Magic's Genesis- Sword of Wilmamen

by Rosaire Bushey

  Rather than enter through the main doors to the palace, the cart turned to the right and angled alongside the building, stopping at a smaller door hidden from the main entrance.

  “What is this, Minister? Why are we taking the entrance meant for servants?” Krieger was doing his best to sound offended. Duz’enbah responded smoothly and quickly, as if he expected the response.

  “Emissary, my apologies. The Dynast thought you might prefer to enter the palace quietly and avoid the tedious solicitations a visiting head of state would be obligated to endure from the hangers-on, and minor functionaries that can be found at the outskirts of any palace of substance.”

  Duz’enbah bowed slightly as he offered his apology, but Krieger wasn’t fooled, and he didn’t miss the implication that King Edgar’s palace might not be substantial enough. Krieger, however, did the only thing he could do in such a situation, he thanked the Dynast for his thoughtfulness and told Duz’enbah he hoped he would be able to thank him in person soon.

  The minister bowed again, and offered a hand to Grettune, before pointing servants toward the baggage which was quickly gathered and brought inside. “You have a fully staffed suite, and you are free to enjoy the grounds of the Golden Palace. Your servants will show you where you are permitted inside the palace. Any deviation from those areas will result in your immediate return to Wesolk.” Again, the implied threat in the sentence was not lost – being returned to Wesolk in such a manner would be considered an offence against Dar’Ahlmon and could legitimize war. “I will come to you when his Eminence the Dynast is ready to receive you.” Duz’enbah bowed slightly again and took one step back before turning and leaving them with no other option than to go inside and see how long the Dynast would make them wait.

  The rooms, as they were called, were luxurious on a scale none of them had ever encountered. Even Krieger, who had traveled extensively, was caught off guard by what he saw. Grettune ran her hands across tables of marble, oil lamps of gold, silver goblets, plates, vases, wall-sized tapestries so finely woven she could barely tell the back from the front. On the table, the servants laid out fruit, cold meat, sweets and items none had seen before, and with nothing else to do, Perryn sat down and began to eat.

  “Well, they might not be the friendliest people, but they feed you well.” Perryn lifted his eyebrows to his wife and threw what he assumed was a piece of fruit to Krieger who snatched it out of the air even though he were hardly looking.

  “I would say don’t get comfortable, but it looks like we may want to,” Krieger said, his voice giving away that he thought the Dynast had no intention of seeing them any time soon.

  With silent looks, they all took a place at the table, and picked at the food. Grettune, spoke directly to both men, indicating they should be silent and concentrate on their food as she spoke. “Before we left our lodging in the city, Ishka spoke to me in the kitchens. She said there is a person in the palace who we can trust. More than this she did not say. I know not how we are to know this person, but I trust Ishka does not speak lightly.”

  In the days that followed they searched every room and made themselves familiar with as much of the palace as they could enter, which, in a surprise to all of them, was a considerable amount. As Krieger made it, the only place they weren’t allowed was the part of the palace furthest to the west, where the great doors stood when they entered through the palace gardens. The main section of the palace, as they began to call it, was a curious building in that it was round, with several watchtowers placed at intervals and a large center tower that overlooked a private garden and the roofs of the main palace. This detail they learned from climbing the single tower outside of the main section that stood high enough to look into a small section of the private gardens. The guest area of the palace was several times larger than the main area, and the three of them had access to all of it – kitchens, bath houses, dining rooms.

  The guest area could, Krieger estimated, house several hundred people comfortably and was probably useful when the Dynast held large events for foreign heads of state. Although, who they could be, even Krieger couldn’t guess. Wesolk had stood at the northern border of Dar’Ahlmon since its inception, yet this was the first time an official emissary had been granted access to the city.

  “It must have to do with wielders and magic,” Krieger said out loud one evening as the three sat in the small waiting area outside the sleeping chamber of Perryn and Grettune. “There can be no other reason to reach out to Wesolk now, when they’ve had years of opportunity.”

  “How long do you think we’ll be here?” Perryn’s question came almost daily, and while it was annoying, it was also the only question that mattered. “I’d prefer to have my child born in Wesolk if we can help it.”

  Grettune, breathed in as if she prepared to speak, but thought again and settled into her chair, deciding a conversation about where she was to give birth would be of no use. “This conversation will get us nowhere. Let us wait for a new day. Perhaps tomorrow we will receive an answer. We have a few months yet, I guess.”

  Perryn rose and kissed his wife’s forehead and nodded to Krieger before retiring to his room. “All this eating is making me tired. Perhaps tomorrow will be the day – but I doubt it.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Krieger finished his drink and pushed back his chair. “All this eating is tiring.” He smiled at Grettune and left the room for his own suite further down the hall.

  Grettune told Perryn she would be in directly. The baby was kicking, and sleep was not likely to come for her anytime soon. To pass the time she tidied the dishes and cleaned the room with magic. There was no end of servants who would potentially be offended by the northerners cleaning their own rooms, but she thought even a small magical drain might help her sleep more easily.

  She moved the plates one by one from the table to a small counter near the door where food and drinks were placed by the servants in the palace. Grettune was moving her own plate when the door opened, and a young man ducked inside, closing the door quickly behind him and reacting with considerable speed, diving to catch a plate.

  Despite the difficulty in doing so, Grettune was on her feet before the plate nestled in the boy’s outstretched hands. She had a knife in her left hand and her right fingers twitched while she decided whether to wrap the boy up in the rug he stood on. “Who are you and what gives you the right to burst into our rooms at this hour.”

  The young man casually placed the plate on the counter, turned and bowed to Grettune. “I’m very sorry for the intrusion, wielder, it’s just that I have been anxious to meet you. I am Rykaba Ah Grethje III, Ruler of the Dominion of Dar’Ahlmon, the Vassal States of Dal’Kalayn, Dal’Mrus, and Dal’Dijje, and the islands bordering those lands in the Sea of Ahlmon. I am the Dynast of Dar’Ahlmon.”

  25 - The Dynast

  Grettune’s right hand fell to her side and she quickly sheathed her knife and apologized to the dynast, bowing as she had been told by Absuwan. The young man laughed politely and told her to stand. “I have arrived unannounced into your private chambers in the middle of the night; by all rights, I am lucky I had to catch the plate and not the knife.” The dynast continued to smile and pointed toward the chairs at the table. “May I sit?”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. Can I get you anything?” Grettune recovered quickly, pointing to the refreshment counter where several plates were stacked neatly on the corner. She was also speaking directly to Perryn and Krieger, informing them of what was happening and warning them not to enter the room.

  “I would love some wine, but only if you can bring it to the table without getting up. I see you are soon to be a mother, and I would not want to tax you unnecessarily.” The dynast though young, had been taught well, and he was far more mature than his age let on. He was tall or would be if he were not afflicted with a curved spine that forced him to shuffle slightly as he walked. That he was able to catch the plate spoke well of his abilities, but as she watched small beads of sweat
form on the boy’s forehead, she was sure the motion took extraordinary effort on his part. Otherwise, however, the dynast was, or would be in time, handsome. Dark hair and straight teeth were highlighted by a genuine smile and a glimmer of mischief in his deep brown eyes. Grettune took her seat and smiled. “Of course,” and before she was settled a glass and a decanter floated to the table, the wine was poured, and the glass and decanter set gently upon the table without a noise or a drop being spilled.

  “Remarkable. We have heard stories, of course, but to see it with one’s own eyes. How do you do it?” The dynast’s voice was calm and excited. Beneath the refined skin of the dynast there lurked the heart of a young man who wanted to know everything.

  Grettune explained about the stones and how, if the stone accepted one, learning magic was painful and took a long time but allowed a wielder to do remarkable things. Watching his eyes widen, she also explained the limitations of magic, especially when viewed through the eyes of a soldier.

  “Are you saying this power is no threat to us then?” The dynast’s tone was suddenly cold and Grettune felt she had said too much. “Because there are those who think that magic is the cause of some trouble to the south, and specifically along the border islands off the coast.” The dynast stopped short and Grettune thought he felt he had said too much as well.

  “Your eminence,” Grettune began, straightening her back and looking at the ruler of Dar’Ahlmon with kindness. “We are here as emissaries of peace. We should work together. If you think magic is involved to the south, perhaps we can go to see if it so?”

  “You are kind to offer, thank you.” The dynast did not often let his eyes linger from Grettune’s, but they strayed from her face only as far as her collar where they sat transfixed. “Can I trust you, wielder?”

  “Your eminence, I am in your palace, surrounded by your guards, and we wait on your pleasure to discuss business between our kingdoms. For my part, I say that you may trust me.”

  The dynast nodded and smiled. He was used to being told he was right. The directness of Grettune’s answer was a new experience for him. “Wielder, I would like a stone,” he held up his hand to ward her from interrupting, “but I am aware now that to take a stone, even if it accepted me, would put me in constant danger while I learned to use its power. Dar’Ahlmon is many things, wielder, a safe place for those in power, it is not.”

  Grettune waited for him to continue, certain that he was considering what he wanted to say next, and when he leaned over the table, bringing his fingertips together so they were almost touching Grettune’s arm, she was sure she was correct. “Wielder, there are those of my advisors who wish for me to have a stone, but in reality, they want one for themselves. If what you say is true, and I do not doubt your veracity, then a wielder cannot kill with this power, yet he can do nearly anything else with merely a thought?”

  Grettune leaned in as well, sensing his question was not rhetorical. “There is more to it than that, your eminence, but you have said it well and plainly. The collar brings much pain to those who wear it and who would use it. It also brings some power.”

  In Grettune’s head, Krieger was offering advice, but it was largely unnecessary. However, he now suggested letting the dynast do most of the talking. “He seems in want of someone to talk to who isn’t going to blindly agree with him. This is your opportunity to practice being a mother, Grettune.”

  The word power hung in the air uncomfortably as the dynast leaned back in the wooden chair. He motioned with his eyes and a smile to the wine again, and Grettune raised both the glass and the decanter and moved them around the room while pouring. When they were settled down, a single drop fell from the lip of the decanter.

  “So, magic isn’t infallible then.” The dynast blew a quick breath through his nose and tossed back the wine in a single, fluid motion. “Wielder, my advisors would admonish me for telling you this…” he paused and lowered his voice to a whisper, as if they were at a party and guests might overhear. “There is trouble to the south. There is a man, scarred as if he has been burned, and to him an army of Qorghal march through forest and desert as if taking part in a race for sport, killing everything in their path. The Qorghal, while distressing, are of little concern. They are easily dealt with if one has enough soldiers and swords. But this man also has by his side two beasts that none have ever seen, as green as emeralds, save a shining band of blue around their necks. Do you know of these beasts?”

  Grettune said nothing, but the dynast watched the blood drain from her face. Against her red hair, the paleness couldn’t be missed.

  “I see you have. You tell me that magic cannot kill.” The dynast stood, his hunched form leaning over the table, his face inches away from Grettune’s. His words started to come in short, sharp breaths, squeezing between his clenched teeth. Where Grettune’s face had gone pale white, the dynasts had turned dark brown as blood flushed his cheeks. “You tell me magic can’t kill,” he repeated, “yet these monsters breathe pure fire and dispose of a fully armed outpost as if they were paper dolls in a building made of sand.”

  The boy took his hand from the table and stood up, the curve of his spine stopping him from reaching his full height, but he still whispered. He was not supposed to be speaking with the emissaries from Wesolk, Grettune knew, and even the dynast had advisors and those who would reprimand him. “What have you unleashed on my people?”

  The dynast didn’t wait for an answer. He turned abruptly and left the room, not taking any care as to whether he was seen.

  Several minutes after the dynast had left, Krieger and Perryn came back to the room, each looking at the other as if they might have answers. Krieger spoke first. “We need to leave. Our mission will have to wait until we can remove Wynter and the dragons. Go pack, we can’t wait until morning.”

  As the wielders gathered what they needed, there was a quick pounding on the door, before it was thrust aside, and armed and armored soldiers entered the room. Following quickly in their wake was Duz’enbah, looking as if he had been hastily taken from his bed in a long robe, his hair ruffled, and his eyes sagging and red. The soldiers, to either side of the door still and at attention, waited for the minister to give them orders.

  “I’m not sure what you did or even how you did it without having so much as a sight of His Eminence, but I am here to take you to different accommodations – someplace cooler. It would be best if you walked calmly with me. The guards are a formality for guests walking through the palace, but be assured, they will not let you wander.” Duz’enbah looked at each of the three in turn and saw Perryn and Grettune already had bags in their hands. “It looks like you were preparing ahead of time, so much easier then. Emissary Krieger, please get what you need from your rooms.” The minister nodded his head to two of the guards who motioned for the emissary to go with them. Krieger’s face was stoic, giving away nothing, and he followed the soldiers without a sound.

  While he was gone, Duz’enbah looked to the table and saw the empty wine glass. “I do hope we weren’t interrupting anything.” He sounded sincere and looked as if he were genuinely saddened by having to move them from their quarters so late in the evening. Grettune considered engaging the man in small talk until Krieger arrived, but said nothing. Several uncomfortable minutes later, the guards walked down the hall and looked to the minister who led them from their rooms.

  The walk to their new quarters took the better part of a quarter hour as nearly as Grettune could tell and involved several doorways and at least six flights of stairs and three guard posts. When they came to the last door, there was no pretense about their new quarters, they were being brought to the dungeon of the Golden Palace. The walls here were dark stone and the air more humid than above. It was cooler, of that Duz’enbah was correct, but it also stank of mold and damp.

  “Are we under arrest, Minister Duz’enbah?” Krieger asked. “What is our offence that we are treated like criminals?”

  Duz’enbah let out a small laugh.
“Oh, Emissary Krieger,” he started, “believe me you are not being treated like criminals. In Dar’Ahlmon, criminals are dealt with quickly and severely. There is a saying in our city that a criminal is only caught once. Those who commit crime and are young, or who steal to eat may be let off lightly – losing a toe or a hand. Criminals, however, are not tolerated.”

  Grettune needed to hear no more to understand the law in Dar’Ahlmon was absolute. Thinking back, she had been impressed by the cleanliness of the city, the lack of beggars, and how freely people behaved with their goods. In the north, people would hold their belongings tightly in confined spaces. Here, people were far more casual, as if not fearing pick pockets or street thugs.

  The squeak of an iron key was followed by the groan of an iron-bound door that swung open on four great hinges attached from the door directly to the stone frame surrounding it.

  “I know these doors probably don’t mean much to you two,” Duz’enbah said looking to Perryn and Grettune, “but if we find you not here, then it will result in dire and unwanted consequences for both our kingdoms. I will leave you to settle into your new accommodations. If you need anything, call for the guards.” Duz’enbah laughed a little and looked at Grettune again. “I wish things had worked out differently.” He turned and walked away, and the guard motioned them through the door with the haft of a short spear, but he did not touch any of them.

  The hallway was lit with greasy candles, and there were several closed cells on either side of them as they made their way down the passage. For cells, Grettune thought, they were clean and well maintained. At the end of the hall there was a window set high on the wall near the ceiling, and a glimmer of torch light could be seen above, indicating the window sat at the bottom of very deep well, there only for the meagerest of light to filter through.