Wizards of Fyre
Island of Fyre, Book 3
by
Janet Lane-Walters
Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-1-77299-024-9
Kindle 978-1-77299-025-6
WEB 978-1-77299-026-3
Copyright 2016 by Janet Lane Walters
Cover Art 2016 by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
* * *
Dedication
To all the fantasy writers who have allowed me to spend hours and days in the worlds they’ve created.
Chapter One
High gray stone walls surrounded the citadel. The ones around the hareem courtyard where the women spent most of their days were lower. As a chill rippled along her spine, Lorana raised her head to appraise the danger. She glanced at the grilled gate separating the women’s area from the outer courtyard. A burly man leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Lust radiated from his stare. Moments later the austere figure of the chief wizard joined the first man. Mecador’s sly smile added to her discomfort.
Lorana clenched her hands. She vowed to find an escape before the day arrived when she was destined to be given as a reward to one of the two young men competing for the vacant spot on the wizard’s council.
Since the day her father had sold her to the wizards of the Island of Fyre, she had made the same promise. For four years she had hoped for a way to escape these evil men. She couldn’t wait much longer. Last evening Hag Mother had told her the two senior fledglings would soon fight for the vacant seat.
A third man entered the outer court and stood at a distance from the staring pair. For some reason the tall, lean trainee failed to cause her as much alarm as the burly one. From the gossip among the women, the husky one had the favor of Mecador. No matter. She had no desire to remain a prisoner to be owned by a wizard and used as the man willed.
Resentment churned her gut. She hated her position in life. Not forever, she vowed and walked to the work area.
She poured several cups of dried fyrethorn berries into a mortar. She slid the pestle over the surface crushing the berries to a powder to be added to the cauldron bubbling over the first fire. The result would be a cordial.
The acrid aroma of brewing fyrethorn poison rose from a second kettle in a spiraling pattern. Lorana despised working with the death-bringing liquid. The wizards sold the poison and the cordial to the slavers in exchange for supplies. They also sold captured desert clansmen and women. Her hands tightened on the pestle and ground more berries to dust.
She added the powder to a simmering pot and stirred. A hand with long slender fingers grasped her shoulder. She stiffened. The chief wizard turned her to face him. The stirring stick clattered on the stones. Her eyes met the cruel cold gaze of Mecador, also called Supreme.
“I’m pleased to see you hard at work. You always seem to be busy, not like these other creatures.” He indicated the women seated in clusters around the courtyard.
She kept her gaze steady. “Keeping busy makes the days pass.”
He chuckled. “See that you remember your place.”
His oily voice made her want to look away. She dare not. To do so would court punishment, something she had avoided since her first year here. “I do what I’m told.”
His smile raised her to near panic. He stroked her face with a finger. Fear galloped like a runaway burden beast. She fought to control her racing emotions. This man savored fear. She hoped to hide the revulsion she felt.
“So my dear, I hope you’ve made enough poison. The traders find it useful during their travels. If the jugs fetch prime goods, I’ll bring you a special gift.” His hand brushed her chest.
Lorana willed herself not to flinch. “There are four jugs of poison. The fifth is cooking. There will be three of the cordial.”
“Not enough. We need six jars of poison and four cordial. If you can’t fulfill our needs you will be punished.” He pointed to a woman tied to a cross. “Like her.”
She swallowed hard, trying not to allow the woman’s suffering to show on her face. “There are sufficient berries for the cordial but more thorns are needed. They should be picked before they fall so they have more potency and fewer are needed.” She stared into his eyes. “I could leave the hareem and gather them.”
His eyes hardened. “The tangle is no place for any woman, especially one soon to be claimed.” His gaze caressed her body. “You’ll be a tasty morsel. The young wizards who compete for a place on the council will be glad to become your master. Which one do you prefer?”
She wanted to say she had no desire for either man. “The choice isn’t mine to make.” His laughter reminded her of the cry of a carrion crow, the huge black birds she’d seen at home hovering over dead animals.
“How true. Mine is the choice.” He cupped her breasts. “You are so unlike the women of the hareem. Hair like the dark of night and eyes like the skies of day.” He leaned closer. “I will be the first to taste your sweetness.”
“You?” She hadn’t meant to speak.
“Hasn’t Hag Mother told you about the duties of a woman who is a reward?”
She shook her head. “Just that I would belong to one of two young men.”
“That’s true. As Supreme, I will school you in your duties to the man who will own you.”
Lust dissolved the frost in his gray eyes. He licked lips surprisingly thick for his gaunt face. Lorana wanted to run, but she couldn’t show her fear. Her hands shook. She clasped them behind her back.
“Don’t fear. You will learn how to satisfy me. Your owner will be enchanted by your skill. The day after trading ends and the competition is completed, you will begin your training. The winner will observe and learn.”
Lorana forced a smile. Thoughts of him touching more than her face made her ill. “What happens to the one who fails?”
“He will be driven from the citadel. If he survives on his own until spring he can return. Weak wizards are of no use. Soon all men and women of the Island of Fyre will fear us. As will men of other lands.”
What good was fear when the wizards never traveled farther from the citadel than their twice yearly trips to the desert and the occasional trek to hunt or fish? She bowed her head. “I must stir the cordial and add more water and berries to complete the amount needed for trade.”
“Go then. Remember, the day comes closer when you will face your destiny. Cregan and Arton face a testing time of their abilities and the power they can elicit from the stones. Cregan will win. He is my student and son. Arton’s mentor died before he completed his student’s training.” He strode away.
Lorana returned to the fire to stir and complete the simmering cordial. She added water and selected more berries to crush. As she breathed in the aroma, a memory arose.
During her first year at the citadel, an elderly wizard had died. His student and son, Mecador, had taken the vacant council seat. Why hadn’t Arton been granted his mentor’s seat? The chief of the council must have a plan.
Her hands shook. The stirrer clanged against the sides of the cauldron. She feared he planned to invade her homeland using the power of the wands to breach the blocked harbor. Was there a way to stop him? She knew of none.
She left the cordial to simmer and walked to the kettle of poison. The brew thickened. She pulled the vessel from the fi
re. Taking a large jug she poured the liquid into the container. Cutting a strip of wax from a block she sealed the cork. Until more thorns arrived she could brew no more. She finished the cordial and filled and sealed two smaller jugs.
Lorana rubbed her eyes. With weary steps she plodded to her narrow cell and stretched out on the pallet. The only furnishings in the room other than the narrow cot were a small table with a pitcher and basin and a small dresser. Her dresses hung on hooks.
Though exhausted from her labors in the courtyard, sleep remained as elusive as a will-o-wisp. Her thoughts dwelled on her only reason for remaining alive.
Escape.
How could she find the perfect time? Twice at night she’d crept from the hareem to use a secret exit from the storeroom and left the citadel. She had gathered things she would need to stay alive in the wilds. Her spoils lay in the center of the fyrethorn thicket and were safe from discovery. She prayed for a time when most of the council left.
Lorana turned and turned. Cregan and Arton appeared in her dreams. Cregan grasped her arm and scowled. His meaty fingers dug into her flesh. Arton held her other arm and pulled. Mecador appeared in front of her. He laughed.
With a gasp she sat up. She had to finish her preparations and flee before those dire dreams became her reality and her chance of freedom vanished.
* * *
The early morning chatter in the hall drew Arton from his sleeping chamber into the outer room of his suite. Only embers remained in the huge fireplace that kept the room warm. The nights had grown colder as the fall season progressed. He stepped into the stone corridor and strode to the room where the morning meal waited.
Grasping a bowl he ladled porridge and drizzled sweet syrup over the top. With bowl in hand he passed the table where the younglings sat and the one where eleven wizards of the second level ate their meal. He reached the small table where his rival bent over his dish and shoveled food into his mouth.
Arton sat opposite Cregan. Big, full of himself, Arton’s rival had a crudeness that pushed people away. Only his ambition and grasping for power marked him as Mecador’s son.
Arton ate slowly and drank the bitter brew made from ground beans purchased from the traders. The fall fleet would arrive soon. Alas, they would carry no dragon hides. The spring caravan had brought news of a blocked harbor and a destroyed ship. Only small fishing boats could navigate the ring of rocks.
Cregan looked up and glared. Arton turned his head. His rival’s smile brought a grain of curiosity. Cregan usually schemed to cause Arton to earn a punishment. His hand gripped the spoon hard enough to bend the metal. The stripes on his back, though long healed, itched.
Cregan bolted to his feet jarring the table hard enough to splatter liquid on the wood. Arton turned. Mecador strode across the room and halted at their table. “Good. You are alert. You will join me in the workroom. Your testing begins.”
A buzzing akin to the humming of a honey wasp nest spread through the room. Arton glanced at his rival. A smug smile of confidence spread across Cregan’s face.
Arton drew a deep breath. How many of the wizards, younglings, and second ranked would enter the workroom to observe? He braced his shoulders. Though he had no idea what test Mecador had chosen, Arton knew he had to do his best. Did his rival know what they would be asked to do?
He trailed behind the chief wizard. The stones of the wide corridor walls had been coated with a white substance. Torches on the walls in sconces burned with flickering light. The arched entrance to the workroom showed a bank of windows brightening the white walls of the workroom. Table, benches, and chairs divided the large room into work segments.
Arton wondered who beside the twelve council members would attend. He noticed the younglings and second level men found seats along the walls. Arton’s stomach tightened. The presence of so many fyrestones in the room made him edgy.
Do not allow the presence of the curious to add to your tension. Arton prayed he could follow the inner warning.
“Blindfold them,” Mecador said. “Lead them to the tables.” He paused. “Your first test is to separate the white fyrestones from the colored.”
Arton gulped a breath. Could he defeat his rival in this test? He sensed latent power in all stones. The other wizards dismissed the yellow, orange and red as inert. Since the white were usually smaller he would have to separate by touch.
The black cloth cut off all vision. One of the wizards guided him to the table. Arton touched the sides of a sorting mat. The blaze of power from the gathered stones caused him to swallow acid rising from his gut. He gulped breaths of air filled with the stench of his own fear. Carefully, he held his hands above the stones. Energy surged through him.
Size. Only the size of the stones matter. Whites are smaller.
Except…but he dare not consider any exception. He touched the first stone, taking time to feel the contour and judge the weight. As he separated one from the others, his hands burned. He needed to discharge the accumulated energy.
Why was he different from the other wizards? He wasn’t kin to the men in the room. Was that why he sensed the stones in a different manner? His mentor had questioned him about his life before the traders had brought him to the citadel. He had never recalled any moments before awakening on a ship.
“I’m done,” Cregan said.
Arton touched the last stone. “So am I.”
“Remove your blindfolds,” Mecador said.
Arton blinked several times to clear his vision. He shook his hand to release the power gathered during the test. He’d found four while two whites remained with the others. Cregan had separated all six whites in his tray. Arton’s shoulders slumped. He had failed this test.
Mecador strode to the table. “Cregan has one point of the three needed.” He patted his son’s shoulder.
“I’m willing to continue now.” Cregan grinned. “Strike while ahead.”
Mecador shook his head. “The next test will be held during our visit to the clan gathering. Before then I have tasks for you. Arton, fyrethorn wythes are needed so new wands can be made. You will go to the tangle and cut at least twenty.”
“I’ll leave now.” Arton crossed the room and pulled one of the large knives from the wall and cut a length of cord. Seeing the dull edge he lifted a honing stone and sat to sharpen the blade.
Once he finished this chore he left the workroom and walked to the outer courtyard. He halted near the grille and peered into the hareem. He saw her, tall and lithe with her dark hair in a long braid. She stirred a kettle.
His gut constricted. His member throbbed. His desire to win her escalated. He refused to allow Cregan to despoil her. With a vow to save her from his rival, he nodded to the gate guard. “Open the gate.”
He strode from the citadel and across the grass to reach the path leading to the tangle. The growth was so thick he couldn’t see the center of the tall green bushes. The fyrethorn hedge was forever green. Only the thorns and berries fell. He saw Cregan holding several sacks.
Cregan plucked thorns from the protruding branches. Arton frowned. His rival seemed to have no fear of being stabbed by the long poisonous spikes. When Arton reached the tangle he saw the reason for the fearless behavior. Cregan wore gloves made from green dragon hide. His arms were covered almost to the shoulders. Arton clenched his teeth. Mecador had given his son an advantage.
Arton walked around the table seeking an area of new growth where the branches had few thorns. Quickly he cut as many wythes as he could and tested them for suppleness. He cut until his arm ached and counted the number. He laughed. Forty-two potential wands lay on the ground.
The afternoon sun raised a heavy sweat. He pulled off his red dragon skin tunic and let the air dry his perspiration. He stared at the bushes and saw a multitude of thorns almost ready to fall.
“Cregan, here are branches with clusters.”
“Bring the thorns to me.”
“And risk being stabbed?”
Cregan laughed.
“Are you afraid?”
“I would rather not gather them, but to help you I have an idea. He placed his shirt beneath the laden branches. Using his knife he tapped the limbs. A shower of thorns landed on his shirt. He bound his wythes and picked up his shirt, being careful to hold the cloth away from his body. He circled the tangle to where Cregan worked.
“Hold one of the sacks open and I’ll dump these inside. Should fill one. I’m taking the wythes to the workroom. Started after you, finished before and lacked the special protection you seem to have received.”
* * *
Cregan glared. How dare Arton taunt him? His rival would soon learn who would be the next council member. With care he reached for more thorns. Even with the gloves made from dragon hide, picking thorns presented a danger. One slip with a thorn stabbing his face or next and he would suffer or even die. He lifted an empty sack and stomped toward the other man.
“Fill this.” He thrust the sack at Arton. The foreign adoptee should become used to taking orders. There was ho way he could win. Mecador, chief wizard, was Cregan’s mentor and father.
Arton opened his shirt and spilled as many of the thorns he could into the bag. Just as many fell on the ground. “Gathering thorns was your task. Be quick to pick up the fallen ones before they lose their potency.” He shook out his shirt and strode away.
“How dare you disobey me?” Cregan’s hands rolled into fists. “You don’t understand. You will be my toady. I will win the challenge. I’m already ahead. Mecader knows I’m the better wizard.” He grabbed Arton’s shoulders and whirled him around.
Arton pulled away. “Stop. We are forbidden physical fights against anyone who is a wizard.”
Fury bubbled like a steaming cauldron. Cregan abandoned the sack he held and ran after Arton.
Arton stumbled and floundered to regain his balance. Cregan hit his rival’s shoulders and Arton fell into the fyrethorn tangle. His screams filled the air. He pulled free and ran toward the citadel.
Wizards of Fyre (Island of Fyre Book 3) Page 1
