Dragon Lord: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Origins Book 2)

by James Eggebeen

  7

  After demonstrating his loyalty, Sulrad allowed Veran to join the temple staff. He was no longer attired as an acolyte. He had proved that he could be trusted, not that Sulrad had many reservations. Veran proved to be valuable for more than just his magic. He had not been boasting when he claimed access to lore that had been lost to even those of Amedon. His knowledge of the ancient magic was astounding. Many of the things Sulrad had encountered in the great library left him baffled, as if he had been fed the lightest of pastries for a meal and denied true sustenance. Things that had baffled him or left him confused suddenly became clearer when he learned what had really happened at the founding of Amedon.

  According to Veran, the establishment of the wizards’ city had little to do with training wizards. At the time, few held true power, and those who did were secretive and held themselves separate from the rest. Amedon had been founded not to train new wizards, but to contain them, and to enrich the few who wielded the wild magic. The thought made Sulrad’s head spin.

  “The dragons stole the magic from men,” Veran explained. “They locked it up in the crystals deep in the ground to keep it out of the hands of all but a few. They reserved it for those who were born with the capacity to absorb it directly.” Veran placed his hand on his chest opposite where his heart lay. He tapped gently. “Without this, neither of us would be able to access magic at all, and as it is, we are limited to what we can absorb and retain.”

  Sulrad shuddered but caught himself. He hoped Veran had not noticed. The secret of the stones was one he was not about to share just yet. Not until he knew more. He didn’t need Veran learning that he could draw immense power from the stones beneath the altar. That was something Sulrad wanted to keep for himself, at least for now.

  “You say the dragons locked away the magic then died out, is that it?” Sulrad asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from the stones.

  “They’re not dead. They are very much alive. Haven’t you ever seen the glowing in the sky? The lights that appear out of nowhere and disappear just as quickly?”

  “I’ve seen them.” And indeed Sulrad had. On quiet nights, he used to sneak out and lie on his back gazing at the stars. So many points of light. Some said those points of light determined the course of one’s life, that their position in the sky at the moment of birth fixed one’s destiny. Merten had slapped Sulrad the first time he asked about it. Ran determined the destiny of every man, not some colored lights in the sky. But those strange curtains of blue and green — they were not stars. He had seen them more than once. It was as if the night sky had cracked and let in a strange alien glow. First, a thin line of blue-green shot across the sky, then the curtain descended, brilliant lights wavering in the darkness as if silk blew in the breeze. It gave him chills just thinking of it.

  “That’s when the dragons cross over,” Veran explained. “They open the veil and pass through it. They cannot travel through the void. They fear it.”

  “Why?” Sulrad asked. “Why fear the void?”

  “Have you ever traveled through the void?” Veran asked.

  “I have. Several times.”

  “Did it not strike fear into your very soul?” Veran shuddered as he spoke.

  “No. It was a bit unpleasant, but that’s all. I saw the mirrors that showed me other moments in time, but it was nothing more than a stroll in a great hall.”

  “You did not feel it tug at you?” Veran asked. “Did it not draw you in?”

  “No. I felt as if I were falling the first time, but even that diminished as I grew accustomed to it.”

  “Accustomed to it,” Veran spat. “How can you grow accustomed to that?”

  Sulrad shrugged. “Tell me more of the dragons. If they still live and visit us, why do we not see them or hear tales of them at the very least?”

  “They are secretive. They can cloud the minds of men so that we don’t recognize them, and they are allied with the wizards of Amedon. It was the wizards who first conceived the plan to steal magic from the common man. Amedon was founded by a small group of wizards who wished to keep the magic to themselves. They believed that taking magic away from the common man was a way for them to control it, and the dragons agreed. Together they hatched the plan that locked the magic away.

  “The dragons helped build the city of Amedon on the site where the magic would be the greatest. It was there that they summoned the magic and sequestered it deep under the earth, beneath stone so strong, not even the most ambitious miner could reach it.

  “When Amedon was complete, the dragons departed, leaving the realm of man to its own devices, satisfied that they had safeguarded magic from the common folk. My belief is that they feared that the magic wielded by the common man was growing stronger, strong enough to challenge the dragons, and that was something they could not abide.”

  “I never knew,” Sulrad said. “I was trained in Amedon. There is nothing about this in the great library.”

  “That sort of knowledge is a closely guarded secret,” Veran said. “Imagine what it would be like if every wizard knew what had happened.”

  In the days that followed Veran’s revelation, Sulrad took some time to write down his thoughts. Not only for the faithful, but in his private writings. The ones he maintained that helped him grapple with difficult ideas. Writings that he never intended to share, where he worked out his thoughts and solidified his thinking, before he presented his ideas to the rest of the faithful. The idea that the dragons had coveted magic and would rather destroy it or hoard it than see it used for the good of the common man was one such thought he had yet to fully understand.

  In ancient times, wizards ruled the land. They had magic to spare, creating great floating cities in the clouds. Their castles in the air bore riches beyond belief. No wonder Ran had caused it all to come crashing down. What arrogance they had, those wizards of old. To think that magic was theirs to wield as they saw fit. But where was Ran when all this was happening? Had he come into existence later? When the dragons sealed away the magic? Sulrad’s head spun with questions.

  “Father Sulrad?” A light rap that could only be Ignal sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” Sulrad answered.

  Ignal entered timidly. She kept her gaze on the floor. “I’ve heard what Veran said about the magic, and I need to tell you something. Something I have I kept from you. Not because I wished you harm, but I thought you needed it not. I truly felt Ran has all the power you could ever need. I still do, but after hearing what Veran said, I… I know I should have told you sooner.”

  “What is it?” Sulrad motioned to the chair beside his desk. “You have done nothing wrong.”

  “I have. Father, I’ve kept a secret from you, but I…” She glanced around as if to assure herself that no one was listening. “I’ve made it right. I found my son and sent him to my family. It shames me because I was not certain how he would be received, and I could not go myself. The circumstances of my departure were not pleasant…” Her voice trailed off as if reluctant to continue.

  “Sit. You know that I trust you,” Sulrad said. “What could you have done that you think would anger me?”

  “Not anger. Disappoint.”

  Sulrad had never seen her so agitated. Something truly horrid must have transpired.

  “Sit. Tell me what happened. You rarely speak of your family.”

  “They shunned me,” Ignal said.

  “Shunned you? You mean they disowned you? What ever could you have done to deserve that?”

  “Not disowned. That would be far less of a punishment than banning. They expelled me from our society. To them, I no longer exist. Even if someone were to see me, they would act as if I were not there.”

  “But now?” he asked.

  “I believed that once they saw my son was healed, they would know my bonding was not cursed. That the great spirits approved of my choice. I hoped they would accept my child, and through him, me.”

  “That was taking a great
chance,” Sulrad demurred. She constantly amazed him in what she was willing to do for him on behalf of Ran. “What if they had rejected the boy?” he asked.

  Ignal picked at her cuticle, her gaze fixed on her hands as if they were about to burst into flames. “I took a risk. They had to accept him. I just knew they would.” She glanced up at Sulrad, then back at her hands. “At least I hoped they would. Even so, I placed my son in harm’s way for the greater good. He’s back and everything worked out, so it’s not a sin, is it?”

  Her gaze fixed on Sulrad, eyes wide, expectant.

  “No. It’s not a sin. And even if it was, Ran is merciful.”

  Sulrad glanced down at the scroll upon which he had been writing when Ignal arrived. He knew now that this was Ran’s way of telling him he was on the right path. He had been struggling all day with the words he would write. Was it a sin if someone acted in what they thought was the proper manner and yet sin resulted? Sacrificing a life to save a dozen. What was the greater good? What had Ran’s word to say about such a thing? Ignal had been willing to sacrifice her son for something she deemed good. Did that make it a sin? If the good had never arisen, was it then a sin? What if the greater good had been served? Was it the intent that made it a sin and not the action? What then of an action that served the greater good, but was undertaken for the wrong reason?

  “Father?” Ignal interrupted his reverie.

  “Sorry. Ran is truly amazing. I’ve been struggling with this subject, and just when I needed evidence of his hand, he sends you to me with this story. So tell me the rest. I’m certain that Ran does not consider it a sin, and he has sent you here to instruct me so that I may write down these words.”

  “My son returned,” Ignal explained. “My family accepted him. They have sent me a gift to show that they no longer consider me dead.”

  Sulrad exhaled. What sort of gift had they given her? He worried about her love of gold. Even her devotion to Ran might not be enough to overcome that, and here she was likely about to reveal how they had showered her with even more gold.

  “It’s not for me,” Ignal said. She plunged her hand into her robe and withdrew a fistful of crystals. They glowed brightly in a rainbow of colors. The magic they contained was greater than the stones Sulrad had placed beneath the altar.

  “Where did you get those?” he asked.

  “From my family, as I said.” She handed them to Sulrad. “They mine the deep beneath the mountains.”

  The power contained in the crystals was immense, more than Sulrad had ever felt before. Just touching them made him lightheaded and threatened to overwhelm him.

  He placed them on his desk.

  The lightheadedness diminished, but he was left with a sense of imbalance, as if he had stood up too quickly. “I’ve never seen the likes of these. I thought they were only found near the sky iron.”

  “A sky iron fall is one place you may find them; the other is far beneath the mountains, in mines so deep that it is like working in the fires of the underworld. Only there can these be found, and each one must be painstakingly separated from the surrounding rock with great care lest it be shattered and lost.”

  “And they gave these to you?” Sulrad asked.

  “I asked my son, Danthan, to explain about the work you are doing and how you heal the sick. I instructed him to plead on your behalf, knowing how much good you have done not just for him but for everyone. I am overwhelmed by their generosity. I was unsure they would part with even one of these, so precious are they.”

  Sulrad gestured to the crystals glowing on his desk. “Yet they gave you all of these.”

  “When they saw what Ran had done for Danthan, they knew that you were special, not like the wizards of old who used the power only for themselves. They sent this as a gift and asked that the crystals be used for healing and spreading good across the land.”

  “And so they shall.”

  Sulrad stretched out his hands to take the crystals, but the power in them burned his flesh like a flame. He quickly withdrew his hands and folded them. Here was wealth and power beyond anything he had ever dreamed of. Was it a blessing Ran had just placed before him or a test?

  He had the suspicion it was both.

  8

  Kelnor shifted his weight on the hard wooden seat. Why did the library have plush seating for the senior wizards and hard wooden chairs for those who spent their days poking into the dustier corners of the great library? His task had taken him to the most uncomfortable part of the library. Assigned to him by Garlath, it was particularly frustrating. He had been asked to find out what he could of a city named Frostan, at least that was the name the city carried today. In the past, it had other names, most lost to antiquity. Garlath had assigned Kelnor to find any references to the city that pre-dated the establishment of Amedon.

  How was he expected to find scrolls in the library in Amedon that predated its founding? Did the wizard think that all knowledge resided here? Surely he wasn’t so naïve.

  “Anril,” Kelnor told the librarian. “Now goes by the name of Frostan. Have you heard of it?”

  “Top shelf on the left.” The ancient librarian jutted his chin down the side aisle Kelnor had been perusing earlier.

  “Of course. Where else would it be?” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?” The librarian looked up from behind his desk. The wizard must have been a hundred summers old. The students referred to him as the dead of winter. They said he had lost his magic like a tree loses its leaves in the cold of winter. It happened to some wizards. As they aged, they lost their power.

  Kelnor shivered. He’d rather die as a young man than live to be aged and helpless.

  “Sorry. Just talking to myself,” Kelnor quipped. “Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem, young man. I talk to myself all the time.” He spoke as if it were meant to reassure Kelnor, but it failed horribly.

  Kelnor rolled the wooden ladder to the shelf the librarian had indicated. It creaked as it moved and threw dust into the air. No one, it seemed, cared much for these old texts. A pity, that. Kelnor had found much worth the effort in ancient texts just like these.

  He placed a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder.

  It creaked under his weight.

  He put more weight on the rung.

  The ladder skidded to the left.

  “Drats. What now?” Kelnor stepped back to the floor and searched around for something he could wedge beneath the wheels that supported the ladder. The last thing he needed was for the ladder to move while he was perched high in the air.

  Why didn’t they keep wedges nearby for just such a situation?

  He glanced around. There was nothing handy but the scrolls and tomes he had piled on the table during the course of his research. Rip one of them? Never. His notes? He had taken careful notes as he had done his research. He hated to rip up one of the scrolls he had meticulously and carefully inscribed with his thoughts and the facts that he had gleaned so far.

  No. He was not going to damage a scroll, a tome, or his notes. So what then?

  He sat still and let his mind wander. What did he have in his possession? His scroll, his pens, his clothes, shoes, socks, pants, small clothes, shirt. No scarf. No belt. Nothing he could easily take off and used as a wedge.

  His shoes?

  They were thick soled. Not thin enough to catch under the wheel.

  His socks? What if he rolled them up and shoved them beneath the wheels?

  That would do it.

  He quickly unlaced his shoes and rolled his socks down and off the end of his toes. It was cold and drafty in the library. Best not to walk around barefooted. He slid his shoes back on and tied them loosely, then took one sock and jammed it firmly beneath the left wheel. The other went beneath the right wheel.

  He tested his idea.

  It worked. The ladder remained where it was, even when he pressed firmly. It was safe.

  But he would need a way to carry the scrolls and tomes ba
ck down. He was not about to make a dozen trips up and down the ladder. He fetched the bag he habitually carried. There was room for four or five scrolls in it.

  He stepped on the lower rung of the ladder once more.

  It creaked, but the ladder remained where it was.

  Another step.

  Another creak.

  It seemed like forever before Kelnor reached the top.

  As his hand landed on the shelf, dust rose up and filled his nose.

  He sneezed.

  More dust.

  He sneezed again.

  This time, the dust stung his eyes.

  He rubbed his eyes and almost lost his balance. He glanced down, blinking. It was a long way down.

  “Drat,” he muttered. It was also dark. He could barely make out the writing on the labels that marked the scroll cradles.

  He rubbed the dust from one. Its title looked like Anril, but it was hard to tell. The scrolls beside it sat in a cradle with no markings. As did the one beside that. And the one beside that. This was going to be harder than he expected. He grabbed the likely scrolls and shoved them into his bag.

  “I hope these are right ones. I don’t want to be spending the whole day going up and down this cursed ladder,” he muttered to himself, hoping no one was near enough to hear him.

  By the time he had reached the bottom of the ladder, he was out of breath and wheezing. He told himself it was the dust, but he knew better. He threw himself onto the hard wooden chair once more and blew the last of the dust from the scrolls.

  The first scroll did refer to a city once named Anril. It had indeed been lost to antiquity, but the location on the map appeared to be Frostan. At least the great ocean, lakes and rivers seemed to correspond to today’s map and placed it where Frostan was now.

  The scroll was written in one of the ancient forms of wizards’ script. It was hard to decipher. Nothing seemed to make sense. It spoke of as if everyone had magic and employed it for the most mundane of things. If he read it right, washer women used magic to light a fire to heat water for their endeavors. Shepherds called the sheep from pasture with magic and set wards to warn them of wolves. According to the text, magic was the birthright of every person who reached the age of adulthood. Those without it were looked down on with pity. How strange. How could something like this be? Magic was rare, and only one in a thousand of those who possessed it ever achieved any level of mastery at all. Kelnor knew well how little power most wizards had. He’d been in Amedon for half a dozen summers and was barely able to execute more than the most common of spells. He was no mighty one, and he never would be.