The Wizard's Heir

by J. A. V Henderson

  The thought hung there tensely. It had been there for some time, he realized, ever since the horrible purple shard entered into his life: he, his whole life around him, was the product of the shards. He was raised by the blue shard: everything he knew came through it. He didn’t know where it ended and he began. And the blue shard was connected to the purple shard, which was inextricably connected to Thaurim and his twisted wisdom. He was connected to Thaurim. The two shards, seemingly so different, were only different pieces of the same whole. He had now no way, it seemed, to tell apart the voice of the one from the voice of the other from his own internal voice. For all he knew, the evil shard could be manipulating his logic right there. His conscious was so intertwined with the consciousness—yes, consciousness—of the shards and all the good and bad intertwined with them that he suddenly found himself completely lost and cut off.

  He remained calm, eminently calm. There were the shards, always next to him, always quietly embracing him in their flux of power. He took them and bundled them up in their knapsack and quickly slipped out of bed and out of the tent into the dead-cold darkness of the night. Brusquely he made his way to the edge of the village and looked out to the north. The stars were filling up the sky and they seemed to be spinning. Out there, he sensed once again the far-away mystery of Kar-Taron, the northern mountain, calling him. He was tempted to throw the shards away and run, run as far as he could until he reached that place—but he knew that to panic in that way right now would be disaster. He had to remain calm. He had to remain….

  “Alik?” a voice came from behind him. He turned so fast he almost toppled over. It was Saria. “Sorry to startle you,” she said. “What are you doing here? It’s freezing.”

  I don’t know, his voice came to her. What are you doing?

  “I thought I heard you calling me,” she said. She looked down. “But of course that’s silly.”

  No; no, it’s not, Alik responded immediately. Had he been calling her? He wondered—or had the shards? He had to know. What did I say? he asked.

  “Nothing, exactly,” she said. “I just sort of had the feeling you needed me.”

  Yes, he said.

  She laughed nervously. “You, the most powerful person in the world.”

  No, he demurred, it is only the shards, not me.

  “No, it is you,” she said. She looked him in the eyes and saw turmoil. “Look into your heart,” she urged him. “See what I see.”

  How can I know whether that is true? he asked.

  “Look into the heart of the world and know truth,” she said.

  How can I look into the heart of the world? he asked.

  “How do you look into your own?” she asked in return. “How do you look into mine?” She took her hands out of the folds of her coat and slid them into his hands, looking down. They were strangely warm in the bitter cold.

  He looked down into her hands, so white. How did he? He did not know, the shards were still so tied up in his consciousness. But her touch seemed to drive that consciousness away for just a moment, bringing peace in its place. He felt his own mind, free. He felt her mind, loving. He felt her hand, scarred, and saw the memory of her cutting it open to get out the shard that had grown into her—to give it to him. He felt the raw nature of the wolf and the quiet observation of the wizard who had made the Stone. The wizard suddenly did what he had not done before: he looked away from the shards into the heart of Alik himself. Alik was startled and drew back, but Saria held on. What is this? she wondered. But the wizard only looked on at Alik with a look of tender care and pride, or perhaps sorrow, or perhaps both.

  The shards began to light up and to flash power in every direction, but neither Alik nor Saria noticed. His mind is engraved in the shard, Saria explained to Alik. And also the wolf’s. And also mine. And also yours. The old wizard left, climbing the staircase to the tower room where the Stone awaited—and the disaster to come. He knew he had to follow there, but when he reached the staircase, the stairs going up crumbled into dust. He went down the staircase to the basement room, descending into complete darkness. As he descended, he thought he saw for an instant the old wizard climbing the stairs with an ancient lady beside him. Why him? Because in him there is something more than the Stone, whereas in all those others there is something less than themselves. He turned his head, and it was gone. He continued his way down, and then he was there: the tower room, with the light of the stars bathing the snowy, debris-strewn floor with their grace. And there, hovering in the center of the room, was the Stone: but not the Stone, but only the four shards, the blue shard of water, the purple shard of animal life, the brown shard of earth, and the mysterious white shard. He saw them clearly as they were: not wonderful and mysterious at all, but simple, fragile, broken machines designed by the genius of the wizards to connect to the powers of the universe. He saw their wounds and their errors, and they shrunk back from him. He reached out and said simply, this should be erased, “Najarai’ia,” and this should be rebuilt,”Brajarai’ia,” and it was so. Power welled up from all around him and all within him. The world seemed to buzz with it. Quietly he subdued it, “Pheorasai’ia,” it should be at peace.

  The shards receded from his vision and the cold began to creep back in, and there was Saria, holding onto his hands and looking into his eyes. So strange, so beautiful, so familiar, so common. Thankfulness and love welled up in his mind and in hers: thankfulness for her being there, thankfulness for her help, but love simply for who she was. He leaned closer—he felt so drawn to her right then, it might have been simply gravity—and at the same time she leaned toward him, her eyes closing, her lips meeting his.

  She opened her eyes suddenly and jumped back. “Oh my,” she stuttered, “I mean, I didn’t mean…I’m sorry!”

  “No, wait!” Alik called after her. He caught her hand but she slipped through…and she was running. Alik sighed and looked down at his feet. He hoped…. He sensed that all was right with the world right there and then. Cold and exhaustion seeped through him. He extended his numb hand and the shards shot into them wordlessly. There was something to that. Wordlessly. I love you, he thought to Saria, who was just slipping into the tent where she was staying. He felt the same thought in return.

  At that moment he knew in his heart all things were saved. If somehow he succeeded or if all things failed, all would be at peace in love. He could hardly conceive of their failure, or of failure itself. He would take the shards and transport to the Tower of the Wizards with Saria and Xaeland and Heao and those who would follow, he would climb the stairs to the tower room and there he would stand with the last remnants of the nations in the battle to end all battles…and they would be victorious—they had to be—and they would heal the old wound unraveling the world, for love was with them. Love was the banner flying over their hearts and waving in their souls. Love freed from fear and from pride, from lust and from ignorance, love inspired by something more powerful than all those broken machines could ever be: by the eternal within.

  VIII.i. drakis

  T

  he Guardian Prince Taravon, son of Travvis II, son of Tarajan, son of Tirion, son of Taridan, son of Taris, son of Tallaven, son of Travvissen II, son of Travvissen I, son of Travvis I, who long ago defeated Morin I in the first Stone War, stood on the turret of the New Tower overlooking a field of fog underneath the mountains burning with the setting sun. There was movement in the fog below and the dead were masked there, heaped beneath the city gates. Should this be the last sunset, he dreamed, they would face it with bravery and honor. If only…. A hand steadied him: Haleth, the crippled blacksmith of Therion.

  “Look,” said the prince, “there is your friend Stuart Channethoth, waiting upon the wall.” If only he could stand steadily on his own…if only for this gash in his side, these bandages, this crackling drowning in his lungs, this delirium in his head…he would be there where he should have been, leading his people in their last great defense.

  Haleth peered across th
e rooftops of the little city to the inner wall where he could barely make out the familiar shape in the grey of the fog. “I ‘ave a fire inside to be down with him,” said Haleth. “Cursed dragons!” He looked beyond Stuart toward the outer wall. “There, Prince Taravon,” he pointed. “The goblins will try to press their advantage where they damaged us in the last attack.”

  “They will find it strong,” said the prince, “thanks to you.”

  “And there, Lord,” Haleth pointed toward the south, “a second force of them.”

  “Jenon,” called Taravon to one of the messengers standing at the ready, “send reinforcements.”

  “Wait,” said Haleth: “better yet, roll up the line and give up the outer wall there. Give the archers on the inner wall a clear field.”

  Taravon smiled. “Jenon,” he said, “send as many of our spare archers there as you can.”

  A young girl peeked out through one of the shuttered windows in the houses below, glancing around in terror and then slamming shut the window again.

  From out of the fog, the goblin war-cry reverberated from the left and the right. The defenders, elves of Ristoria and Emeria, men of Therion and Anthirion and scattered other countries, steeled themselves in silence. Piachras, standing on the outer wall below Stuart, leapt up on the brink of the wall, brandishing a new battle-axe along with his Aerisian glaive, and shouted down, “Hey, you beastly wights, bring up the fight!”

  The faces of the goblin army jumped into existence at the top of the wall as if summoned: pale-skinned, yellow-eyed, covered in heavy iron shell armor and wielding heavy forged spears and swords. They appeared so suddenly and so rapidly, clambering up the dead bodies piled against the outside of the wall, that the defenders nearly broke in an instant. Piachras, however, spun and sliced upward into the neck of the leader, evading the goblin’s slashing blade and shoving the body back into the next comer.

  A trumpet blew from the wall above. “Now, comrades!” Piachras roared. A volley of javelins crashed through the air all around him, tearing down the goblins on every side. Behind, a new row of javelins sprang up. “Seconds!” shouted Piachras. A second volley came in response. “Thirds…and retrieve!” He slashed sideways into a wounded goblin soldier on his left and tore the javelin free from the soldier’s shoulder. A great, pallid goblin captain with greasy black hair emerged in front of him and stopped, sizing him up with an evil sneer. Piachras narrowed his eyes and readied his blades without a word as the goblin captain and two more goblins attacked.

  In the chaos someone shouted out, “They’ve abandoned the outer wall!”

  “Steady—and Line One again!” called Piachras.

  “There are goblins in the line!” cried a voice.

  “Steady! And Line One!” called Piachras.

  The fog whirled and eddied.

  The world seemed to be sucked into a tiny dot, then pushed back out with an infinite acceleration. Alik, Saria, Heao, and Xaeland crashed into existence in the midst of the fog, and immediately they all staggered to the ground, reeling, breathless. For precious moments all they could do was gasp for air and clutch the icy ground as the world spun so fast as to fling them off. When Xaeland recovered enough to lift his head, he became aware of the din of battle like buzzing in his ears, the flashing by of dark shapes running through the fog. His hand went instinctively to his sword, but instead of drawing it, he threw himself back down in the ground as though dead. A large goblin loped into sight, clanking with every step. His foot squelched on the ground by Xaeland’s head as he ran past toward the fight.

  Saria lifted her head dizzily. “What on earth…,” she began to say. Xaeland pushed her back down and motioned to her for silence. Her eyes widened. “Goblins!” she let out in a hoarse whisper. She flattened to the ground and a snow elf dagger appeared in her hand.

  Xaeland looked to Alik. How he had gotten them here or what more he was capable of, Xaeland could only guess. Who was he now? Even that he was not sure of. Would he be able to rise, even? He was still breathing…that much he could tell.

  Alik rose suddenly and looked around. “Follow them,” he said shortly.

  Xaeland and Saria rose together and hurried after Alik. A goblin ran by them from behind but barely had the chance to register surprise before Xaeland’s sword whipped out and sliced off his head. The sound of battle closed in before them. Then before they knew it the faint outline of the city walls rose up almost above them and the backs of the goblins thronging up them.

  “I’ll handle this,” growled Xaeland, drawing his sword.

  “Stand away,” Alik objected, barring the way. “Laeattarai’ia!” Suddenly all around them spears and javelins rose up into the air. Xaeland’s eyes widened in spite of himself. “Laeatt raegavai’ia erga!” Alik ordered.

  Chaos broke out all over the battlefront as spears and javelins rained down on the goblin army. Many of the projectiles glanced harmlessly off the heavy armor of the goblin warriors, but many others spilled blood. Alik ran up behind them, and Xaeland and Saria hurried to stay with him. The goblin line broke and collapsed back over them. Xaeland waded to the fore, slashing down any goblin that chanced too near. Saria leapt out and ripped down one of the fleeing goblins also, but most of them fled away from them at a safe distance, and soon they were all only shouts in the fog.

  Xaeland held out his sword until all the blood had been lapped up, then returned it to its sheath and climbed up onto the outer wall with Alik and Saria. “Hail, friends of the guardian prince!” he shouted out.

  “Hail, and who goes there so auspiciously?” called back the captain of the line. Xaeland recognized it to be Kai Arnon, the Ristorian Stuart had appointed general after the fall of General Pendrax.

  “It is I, Xaeland, knight of the Order of Pages, son of Lantarrev, of the house of Travvis, with Alik the Caimbrian, Saria Tellys, and Heao Sedhar.”

  “We must be seeing the prince of the tower at once,” said Alik.

  Through the tall, grim gates they were ushered into the Haven. The buildings were small and makeshift, with two- and three-story buildings looking like single-level houses that had crashed on top of each other. Pennants flew from several. Few people were present besides the sick and injured and the children. The children, normally scrambling after each other in the streets, were all hidden away inside. One nurse appeared in the fog down a side street, singing,

  “Darling, hush, it’s the eve of the age,

  Don’t know if tomorrow’ll be there.

  The dragons arise as the sun goes down

  At the end of the ages, my darling fair….”

  As they rounded a corner the singing disappeared abruptly, covered up by the groaning of injured soldiers unseen inside the nearby buildings.

  In short order they reached the bridge, where the lone sentry let them pass without a word. An image flashed through Alik’s mind: goblins, their feet frozen to the bridge on a dark night when all was lost. He looked up, and the profile of the towers—one tall and elegant, the other broken in half and overgrown in the fog—rose before him. His eyes lingered after the empty door of the ruined tower as the soldiers led them past it to the tower of the guardian prince.

  The interior of the tower of Prince Taravon was lofty but not wide, elegant in simplicity and with little adornment or furnishings. There was no gold or silver, no gemstone, no fine silk or artwork, but only simple, strong, and handsome woodwork and weaving.

  At the top of the stairs in the utmost room of the tower, Taravon came forth to meet them eagerly. He was tall and gaunt, finely but simply dressed in a deep red tunic and black cloak, with a shock of dark hair swept gallantly back to one side. His skin was ashen but he moved with excitement nonetheless. “Hail, pride of the order,” he declared, embracing Xaeland tightly, then breaking away to greet the children. “And hail, daughter of Saolus and Lailani, smallest page but by no means the least,” he said, looking Saria up and down. “Please accept my sympathy for the loss of your brave, honest parents.” Th
en he turned to Alik. “And here,” he began—“is it indeed the heir of Caimbrand?” He looked him over. “There is the knife of Caimbrand, the unbreakable blade,” he remarked. “As much as any one blade may help us now. And what of the report that you are carrying three of the shards of the Stone of the wizards?”

  “Four,” said Alik, emptying them into his bare hand. A shock of vision washed over him. The shards rose up above his palm of their own accord and began glowing brighter and brighter. Alik swept them back into the bag. “We are…in danger, immediately,” he said.

  For a moment the others could only stare at the air where the shards had been. A sort of electricity charged the air, for here at last before them was everything they had been fighting for, realized in their last hour.

  Haleth, whom Alik hadn’t even noticed before where he was seated across the room amongst the prince’s aides, was the first to speak. “With these, if I judge correctly what I’ve heard, we can vanquish the armies around us and win back our freedom. With these we can capture Krythar City itself and force Morin into submission.”

  “These armies around us are nothing—a feint,” replied Alik. “Our battle is not with flesh and blood, but with the powers themselves.”