by J. C. Staudt
Maaltred bowed. “Apologies, madam. It’s only me.”
“Oh, thank the gods,” said Jastlyn. “Is everything alright outside? It sounds like quite a row. The windows in here are no good for viewing the square.”
“That was probably intentional, given the age of your charges and the scene going on out there.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. What’s happened?”
Maaltred straightened, gathering his resolve. “I’ll be taking them now.”
“Taking them where? Did you hear my question? What’s happened outside?”
Maaltred shoveled a hand toward the girls. “Need I recite the details in the present company? I’m quite certain you know what’s happening out there.”
“Forgive me, goodman priest. It was thoughtless of me.”
“Indeed it was. May I fulfill the king’s wishes now, or have you some further hindrance to offer?” Maaltred felt guilty for using his position to browbeat the woman. There was nothing for it, though; not if he wished to escape with Ryssa and Vyleigh before anyone got wind.
“I wouldn’t wish to delay you,” Jastlyn said.
Maaltred knelt before the girls and tried to meet their eyes. Ryssa was busy playing, and he got the distinct impression she was ignoring him. He touched Vyleigh’s hair and said, “I’m going to take you somewhere fun. Would you like to come with me?”
Vyleigh looked up at him, then down at her dolls, then back at him. She shook her head.
“Are you sure? There are going to be lots of poppets there. Like these, only better. There will be so many we won’t know what to do with ourselves. We’ll play all day, and we’ll have sweets, and games, and warm fires, and big windows to watch the snow through.”
Ryssa looked up. “Will Father be there?”
Maaltred hesitated. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
Ryssa stood. She grabbed her younger sister’s hand and tried to lift her. Vyleigh whined and pulled away, clutching her poppet close.
Maaltred took Vyleigh in his arms. “Follow me now, Ryssa. Just one stop before we go.”
His heart was pounding as he shut the chamber door and locked it behind. The governess tried to come after him. She gave a sharp knock from inside and called out, assuming he’d locked her in by mistake. Maaltred sighed and took the girls down the hallway while Jastlyn beat her fists on the door and screamed to be let out.
With the sounds of spell and steel echoing up from the square outside, Maaltred brought Ryssa and Vyleigh to the dormitory he’d been sharing with Norne and two other priests since his return. He retrieved the loaded pack from beneath his bed and turned to leave. Then something on Norne’s nightstand caught his eye. A thin roll of parchment, undone but curling like a peeled onion.
Maaltred unfurled it and found but three words scribbled in simple handwriting. They were in no language he’d ever seen before. Fortunately he was in possession of a spell which could remedy that. He thumbed through his parchments, found and cast the spell, and read the three words again. They made sense to him now, though he couldn’t guess what they meant.
It is time.
Time for what? he wondered, thinking back to Norne’s apparent attack on the king.
He put the parchment roll back where he’d found it and led Ryssa and Vyleigh from the room. Vyleigh squirmed and demanded to be put down, so he acquiesced and directed her to follow her sister. As he rounded the corner toward the curved staircase, he heard people coming. Dathiri soldiers, he hoped. Whoever they were, they were moving fast, and there was nowhere to hide.
A dozen brown-cloaked warriors flocked to the top of the stairs and halted in front of him. The Warcaster was in the lead. His sword was red and dripping, and there was a wild look in his eye. He wore breeches and nothing else; red slashes marked his chest. The Korengadi warriors behind him were wet with blood and snow. Maaltred restrained the girls with an arm and made to explain himself.
Then Darion Ulther made a sudden movement, which Maaltred could not at first believe. When he tried to speak, the pain stopped him. He touched his lower back and pricked his finger on the tip of the sword. He looked down where it had entered him, saw the stain spreading through his robes.
Darion Ulther kindly removed his blade.
Maaltred’s strength left him.
The flagstones were cold.
He watched from his sidelong perspective as the girls ran to their father. Darion cast aside his sword and scooped them up, one in each brawny arm, and squeezed them tight. He closed his eyes, shedding clean tears down a grimy face.
Isn’t that a lovely thing, Maaltred thought, smiling.
He reached into his pocket and took out his bundle of spells. His fingers were jittery and stubborn as he sifted through the parchments, but he recognized the folds in the new curing spell Norne had given him, and fumbled it open. When he tried to read the sigils, they melted together on the page. When he tried to speak, his mouth refused to form the words.
One of the Korengadi snatched the parchment from Maaltred’s hands.
Darion Ulther set his daughters down. “Give it here.” He inspected the paper, balled it up, and tossed it down the stairs. He grabbed Maaltred’s other spells and sent them fluttering after. “You’ve cast your last spell, Warpriest. Where are the spheres?”
Maaltred said nothing.
“No matter. We’ll find them ourselves. Die as you deserve, with the rest of Olyvard’s vermin.”
The Korengadi took turns spitting on Maaltred as they passed down the hallway and left him there alone. He was thirsty. His body felt stiff, his fingers and toes numb. Every heartbeat stole another measure of his strength.
He lay staring sideways down the empty staircase until he heard footsteps behind him. Someone reached down to snatch the coin purse from his belt. “So the king finally rewarded you,” said Norne Sigurdarsson, giving the coins a jingle. “You were so concerned with your reward.” The vicar brought with him a breath of cold air. Maaltred could feel the static in his robes and smell the lingering charge of his spells.
“You won’t be needing it anymore, I suppose,” Norne said, dumping Maaltred’s money into his own purse.
Maaltred moved his mouth.
“What was that?” Norne bent an ear to listen.
“The spell,” Maaltred managed.
Norne surveyed the folded sheets of parchment scattered across the staircase. “Ah. The curing spell. Only, I’m afraid I’m rather in a hurry. It might take me all night to find the correct one.”
Maaltred lifted a shaking hand and pointed toward the crumpled sheet.
“You’re not making any sense, Brother Maaltred. But then, I suppose I’ve always had trouble understanding you Dathiri. Best of luck. I really must be going.” Norne jogged halfway down the steps, then turned back. “Do keep warm, will you? There’s a chill out.”
The vicar rounded the curve and vanished from sight.
A terrible malaise ran through Maaltred then. The thirst was insatiable. He heard dripping nearby and licked his lips with a dry tongue. When he moved, he found himself swimming in a scarlet pool. The dripping sounds quickened at the movement, and the staircase ran red. His heart fluttered and lay still.
I must go home, he thought. Juna will be waiting. A batch of… warm meat pies, and a rhubarb cobbler with cinnamon. A kiss, too. Surely, a kiss. She’ll have been saving them up for me all this time.
Next Maaltred knew, he was there, strolling down the road toward Sparrowmeet with a walking stick in his hand. Juna and Liselle ran from the house to greet him as he came down the village avenue, whistling a tune. They nearly knocked him off his feet when they collided with him.
Maaltred threw his arms around them and walked them home. He leaned his walking stick against the mantle and sat in his chair by the hearth, where a vase of dull green glass stood holding a fresh batch of white lilies. He’d made the vase as a gift for Juna, back before she’d amassed her huge collection of his handmade glass household goods. He trie
d to close his eyes, but Juna and Liselle would not let him sleep. Not until he told them about his adventures through the realms. They begged and begged until he relented, then listened with increasing interest as he recounted his tales of quests and magic and faraway places.
Hours passed. The sun went down. Juna warmed spiced cider over the fire and roasted a tray of nuts coated in butter. Maaltred was tired. So tired, he told them. I’ll finish my stories in the morning. Finally they let him close his eyes, but when he did there was nothing. Not even darkness. Simply nothing at all. No matter, he told himself. I’m home. I’m home, and all is as it should be.
Maaltred Furiel, Warpriest of Dathrond, waited and watched for the morning, when he might once again be with the two people he loved most in the world. But he was not in the world anymore, and his longing was sufficient to outlast even the desolation of nothing. For a thousand-thousand nights without darkness, his longing remained, and the morning never came.
Chapter 32
Darion could feel them getting closer. All three spheres, occupying the same space in the central tower of Olyvard’s castle. The presence of the spheres had left Rylar King and his Korengadi battle mages with nothing but cold steel against the assault of every Warpriest in Maergath. It was Gaelyn, the Mistress of Seasons, whose glade sentinels had held the Dathiri at bay long enough to afford Darion and Rylar an opening through which to enter the castle.
Elven spells were still rumbling across the wards as Darion carried his daughters up the tower stairs toward what he hoped was the location of Olyvard’s three weapons. He risked a few glances out the tower’s narrow windows. Things were looking dire for Gaelyn and her sentinels; they were outnumbered and losing ground.
The tower’s turret room was open to the staircase below. The three spheres, which lay on a rounded pedestal in a bed of soft straw, cast an eerie light on the walls. Red, green, and blue, pulsing with mottled power.
Darion crouched to set his daughters down. “You must know I love you very much,” he told them, looking from one to the other. “I’m so sorry I let the bad men take you. Now you must go with Rylar. He is King of Korengad, and a good man. He will protect you and care for you.”
Ryssa hugged her father’s neck. “I don’t want to go, Papa.”
“I won’t be long, dear. Not long. But for your own safety, you must go.”
“Daddy stay,” said Vyleigh.
Darion gave his tiny daughter a warm smile. He kissed her forehead, then stood and turned to Rylar. “They’ll protest, but you must take them.”
Rylar pointed at the spheres. “You not unmake these without they unmake you.”
“I know,” said Darion. “And yet, it’s the only way.”
“You… certain?” asked Rylar.
“As I can be. Perhaps if Sir Jalleth were here—if your father were here, gods rest him—one of them might know some long-forgotten secret to breaking an enchantment like this. In their absence, I must do what needs done. My path is clear. These spheres cannot be permitted to exist. Nor can we stop at destroying them. Every copy of Geddle’s ritual must be found and eradicated.”
“You destroy with us, when this done,” said Rylar.
Darion clapped the young king on the shoulder. “I thank you for your coming. You’ve saved my life. Yet again.”
“Your bird fly strong. He land in my lap and die there. Freeze.”
“Hyrana was a she. And she was very strong,” Darion agreed, “though she was not my bird. She belonged to a friend. A friend nobler and truer than I could’ve asked.”
Rylar nodded. “Fly far. Bring message. I read, and say, we go now. Gaelyn join in realms. She like you. Not say it, but she like you.”
“It’s thanks to her we’ve made it this far. Now I must hurry. And you must help her.”
One of Rylar’s men stepped forward, bringing the sword Darion had dropped on the steps when he picked up his daughters.
Darion took it. “I never thought I’d see Bloodcaller again. However did you—”
“Man in market try to sell, long time. Big gold. Traveling merchant, move place to place. He say it sword of Warcaster. Tell all the people. No one believe him.” Rylar laughed. “I hear, one of my men tell me. I go to where he sell. I see it and remember.” He tapped his temple.
“I cannot imagine what price he charged.”
Rylar was dismissive. “Worth more to bring for you.”
“I am glad to have used it in battle one last time. Would that it might’ve carried a final spell for me. A man can’t have everything, I suppose.”
A deafening crash shook the tower. Through the window, Darion saw a plume of dust erupt from the gatehouse as its remaining walls caved in. A portion struck the adjacent curtain wall, knocking it outward across the square, where Gaelyn’s remaining sentinels were engaged in a pitched battle with the Dathiri garrison.
“We help,” said Rylar, his look dire.
“You won’t get your spells back until I’ve destroyed the spheres,” Darion warned.
Rylar nodded. “This we do with blood and steel.”
Darion stroked Ryssa’s curls. “Keep my daughters safe.”
“We keep safe.” Rylar lifted his voice to shout a Korengadi battlecry to his men.
Darion kissed his daughters one last time each before Rylar’s men carried them away. He waited until the last footsteps had faded down the stair before turning to study the three spheres and the chaos within them; dark stormclouds in the green, a tumbling rockslide in the red, and a cyclone of ever-spinning sand in the blue. He’d known this moment would come. Yet somehow, hope had tricked him into believing it wouldn’t. A cruel thing, hope, to loosen one’s grip on the real.
Rylar’s battle mages exited the keep and charged screaming across the yard to break upon the Dathiri. Gaelyn’s sentinels were few, yet they moved with the colors of the seasons, sweeping over the ruins of the castle wall to engage their enemies head-on. Darion knew neither the Korengadi nor the druids of Eventide stood a chance of survival while magic rested and nature ruled. His allies had come to his rescue, yet they would sacrifice their lives unless he succeeded.
He scooped up all three spheres in both hands and reached out with his will to search them. Far beneath the storms which roiled under glass, he located a point of intersection. During the ritual in Olyvard’s high hall, the mage-song had peeled back from the center of the cloverleaf. He fixated upon that center, where the very essence of the spheres exposed the source of their power. Then, from deep within himself, he drew the source of his.
A profound sense of heartache washed over him at the notion of bidding the mage-song farewell. This would be the last time he ever sang the song which had lived within him since his birth; the one he’d learned to sing in his youth and had never forsaken in all his days since. Yet its loss was a fair trade for all the lives it would spare. A fit sacrifice to free the mage-song from bondage.
Now the living part of him came forth, gushing in a torrent. Sir Jalleth had shifted the whole of himself—body, mind, soul, éadras—into a bird; Celayn into a dragon; Noralin into a lute. Now Darion shifted not his whole self, but a mere sliver. On its own, unconstrained by the shell of his body or the weight of his mind or the force of his soul, the éadras spread with a strength irrepressible.
He felt it drain from him like blood through a severed vein. His focus was absolute. When he knew the moment was right, he made a plea to the worldsongs. The last one he would ever make.
Be broken.
Chapter 33
Draithon and Alynor were approaching Maergath across the snow-covered sands when the castle’s central turret exploded. Despite the distance, the screech of shattering glass was enough to make Draithon cover his ears. Stone and shingle scattered like dandelion florets to litter the castle yard and its surrounds, leaving the tower to stand headless. The shockwave reached them on the dunes a moment later, a fell wind kicking up sand and grit to abrade their travel-worn faces.
F
rom the tower’s now-open top floor billowed a storm of gloomy black clouds. They climbed into the sky and hung like smog over the castle, spreading to cover the whole of Maergath. Alynor spurred her gelding toward the city, and Draithon followed.
It was raining by the time they arrived, turning the snows to slush and the cold sandy soil to mud. When Draithon saw the castle at the top of the slope, he could not believe its condition. A battle raged across the crumbling walls and grassy wards. Elves in garb of shimmering color flung spells at white-robed Warpriests while stout men wearing fur cloaks and red facepaint battled Dathiri soldiers by the dozen. Commonfolk and combatants alike lay dead and dying in the blood-streaked snow.
Draithon drew up his reins when something glinted in the mud, catching his eye. He dismounted and picked up a shard of red ironglass stuck in the earth. “Father’s destroyed the spheres.”
Alynor gave the castle a dour look. “I hope it wasn’t him in that tower. Come on.”
They pushed their horses into a gallop, casting spells as they ascended the remaining slope.
“I presume the elves and the men in cloaks are on our side?” Draithon asked between spells.
Alynor surveyed the scene. “Anyone who’s fighting the Dathiri is on our side. Find your father. I’ll help down here.”
Draithon dismounted in front of the collapsed gatehouse and began picking his way over the stones. The rain made the going slippery, so he took his time. No one paid him any mind despite the bundles of mage-song floating before him. Then again, they didn’t know whose side he was on. Yet.
As he clambered into the outer ward, a blond-haired man in lavish violet robes darted out from behind a two-wheeled hay cart. He was headed toward the inner gate, slipping and sliding over the wet ground. Could this be the king? Draithon wondered. The man responsible for all our troubles?
He followed, skirting the curtain wall and passing through the gate behind the violet-robed man. When the man broke for the front steps of the keep, a bald-headed Warpriest in white linen robes exited the doors and stood in his way. Draithon drew up against the wall. He glanced over his shoulder to see Alynor pelt one of the outer towers with a volley of flaming yellow comets, engulfing a Warpriest and ten Dathiri soldiers in a hailstorm of fire and stone. That’s it, Mother, he thought, smiling with pride.
