by J. C. Staudt
“These are the spells which nearly caused the downfall of the realms,” Darion said. “Three parts of the four required. Olyvard never did find another copy of the fourth, did he?”
“The king spent years searching,” said Carthag. “He sent his Pathfinders to every corner of the world, but no one ever found a trace of the missing piece.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Draithon chimed in.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“Geddle the Wise didn’t find the four parts. He created them.”
Darion picked up a copy of the ritual’s third part. “You’re saying he conjured this. From nothing.”
“He solved the ultimate riddle,” said Draithon.
“To unmake a thing using the thing itself,” Gaelyn finished.
Draithon looked at the elf in surprise. “That’s right. When one develops sufficient intimacy with the language of magic, one may learn to mold it to his own purposes.”
“As you have, young one.”
“I’m nowhere near what this Geddle fellow appears to have been.”
“He’d a good seventy years on you by the time he got tangled up in these,” Triolyn pointed out.
Gaelyn looked down on the boy with an appraising eye. “You find his life’s history intriguing. What makes you believe the ritual was his own creation?”
Draithon shrugged. “Well… he doesn’t sound like the sort of brave treasure hunter who would’ve scoured the dungeons of the realms in search of forgotten magics. He was a bookworm. Like me.”
“Heavens forbid it you should turn out like he did,” said Darion.
“I’m not going to destroy magic, Father. Though I should enjoy reviewing his research.”
“We’ll be headed off home in a few days, once things are settled down here. Until then, you’re free to do as you wish, so long as it’s alright with Lord Carthag.”
“Lord Carthag,” said Carthag. “I might never get used to hearing that. It’s fine with me.”
“You’ll promise me to be careful, Draithon. You’ve done things this day I might’ve punished you for, had they not saved my life.”
“I promise. But a few days is hardly enough time to look through everything here. Can we not take it home with us?”
“A castle’s belongings remain with its heirs. Lord Carthag owns these writings now. If you want them, you’ll have to ask him.”
“I’ve no use for them, Sir Ulther,” said Carthag. “To be true, I’d sooner see them gone from here. Magics are not my speciality, and I’ve witnessed more than enough of them for my satisfaction. I should like these rooms converted into a library of more mundane writings. If you can arrange your own transport, they’re yours.”
Draithon’s eyes lit up, hopeful. “Everything?”
Carthag waved a hand. “All of it.”
“All save these,” said Darion, kicking the pile on the floor. “These are to be burned at once. It’s no good keeping them around another instant. Ever may we live in a world where magic thrives and the balance of nature remains intact.”
The servants built a fire in the hearth. As the witnesses looked on, every known copy of Geddle’s ritual was snuffed from existence. The fires burned blue, then red, and finally green, before ebbing low against the dark room. Alynor saw discomfited looks on the faces of the others as the fires cast their eerie green glow. Not Draithon’s, though. His face was calm. He stared deep into the flames, his eyes glassy and still, as if he were looking past them to someplace beyond.
“That’s done, then,” said Darion beside her.
Alynor slipped an arm around her husband. “Yes, and thank goodness for that. We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”
“From places I often wish we could return to.”
“Yet we’re here. We’re here, and we must be thankful for that. So long as we remember those we’ve left behind, they’ll always be here too.”
Darion kissed her forehead. “It will be strange returning to the keep. Don’t you think? With the children, and all.”
“It’ll take some getting used to. For us, as well as them. Will you let Axli and the boys come to stay with us?”
“I would think she’d prefer to be with her family, now Kestrel’s gone. I’ll speak to Rylar about it.”
“And what of Triolyn?”
“I’ll offer him a position as my master-at-arms. He’ll find something to complain about, I’m sure, but he’ll accept. Together with Urutar, we’ll have the best-equipped and best-trained archery garrison in the realms.”
“Urutar?”
“Never mind. You’ll meet him and his kinfolk soon enough.”
Alynor smiled, but she said nothing more. When she turned back to Draithon, a shiver ran down her spine. The madstone was in his hand, his thumb working over the lines etched into its surface, his eyes stark and indifferent. In the light of the green fires, his lips eased into a cold smile.
Epilogue
Draithon Ulther returned home with his family. Not to their secluded hamlet in the wilds of Tetheril, but to Keep Ulther, the rightful seat of his father Sir Darion, Champion of the Realms and Lord Protector of Orothwain. It was a process acclimating to his new life, with all its novelties—servants to do the chores, hot meals served on smooth silver plates, visitors coming and going week by week, and everyone answering him, “Yes, milord,” and “No, milord,” all the time.
Soon Draithon met and came to know all his father’s old servants and friends. Paiten, the levy captain; Albur Appleby, the castellan; Nara and her husband Tanigar the blacksmith; Kalax the cobbler; Engrod the carpenter; Urutar the bowyer, his wife Ibraldi, and their daughter Reimi, an orc-kind girl around his age. There were many others, and Draithon eventually learned them all by name, despite his father’s apparent inability to keep them straight anymore.
It was strange to see Father aging. Stranger still was that Darion was no longer able to awaken the mage-song. He still taught them spellcraft from time to time, but his body was grown old and stiff, and without éadras to perform the spells himself it was impossible to train by example. So Draithon contented himself to study every text he could get his hands on, magical or otherwise. Now that he lived in a castle, acquiring ancient texts proved far easier than before.
He’d started a new journal to replace the one Father had burned. He took it with him everywhere and never let it out of his sight. He sifted through the writings he’d obtained from Castle Maergath, thick tomes and parchment scrolls on the verge of crumbling to dust, reading them time and again until he knew many by heart. He exhausted Keep Ulther’s library, then began to send for books from faraway places. Anytime he got the chance to read, he was reading. Anytime a new book arrived, he was busy making its secrets his own.
One day a caravan arrived from Deepsail escorted by five score Orothi soldiers, a series of carts and wains loaded down with crates and chests of every shape and kind. Sir Darion ordered every package hauled up the stairs to the keep’s south tower and locked away in a room to which he held the only key.
A letter arrived with the shipment. Draithon was there when his father broke Tarber King’s blue wax seal and read the words inside. He smiled. He frowned. He glanced sidelong at Draithon, then crumpled the letter and tossed it into the hearth before leaving the high hall. He didn’t notice when the balled parchment bounced off the stone and rolled beneath the log bracer. As soon as he was gone Draithon snatched up a poker and fished the letter out. He let the paper cool before flattening the sheet on the floor.
Darion,
May this letter find you and your family in good health. As promised, and at long last, I am returning the treasures of your life’s work to their rightful home. It’s taken a deal of effort to track down those items I had let escape my care in various ways, but I think, should your records prove thorough, you’ll find everything present and accounted for.
Now, on to other matters. The unfortunate demise of the Council of Mages has left a great void in my
kingdom, and indeed, the realms. I’ve chosen to concentrate my efforts on rebuilding not only my city, but the honor of its heritage as well. To that end, I’ve commissioned a school, henceforth to be known as Deepsail’s Academy of Mages, in which to raise up a new generation of casters.
Your boy is a talented mage. I do fear for his safety, given the dissent among the splinter kingdoms of former Dathrond. There are those who would see Octaryl raised to the broken throne in resumption of Dathrond’s bygone power. Still others search for Olyvard’s killer despite that his body was never found.
What I have told you must be kept in the utmost secrecy. This is the limit of my capacity to divulge in written form. Should you wish to converse in greater detail, I would prefer to arrange a meeting in person. Should you wish your son sent elsewhere for his own safety, I would welcome him here in Deepsail to attend the academy until such a time as he comes of age. I need good mages for the Council, and I believe your Draithon has the makings of one worthy of such a charge. Be well, and keep your eyes sharp.
With Regards,
Tarber King of Orothwain
Draithon crumpled the letter and tossed it into the hearth, ensuring it took flame this time. If he was in danger, why hadn’t his father told him? The King of Orothwain had invited him to attend the academy. Shouldn’t Father be pleased with such a prestigious offer?
When the last of Darion’s treasures was stowed away in his tower armory, he locked the door and did not return for several days, even to inventory the delivery. Nor did he make mention of Tarber’s letter at supper or breakfast, or during lessons, or any other time the family was together. Draithon stewed over his father’s silence, and over the key Darion kept in his possession at all times.
It was weeks before Draithon drummed up the courage to make mention of it. He and Father were on a ride, skirting the border of the Breezewood on a chill afternoon vibrant with autumn color. “What was in all those chests and boxes they delivered to your armory?”
“Would you like to see them?”
“Yes,” Draithon stammered, surprised by the answer. “Very much.”
“Fetch your mother and sisters when we get back to the keep. I should like to show all of you at once.”
Father was out of breath by the time they reached the top of the tower steps. He stood for a moment, panting, before taking the key from the little pouch on his belt and sliding it into the lock. The door opened on freshly oiled hinges.
“All the stories I’ve told you,” Darion said, stepping inside, “about my adventures. High times and low. Good times and dire. It’s all here. This is my life’s legacy. When I’ve moved on from this world, it will be yours to remember. Yours to protect. Our family name, traitor or true, will remain yours to shape over the years to come. I pray others will come to know you by your own deeds, not by mine. Yet for now, what lay before you are the trappings of my youth. Proof of the tales I’ve told, and have yet to tell.” He paused. “What are you waiting for? See for yourselves.”
Ryssa and Vyleigh, now nine and six, were timid at first. They approached the tables with solemn respect, afraid to touch anything. Darion went over and began opening containers one after another, unveiling all manner of wondrous implements: swords, axes, and bows; amulets, rings, and brooches; wands, staves, and scepters; shields, bracers, and suits of armor; books, scrolls, and maps; raiment from every kingdom in the realms; and treasure. Lots and lots of treasure.
“Thank you for sharing these with us, my dearest,” said Alynor.
Darion gave her a warm smile. “It’s about time, isn’t it? After all these years.”
“Circumstances were beyond your control.”
“Well beyond, I dare say.”
“I’ve a question,” said Draithon, emboldened by his father’s amicable mood.
Darion lifted his brow, waiting.
“Can I go to Deepsail and attend the Academy of Mages?” he blurted.
“Acad—wherever did you get that notion?”
“I read Tarber’s letter. I saw what he said. I’m in danger.”
“He’s in danger?” Alynor shrieked. “Whyever didn’t you tell me, Darion?”
Father gave a weary sigh. “It’s nothing. A warning between friends, is all. Draithon is in no more danger here than he would be in the yard with practice swords. Tarber only meant I should keep vigilant. The most powerful kingdom in the realms does not fall without consequence. The turmoil amongst the splinter kingdoms will continue until they’ve established their territories and come to terms on trade. Tarber’s chief concern is replenishing the Council of Mages. He may not be the trickster Olyvard was, but that doesn’t mean he won’t tilt things in his own favor now and then.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m certain I’d keep Draithon here if I suspected he was in any real danger.”
Draithon slumped his shoulders. “So I can’t go, then.”
“No. You cannot.”
“But you said if I found—”
“Draithon. You are not going to Deepsail. That’s my final word, and I’ll hear no more of it.”
That was that. What his father said was law, and there was nothing he could do to change it. He gave up the fight, but he never surrendered the dream. Then one day as he was reviewing one of Geddle’s old journals, he read an entry which struck him in a new light. It was a long piece, but one passage in particular gave him chills.
“I never wanted this burden,” Geddle wrote. “I never asked to be a conjurer; to wield the knowledge of all things. Long have I battled this talent which comes so easily, yet is capable of wreaking such destruction. Indeed I’ve often wished I were someone else. And yet, to do nothing with my gift seems a sin of the greatest sort. A squandering of something meant to be. Something destined to be.”
The months wore on, and Draithon found his taste for life behind the high walls of a castle souring. He would never be content to subsist upon the fortunes of his father, or to let Darion’s life of toil pay for his life of ease. He’d found himself growing restless over thoughts of Westhane’s death. Jeebo’s too, and Kestrel’s. Father had advised him against vengeance, but each sleepless night pulled Draithon further toward it.
Not only was there a wide world out there, filled with things waiting to be learned and secrets to be discovered. There was a price to be paid by those responsible for the deaths of Westhane and Jeebo. In order to find them, Draithon knew there was one person he would have to find first: Vicar Norne Sigurdarsson, the only man alive who knew their names.
Afterword
I hope you’ve enjoyed Awakener, the third novel in the Mage Song series. Though I’m sad to say it, this volume ends Darion and Alynor’s time in the spotlight. They’ll make appearances in future novels, but it’s time to shift the focus of the series onto this new era in the history of the Five Realms (now the Many Realms). I’ve got plenty of great things planned for Draithon and a fun new cast of characters in the fourth book, Conjurer, and its ensuing trilogy. I hope you’ll join me on the adventure. To receive updates on new releases and advance copies of future works, sign up for my Readers’ Group. Thanks for reading!
