the whole right side of his face was charred, one eye had swollen shut, and much of his fair hair had been singed away. Similar burns could be seen on his lower right arm and leg.
“Father!” Warran said, striding up to a waiting Aridor.
“What's the meaning of this?” the King said. “Who is this man, and why have you brought him here?”
“I was patrolling the western border, when I received word that this man had arrived, half-dead, at Promontory Point,” Warran answered. “When I arrived, he could barely speak. We gave him manza cider to dull his pain and applied some herbal poultices, and he regained his senses enough to say he had a message for you and you alone. He claims to be Prince Zendak of Agrus.”
There wasn't much left of his clothes, but Mizar could just make out the Agrusian emblem on the left breast of his tunic. There was also a brilliant sea-blue gemstone set on a signet ring that adorned his left hand. Seeing this as confirmation, Aridor knelt at the wounded man's side. “Zendak?” he asked, gently grasping the man's unwounded shoulder.
Zendak's eyes fluttered open, and they locked on his. “King Aridor,” he said weakly.
“I am here,” Aridor said.
“King Morix … sent me and my cousin Morak to warn you and King Largo. We had no time … to prepare. It happened so quickly.”
“What? What happened?”
“We came under attack. By an invading army.” Zendak coughed violently, as if his lungs were as blackened and scorched as his skin.
“Led by whom?” The King's voice deepened, and now carried a sharp edge.
“Elzor … of Barju.” He began another violent coughing fit, and both Aridor and Mizar had to hold his shoulders down.
Mizar looked up in alarm. “Sen! Where is that boy?”
As if on cue, Sen ran through the entrance to the inner courtyard, a small satchel in his hands. Aridor graciously stood to allow Sen access to Zendak.
“Forgive me, sire,” he said, pulling a pair of aromatic leaves from his satchel. He rubbed them on his hands before placing them several inches over the burned man's face and chest. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he called upon his abilities. Zendak also closed his eyes, accepting Sen's healing touch. After a few seconds, the wounded man's breathing became steadier and less labored.
Mizar nodded in approval. “Good work, Sen.”
“Master,” he acknowledged. “I've done what I can to ease his pain, but I do not possess the knowledge to treat wounds this severe. He needs the court physician.”
“Not yet,” Aridor said, moving Sen aside. “Zendak?”
The Prince's eyes opened into narrow slits as he met the King's gaze.
“Tell me of the attack,” Aridor ordered.
“We were … riding for the northern forests, when we were intercepted. By … a woman.”
Aridor was thunderstruck. “A woman did this to you?”
Zendak nodded.
Aridor cast a quick glance at Mizar before returning his focus to Zendak. “Describe her.”
He thought for a moment. “Tall … long dark hair. And she …” he paused, his breath quickening, “… she burned us. With blue fire. From her hands.”
Aridor straightened himself up to his full height, looking down in disbelief. “From her hands?”
“Yes, sire. It felt like my blood was boiling inside my skin. I was sure I was going to die.” He coughed again. “When I came to, she was gone. Everyone was dead, and Prince Morak and his wife … their heads had been cut off. My cousin …” He stifled a sob. “I was able to mount one of the merychs. I've been riding for days. Thank Arantha I made it.” He choked back another sob. “My home, my family …” He closed his eyes, his shoulders shaking. A tear fell from his good eye.
Mizar put his palm on the man's forehead, speaking soothingly. “Rest now, Prince.” He stood up, turning to two soldiers who had arrived with a stretcher. “Take him to the Physician, quickly! Sen, you go with him.”
“Yes, Master,” Sen said, helping the soldiers lift Zendak onto the stretcher.
As the injured prince was taken away, Warran turned to his father, looking somewhat dubious. “A female Wielder? Clearly the man's mind is gone.”
Aridor's face betrayed none of the incredulity his voice expressed mere moments before. “Go see your mother, Warran, and then grab yourself a meal. We'll speak more of this later.”
“Yes, Father. High Mage,” Warran said with a bow. Then he turned on his heel and left the courtyard.
Watching him go, Aridor reached inside his shirt and pulled out a thin cord with a pouch on it. Removing it from around his neck, he tossed it to Mizar, who deftly caught it.
Loosening the pouch's drawstrings, Mizar upended it. Into his waiting palm fell a key. His eyes widened as he looked at his king's face.
“Return it when you're done,” Aridor said, and he, too, walked out of the courtyard.
Chapter Fourteen
T oday was Davin's fifteenth birthday, so Maeve decided to mark the occasion by doing something she never did: sing. She belted out, “Happy birthday to you!” at the top of her lungs, as she placed the cake in front of him. His smile was so wide she feared he might swallow the entire thing in one gulp.
“Thanks, Mom.” Davin used a knife to cut a thick slab of mint chocolate cake and put it on his plate. “… I think.”
“You think?” Maeve did her best to look offended. “Well, sorry, Your Majesty, I tried to get a chorus of angels to sing for you, but gosh darn it, they went and canceled on me at the last minute. Stupid angels.”
He laughed. “Well, Mom, your body may be covered in birds, but you don't sing much like one.” He stabbed at the cake with his fork and shoveled a big bite into his mouth. “Oh, man, that's good,” he said as he chewed.
“Hey now,” she said indignantly, pointing to her stomach. Beneath the cloth, he knew, was a tattoo of a sparrow hawk, wings and talons outstretched as it swooped down on its unseen prey. “In case you've forgotten, mister, my flock is comprised of some of the most badass birds to ever roam the Terran skies. There isn't a bloody songbird in the bunch.”
“Okay, okay.” Davin cut a second slice from the cake onto another plate and held it out to her. “Here … peace offering.”
She continued frowning for a few moments, and then her face cracked into a smile. “Fine, you got me.” She sat down, picking up her fork. “But just for that crack about my voice, you get first shift on the excavator.”
His face fell. “Really? I can't claim Birthday Boy privilege?”
“Sorry, kiddo. A couple of the motion sensors I put on the perimeter have stopped sending signals. I have to go check 'em out. And it'll give me a chance to try out the personal transporter your father created before we left.”
He nodded. “How's it work again?”
“Pretty much like the Jegg's quantigraphic rift drive, only on a much smaller scale. You just attach it to your belt, program its location with this thing.” She showed off a small computer console now attached to her left forearm. “And poof, you're there.”
“Is it safe?”
“Should be. Gaspar and your father tested it extensively before we left. It helps if you've actually b
een at the location you're zapping yourself to, though, as it helps to program the exact coordinates. If you try to transport to a location, say, a hundred miles away that you've never seen, you may end up in mid-air over a chasm, or at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Can't we program it with the topographical data from the long-range scanners?”
She looked at the small, silver, tube-shaped device on her belt, and then at the console. “That's a damn good question, Dav. That would certainly help, wouldn't it?”
Davin took another bite. “I'll program it, see if I can make long-distance travel safer. Would that be all right?”
Concern tinged her voice. “This is a dangerous mix of technologies we've cobbled together. I know you're better at stuff like this than I'll ever be, but …” She sighed. “Okay, you can tinker with it in your spare time–not that we have much of that. Do not use it until I say it's okay, you got that?”
“Got it.” Davin brightened. “How many devices do we have?”
“Four.”
His brows knitted in puzzlement. “Four? What happened to the rest of them?”
“No idea. I remember Mahesh saying he wanted to do some last-minute tests on them. I guess they never made it back into the box.”
“Well, four is better than zero, I suppose. At least that means we can spare one.”
“Excellent.” She forked the last piece of cake into her mouth and placed the empty dish in the synthesizer's drawer. “So, if you're done satisfying your sweet tooth, it's time to get back to work.”
Davin made a face. “Yeah, yeah. Anything else?”
“Just one thing.” She tapped lightly on her console, and with a barely audible poof of displaced air, Maeve vanished.
Before Davin could react, he felt his mother's arms fold around him from behind, where she'd instantly transported herself. Her violet hair fell into his eyes as she nuzzled him and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “Happy fifteen, Little Bug.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Davin turned his head and returned the kiss on her cheek. “That was really riff, by the way.”
Pawns (The Wielders of Arantha Book 1) Page 9
