by J. L. Doty
No more phantoms appeared to replace Aethon. The power had left the sword in Morgin’s hand and it now lay quiescent and peaceful. He looked at it, then sheathed the blade carefully.
The crowd cheered him. Olivia stood from her throne and crossed the room to where Morgin stood over the two Decouix lords. She raised her hands to silence the crowd. “The ShadowLord has chosen to consult the gods, and from them he has learned the wisdom of mercy for his enemies.”
“ShadowLord,” the throng chanted. “ShadowLord . . . ShadowLord . . . ShadowLord . . .”
In the midst of all the noise Olivia looked at Morgin and smiled menacingly. She measured him, weighed his worth in her sight, and as always when she was near he felt the ghostly fingers of her power probing at him. Suddenly her eyes flashed and she laughed evilly. She crowed with mirth, and the crowd screamed louder.
She leaned toward Morgin carefully until their faces almost touched. “Play your games, oh ShadowLord without power,” she mocked him. “Play them well. Let these fools about you believe that you speak to nonexistent gods. But remember that I now know the secret of that weapon of yours, and of your nonexistent power, and while I will not reveal it, for that would cost you your life, you will do my bidding, oh great ShadowLord. That you will.”
Epilogue: Dream’s End
A sword point sliced past Morgin’s nose and he back-stepped desperately, then foolishly he lost sight of the blade for just an instant. He found it again only by the glint of the sun on the steel point as it cut straight for his heart. He dodged to one side barely fast enough to elude it, brought his own sword down against it in a clanging shower of sparks.
“Yer concentrating too much on me point, man,” France bellowed between strokes, “and not enough on yer form. Know where it is, but don’t let it rule yer fight.”
Morgin threw his sword up, caught the back of France’s blade, then hit the ground in a low charging roll. He came up beneath the swordsman’s guard and slammed into his stomach like an enraged bull.
France spit out a sharp “hummph” as he lost his wind and collapsed on top of Morgin. Morgin tried to press his advantage by lifting France off his feet, but France’s sword hilt came out of nowhere and crashed into the side of his head. Morgin’s world suddenly lost its stability and they both collapsed into the dirt.
He staggered quickly to his feet knowing France would recover almost instantly. He coiled to spring at the swordsman again and continue the attack, but he faced only empty ground. He spun about to look behind for the quick and wily swordsman, but France was not there either. He spun full circle, ready for the attack to come from any direction, but France was nowhere to be found. He had quite plain and simply vanished, and for that matter so had everyone else.
Morgin stopped, scratched his head, came to the slow realization that he now stood alone in an empty practice yard. The yard, the castle, the smithy, the stables, all were deserted. The place felt empty and dead.
The first faint notes of a pipist’s tune settled upon the air and sent a shiver crawling down Morgin’s spine. He turned slowly toward the sound to face the pipist, and of course he found Metadan, dark, handsome, intent upon his playing, leaning casually against a wooden pillar in the shade of the long shadowed porch.
Morgin demanded angrily, “What are you doing here?”
Metadan started and stopped playing. He looked about for a moment with a worried frown, then nodded knowingly, looked at Morgin and bowed.
“I asked you what you’re doing here.”
Metadan smiled pleasantly. “It is I who should ask you what you are doing here.”
“Don’t speak riddles to me.”
“There is no riddle in this, oh King of Dreams,” Metadan said, then frowned, clearly no longer so self-assured. “You have come, have you not, to take your throne?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you going to try to kill me again?”
Metadan shook his head. “I guess not,” he said unhappily, then began to melt into the stone and wood of the porch.
To Morgin the castle itself seemed unreal, as if it was part of some strange, indistinct, and poorly defined dream.
“Wake up, lad. Wake up.”
Someone slapped his face, not hard, but enough to sting a little. Then they slapped him again, and again, and again . . .
“Leave me alone,” he growled.
Someone rolled him onto his back and started shaking him. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard, lad. How’s yer head?”
Morgin opened his eyes. France and several of his kinsmen leaned over him, all looking mildly concerned. “You’ve been out fer some time, lad.”
Morgin sat up, but went no further as his head began to swim. “Take it easy there, lad.”
“Help me up,” he demanded.
France and one of the others helped him to his feet. He staggered to the porch and sat down in the shade there. The crowd of onlookers dispersed and France sat down beside him.
“Where’s Metadan?” Morgin asked angrily.
“Who?”
“Metadan.”
“Don’t know no Metadan.”
“The archangel,” Morgin spit angrily.
France shook his head. “Ain’t no archangels here, lad.”
“But he was here. I saw him.”
“Like you seen them gods in the Hall of Wills that day, eh? No one saw them neither.”
France threw an arm over the back of Morgin’s shoulders. “Listen, me boy. I hit ya perty hard. I didn’t mean to, but you know how it is when the blood’s up. You went down and out, like a candle in the wind. I ain’t surprised you saw all sorts of things.”
“Is that all it was?” Morgin asked. “Another dream. Seems like my whole life is one giant hallucination. I sometimes wonder if any of it was real.”
“Aye, lad. It was real. Too real sometimes.”
“But nothing’s changed.”
“Well, you’re a great Warmaster now.” France made no effort to hide the fact that such titles did not impress him.
Morgin sneered. “Warmaster bah! That’s only when grandmother wants to impress someone. I so tire of her games.”
“Tell her that.”
“I’ve tried. But when I do she ignores me.”
“How are things going with the little lady?”
Morgin thought of Rhianne, and suddenly none of Olivia’s scheming mattered. He shook his head sadly. “I made a mistake, friend. A horrible mistake, and I can only hope that, with time, she’ll forgive me.”
France said nothing and was oddly silent, so Morgin turned to look at him and found that he had again vanished. Morgin looked about the castle yard, and again it was deserted. “Damn!” he swore. “These dreams are getting ridiculous.”
He waited for Metadan to appear again, but that didn’t happen and he remained alone. Eventually he grew bored. “Well,” he said. “At least I have power in my dreams.” He held out his hand, and the red fire of Elhiyne magic danced among his fingertips, something he could do only in his dreams.
Yes. That confirmed it. He was dreaming. But he was in no mood for dream walking now, though, since there was nothing he could do about it, he resolved to sit patiently and wait for this dream to end.
The End
Here ends Child of the Sword, the first book of The Gods Within, in which Morgin has learned the limits of his power. In the second book, The Steel Master of Indwallin, Morgin learns the limits he must face in the past.
Don’t miss the second book in The Gods Within.
For a taste of what’s coming next, read on:
The SteelMaster of Indwallin
Book 2 of The Gods Within
by
J. L. Doty
Copyright © 2012 by J. L. Doty
www.jldoty.com
[email protected]
@JL_Doty
Can one ever rule both the steel within, and the shadows without?
Prologue: The Tenets of Steel
Beware the power of the self-forged blade,
for the heart of the steel is ice,
the soul of the steel is fire,
and the child of the steel is blood.
Only the master knows the steel as the steel was meant to be known.
Only the master shapes the steel as the steel was meant to be shaped.
Only the master rules the steel as the steel was meant to be ruled.
But always the steel rules the master, for the steel was ever meant to rule.
The strength of the steel is the master,
the power of the steel is the master,
the glory of the steel is the master,
but always the death of the master is the steel.
Beware the power of the self-forged blade.
Chapter 1: The Steel Within
Morgin looked at his reflection in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction. It had taken some doing, and of course careful planning, but he’d managed to alter the outfit Olivia had chosen for him into something more to his liking. He’d cut away the white lace at the cuffs, replaced the bright, red vest with a soft brown leather one, then discarded the skin tight red pants in favor of a pair of well-cut and well-made loose fitting tan breeches. He’d kept the knee high black boots—they were comfortable and extremely well made—and as a concession to Olivia he’d decided not to discard the bright red coat she’d chosen. He completely ignored the pretty little blade that she wanted him to wear, and instead buckled on his own sword. As another concession he’d polished and cleaned both it and its sheath, though try as he might the old steel refused to shine.
He looked at himself again in the mirror, and decided that while he was not up on the latest fashions, he was at least dressed well, and in good taste. Avis would be a little upset at his modifications, and Olivia would be downright furious, but she wouldn’t know about it until they stood face-to-face in public, and then it would be too late for her to demand a change.
At a discrete knock on the door Morgin called out, “Enter.”
The door swung open and Avis stepped into the room. He looked at the changes Morgin had made to his clothing and raised an eyebrow, but he said only, “I am to inform you that the banquet will begin shortly, and that the Lady Olivia would like you to be there early so you may greet the other clan lords as they arrive.”
Morgin nodded. He understood that the title of warmaster carried with it certain responsibilities, and he had learned to accept them, if only Olivia would accept him. “Would you tell the Lady Rhianne that I’ll stop by her apartments shortly to escort her downstairs?”
Avis’ eyebrows shot up happily. “Yes, my lord. Will that be all?”
“Yes,” Morgin said, “And thank you.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Avis bowed and left the room.
Morgin hesitated for a few minutes to give Avis a good head start, then followed. He wasn’t sure how he’d handle the situation with Rhianne. She still spurned him, was still angry that he’d believed she’d betrayed him, and the foul names he’d called her certainly didn’t help matters. They were both trying to start over, but the best they could do was a strictly civil and polite peace, and always there was a wall of formality between them that they couldn’t overcome.
He tapped lightly on the door to her apartments. A wide-eyed young girl answered and quickly admitted him to a waiting room, then she nervously offered him some wine. He declined politely and added, “Tell my wife I’m here.”
“Yes, my lord,” the girl said breathlessly, curtsied, then disappeared into another room.
Morgin could see he had thrown Rhianne’s staff into an uproar. He heard muffled voices in her boudoir, then suddenly Rhianne entered the room alone, though Morgin was left with the faint impression that her servants had hovered nervously over her up to the last instant before she came into his sight, making last moment adjustments in her gown and makeup, and then had peeled away from her to avoid creating just that impression. She paused, composed herself, and when she spoke her tone was cold and indifferent. “My lord, it is gracious of you to come.”
Morgin almost melted. As he looked at her a small lock of hair broke loose from the elaborate tangle atop her head and floated down over one eye. He’d seen the same lock of hair floating over the same eye a hundred times, and he wondered sometimes if it weren’t a subconscious manifestation of her magic. He smiled. “I thought it would be . . . proper.”
He winced. That was a poor choice of words, though it didn’t seem to bother her.
She nodded. “Yes. A husband and wife should be seen together, especially at times such as this.”
Morgin winced again. He turned toward the door, opened it, held it there. She took his arm and they walked out into the hall, then down the long procession of stone steps. They walked in silence, and Morgin could sense that, like he, she wanted to say something, but could think of nothing that wouldn’t sound forced, or trite, so instead he took those few moments to prepare himself for Olivia.
The old woman had spent a busy winter trading messengers with all of the Lesser Clans, carefully negotiating the conditions of the yearly meeting of the Council. Using Morgin’s newfound notoriety and his victory at Csairne Glen, she’d arranged to have the Council meet at Elhiyne this year. And so, with the arrival of spring some weeks earlier, the walls of Elhiyne had quickly filled with the high born of the four Lesser Clans.
On the surface nothing had happened during the first two weeks, mostly a lot of entertainment, and of course they all went hunting quite frequently, most often in small groups, though sometimes in large expeditions. But it was on these hunting trips, or in small rooms in the back of the village inn, or perhaps on a pleasant stroll through the forest, that clan leaders conducted most of the serious business, though hunting did seem to be the preferred method of getting someone alone for a quiet chat.
But three days ago that stage of the negotiations had ended when the more formal and public meetings in the Hall of Wills had begun, though Morgin came away from the preliminary negotiations with the impression that Olivia was not pleased with the results. She wanted the other clans to back Elhiyne in a bid to crush the Greater Council, but Penda and Tosk and Inetka were all skeptical of her chances at victory. Tomorrow they would meet for the last time in the Hall, and there seemed little doubt that Olivia had failed to achieve her desires, though it was apparent to all she blamed Morgin for that failure.
The old woman had had the Hall arrayed in splendor for this night’s banquet. The servants had spent days cleaning everything they could find to clean, and at Olivia’s orders had positioned a grouping of long tables in the shape of a horseshoe at the center of the Hall. When Morgin and Rhianne entered the Hall, Olivia, in the midst of giving some poor servant a tongue lashing, interrupted her tirade to bark at Morgin, “In another moment you would have been late.”
Morgin looked at her coldly. “But I’m not late, am I?”
“Well that’s about the only thing you’ve done right.”
Morgin tried to ignore her sarcasm. “Where do you want me to sit tonight?”
“Why, at the head of the table, of course, oh ShadowLord.”
Rhianne looked at him kindly, and for the first time in a long time showed him some sympathy. “I’m sorry, Morgin.”
He shrugged. “We’re all sorry that I can’t be what she wants, aren’t we?”
Rhianne’s face saddened. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Morgin shook his head. “I know.”
In short order the other lords and ladies of the Lesser Clans arrived and were seated. As Olivia had instructed, Morgin sat at the head of the table. On his right sat Olivia, then BlakeDown and Tulellcoe and a long line of noblemen and noblewomen. At the far end of the table sat Valso and Illalla, each with a heavily armed guard standing immediately behind him. On Morgin’s left sat Rhianne, and next to her BlakeDown’s son ErrinCastle—the heir to Penda was about Morgin’s age, and he constantly paid far too much attention t
o Rhianne. JohnEngine had seen to it that he and France sat far down the table where they could get drunk and enjoy themselves.
The servants moved quickly to fill everyone’s goblet or tankard with wine or ale, though as yet they’d served no food. When the servants stopped moving about Olivia stood slowly and all eyes fell on her. She waited for some moments until the room was absolutely still. “My Lords and Ladies of Penda, and Tosk, and Inetka. We of House Elhiyne welcome you. We give you thanks for the wisdom you have lent to this council of equals, and we are humbled by the sage council of the Lords BlakeDown et Penda, PaulStaff et Tosk, and Wylow et Inetka . . .”
Olivia’s words dropped to the back of Morgin’s thoughts as he noticed ErrinCastle whispering something in Rhianne’s ear. The Penda looked Morgin’s way and their eyes met. ErrinCastle grinned and leered, though Rhianne, with her head turned to listen to the whisper, did not see his face. The Penda was a handsome young man, and could have had a dozen of the most desirable young women at the drop of a hat, but it was Rhianne to whom his attentions fell. And more than that, his advances were so blatant he seemed to be trying to goad Morgin into jealous anger, as if he were challenging Morgin to confront him. It was absolutely idiotic, for nothing good could come of such a public display. So for the good of Elhiyne, Morgin was determined to swallow his pride and avoid making an issue of it. At least Rhianne had been careful not to encourage the young Penda lord, though if ErrinCastle continued to be so obvious, eventually Morgin would have to do something. If only Rhianne would do more to actively discourage him.
Morgin became suddenly conscious of Olivia’s eyes upon him.
