“How do they say he died?” said Mazael, sitting in his rooms in the King's Tower. A drop of red wine fell from his the goblet and splashed against the table.
“Ah...that his heart burst, my lord knight,” said Timothy. Mazael squinted at the wizard through blurred, aching eyes. “It would not have surprised me. He was very fat, my lord knight, and old. I am sorry to be so blunt, Sir Mazael, but that was how he was probably going to die.”
Mazael waved the goblet. “No. Always tell me the truth, Timothy. Tell me what you wish. So long as it is the truth, I’ll not fault you for it, ever.”
Timothy bowed. “Thank you, my lord knight.”
“So they say his heart burst,” said Mazael. “Has anyone examined his body?”
“No,” said Timothy. “It would be the task of the court wizard to do so. But Master Othar cannot examine himself now, and Simonian will hardly do it.”
“Can you cast the spell?” said Mazael.
“What spell is that?” said Timothy.
Mazael finished his goblet, cursed, and reached for the wineskin. “The spell to determine the nature of an enchantment and trace it back to its caster. Can you cast it over the remnants of the zuvembies?”
“I know the spell, yes,” said Timothy. “But I do not possess Master Othar’s skill. I cannot trace back the magic.”
Mazael bellowed and flung the goblet against the wall. Timothy flinched wine splashed across the wall and soaked into the carpet. Mazael closed his eyes and clenched a fist.
“Convenient,” said Mazael.
“My lord knight?” said Timothy.
“Men have said that Master Othar would die within the year as long as I can remember,” said Mazael. “And now, just as we are about to deliver the remnants of a zuvembie for his inspection, he dies. Convenient?”
“Do you suspect murder?” said Timothy.
“I don’t know what I suspect,” said Mazael. “He told me something, right before we left. He said he would have answers when we returned. I should have...I should...”
“My lord knight,” said Timothy. “No man can see the future. You cannot torment yourself over what you might have done...”
Mazael gave a weak grin. “Yes, yes, I know all that, do what you can in the here and now. Master Othar taught me that, you know.” He reeled in his seat for a moment, but managed to hold his balance. “Well, this is what I intend to do about the present. It is still early. The funeral will not take place for another few hours or so. Go to the corpse, and examine it.”
“My lord knight?” said Timothy. “That is...”
“Desecrating the corpse?” said Mazael. “Othar wouldn’t have cared, and neither do I. Examine the body. See if you can determine how he died, and see if magic caused his death.”
“You suspect Simonian?” said Timothy.
“I’d be a fool not to,” said Mazael. “Once you are finished, search Master Othar’s chambers. He suspected something, and I want to know what.”
“I shall,” said Timothy.
“Thank you,” said Mazael. “Get started. Leave me.”
Mazael spent a long time staring at the wall, his head spinning. He watched the wine droplets slide down the stones. Like blood, he thought. Blood in his dreams, in the battlefield, and now here at Castle Cravenlock...
“My lord knight?”
Adalar stood in the doorway. “Are you well?”
“No,” said Mazael.
“You spilled your wine,” said Adalar. “I shall clean it up at once...”
“No!” said Mazael. “This mess was mine and I’ll tend to it. If I teach you anything, Adalar, always clean up your own messes. Now, fetch me a fresh tunic. I’m drunk and half-mad, but I must look passably decent for the funeral.”
“I will, Sir Mazael,” said Adalar. “I am very sorry about Master Othar.”
“You are, aren’t you?” said Mazael.
“He was always very kind to me, my lord knight,” said Adalar. “Father was often gone on many tasks for Lord Mitor. I spent as much time with Master Othar.”
“Well,” said Mazael. “If your father wouldn’t kill me for it, I’d give you some wine, and we’d raise a toast to one of the finest men who ever lived.”
“There’s some water,” said Adalar.
“That will serve,” said Mazael.
Adalar poured, they raised the clay cups, and they toasted the memory of Master Othar.
“Now, run and fetch a fresh tunic,” said Mazael. He rubbed his aching temples. “And see if the kitchens still have some of that coffee Timothy brewed.”
Adalar bowed and left.
Mazael leaned into his chair, images swimming across his blurring vision. He saw Master Othar standing before him twenty years past. He heard the wizard’s booming laughter. He remembered learning to read under Othar’s eye. He remembered. No matter how drunk he got, he could not forget.
“Sir Mazael?”
Adalar stood in the doorway with a tunic and a steaming clay jug in hand. “I found the coffee. Some of the kitchen workers have taken to it. There was plenty to spare.”
“Splendid,” said Mazael. He raised the jug and drained it in a single draught. It burned like hot oil and tasted like dirt, but it filled him with fresh energy. He pulled off his old tunic and yanked the fresh one over his head. “Sword belt.” Adalar handed him his sword belt, and Mazael buckled it on. “Thank you. You’re a better squire than I deserve.”
“I am only doing my duty,” said Adalar.
Mazael snorted. “And you’re your father’s son, I see. Take that as high praise. Well, let’s go. I’ll not be late, not for this.” They descended the stairs, Mazael taking care to keep his balance. What a fine example he had set for Adalar. He walked into the courtyard and squinted at the morning glare.
“Mazael.”
Rachel stood next to the door, clad in a black gown, her green eyes puffy and red.
“My lady Rachel,” said Mazael. “What can I do for you?”
“Is this what we’ve come to?” said Rachel. “ ‘My lady Rachel?’ You were my best friend once.”
“You’ve changed,” said Mazael. “And so have I.”
“We’ve gotten older...that’s all,” said Rachel. “I’m so sorry about Master Othar.”
“Are you?” said Mazael. “I thought magic was distasteful.”
Rachel blanched. “It...that was ill-spoken of me.”
“And where’s Sir Albron?” said Mazael. “I’d have thought he’d have wanted to come gloat ...”
Rachel slapped him. She was not strong, but Mazael’s knees nearly folded from shock. Adalar made a strangled sound.
Rachel jerked back from him. “How dare you? You can’t judge me, you don’t know what I’ve had to do! Albron didn’t want me to come, Mazael, he told me to stay in my quarters. But...I...Master Othar was so kind to me when I was younger, but now I’m so alone, I’ve had no one to turn to but Albron...” Her voice began to break with sobs. “And you, what have you had to endure? You’ve ridden from one end of the kingdom to the other. I’ve left Castle Cravenlock once in the last ten years, and that with Sir Tanam Crowley! You haven’t had to stay with Mitor and his insults or that miserable, stone-hearted shrew Marcelle, you haven’t, you haven’t seen...” Rachel broke down completely.
Mazael reached for her, and she flinched and collapsed weeping into his arms. Mazael wanted to cry himself. For Master Othar, for her, or for himself, he could not have said.
But no tears came.
“I’m sorry,” said Rachel.
“What for?” said Mazael.
“I shouldn’t have hit you, I shouldn’t have wailed like this,” she said. “It isn’t proper.”
“Don’t,” said Mazael. “I should apologize, not you. I haven’t been fair. I don’t know what you’ve had to endure this last fifteen years. Perhaps I made another mistake, as well.”
“What?” said Rachel.
“I should have taken you with me when I left,” said Mazael.
“I still can, you know,” said Mazael.
“What...oh, no, Mazael, I can’t...” said Rachel.
“Why not?” said Mazael. “What’s here for you? Mitor? Marcelle? Simonian of Briault? They’re little enough. They’ll be swept away like chaff when Lord Richard comes. Come with me, Rachel. There’s nothing here for you or for me. Leave Mitor the Mushroom to his plots and webs. It will all come crashing down on him. We could go from here to Knightcastle, if you wish, with Sir Gerald. Lord Malden would welcome you. Or to Deepforest Keep with Romaria.”
“I would...I can’t,” said Rachel. “I am pledged to be married, Sir Albron...”
“Damn Albron!” growled Mazael. “Open your eyes! Neither he nor Mitor lifted a finger when Sir Tanam and his crows flew away with you in their beaks! The man’s a leech who rode Mitor to power. And what will happen when the Dragonslayer takes Mitor’s head? The leech will fall off and shrivel.”
“Mazael, don’t say those things!" said Rachel. "Even if I did leave, who else could I marry? Toraine Mandragon? Or his brother, the one they call the Dragon’s Shadow? I’m almost five years past twenty!”
“It would be easy to find you a husband in Knightrealm,” said Mazael. “There are hundreds of unmarried knights. Most of them are far better than Albron. You know he’s a wretch, Rachel, you do. More than that, you know he’s a liar.”
For a long moment she stared at him, wavering.
“Yes,” she whispered at last. “He’s lied to you, he’s lied to Mitor, he’s lied to me. About everything. But you don’t know him, Mazael, not truly. You don’t know what he can do. He could win this war, even against the Dragonslayer.”
“What can he do?” said Mazael. “Tell me.”
“I can’t,” said Rachel.
“Why not?” said Mazael. “Do you think I’m afraid of him? I bested him once and I’ll do it again. What’s his secret, Rachel? Tell me.”
Rachel’s eyes flickered with doubt. There was fear on her face, and despair, but the beginning of a dawning hope. “He...Mazael, he’s...”
“Rachel! I say, there you are!”
Rachel jumped as if burned.
Sir Albron stood behind her, his eyes glittering like cold jewels. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”
“Rachel...” said Mazael.
Rachel tugged away from him and went to Albron’s side. “I was here. You needn’t have looked. You know where I was going.”
Albron sighed and stroked her hair. “You want to go the funeral, yes? Well, you shouldn’t. It will make you sad. You are much prettier when you’re cheerful.”
Mazael stepped closer, Lion's scabbard tapping against his leg. “She is not to give respect to the dead, to a man who taught her and raised her?”
Albron smiled. “Precisely so, Sir Mazael. Master Othar is dead. Dead and no longer able to defy Lord Mitor’s wishes, as he had so often. It is probably a mercy, I think. After all, the man was so fat, and so old. Had he lived for much longer, he would have been in great discomfort. You ought to say a prayer of thanksgiving.”
Fire flashed in Mazael’s mind. “Pray that I do not act as I feel I ought.”
Albron smiled. “Pray? Why, I pray every day. I am very pious, after all. More than you, I’d imagine. You see, Sir Mazael, that is the difference between us. You always seek to stand on your own with no allies, relying on your own formidable skills. But I am wise enough to recognize my weakness.” He took Rachel’s arm. “I turn to my deity for my strength. Come along, Rachel.”
“He can’t command you,” said Mazael. “You haven’t married him yet.”
“Oh, but she will,” said Albron. “Won’t you, my dear? And our lady Rachel of Cravenlock is a confused soul at times. I know what is best for her. Now, come along. We shall go back to your chambers and pray upon this.” He walked away, pulling Rachel along with him. She cast one glance over her shoulder at Mazael, and then followed Sir Albron.
Rage pounded through Mazael’s skull. It was all he could do to keep from drawing his blade and ramming it between Albron’s shoulders, and perhaps Rachel’s, as well...
Mazael shuddered and raised his sword hand away from Lion’s hilt. “No.”
“Sir Mazael?” said Adalar. “You...do not look well. Are you ill?”
“No,” said Mazael. “Not ill." He watched Rachel and Albron go. "Come."
Mazael’s headache faded by the time he reached the chapel’s doors. It was as if the rage had burned through him and incinerated his pains.
Sir Gerald, Sir Nathan, and Romaria waited for him at the chapel’s doors. Sir Nathan looked ten years older. Master Othar had been the old knight’s best friend. Mazael wanted to pull Romaria close and not move for a long time.
“Mazael,” said Gerald. “A dark day, this.”
“I only knew him for a short while,” said Romaria, “but I even I could see that he was a good man.”
“Aye,” said Mazael. “He was. He gave me much, taught me much, that I could never repay.”
“He will be missed,” said Sir Nathan.
The chapel was as bad as Gerald had described. Dust and debris littered the floor, the tapestries and altar cloths worn and threadbare. The narrow windows and the few sputtering candles did not give much light.
“Such fine temples the Amathavians keep to their gods,” said Romaria.
Master Othar’s closed coffin rested on a bier before the altar, between burning candles in iron stands. Mazael stared at the coffin. Why had he ever returned to the Grim Marches? Save for Master Othar’s teachings, Rachel’s friendship, and Sir Nathan’s hard lessons, he had known little else but misery here. Now Master Othar was dead, and he no longer knew Rachel.
There were a few others present. Master Cramton, his family, and his workers greeted Mazael at the door.
“A good man,” said Cramton. “He was always good to us townsfolk.” Bethy gave Mazael a sad smile, and he managed to nod in answer.
They sat and the service began. The acolytes were a sorry bunch in their dirty and threadbare robes, and the presiding priest seemed drunk. The man began the prayers for the dead, his voice stumbling over the archaic High Tristafellin used by the Amathavian Church.
Sir Nathan rose. The priest backed away as the old knight approached, but Sir Nathan did not spare him a glance. He began to recite the prayers himself, speaking the intricate words of High Tristafellin with ease. The priest slunk away, his acolytes following. Mazael only understood a few words of the long prayer but bowed his head nonetheless.
Sir Nathan had chosen the pallbearers from the armsmen he trusted. They marched from the decrepit chapel in a slow procession. They would stop in the castle’s vaults and inter Master Othar’s mortal remains in a stone tomb.
Mazael stopped in the courtyard and watched them march towards the vault. He could not go with them. He knew he should come out of respect, but he could not do so. The grief filled his mind, second only to his rage. If Master Othar had been murdered, Mazael would find the murderer and ram Lion down his gullet.
Mazael wandered away, head bowed. He walked beneath one of the keep's balconies and heard his brother’s voice.
“Are they done yet?” said Mitor.
“No, my lord,” came Simonian’s voice. “They have gone to the vaults for the internment ceremony.”
“Bah,” said Mitor. “The man had outlived his usefulness years ago. What has he done to merit internment in my chapel and in my castle?”
“I have found, my lord, that people are far happier when customs are observed,” said Simonian.
“Customs,” said Mitor. “When I am liege lord of the Grim Marches, I shall do away with a great many customs, you can rest assured! Funerals for useless, fat wizards among them. Had I my will, I would have tossed the corpse out into a field and left it to rot.”
“You should have had Othar’s body ground up and
used as rations for your troops,” said Simonian.
“Hah!” said Mitor. “I like that!” He laughed. “No doubt it would provide for many meals!”
“And the blubber,” said Simonian, “could have illuminated this castle for many months.”
Mitor laughed. “Undoubtedly. But I find more favor with your first idea. We should have made a meat pie out of his carcass and had it served to my wretched brother at dinner the next day.” He roared with laughter. Mazael drew Lion with a silent snarl.
“My lord, you must take care with Sir Mazael,” said Simonian. “He schemes to replace you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mitor. “Him and that fool the Dragonslayer. Well, they shall see! I don’t need Mazael to claim the liege lordship. I don’t need Marcus Trand and Roget and those other fools. I don’t need Lord Malden’s help. I shall take the liege lordship myself. It is my right, I have the power to do so. It is mine!”
“Yes,” said Simonian. “They’ll all see in the end, won’t they, my lord?”
“They will!” said Mitor. “The old fool Nathan and my damned brother and the great and high Lord Dragonslayer will see! That fat wizard has already seen. But the others...oh, they will see, Simonian, and soon.”
Mazael rammed Lion into its scabbard and stalked away. Rage burned through him, and he felt as if he would explode with it. Images flashed through his mind in rapid succession. He saw Simonian dying upon Lion's point, saw his sword plunging into Mitor's chest...
The air blurred, and Timothy appeared out of nothingness. Mazael had Lion at the wizard's throat before his mind caught up to his reflexes.
He lowered Lion. “Don’t startle me!”
“I...ah...yes, I see,” said Timothy. “I should have known better.”
“What have you found?” said Mazael.
“A number of things,” said Timothy.
Mazael frowned. “Why were you invisible?”
“Prudence,” said Timothy. “Lord Mitor placed a guard around Master Othar’s chambers. I doubted they would allow me entrance if I simply asked. So I placed a sleeping spell on them and used my invisibility enchantment to sneak past.”
“Clever,” said Mazael.
“It worked,” said Timothy. “The guards didn’t see me.” He smiled. “They should be waking up shortly.”
“What did you find in Master Othar’s rooms?” said Mazael.
Timothy swallowed. “Much. On his desk were old scrolls. One was a history of the Demonsouled. Another told of the history of the San-keth race.” He tugged at his beard. “And...there was one other scroll, very old. He had it locked in a chest beneath his bed. I could not read the language, but I recognized it. It was written in the San-keth tongue, my lord. The ink was dried blood, and the parchment some sort of skin. Human, perhaps.”
“Where would he have gotten these things?” said Mazael.
“The scrolls...their seal was the star of the Cirstarcine Order,” said Timothy. “Most likely he borrowed them from the library of the nearby monastery. I may also have found Master Othar’s journal.”
“You did? What did it say?” said Mazael.
“I could not open it,” said Timothy. “It was sealed shut and warded with a powerful protective spell.”
“Could you not dispel it?” said Mazael.
“I tried,” said Timothy. “Master Othar’s magic was too strong. A more powerful spell might suffice, but it would have taken several hours to ready. I feared I did not have the time.”
“That was wise,” said Mazael. “What of his body? Were you able to examine it before the funeral?”
Timothy’s face turned fearful. “Aye, I did, my lord knight.”
“What do you find?” said Mazael.
“Master Othar did not die naturally,” said Timothy. “He was murdered.”
The words thundered through Mazael’s skull. “How?"
“Magic,” said Timothy. “I was not able to learn exactly how, but...”
“Well?” said Mazael. “Out with it!”
“It was necromancy, my lord knight,” said Timothy. He took a step back. “A killing spell. The residual power was focused around his chest. The magic was similar to the arts used to raise the zuvembies, though I have not the skill to discern if both spells were cast by the same man.”
“Necromancy,” said Mazael. “The word is bastardized Tristafellin, true? ‘Death magic’?”
Timothy nodded, staring at Lion's blade. “Aye, Sir Mazael, but please, do not do anything rash...”
“Death,” said Mazael. His fury had left anger behind, had become something different, something throbbing with power. “Well, there will be more death today before I am finished. Thank you, Timothy. You’ve been most helpful.” His voice was calm. He could have been discussing supper.
“My lord knight,” said Timothy. Mazael ignored him, and stalked across the courtyard, making for Lord Mitor’s chambers.
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Sword Dancers
Demonsouled Page 29
