Awakener

by J. C. Staudt

Vyleigh squirmed in Norne’s arms. “Daddy, come here. Come here, Daddy.” She began to fuss and cry.

  Norne held onto her despite looking rather uncomfortable.

  “Let my daughters go,” Darion called up.

  Norne lowered his kerchief. “Surrender and they’ll be set free.”

  “Norne Sigurdarsson? Is that you?”

  Norne was abashed, yet he replied without a moment’s hesitation. “As ever. And I see it’s truly you, Sir Ulther.”

  “I’m no ‘sir’ anymore. Just ask your king. You might put my daughter down. It’s obvious she doesn’t like you.”

  “Shame. I’ve grown rather fond of both your daughters. Have you been following us long?”

  “I haven’t been following you at all. I picked up your tracks as I crossed the desert, but only because I was already on my way here. Tell me, was it you who murdered my son?”

  “An unfortunate mishap, I fear. Our wilderness guide was a touch excitable. Your son took him off-guard.”

  “It speaks to his character that he saw a seven-year-old boy as a threat. Clearly you’ve continued to choose your companions well.”

  “Our options were limited. You are a difficult man to find, after all.”

  “You’ve found me now, haven’t you? I should’ve suspected the king would use my old enemies against me.”

  “I never intended for things to happen the way they did,” said Norne.

  “You were the reason they happened the way they did.”

  “Not true. You refused what you were owed.”

  “What I was owed according to you.”

  “Traveling knights and their retainers do not survive on goodwill alone.”

  “We were surviving just fine. I took you into my retinue to comfort the sick and the dying, not to collect perceived debts on my behalf. Those people weren’t yours to swindle.”

  “I collected a donation. Your refusal to accept it did not make it fraud.”

  “No, it was when I ordered you to give it back, and you didn’t. That made it fraud.”

  “I simply chose to disburse it apart from your guidance.”

  “If keeping it for yourself constitutes disbursement—”

  “Let’s not dwell on the past anymore, shall we? On to the business at hand. You’ve seen your daughters now. I believe you were about to surrender.”

  “On the contrary. I was about to offer a trade. My daughters for the sphere.” Darion swept his cloak aside and held the red ironglass aloft.

  Norne stared in shock along with the rest of the garrison. “You do have it, then. We’ve been wondering as much. How, pray tell, did you obtain it?”

  “Does it matter? It’s here now. The mage-song has returned to the southlands. Dathrond’s armies are battling mages in both Atolai and Deepsail. Tarber King is free, his castle retaken for Orothwain. Halbrid King is equipped to hold off the blockade for years, if not sink the Dathiri fleet where it lies. Olyvard’s empire has once again crumbled before it could begin.”

  “You still haven’t changed your high-minded ways. Nor have you grown any wiser in your old age. Has the storm blinded you to the two-score crossbows trained on you even now? Your magic can’t save you in the presence of the spheres. Surely you’ve discovered that much. You’ve lost, Darion. That which you hold in your hand is your very defeat.”

  “Yet it belongs to me nonetheless, and I’ll accept it on my own terms. I’ve come to do Olyvard’s bidding. To surrender, to admit my treason, and to give myself over to his punishment under the law. Do what you will with me, but let my daughters go.”

  Norne thought for a moment. “That decision will be left up to the king.”

  “I would know his answer now.”

  “You can ask him yourself once you’ve been detained. Drop the sphere, if you would.”

  “Not until I hear it from him.”

  “Are you resisting arrest?”

  “I’m asking a favor.”

  “Archers. Ready your crossbows.”

  Darion dropped the sphere.

  Maaltred jumped when it struck the sandy soil.

  “Good. Off your horse. Remove your sword and place it at your feet.”

  Darion dismounted. He unbuckled his sword belt and heaved it to the ground.

  “That’s it. Now… on your knees, old man.”

  Darion sank, first to one knee, then the other.

  Ryssa was trying to free her hand from Maaltred’s grip, but he held fast and watched as a dozen Dathiri spearmen hustled beneath the rising portcullis to surround the Warcaster. They clapped him in irons and fastened a length of chain round his waist. They gagged him, then went a step further than the king had commanded and slipped a gunny sack over his head.

  That’s it, then, Maaltred thought. The great Warcaster is defeated. A living legend, subdued in an instant. Now he knew there was no hope for Ryssa and Vyleigh. With Darion Ulther his captive, Olyvard King would have no reason to release the girls, or even keep them alive. If Maaltred didn’t do something, they were finished.

  Chapter 29

  Dathrond’s armies were at the gates of Castle Deepsail, but Tarber King and his small garrison were holding strong. Seven days had passed since Darion’s departure; five since Field Commander Palavar had assembled his remaining forces and lain siege to the castle. This time the Dathiri would not get through the gates without a fight. The citizens of Deepsail, newly incited by news of their king’s freedom, had taken up arms against the Dathiri at every opportunity, ambushing small groups in the street with homemade bludgeons and gardening tools, refusing them service at shops and markets throughout the city, and even raiding their tavern bedchambers as they slept.

  The half-crumbled dungeon tower on the castle’s eastern wall was Tarber’s sole weak point, but only insofar as he could not man it with crossbowmen. The partly ruined tower still stood a third its normal height, more than tall enough for Orothi soldiers on the adjacent curtain walls to repel any attackers who might attempt to scale the rocky escarpment. As for the postern gate, Tarber had doubled the guard and instructed them not to open it to anyone without his command.

  Alynor had felt the weight of the red sphere lifting from the city a little each day. Though she’d tried her spells every morning and evening, she’d not yet been able to summon more than a flicker of mage-song. It wasn’t until she awoke in her chair at Draithon’s bedside on the morning of the eighth day that she knew something had changed.

  Draithon’s eyes were open.

  “My dearest,” she cried.

  Draithon turned to look at her, recognition dawning. “Hello, Mother.”

  “My son,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “I’ve come a great distance,” Draithon said.

  “You’ve been asleep, my love.”

  “Not only asleep. I’ve been at one with the powers of this world.”

  “A dream,” she said. “Only a dream.”

  “It wasn’t, Mother. To you, I’ve been lying here all the time. But I’ve been elsewhere; far beyond.”

  “Beyond what?”

  He tried to sit up, but winced and put a hand to his head.

  “Not so quickly, darling. Take it slow.”

  “Help me, would you?”

  “You mustn’t—not yet.”

  “The mage-song has returned. We can end this, here and now. Where’s Father? Where’s the king? And Master Kestrel, and Mistress Axli, and Lund and Lupin?”

  “There’s much to tell. Overmuch, I think, for a boy in your condition.”

  Draithon tossed the bedsheets aside and swung his legs out. “Tell me later, then. We must—”

  “Draithon of Ulther,” Alynor snapped. “You lie down this instant. Tarber holds the castle well in hand. Whatever you mean to tell him, it can wait.”

  Draithon opened his mouth, then reconsidered and slipped beneath the covers with an irritated sigh. “How long do I have to wait?”

  “As long as I
say you do. At least until the king’s apothecary has taken a look at you. He’s caught a chill from being down in those dungeons so long. He comes to check on you several times a day despite it; he and others in the king’s household have expressed their gratitude and best wishes for your recovery. They owe you their lives. Which reminds me I’ve a few things to ask you, when you’re up to speaking.”

  “I’m up to speak—”

  “Not right now. Rest. Be silent. There’s no going anywhere at the moment. The Dathiri have been at the castle gates nearing a week now.”

  “The mage-song has returned, Mother.”

  “Yes, I heard you.” She paused to study him. “Are you sure? And don’t even think about casting a spell to prove it.”

  Draithon wrinkled his mouth.

  “I’ll tell Tarber as soon as—”

  A burst of light shone through the window, followed by a streaking whistle. There was a flash of pink light. A blast rumbled through the castle, and Alynor heard men shouting.

  “The king already knows,” Draithon said with a smile. “He’s been waiting a long time for this moment.”

  “We all have. Now every mage in the city will be able to cast. The ones Palavar hasn’t rooted out and killed, leastwise.”

  “We ought to join him. Send the Dathiri running for the north road.”

  “When you’re better.”

  “I’m quite well, Mother.”

  “Feeling well is not the same as being well, Draithon. Have you any idea what the sphere did to you?”

  “I do. A very good one, in fact.”

  “Then I should like to know, because neither the king nor his apothecary has the slightest inkling.”

  “I looked into its depths, Mother. I saw inside it. Not with my eyes, but with… something else. I battled its will with my own. Had I gone any further—had I been stronger—one of us would’ve lost. For good. Instead we repelled one another. Before it pushed me out, I saw something. A weakness.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I know how to destroy it. And I fear Father means to do just that.”

  Alynor had interacted seldom with ensorcelled objects. But she had cast a ritual into a living being. Many, many times. “Go on.”

  “An object may be made to hold a spell only through powerful enchantments. I’ve heard Father’s stories about the relics he once owned; about Master Kestrel’s lute, and Bloodcaller, his enchanted sword. The spheres are no different. They are objects fashioned to contain the worldsongs, held together by the very enchantments they contain. While we were fighting in Tarber’s high hall, I watched you put a spell into a mundane sword. Do you remember what happened to the sword afterward?”

  “Of course I do. I’ve seen your father imbue normal objects with spells many times. The spell always destroys them.”

  “Exactly. Every object has a limit. Bloodcaller was forged to hold quick, disruptive spells for a short time. Kestrel’s lute was enchanted to contain a soulspell for over a hundred years before it began to deteriorate. Even Father’s old master Sir Jalleth was both man and animal at once due to an enchantment which made it possible. If any of those objects had ever been forced to hold another’s éadras, it would’ve destroyed them.”

  “Hold another’s éadras?”

  “Father told me he knew of only three ways to lose one’s éadras. A curse, a forbidden spell, or giving it away freely. When I looked into the sphere, I saw I could’ve given it mine. It wanted to take it from me.”

  “Your father would never surrender his ability to awaken the mage-song.”

  “Wouldn’t he?”

  Alynor wanted to be certain, but she wasn’t. “What you’re talking about borders on madness.”

  More crashing sounds and streams of bright light from without.

  “It isn’t madness to think Father would keep this from us so he could carry it out himself. He’s never mentioned knowing how to destroy the spheres, has he?”

  Alynor shook her head. “He asked Tarber King for advice, but Tarber knows little more than we do.”

  “You’d think a man with Father’s experience would know something about overcoming troublesome magics.”

  “You’d think, though I find it hard to believe he’d give up a part of himself so easily. Your father will attempt any course available to him before he admits defeat.”

  “He won’t see it as a defeat. He’ll see it as saving the realms.”

  “Now you have me worried. I should hope he’ll pursue every alternative before he resorts to this one.”

  “This may be his only alternative.”

  Another flash from outside, and the crackling of sparks.

  “Can I get up now?” Draithon asked.

  “You want to join the battle.”

  “I want to watch the king cast his spells. I’ll wager he knows a few Father doesn’t.”

  Alynor sighed. “Whatever shall I do with you, my son? You’ve endured the shock of a lifetime, yet you’re ready to be on your feet the moment you wake up. Here, let me help you to the window.”

  “Is there anything to eat?” Draithon asked. He was thin, his legs unsteady as Alynor guided him across the bedchamber.

  “I’ll see food brought promptly.”

  As they stood looking out over the city, it became clear that Tarber King was not the only wizard in Deepsail who’d noticed the mage-song’s return. The night breathed with the hiss and shimmer of magic. Many-colored lights danced through the streets, concentrated in the places where Dathrond’s soldiers might be found. The people are fighting back, thought Alynor, her heart stirring with pride. There are mages yet alive in Deepsail.

  Tarber King paced the battlements, laughing madly as he cast spells in his lilting, melodious way. Half a dozen globes of mage-song floated with him as he moved. He giggled and muttered and howled as he selected the spells one by one and flung them across the square or into the trees wherever he suspected Dathiri soldiers were hiding. Draithon leaned on the sill to watch in amusement.

  Alynor studied him, gladdened at his delight. “What do you think?”

  “I’m impressed. His entire method differs from yours and Father’s. He wields no weapon; assumes no fighting posture. His spells act as sword, shield, and armor all at once.”

  “Your father and I are Warcasters,” Alynor said, “insomuch as I might be called by that name. Magic strengthens our combat. Tarber is a mage, and as such is not inclined to augment his spells with swordplay. I’m certain he can fight, but it’s plain he prefers not to.”

  “I never knew it could be like this.”

  “You’re seeing an entirely new style of spellcasting. Mages often stay far afield of combat. It’s dangerous to enter the fray unless you can cast quickly enough to fill in the gaps. That’s why we’ve taught you to fight.”

  “I’m no good at fighting.”

  “You’re still growing, dearest.”

  “You’ve no need to delude me, Mother. I won’t one day overcome my clumsiness, or acquire the precision to put an arrow in a stag at fifty paces. I’m not that man.”

  Alynor chuckled. “You’re a man now, are you? You sleep for a week, and suddenly you’re all grown up.”

  “Far from it, and Father reminds me of that constantly. He had no right to burn my journal. Now it’s gone, and so is Jeebo, and all the effort and progress we made together.”

  “Your father doesn’t want you tinkering with your own spells unsupervised. It’s probably for the best. He once thought destroying the mage-song was impossible. The conjurer who discovered the ritual proved him wrong.”

  “Yes, Geddle the Wise. I’ve heard about him.”

  “Then you should understand why your father is so guarded about conjuring.”

  “Because he thinks I’ll hurt myself, not because he fears I’ll become like Geddle.”

  “Whatever his reasons, the point is he cares for you, and he knows best. You’ll have to content yourself with that.”


  “He told me I could continue my studies if I found a suitable teacher to train under. Could I apprentice here in Deepsail, under Tarber King?”

  “I doubt Tarber has the time to take on a student.”

  “I meant when this is all over.”

  “We’ll worry about it then.”

  Draithon sighed in frustration and leaned against the windowsill with his chin resting on his fist. “The Dathiri won’t last long now, will they?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “When the gates are clear, we ought follow Father to Maergath. He’ll need us.”

  “Maergath is a fortnight’s travel from here, and your father left a week ago. Whatever’s going to happen will have happened long before we arrive. We must be content to do what we can from here.”

  “We have magic now,” said Draithon. “Seems to me we can do quite a lot.”

  Chapter 30

  Castle Maergath’s inner ward was a dark film through the fabric mesh of Darion’s shroud. For days he’d endured the lashing winds and low visibility wrought by the dust storms over the Dathiri desert, so it was a relief when the soldiers brought him inside the keep. He’d expected an audience with Olyvard in the high hall, but they took him instead to a descending staircase.

  A growing darkness blotted his vision, and a cold draft prickled his skin. Keys rattled. Doors opened and closed. The air spoke of decay and suffering; the voices of the condemned and forgotten reached out to greet him.

  When they removed his shroud, he and a dozen Dathiri soldiers were crammed into a small circular chamber with a low domed ceiling. An iron grate covered a round hole at the center of the floor. After his long trek through the desert, he’d found some scant hope in the thought of resting his weary bones in a dungeon cell. Now he knew why Olyvard hadn’t summoned him directly. He was to stand torture in the oubliette.

  The soldiers slid the grate aside. They removed Darion’s chains, gag, and manacles, then looped a leather harness around his chest and lowered him through the opening on a ceiling-mounted pulley. The chamber beneath was shaped like a narrow wine bottle, five fathoms deep and only half a fathom across at the bottom. The air was dry and cold, and it smelled of death. His feet touched down on what felt like a pile of twigs in mud.