“I am dreading this,” Narine said as she stood beside Rhoa.
“Why?” she asked. “You have sailed before, as recently as your journey from Starmuth to Shear.”
“True. However, for the first day or two, I get dreadfully seasick.”
Rhoa had never before considered she might get sick, which gave her another thing to worry about. She then saw the look on Rawk’s face. Even with his dark spectacles covering his eyes, the Maker was clearly afraid, so much so that he visibly shivered.
She put her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
“I do not know.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I cannot swim,” he replied, his face downcast.
Her brow furrowed. “You didn’t seem so frightened on the ride down the river from Whitewater.”
He looked at her and shook his head. “That was different. Land was always nearby.”
“You fear being far from land?”
“I…” Again, he looked down in shame. “Yes.”
Rhoa moved her hand to his shoulder. “It’s all right to be afraid, Rawk. I am nervous about sailing, as well.”
“You have never been on a ship?”
“No. It will be a first for both of us. Perhaps we could consider it an adventure. Something new to experience together.”
He turned toward her, his eyes barely visible through the tinted lenses. “I would like that.”
On an impulse, she took his hand and gripped it firmly. Hers was tiny in his, his fingers thick and strong, his hand twice the width of her own, although they stood the same height. In response, he squeezed her hand gently and gave her a smile.
After a discussion with the soldiers on horseback, the queen turned to face Rhoa and her companions. “It is time for you to board. The ship has been well-stocked and will bring you to the docks of Growler’s Rock, a small seaside village southeast of Shurick’s Bay. There, you and your escort, led by Lieutenant Targan, will disembark.”
Ariella’s gaze swept across the departing party. “I’ll not pretend to understand what is occurring, why wizard lords are dying and creatures of legend have reappeared. Something in my heart tells me you people are at the crux of something momentous, be it good or bad. I pray for the former and fear the latter. While I do not understand it, if I can assist your efforts to stop this madness and save our world, I will see it done.
“For now, the most I can do is ensure your transport to Eastern Pallanar. Once there, Targan and his men, six of our best warriors prepared to bear arms should the need arise, will escort you to your final destination. I pray they are not required.
“If you need anything more from Pallanar, you need but ask.”
Silence followed, until a seabird flying past squawked and dove into the water.
Ariella stood proud, ignoring the wind tossing her graying blonde locks about. “If there is nothing more I can offer, I bid you farewell. Without a wizard lord to occupy the throne, I must step in and continue my husband’s work until another is prepared to take his place.”
Salvon stepped forward and took Ariella’s hand. “Be strong, my queen. You are more capable than you know. Priella will soon return, and she will offer her support.”
Ariella gave him a sad smile. “You are too kind, Salvon. I only wish you could remain in Illustan longer.”
“As do I, but fate will not alter its course to suit our desires. Not unless we take a hand to guide it ourselves.”
“Well said, Weaver,” Xionne added. “Come.” She waved the others forward. “Time is fleeting, the world is changing, and the future remains clouded.”
The small woman and her Maker bodyguard walked down the pier. Brogan, Blythe, and Salvon said their goodbyes to Ariella as the others headed down to the waiting ship. As she drew close, Rhoa eyed the massive wooden vessel, the hull jutting high above the water. Evenly spaced openings lined the sides of the hull, oars sticking through them. A cargo door stood open at the rear of the ship as the last of the horses were led inside. Despite the size of the craft, Rhoa wondered how cramped the quarters would be and how they would smell by the time they reached their destination. Following the others, she climbed the plank, her hand still in Rawk’s gentle grip. She stepped onto the deck and surveyed her surroundings.
The masts were thick – one at the bow, one mid-deck, one near the stern. Coils of rope and rigging seemed to be everywhere, along with barrels, crates, and occasional trap doors. There were two stairwells and a door beneath the quarterdeck at the rear of the ship. Sailors in heavy clothing and furs busily worked, preparing to set sail. A man approached, his thick, brown beard speckled with gray, face weathered and worn, blue eyes sharp and intense, a hat with fur flaps over his head and ears. Stopping before the group, he bowed and introduced himself.
“Greetings. I am Captain Helgrued. Welcome aboard Sea Lord, the largest ship in the Pallanese fleet. In fact, no vessel this size has left the shipyards since Lord Raskor commissioned it fifteen years ago. It takes a sizeable crew to sail this beast. We have twenty who man the oars and another dozen on the rigging, not including yours truly.”
With thirty-three crew, six soldiers, and sixteen horses, as well as her party, Rhoa was thankful the ship was so massive.
“Thank you, Captain.” Brogan gripped the man’s hand. “My name is Brogan Reisner, and these are my companions. I assume you received orders from Queen Ariella?”
“Yes. We are to drop you off at Growler’s Rock.”
Brogan nodded. “How many days to make the journey?”
The captain stroked his beard. “This time of year, assuming we don’t encounter a squall, we should arrive in four days.”
Brogan nodded. “And our quarters?”
The man pointed toward the forward stairwell. “We have eight guest cabins toward the bow. It’ll be tight with fifteen of you, including your escort, but that’s the best I can offer.”
“If we must, we’ll take turns, sleeping in shifts. Regardless, we’ll get more rest during this leg of our journey than once we reach land.”
The words registered with Rhoa and she sighed. So much for sleeping in comfort. She already missed her bed at the Illustan Palace.
6
The Scars of Ambition
Trey Garvin ascended a ladder positioned on the balcony. The chamber inside used to belong to Prince Eldalain. Prior to that, it was the home of Lord Taladain. He reached the top and climbed onto the roof, turning to gaze over the great city of Fastella. The palace where he stood was in the heart of the city, the busy streets stretching out in all directions. Tall walls encircled the island city, dividing it from the river on three sides, the sea harbor on the other.
He turned north and squinted into the distance, eyeing the quiet gravel road cutting through the hills. Days earlier, he had watched the Farrowen Army march down that road, trailed by dozens of wagons and a handful of carriages, soon fading from view. With Charcoan and his soldiers in control of the city, Henton had decided to advance toward Dorban, while Garvin led the effort to claim the Fastella Tower of Devotion in the name of Farrow. Garvin’s thoughts then drifted to the startling news he had received the day prior.
Lord Malvorian had been killed in his own throne room, apparently by the same assassins who had ended Taladain’s reign. In another surprise, the same message proclaimed Thurvin Arnolle as the new Lord of Farrowen. With the entire Marquithe Wizards Guild accompanying the Farrowen Army, there had been nobody to challenge Thurvin for the position. Garvin suspected Palkan Forca would be quite chagrined when the news reached him.
Turning, Garvin crossed the rooftop until he reached the long shadow of the tower. He looked up, the turret blocking the bright sun from view, the top of it rising well over a hundred feet above the rooftop where he now stood, which already loomed high above the city.
A team of thirty soldiers, men who specialized in engineering, worked to construct a scaffold. A third of those men stood on the rooftop, measuring and cutting pie
ces to the dimensions called out by their sergeant, a balding, middle-aged man who seemed to know his business. The other twenty men lined the length of the tower, handing sections up to each man positioned above until the new sections reached the top, where two soldiers secured the pieces to the ever-growing assembly. For the past six days, the soldiers had been working from sunup to sundown crafting the narrow structure, anchoring it with spikes hammered into the tower wall. With a mere ten feet remaining until reaching the top of the tower, the project neared completion.
Garvin watched as the soldiers completed the last few feet of the tower. As previously instructed, the men then began climbing down, the workers wiping their brows as they gathered and exchanged friendly chatter. When the last man emerged from the tower, Garvin crossed the roof to address them.
“Well done, soldiers,” he said. “You finished right on schedule. With Sergeant Haeman’s leave, I would like to give you the rest of the day off to celebrate.”
Haeman nodded, facing his squad. “Agreed. A project well-done deserves some celebrating. I suggest you find a taproom and relax. Just don’t get into trouble. Remember, we depart at first light. Henton is days ahead of us, and Dorban is only a five-day march.”
With an air of anticipation, the men dispersed, crossing the rooftop to the ladder before climbing down.
Garvin turned toward Haeman. “You aren’t joining them?”
“No. I’d prefer a relaxing afternoon. There is a bottle of brandy waiting in my tent. When the men return to the castle garden, I prefer to be there waiting.” He looked up at the tower, the sun edging around it, the rays shining upon the side of his face. “Besides, I would like to see the top of the tower and witness what is to come.”
Garvin gave the man a nod. “Fair enough. You deserve to be there. Farrow knows I couldn’t have scaled it without you.”
Gesturing for the man to follow, Garvin approached the scaffold, climbed on, and began his ascent.
Built like a rectangular chute, two feet wide and ten feet long, the scaffold was divided into a series of angled ladders, each roughly eight feet in height. Garvin climbed the first ladder, then gripped the rungs of the next before continuing upward. Back and forth he climbed, level after level. He soon lost count. Eventually, he passed a large opening in the tower wall, the wind whipping through it. Peering into the opening, his perception twisted with the depths of the tower shaft. Somewhere below, the lift platform waited. Using it to reach the top would have been far easier, but none of the wizards could make the lift function. History said only a wizard lord could operate it. Garvin wondered if one would ever walk the halls of the Fastella Palace again.
With Sergeant Haeman still trailing, Garvin continued his climb, the wind growing increasingly stronger, cooling the gathering sweat on his head, back, and beneath his arms. He guessed he was nearing his two hundredth ladder rung when he finally reached the top and gazed upon a sight few had ever seen.
The circular floor was at least ten strides across, open on all sides and covered by a domed roof supported by four fluted pillars. At the heart of the room, upon a circular dais, sat a throne of clear crystal, glimmering in the sunlight. Garvin approached the throne, his focus upon the fist-sized purple amethyst in the back of the object. He reached for the gem, gripped it, and pulled, twisting and rocking it until it clicked free.
Haeman watched in silence as Garvin set his pack down and removed a sapphire from it, gripping it in one hand while holding the amethyst in the other. The two gems were identical in size and shape, both octahedrons, both impeccably cut and flawless. Only in color did they differ, which equated to all the difference in the world.
After setting the amethyst down, he turned back to the throne. With care, he inserted the sapphire into the opening and pushed until it clicked into place. A high-pitched ringing came from the throne as the sapphire bloomed to life, glowing brightly, the light causing the entire throne to radiate with a deep blue glow, shimmering as if it were alive. From a distance, the blue glow would appear as a flame – the flame of Farrow.
“It is done,” Garvin said as he stepped back to stand beside Haeman. “When Devotion resumes tonight, the prayers of Fastella will feed Lord Thurvin, and Farrow will become the god of these people.”
“Incredible,” Haeman said, his tone tinted with wonder. He then looked at Garvin. “What of Gheald? What will become of the god of Ghealdor without the prayers of his people?”
The question had never crossed Garvin’s mind, but now that Haeman had posed it, he wondered what impact such a shift might have upon the world.
Following his bodyguard, Lang, Van Parsec stepped out of his carriage and peered up at the palace. High above him, the Tower of Devotion shone with an azure flame, bright against the cloud-covered evening sky. If he hadn’t seen it for himself, he would have never believed the tower could be turned toward another god.
A soldier approached, the middle-aged man wearing Farrowen armor with a star on his left breastplate. “Greetings, Wizard Parsec. I am Captain Pilson.”
“Well met, Captain. What happened to Captain Verd?”
“Verd and the other surviving Indigo Hounds have joined the campaign, many against their will. They march toward Dorban as we speak.”
Parsec arched a brow. “The Hounds march on Dorban?”
Pilson glanced toward the carriage, where Parsec’s driver, Damon, waited. “Perhaps we should go inside. The meal will be ready soon, and Charcoan is waiting.”
Parsec turned to Lang. “Remain here until I return. It should be no more than two hours.”
“You got it, boss,” the big man replied.
The captain turned and led Parsec to the door, the guard standing beside it holding it open for the two men. They entered an empty corridor and began climbing a dark staircase.
Pilson spoke over his shoulder. “You asked about the previous Indigo Hounds. Captain Henton and High Wizard Charcoan thought it best if those soldiers assimilated into the army where Henton could watch them.” The man paused at the landing, turning toward Parsec. “Some of them were bound to retain a loyalty toward the Killarius family. If left behind in Fastella, they might take action we would prefer to avoid.”
Parsec considered what the man said, acknowledging the logic was sound. Tying Verd and his men to the campaign to take Dorban would keep them busy and buy time. “With the Hounds away, aren’t Charcoan and Fastella at risk?”
Pilson shook his head. “My men have replaced them. Eighty soldiers from Starmuth, every one of them loyal to Charcoan.”
The two men resumed their climb, the stairwell quiet save for their boots on the stairs. When they reached the top, Pilson brought Parsec to a door bracketed by two guards. It led to the same room where he had met with Prince Eldalain two weeks prior – the same evening Parsec’s wife, Gilda, had been murdered.
You paid for your treachery, Eldalain, Parsec thought with a smirk. Similarly, Charcoan will discover I am no lap dog here to do his bidding.
Without knocking, Pilson opened the door and stepped aside while Parsec walked past. The door closed behind him, leaving Parsec alone.
The room was just as he recalled. The sitting area quiet, fireplace cold, the desk unoccupied. The door at the far end of the room was closed, the bed made. He wondered if he would have to wait for the new high wizard, then noticed the balcony door open.
He crossed the room and peered outside. Charcoan’s silhouette occupied the balcony, the man leaning on the railing and gazing out over the city. The sky above had darkened further, dusk shifting to nightfall.
Parsec approached the railing and stood beside the high wizard. The city below seemed no different than it had when Eldalain was in control. No different than it had before Taladain died. In a flash of insight, Parsec realized who sat upon the throne had little impact on the life of the average person. For all his ambition, it was a startling revelation.
While still gazing over the city, Charcoan said, “For decades, I have dream
ed of standing upon this balcony and looking down at Fastella as wizard lord. Recent events have made that dream both possible and impossible.”
“I know that dream well,” Parsec said.
Charcoan turned toward him. “I gave up much to hold this position, Van. My loyalty to Ghealdor. Control of the city of Starmuth.” He held up his hands, his fingers bent like claws. Even in the dim lighting, the deformation was obvious, the skin shiny and taut. “My hands. Four wizardesses attempted to heal them, and while the pain finally ceased, they will never be the same.”
“Can you still…”
Laughter interrupted. A glow surrounded Charcoan as he gathered magic. “My magic remains as potent as ever, I assure you. I was stronger than you while at Tiadd, and I remain so now.” The amount of magic Charcoan held proved his point. The glow faded, his form returning to a silhouette. “However, the more intricate spells are now beyond my ability. Perhaps I will eventually regain some dexterity. Time will tell.”
A beam of blue light shot across the sky from the southeast, striking the Tower of Devotion above the palace. The blue flame in the tower flared to an inferno, the bell in the tower ringing loudly. The peals of bells throughout the city answered in response, and the hum of Devotion arose from within the castle and the streets below.
Parsec glanced at Charcoan and wondered if they would join in the prayer. The high wizard appeared to have no intention of doing so.
“Come,” Charcoan said as he turned toward the door. “Let’s sit and chat for a while.”
Curious, Parsec followed him inside, the two men sitting before the fireplace, one on a sofa, the other in a high-backed hair.
“I was so confident,” Charcoan said. “Discounting wizard lords, I had only ever met one person who could match my strength in magic, and Rictor Ueordlin is long dead. When I came upon Eldalain in the Gate Tower, I thought to kill him, having the advantage of surprise.” The man shook his bald head and looked down at his scarred hands. “His magic was more than I could handle, his strength too vast for someone lacking the power of prayers. It should not have been possible.”
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