“You look fine in your robes, Eldy.” His mother gave him a tight smile.
He hadn’t worn breeches since Trandain left for Dorban. Today, he wore his best robes, purple with a white sash. “They still feel odd to wear, but Trandain tells me it is necessary for magic to properly flow through me.”
“Yes. It is why all wizards wear such clothing. Now, hurry along. We mustn’t keep your father waiting.”
With their mother in the lead, the three boys followed her down the corridor and up the stairs. There were two guards posted outside Lord Taladain’s chambers. Eldalain’s mother walked past them and into the room.
The long dining table was prepared for dinner, the room dark save for the flickering candlelight from the chandelier overhead. Eldalain’s mother sat at one end of the table. His two younger brothers took spots between him and his mother. Trandain and Nordain sat across from him, along with Captain Hillstop. With cropped black hair, peppered with gray, Hillstop had been the Captain of the Indigo Hounds for over a decade. Eldalain wondered how much longer he would serve before another replaced him.
Taladain entered the room, taking a seat at the end of the table. At nearly two hundred years of age, not only was he the eldest at the table, he might be the oldest man in the world. Such was the power of Gheald, their god.
The dinner commenced with Taladain clapping for Ruthers, the new head of the palace staff. The man had rapidly risen through the ranks, beginning as a steward when Eldalain was eight years old. In those seven years, Ruthers had proven his attention to detail, something Eldalain’s father valued greatly.
Food was set before everyone, along with drinks. Eldalain made a motion to request wine but was denied by his mother’s reproving glare. Instead, he stewed while Trandain and Nordain drank. Little was said, the atmosphere thick with discomfort. Eldalain continually glanced toward his father to see if the man paid him any attention. Never once did he see Taladain’s gaze shift in his direction.
When Eldalain’s food was gone, he sat quietly, waiting to be dismissed. In the meantime, his older brothers continued to drink, while his younger brothers poked each other beneath the table. Finally, his father clapped his hands and ordered a round of wine for everyone, even the youngest boys.
Eldalain sat forward and watched the dark red liquid fill his chalice. His mother appeared unhappy but said nothing. When the steward stepped away from the table, Lord Taladain spoke.
“You might be wondering why I called everyone together. This is a special occasion.” The man turned toward Trandain and smiled. “Thanks to a display of power by Trandain, your cousin, Heldain, now rules Dorban.” He held his glass up. “A toast to Trandain and the continuation of Killarius rule in Ghealdor.”
Everyone lifted their glasses. Trandain appeared upset and was already deep into his cups. Nordain was even worse, his face twisted beyond his disfiguration. Eldalain drank, the warm liquid running down his throat. It was only the second time he had tried wine. A special occasion indeed.
“Do you wish to relay the tale, Trandain? From what Hillstop’s men reported, it was quite impressive.”
“I…” Trandain visibly struggled with something. “I just did what I had to do. Nothing more.”
Taladain shook his head. “Nonsense. You defeated a high wizard. Burst his head right open, they say.”
Trandain’s face darkened further. He downed the rest of his chalice and stood. “If you will please excuse me…”
Eldalain’s father furrowed a brow at Trandain, then nodded. “Very well. I had best be off to Devotion anyway.”
Trandain strode from the room.
Eldalain’s father stood and gave the others a nod. “Have a good evening.”
He then headed out the door, Hillstop following. The room fell silent for a long moment until Nordain began to laugh. Eldalain felt as if he had missed something. He glanced at his mother, the woman’s face bent into a scowl.
“Really, Nordain?” she said. “Must you ruin everything?”
Nordain shook his head. “It wasn’t me. Trandain ruined it himself.”
Eldalain leaned forward. “What is wrong with him? Why is he so upset?”
Rising to his feet, Nordain downed his wine, wobbling a bit in the process. “Why don’t you ask the golden boy yourself?”
As Nordain left the room, a whimpering sound arose. Eldalain looked at his mother, her face in her hands, sobbing.
The woman stood and hurried out the door, leaving her three youngest boys alone.
Eldalain headed toward his bedchamber, but paused when he heard angry voices inside Trandain’s room. Knocking, he waited a beat before opening the door.
Nordain was inside, sitting on a chair across from Trandain. When Nordain looked up, Eldalain saw madness in his gaze.
“Can you see, Eldy?” Nordain’s eyes bulged. “Look at what power has done to Trandain. He took a man’s life for the sake of power and now must bear the pain.”
Eldalain looked from brother to brother. “What are you talking about?”
“Magic.” Nordain’s tone was thick with disgust. “It changes people, creates a thirst for power. That thirst will do far worse things to you than what magic has done to me.” He gestured with his deformed hand. “You can see the regret in his eyes. Don’t go to Tiadd, Eldalain. There is a better way.”
“Leave him be, brother,” Trandain said. “Your hatred toward magic twists your opinion. It is not evil by nature, but rather by the way it is used.”
Nordain glared at Trandain. “Such as how you used your magic in Tangor?”
Trandain’s face grew pale. “Please, I would rather forget. It was the means to an end, nothing more.”
“It was wrong, and you know it.”
Trandain’s voice quieted. “It was what Father demanded.”
“See!” Nordain stood. “The man is demented. Decades of wielding a magic never intended for man has twisted him. He is no longer human!”
Eldalain couldn’t remain quiet any longer. “Don’t say that!” He burst forward and pushed Nordain, the man stumbling backward, falling into his chair.
Nordain snarled and leapt up, lunging forward. Desperate, Eldalain reached toward the bookshelf beside him and grabbed the nearest thing he could find – an ornamental hammer gilded with gold. He swung as Nordain stumbled. The hammer struck Nordain in the side of the head with a sickening thud. Nordain fell to the floor, temple torn open, eyes rolled up in his head.
“What have you done?” Trandain exclaimed. He dove to the floor and knelt beside Nordain. “Please, don’t be dead,” he said, his voice wobbling, on the edge of tears.
Eldalain watched his eldest brother cry over the brother he had struck. Trandain twisted the ring on his finger and drew in magic, his body beginning to glow with impossible brightness.
The ring. The power.
Eldalain envied the magic Trandain was able to wield. With the augmented power, his brother had secured their father’s adoration. However, Trandain was too soft, too weak. He couldn’t even bear killing a wizard who had outlived his usefulness.
He doesn’t deserve it, Eldalain thought. I could be the weapon Father desires.
The hammer felt solid in his grip, the end stained with crimson. Lifting it high above his head, he smashed it down with all his might. The thud of it sinking into Trandain’s skull was sickening, but Eldalain fought through it. Trandain fell on top of Nordain, the glow of his magic gone in an instant.
Eldalain hit his brother again and again until blood covered the area. He then dropped the hammer and reached for Trandain’s hand. A twist, a pull, and the ring came free.
With wonder in his eyes, Eldalain gaped at the black stone mounted to the ring. Inside the gold band, he saw silvery script, squiggly lines he could not read. He slipped the small, golden circlet onto his finger and reached for magic as his brother had taught him. The magic resisted briefly, then began to fill him until he thought he might float right off the floor with the energy of
it, the room glowing brightly.
This is power. Father can no longer ignore me.
30
Betrayal
It was dark, the night quiet. Garvin crept along the reeds of the riverbank. Across the water, the tall walls of the island city waited, Fastella appearing like a sleeping giant. The cloud covering the moon slowly drifted east, the shadow of it sliding down the city wall and across the water, toward Garvin’s position. In the light of the round moon, he spotted a small boat.
Three people occupied the vessel – one person rowing, another at the bow, the third at the stern. The boat angled toward a dark recess of rocks. The man drew the oars in, and the boat slipped between two rocks, one of them scraping the hull briefly, the sound carrying in the quiet of night. When the boat faded from view, Garvin marked the location, memorizing it.
He scrambled up the bank and ducked into the woods. There, in the shadows, five men waited. Four of them carried a boat they had stolen from a small fishing village a few miles upstream. Those soldiers had shed their armor in favor of black tunics and breeches. The fifth man was bald and wore black robes with a matching sash.
“Are you finally ready?” Charcoan asked.
“Yes. I thought it best if we allowed tonight’s shipment to arrive before we cross. It would cause problems if the smugglers came in after us, catching us from behind and unaware.” Garvin bent and picked up the oars. “Follow me. Remain quiet. Once on the water, no talking. Sounds carry far on the river, and we don’t know where enemy ears might be hiding.”
Garvin led them from the woods and down the bank. He slid the boat into the water and held the bow steady while the others climbed in. The largest of the men, a soldier named Korm, slid the oar pins in place and gripped the handles. Garvin pushed off and climbed in. The boat scraped past the reeds as it floated into open water.
Korm moved the oars in long, easy swings, easing the paddles into the water with each stroke. As they crossed the broad river, toward the massive island city, Garvin stared at the bridge. A man with a lunar lens would be posted there, watching for their river crossing. Once the boat was hidden, the man was to report to Henton. From his location a half-mile away, Garvin saw nothing but the pale arch of the distant bridge.
I hope you are paying attention, Henton.
He turned to face the other direction, where the remainder of the fleet from Shear waited. At the signal, they were to attack the harbor. The entire plan required proper timing. Only Garvin and Henton knew the whole of it. The wizards from Farrowen knew nothing, save for their small but critical task.
“Better they remain unaware,” Henton had said. “If they don’t commit fully, they might fail or find a way to avoid the task altogether.”
Based on what he had seen, Garvin agreed with the man’s assessment.
When they passed the halfway point, Garvin began searching for the right spot among the shadows. He pointed right, and the man behind him tapped Korm’s left shoulder. The boat turned. He held his arm straight up, instructing Korm to maintain the heading. The signals had been worked out ahead of time, the need for silence requiring coordination.
Steadily, the boat closed the gap to the island until Garvin held his flat palm toward the man behind him. The oars stopped and the boat coasted into the narrow gap between two boulders jutting above the water’s surface. Garvin pushed off one side, narrowly avoiding the hull from scraping. They were soon past the boulders and in a sheltered alcove. An oar against a rock turned the boat, and they eased into a dark recess.
The boat struck something solid, lurching to a stop. Garvin reached around in the darkness, searching for a grip until he found a large rock to his left. He held the boat in place while Bean lit a shuttered lantern. It came to life, and the man turned the open side toward the bow.
They were in the mouth of a natural cave. Another boat was beside theirs, tied off to a large rock.
Garvin climbed out and held the boat while the other soldiers and the wizard disembarked. He then tied the boat off and waved them forward.
Bean, whose name derived from his lean, lanky build, held the lantern up and advanced carefully. Garvin drew his sword and held it ready while taking the second position. Korm, Daggett, and Deveron also drew their swords as they fell in line. Charcoan followed, his face covered by the shadow of his hood.
The rough, natural, winding path of the tunnel ended, becoming a chiseled-out tube with a low ceiling and smooth walls, forcing them to duck to continue. A dozen strides in, the tunnel floor angled upward, rising at an easy slope for twenty strides before it stopped at a dead end.
A ladder ran upward, into the darkness. Garvin tapped Bean’s shoulder. The man tilted the lantern up to reveal the far end of the ladder, two stories up. With a sigh, Garvin sheathed his sword, drew a knife, and stuck it between his teeth. He began to climb.
During his ascent, he noticed a pulley above him, a rope looped through it. They must use the pulley to hoist crates of smuggled goods. As he reached the top rung, he peered over the edge. Light leaked from beneath a doorway and noise could be heard from the room beyond. He waved for the others to follow and climbed off the ladder.
The area was small, but big enough to hold them all. Garvin stood to one side and gripped his dagger, deciding the space was too narrow to swing a sword. The others soon reached the top and gathered in the tight quarters, Bean ascending last with shuttered lantern in hand.
Garvin leaned close, whispering, “Set the lantern down. Draw your weapons. We need to strike fast.”
The area fell dark. Shuffling and the sounds of daggers being drawn followed. Garvin put his hand on the doorknob, took a breath, and burst into the room.
The four smugglers unpacking boxes shouted in surprise. Garvin darted across the room, targeting the man farthest from the door. The smuggler tried to use a crate lid as a shield, raising it when Garvin made a feint toward his face. Instead, he sliced low, splitting the man’s stomach from hip to hip. He cried out, dropped the wooden crate lid, and clutched his torn abdomen. A dagger through the throat finished him. With the smugglers unprepared, the fight was brief, the enemy going down without Garvin’s crew suffering a single injury. He knelt and wiped his blade on a dead man’s tunic while surveying his surroundings.
They appeared to be in a cellar – the floors dirt, the walls made from stone blocks. Crates of food surrounded them.
Garvin crossed the room and crept up the steep stairs. A closed trapdoor waited at the top. With care, he opened it to a dark house. Everything was quiet.
He waved hastily, beckoning the others to follow. They had little time. Morning was approaching and they had a gate to open.
Pounding at the door stirred Eldalain from his slumber. He sat up in his bed, still wearing his robes. With an army at the gate, he needed to be ready at any moment. An enchanted lantern bloomed to life, revealing Klondon heading toward the door. The big man had slept on the sofa in Eldalain’s chambers the prior three nights, ever since the enemy had arrived.
Klondon opened the door, flickering torchlight from the corridor seeping through. A soldier stood waiting, casting a long shadow across the room.
“What is it, soldier?” Eldalain asked as he walked toward the open door.
“The enemy attacks, my prince. They intend to take the south gate by force.”
“What of the wizards who were to man the wall?”
“I don’t know, Your Highness. The moment we determined the enemy was preparing for an assault, I jumped on a horse and rode to the palace. Captain Verd is rousing the troops and will be marching to the gate at any moment.”
Eldalain frowned in thought. He had kept a couple hundred soldiers at both gates with a rotating shift. The remainder of his twelve hundred guards were stationed in the palace barracks and surrounding buildings, ready to respond should anything happen at either gate. Parsec and the other wizards were to watch for any magic with the order to counter it and remove enemy wizards. I have a big problem if th
ey have abandoned their post. Without the wizards, magic would be left unchecked.
“Klondon.” Eldalain turned and found his bodyguard strapping metal bracers to his thick forearms. “We are off to the gate. We have a city to defend.”
The three men raced along the corridor and down the stairs to the main floor and out to the stables. With a quick word to the stable hand, Eldalain and Klondon were each on a horse and racing through the dark streets of Fastella in moments. To the east, pale skies foretold the impending dawn.
When Eldalain reached the square inside the gate, he found it filled with soldiers who appeared ready to fight. The men were armed and restless. Through the bars of the gate, Eldalain saw the enemy on the far end of the bridge but not yet advancing.
“Who is in charge?” Eldalain shouted.
A soldier pointed. “Lieutenant Fulford, sir!”
Eldalain followed the gesture, noticing Fulford and Sergeant McCanda standing beside the gate tower, the two men in a heated discussion. With a nudge, he urged his horse toward them.
When he reached them, Eldalain slid off his horse and asked, “Where are the wizards?”
“Apologies, sir,” Fulford said. “McCanda and I were just discussing that very issue. Sometime during the night, the four wizards stationed here disappeared. Nobody knows where they went.”
“Parsec…,” the prince growled. “I’m going up to the wall. If they somehow penetrate the gate, you are to hold them back at any cost. Captain Verd will be here soon with reinforcements.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Fulford thumped a fist to his chest.
“Follow me, Your Highness,” McCanda said as he entered the tower and began climbing the stairs.
Rindle stood atop the wall, considering the scene below. After a long and dreary night, something was finally happening.
“I’ll never understand why someone would sign up to be a soldier,” he said to Herrod, the big man standing beside him.
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