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

by James Eggebeen

  “This is impressive,” he said. “I’ve seen scholars who failed to understand such an argument. But why are you doing this? Do you have magic I don’t know about? Why study spells and magic if you cannot touch magic yourself?”

  “The better I understand what you do, the better I can assist you. I may not be able to cast these spells, but knowing them may one day save your life. And, I can prepare the formulations for potions even if I cannot imbue them with magic. It’s my way of helping.”

  “So one day you will have magic?”

  “No. That will never happen, but I can aid you, and I wish to be prepared.” She sanded the latest document she had just completed, shook the sand back into the tray, and placed the parchment into another tray. “These may also be used to train the new priests. It will take the burden off of you and the rest of the staff.”

  “You work too hard.” Sulrad put his hand on hers and let the tiniest bit of magic flow into her. He sensed the calm settling over her as he often did when he infused her with magic. It was his way of building a relationship with her. There was never going to be physical closeness between them. Sulrad had taken an oath and he planned to keep it, but absent a physical closeness, he often let his magic flow into her and fill her with the joy he witnessed on her face. It was the least he could do, but not as much as she truly desired. It was her burden to bear, just as he had his own burdens.

  “The temple tax?” he asked.

  “The best I can do, so far, is to limit what the baron takes to twice what it is today. I can go no further. If I do, he will discover what I have done. The deception will crumble, and he will be angry.”

  “What can he do?”

  “He can attack the temple. Kill the priests. Kill you.”

  “I doubt that he could. He has no magic. He fears it.”

  “He has magic. He employs wizards. He just keeps that a secret. The castle itself is protected by a spell that, although weaker than it once was, it precludes the use of magic inside the castle. Did you not find it so?”

  Sulrad paused. He had noticed that it was more difficult to perform magic in the castle. It had been even more difficult when he first arrived. He’d never considered that the baron had a spell on the castle, or that it had been partially defeated. That surely was the work of the wizard Zhimosom and the sorceress Rotiaqua. They had been close. Too close. And they had teamed up. Against him.

  He pushed the thought away. Best not to dwell on the past. The future was what deserved his attention.

  11

  Kelnor rolled the tiny crystal between his thumb and forefinger. He let the sharp edges bite into his tender flesh. He placed the crystal shard on an iron plate he’d secreted from one of the workrooms along with stone-working tools. He placed the chisel on the crystal and carefully tapped with the hammer.

  The shard split right where he had hoped, cleaving off a small sliver with a fine point.

  He examined the point.

  It was sharp.

  It would do.

  In the drawer was the small pin that he had prepared, and a pot of glue made from the sap of a tree. The glue was powerful and durable and had cost almost half a gold.

  Kelnor retrieved the pin and carefully dabbed it with the glue.

  He picked up the tiny crystal and placed it into the glue, letting the thick substance flow around the bottom of the crystal, exposing the point.

  He blew on it to set it and placed it aside to dry.

  After the evening meal, when things settled down and most of the younger students were practicing their spells, Kelnor was ready to begin. He had researched the spell he would use, choosing one that created a small quantity of lamp oil. The spell was something that any student might have attempted and would probably go unnoticed.

  He carefully rehearsed the hand motions that were associated with the spell until he was confident he had them down, then sat back and prepared himself.

  He placed a small bowl on the table and retrieved the pin with the crystal now firmly embedded in the head. He placed it aside for the moment. Better to attempt the spell on his own first, just to make sure he had the motions perfected.

  He was tempted to utter the words to the spell, but that would have defeated the purpose.

  First without magic.

  He traced the figure in the air that would create a dollop of oil in the bowl. As he did, the magic rose up in him, eager to leap to the call of his fingers. But he held it back. It itched like fire and fought him like an unruly horse, but Kelnor restrained it.

  He traced his finger in the air.

  Nothing happened.

  That confirmed that he could restrain his power. Now to check the spell.

  Once more, he traced the spell in the air.

  This time, he allowed his magic to run free. It raced down his arm and out his fingers, leaving a crimson trail in the air behind his moving fingertips.

  When the character was complete, the glowing crimson lines turned a deep red, almost the color of blood, then vanished.

  A soft splashing sound emanated from the bowl, indicating that his spell had worked.

  So much for that.

  He had the hand motions down.

  Kelnor retrieved the small pin with the tiny crystal glued to it. He examined the crystal. There was no magic in it that he could tell. Magic was a crucial part of his investigation. How to add magic?

  He reached for his magic and drew forth a tiny thread of it.

  At first, it resisted, but he was able to coax a slender thread from his chest along his arm and out into the tiny crystal.

  The crystal glowed an eerie green as the thread of magic entered it but soon settled down to a steady crimson glow.

  “There. That should do it,” Kelnor said to himself. “Let’s see if this is enough.”

  He relaxed, preparing to block his own magic as he undertook the next phase of his investigation. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Kelnor carefully inscribed the same character in the air as he had the first time. Once more, he blocked his magic.

  He peered into the air as the tiny crystal traced out the character he wished.

  A faint line of crimson followed it.

  When he completed the character, Kelnor held his breath. Either it would work or it would not, but it had to. He’d studied everything he could find that related to storing magic and dug deep into the text that explained how the apprentice had managed a spell with just the wizard’s staff.

  The glowing crimson lines faded ever so slowly until nothing remained.

  He peered into the bowl.

  No oil.

  He examined the tiny crystal shard attached to the pin.

  There was no magic in it.

  Once again, he let his magic infuse the crystal. This time, he tried to press more magic into it, but very quickly, the crystal seemed to absorb all it would take and his efforts to cram more into it were met with failure.

  “How did he do it?” Kelnor pondered how the wizard in the story had managed to imbue his own magic into the crystal. What did he know about wizards’ staffs? He thought back to one class on magical artifacts that had sparked an interest. There had to be something personal about the object. A wizard often carved his own staff, and the more powerful ones cut the crystals themselves to create an affinity in the staff for themselves. Yet how had the mundane wielded the wizard’s magic? Perhaps that was what he needed: a mundane. But where could he find someone who would help him without revealing his secrets?

  He hoped it was not too late, but he knew where he could find a mundane who might help out. Zahudi. But he would have to be careful. The girl’s father had threatened to ship her off to relatives in a far-off land if he caught her in the company of a wizard. Despite the stern warning, she had always been friendly to Kelnor. Perhaps if he concealed the fact that he was a wizard, he could get her to help him. Her father would never know it was him. She would recognize him and would not be able to resist bec
oming his partner in crime, so to speak.

  Most young wizards kept a set of clothes that let them fit in with the townsfolk. Most of the senior wizards were well aware of this. It was an unspoken agreement that they had. So long as the junior wizard behaved himself, what harm was there in a bit of masquerading?

  Before he knew it, Kelnor was sitting at a table in the Cross and Keys.

  Zahudi caught his eye with a raised brow as he entered. She gave him a few moments to settle and strolled over. “What you having, young man?”

  “Ale, sweat-meat pie. And loaf of dark bread with butter.”

  “Right away, sir,” she said in a loud voice, then whispered, “What are you up to?”

  “Bring me my fare and I’ll show you.”

  A mischievous smile crossed the girl’s face. “Be right back.”

  Kelnor withdrew a piece of parchment from his pocket. On it, he had inscribed a spell to raise fire. Not a lot, just a candle flame, but fire nonetheless. He had chosen that one over oil, as it would be easier to observe in the confines of the inn.

  He placed the pin and crystal on top of the parchment and waited.

  Zahudi returned in moments with his fare and deposited it on the table. She took the bench across from him and leaned in. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she smoothed a strand of black hair behind one ear.

  “I would like you to take this pin and trace the figure I have drawn on the parchment for me.”

  “That’s all? What will happen?”

  “That’s what we’re going to see.”

  She picked up the pin. “It looks like jewelry.” She placed it behind her ear, the tiny crystal catching the light of the fireplace.

  “It might be,” Kelnor nodded at the parchment. “Let’s find out what else it can be.”

  Zahudi took the pin and carefully traced the magical character. A faint crimson line appeared in the air behind her motion. At first, it was faint, barely more than a thread of crimson wavering in the still air, but as Kelnor watched, it grew thicker and thicker until the character of the spell was plainly visible. The characters settled onto the parchment, lying there as if he had painted the character himself. It was beautiful to behold, but there was no fire.

  “Was that it?” she asked. “The crimson light?”

  “No. That’s only part of it.” Kelnor let his sense reach out to the crystal. It was empty. He recharged it as he had practiced so often before and nodded to the parchment. “Try again.”

  Zahudi traced the figure once more.

  Once more, the crimson light appeared, but quickly vanished.

  “Again.” This time, Kelnor let his magic emanate from him to encompass the pin as she traced the lines. He hoped that his proximity to the crystal might reinforce the spell.

  Once more, the light appeared and faded.

  Zahudi lifted the pin and examined it. “It looks sharp.”

  “It is.”

  “Sharp enough to draw blood?”

  Before he could react, the girl poked his forearm with the crystal. It was indeed sharp. A drop of blood welled up and coated the tip.

  She quickly traced the figure once more, his blood leaving behind a trace that seemed to interact with the crimson light.

  When the figure was complete, the girl examined her work and the glowing character in the air.

  The parchment burst into flames.

  She leaned back as if frightened, then a smile crossed her lips. “That was something.”

  Kelnor drew a breath. He’d meant for a candle flame, but what he got was a rush of fire that consumed the entire parchment in half a heartbeat.

  “That was what I was hoping for,” he lied.

  Zahudi licked a finger and rubbed Kelnor’s arm where the blood was just beginning to clot. “Sorry about the jab; it just seemed like something I should try.”

  Kelnor patted the back of her hand. “Don’t mention it.”

  Back in his room, Kelnor brought out another scroll. This one had seemed like a lark when he first took it, but it had called to him as if he needed to read it. At first, he found it boring. It detailed how a cobbler had created toys that moved under their own power. He had used elastic and coils of beaten iron to make the devices move. The most intricate of these was a box that played music while a tiny figure of a dancer twirled above it.

  The scroll had detailed drawings on how this was achieved, including one such box where the figure not only twirled; she followed a path around the top of the box as if working out a real dance.

  He wondered.

  The sun was just coming up when he rolled up the plans for his own mechanism. If his theory was right, the pin would follow the path he carved for it, just as the figure had in the music box.

  If a mundane like Zahudi could trace the figure and invoke the magic, could a machine?

  Perhaps, but would it take more blood?

  He hoped not.

  12

  Sulrad had hoped to gain the assistance of another wizard or a particularly skilled healer, but so far, his hopes had been dashed. He was the only one with sufficient power and training to heal, and it was draining. Each day, he ended his healing sessions exhausted. He felt like a dish rag that his cooks used that had been wrung of the water it contained and hung before the fire to dry. Still, they came. The poor and unwashed gathered around the temple every day just past the noon meal. As time passed, the crowds grew larger and larger, the penitents more and more infirm. It was wearing him down, but he hated to miss a day. They needed him, and Ran had blessed him, so who was he to withhold Ran’s beneficence?

  He walked through the crowd, his hands lightly passing over the infirm and injured. “Languorum et abierunt.” At his words, the power flowed from the crystal in his pocket, through his chest, and out into the kneeling woman before him. The infirmity fled from her as if it were a fowl frightened by a stalking wolf. It gave Sulrad great satisfaction to heal so many.

  “Restitueretur et saints.” He commanded the next penitent to return to health, and it was as if the man had never been injured.

  “Thank you, Sire.” The man kissed Sulrad’s hand.

  “Don’t thank me,” Sulrad intoned. “Thank Ran. It is by his power that I am able to do these things.”

  Sulrad placed his hand on the young girl kneeling before him. He probed her body with his magic. She had a bleeding sickness. The lining of her stomach bled constantly, and she had grown thin and frail. She was near death. Perhaps only a day remained to her short life if he did not intervene. He imagined the parents mourning the loss of their child if he did not help her. He felt a tear welling in his eyes, felt his breath catch in his throat. Surely Ran had brought this child to him for a reason, but why? Not just compassion for the parents, but to teach the child? Her parents? The onlookers?

  No matter. She was here, and he had sufficient power.

  There would be no mourning for this child any time soon.

  He spoke the words that would heal her. “Sanguinem ultra.”

  Magic flowed from the crystal, filling his chest. His ribs swelled with the passage of such a great flow of power, just as it had throughout the morning.

  But this time, something was different.

  The magic from the crystals had a chilly feel to it, as if a cold mountain spring flowed through his chest and out his fingers. Sulrad had grown accustomed to the flavor of it, but this time, there was a warm thread running inside that chill river, just the smallest stream, but it was as evident as if the spring thaw had come to the river and water ran through its frozen center, a rogue rivulet, hot and steaming as it made its way through him. He was taken aback. A tiny bit of his own magic had been drawn from him to augment that of the crystals.

  Sulrad longed to touch the stone in his pocket, draw it forth, and gaze at it. What would he see? Was it glowing as powerfully as before, or had something changed? He feared the worst. He’d used up the magic of the crystal and was now drawing on his personal stores. And his personal s
tores were growing low.

  “That’s all for the moment,” he intoned.

  He cast a quick glance at the girl. She looked much the same, but his senses told him she was healed. The color had come back to her face and she stood easy, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. It was a true healing, one that would last her the rest of her life, however long that might be.

  “You’re healed,” he said.

  That was enough. He had no more magic to spare. Perhaps tomorrow.

  He pushed his way through the crowd, but as he moved, they pressed against him, holding him fast.

  “Heal me!” A man barely older than Sulrad himself tugged at his arm. The man had an injury, an old one. He had been struck in the head by a mule and was deaf in one ear. Though he showed no outward signs of infirmity, Sulrad’s magic had sought the source of his malady almost without his thoughts directing it. It would be a difficult healing. The injury was old, the bones set in the improper structure. Much like the boy he had refused to heal, this man would take a great deal of magic, magic that could be used to help those with fresh injuries or maladies that had only recently arisen.

  Sulrad pulled his arm back. “No. I have no more to give.”

  “You claim to be the hand of Ran,” the man said. “You claim Ran is all powerful. How then can there be a limit to the healing powers he bestows upon you?” The man grasped Sulrad’s hand and guided it toward his ear.

  “Heal me!” he demanded.

  Against his will, the power flowed through Sulrad. He tried to resist, but the sounds came from his lips of their own accord. “Et santitatum restitutio sit en ti.”

  Sulrad haltingly spoke the words to restore the man and grant him healing even as he tried to pull away and hold back his magic.

  Power rushed through him, but this time, the crystal barely responded. No chill river of mountain magic this time. The river had thawed and the torrent of power came from Sulrad’s personal store, leaving him with a hollow and empty feeling in his chest.