He looked toward the other table, his companions circled around it as Ivarian read aloud. Narine glanced toward him, her gaze meeting his. Even at a distance, she was beautiful. Something stirred inside of him, partly lust, partly something else.
What magic has she done to me?
Narine gave Jace a smile. She looked forward to meeting him later in the evening, without Rhoa present. His ability to understand Hassakani had only lasted for a short time, but it was something they could now replicate. In fact, Narine intended to attempt it on herself as they continued studying the tome they had stolen from the library. Since she and Jace would be alone, she planned to take advantage of the opportunity, suspecting he would be eager to do the same.
Weeks had passed since their last romantic evening together. Yes, they had ventured into the city a couple nights earlier, but that had ended differently than either of them had hoped.
I can’t believe I was intoxicated. I can’t believe I passed out.
She needed to make it up to him and had a plan to do just that. Naughty thoughts arose, bringing a grin to her face and warming her blood.
You are losing focus, Narine, she chastised herself. Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to Ivarian.
The sister read a passage about a man in black with blackened hands. He would succumb to an acquaintance, a destiny unfulfilled. Narine had no idea what it meant. The next passage caught her attention.
“…majestic beast, the last of her kind, will be freed by the shift and drawn east by an act of betrayal. Angered at what had occurred, she shall lay waste upon the city of light, confronting and defeating the last male of ruling blood. A twist of magic, a trick of the mind, conjured by the hound’s youngest spawn shall lead the beast astray.”
“This beast…,” Narine interjected. “They speak of Zyordican, the last dragon. She attacked Illustan and ultimately killed Lord Raskor. I believe the trick mentioned refers to the illusion I cast to draw the dragon away from the city.”
Ivarian glanced toward the two sisters beside her, both quiet and timid compared to her severe nature. “Again, a true passage.” Her gaze returned to Narine. “How long ago did this occur?”
She counted the days, amazed at how time had passed. “Over three weeks ago.”
The woman gave a firm nod. “We will read on. If we find no falsehoods within the next hour, we will stop.”
Another hour? Narine stifled a sigh. She longed to return to the book of magic, discover what other constructs of augmentation might exist. Her mind wandered in that direction as the seer resumed reading aloud.
30
Swoon
Footsteps approached until Priella could hear them right outside her door. The guard continued down the hall, the tapping of his boots on the tile fading. She removed her ear from the door and cracked it open, watching the man’s back as he turned the corner and faded from sight. Slipping out of her room, she pulled the door closed, hurried down the corridor, and stopped at the last room on the left. It had been Luthor’s room, now occupied by a guest.
With a soft knock, she leaned close to the door and called softly, “Arvid? Are you in there?”
“Who is it?”
“Priella, your cousin.”
The door opened to reveal a man who appeared older, heavier, and more worn than the young man she recalled.
“You have grown,” he said.
“We all age, Arvid. Nearly nine years have passed since I left Illustan.” She held up a decanter, ensuring he saw the dark liquid in the bottle. “May I come in?”
The man grinned, stepping aside. “You come bearing gifts. Who am I to refuse?”
She entered the room, it appearing much as she remembered. More than a decade had passed since her last visit, the same day Luthor died. Even with the two of them present, the room felt empty, a cloud of melancholy lingering.
“I had heard you returned from Tiadd,” Arvid said. “Where is Bosinger?”
Stifling the guilt at having misled her protector, claiming she was ill and wished to sleep, Priella approached the small, circular table and sat in one of the two chairs. “First, let us drink.”
She set the decanter on the table and removed the two upside-down glasses she had stacked on top of it. Unstopping the decanter, she poured the dark liquid into each, then slid one glass across the table.
A groan emerged from Arvid as he sat. A sound expected from an older man, but Arvid was only thirty-five.
He hoisted his cup with a grin. “To a new tomorrow. May I be alive to witness it.”
The glasses clinked together, both of them downing the contents in one gulp. Swoon was strong, the thick, black alcohol burning her throat. Despite her best efforts, Priella began to cough.
Arvid laughed. “You have years of practice before you master the art of drinking. Trust me. Few have tried as hard as myself.” His laughter cooled, eyes narrowing. “While I appreciate the drink, what brings you here?”
Skipping the small talk, eh, Arvid? “Tomorrow is the Darkening.”
He snorted. “Of that, I am much aware.”
“We do not know who Pallan will choose. I thought…” She shrugged and poured them each another glass. “I thought you would enjoy a few drinks and some company. It might be your last night among the living…or you could become wizard lord. Only the gods know.”
“In all honesty, I haven’t been this nervous since I took the Trial. And that was twelve years ago.” He lifted the glass and poured it down his throat.
“The Trial. I know the feeling.” She nodded. “I just took my own not even two weeks past.”
“You survived.”
“How astute of you to notice.” She stared into space, recalling the ordeal. “I suspect the experience differs greatly depending on the individual. For me, well… I had hardened myself against my greatest fears long ago. Facing them in the Trial was hardly a challenge. Yet one in seven students fails to come out alive. I suspect those individuals have lacked true challenges in life and are incapable of surviving when faced with the darkness inside themselves.”
Arvid poured another glass. “Well, congratulations on surviving.”
“Yes. Surviving. The women in my family have a knack for it. The men…”
Downing his drink Arvid set the glass aside and took her hand. “I am sorry about Raskor.”
Priella stared at her hand in his, resisting the urge to pull away. You must be strong. Your destiny awaits. “I regret I could not see him before he died.” She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “Did a dragon seriously kill him?”
He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “It destroyed a number of buildings and killed a dozen soldiers. They say Raskor was enveloped in flames, yet he survived. I guess his magic was spent after battling the creature, then healing himself. He passed right before Devotion.” Arvid leaned close. “I hear it was some sort of poison tainting his blood. They say it was from the dragon, but what if it was something else?”
Eyes narrowed, Priella asked, “What are you saying?”
The man lifted the decanter and poured another glass. “A creature from the pages of legend appears, attacks the city, and nearly kills our wizard lord. The man dies that evening from thomething elthe.” His head was already foggy, his speech slurring. “Doethn’t that theem odd? Where did the creathure come from? Why now?”
She frowned at the unexpected logic from her cousin, a man not known for his lucidity. “You believe my father’s death was intentional?”
Downing his cup, he sat still for a few breaths, his eyes clenched shut. Finally, he released an “Ahh.” When his eyes opened, his lids remained lowered, lips curled up in a smirk. “I think it’th just all too convenient.”
“Who might do such a thing?” she pressed, fighting off the sleepiness from the drug.
The man wavered, and she feared he might fall out of his chair. “I doe know… Thomone who hath thomething to gain, I gueth.”
He reached for the decanter, missed, and fell
forward, tumbling out of his chair, landing face-first onto the floor. Priella stared down at him in alarm, fearing him dead until she heard a rumbling snore from the drunk, drugged man.
She stood, holding the table against the strength of the liquor and the effect of the drug she had added to it. The room spun, tilted, and leveled.
“I only had one shot,” she mumbled, thinking he must have had six. He will sleep soundly tonight, and hopefully well into tomorrow.
She opened the chest at the foot of Arvid’s bed, dug through it, stole what she needed, and stumbled out the door.
31
A God’s Choice
The woman in the mirror appeared ragged, puffiness visible beneath her eyes, despite her makeup. Ariella had not slept well in the three weeks since her husband had died. Those eyes had generated a sea of tears during that span, but she had reserved her sobbing for private moments. Exhibiting strength was among the primary responsibilities of her station, her people expecting it.
Today is your last as queen, she reminded herself. What the future held, she did not know.
Turning around, her gaze swept the bedchamber she had shared with Raskor for four decades. The room had witnessed the births of each of her six children, in addition to two stillborn after Priella’s birth. She closed her eyes and recalled her lost children – Rictor’s enthusiasm, Galdor’s wit, Arlan’s talent, Yeldin’s moody nature, Luthor’s laughter. As the years passed, memories of her boys grew increasingly more difficult to conjure, their faces blurring, lacking detail. It was as if she were losing them again, their memories following their spark into the afterlife. Her heart trembled with pain.
A knock startled her. She opened her eyes and dabbed them dry with the cloth she used to apply her makeup. A final examination in the mirror revealed a queen, the crown on her head silver with an aquamarine jewel at the front. With smooth lines and a single peak, the crown was simple and practical, suitable to Pallanese ways. Likewise, her high-necked, pale blue dress was understated, only her wrists and the ruffles of her skirts outlined by white lace.
“Remember, you are still the queen,” she said to her reflection.
She left the bedroom and entered the main chamber of her private quarters, soon to be the quarters of a new wizard lord. Another wave of sadness struck. She buried it, shoving it down deep inside.
“Who is it?” she asked in a firm voice.
“Theodin.”
“You may come in.”
The man stepped inside, his long, white-streaked golden hair tied back in a tail. He had donned his Gleam Guard armor, it shining brightly, a diamond embossed on his left breastplate to mark his rank.
Theodin dipped his head. “Greetings, My Queen. The eclipse occurs soon. I have come to escort you to the temple.”
“Very well. I am ready.” She smoothed her skirts. “Let us go retrieve my daughter, then we can head down.”
Eyes downcast, Theodin gazed at a parchment in his hand. “Your daughter bid me to give this to you.” He extended it toward her, his gaze meeting hers, eyes filled with apology.
She took the paper and unfolded it to read the flowing script.
Dear Mother,
I have studied, trained, and perfected my craft with the intent of becoming an asset to Pallanar. As the sole heir, I firmly believe I am destined for the throne and am the best choice to lead our wizardom into a new age. Despite my appeal, you have denied this destiny and my request to become an applicant for the throne.
I refuse to support a future where Pallanar is not governed by Ueordlin blood. Therefore, I will remain in my chambers in protest. You must attend the Darkening ceremony without me.
Bitter regards,
Priella
Ariella folded the paper and set it on a nearby table. “I should not be surprised.” She kept her voice steady, resolute. “Let us be off.”
Theodin nodded. “Very well.”
The man led her out into the corridor. Ariella followed, her thoughts elsewhere. Priella does not understand. Those applicants not chosen by Pallan never survive. Regardless of the troubles between Ariella and her daughter, she could not bear to lose her, as well. Someday, she will forgive me. Until then, I will be satisfied to know she is alive.
Down stairwells and along corridors, the Captain of the Guard and Queen of Pallanar traveled the length of the citadel, a journey consuming ten minutes. When they arrived at the antechamber leading to the temple, they found it busy.
Upon seeing her enter, High Priest Moargan hobbled over, the bent man leaning heavily on his staff.
“Greetings, My Queen,” the old man said. “I am glad you are here.” He glanced toward the high windows, the sun streaming through, the edge of it darkened by the moon. “The eclipse draws near, but we are missing one applicant.”
She looked around, immediately spotting Delcor, the tall man’s chiseled face and bright eyes difficult to miss. Not far from him was Wizard Bretton Leordan, the great-nephew of Wizard Council Leader Granton Leordon. So, he is their choice. I am not surprised. Bretton had graduated from the University after only seven years, and over the following decade, had built a reputation as a skilled wizard.
“Where is Arvid?” Ariella asked.
“Indeed,” Moargan nodded. “We must begin the ceremony soon, regardless of the applicants present.”
Ariella was about to command Theodin to run off in search of her nephew when Arvid burst through the door. The man appeared a mess, his red hair disheveled, his face unshaven, his gray robes wrinkled. He was panting, his eyes bloodshot.
He has only now just woken and come here in a rush?
With a scowl on her face, Ariella approached Arvid and growled, “Could you not avoid drink for one evening? You almost missed the Darkening.”
Clearing his throat, he replied in a raspy, strained voice, “Um… I am sorry Aunt Ariella.”
Her brow furrowed. “You must have hit it hard. Even your voice is a wreck.”
Tucking his robes into his sash, he tightened it over his bulging midsection and nodded. “I am ready.”
With a final glare, she turned away, her gaze again finding Delcor. The man laughed, his white teeth and engaging smile drawing the attention of those surrounding him. He will be our new wizard lord, she thought. If he can just keep his manhood under control, he could be a good ruler. The differences between Delcor and Arvid, his half-brother, were striking. It is difficult to believe they were sired by the same man.
The room darkened. She looked up toward the sun, a third of it obscured by the moon.
“It is time,” Moargan announced. “Prepare the procession.”
Clerics holding torches stood before the doors, bracketed by soldiers in polished plate. Ariella stood behind them, joined by Theodin. From beyond the doors, she heard the hum of the crowd. The temple would be packed as it was during every Immolation of the Darkening ceremony. This time, those present would witness the selection of a new wizard lord, perhaps the only chance in their lifetime.
I pray to Pallan it is so.
Moargan called out again, “Ring the bells.”
A cleric pulled the ropes hanging in the corner of the room, the massive bell in the tower above clanging mightily, the peal echoing throughout the city. The doors opened to reveal the temple interior filled with those eager to witness a man raised to a god.
A single peak ran from the front of the building to the rear, the high, vaulted ceiling sloping down, the east-facing roof containing a single, circular skylight. A two-tiered dais occupied the heart of the temple, light from the dimming sun shining down upon it.
The procession advanced down an aisle lined with armed guards, ensuring the audience kept clear. Her hand on Theodin’s arm, Ariella strode down the aisle, her chin raised, exuding pride and confidence for the sake of her people. To her left and right, the throng watched, many waving, some calling out her name. Raskor had captured the hearts of the populace, which she had done everything possible to ensure, regardless of t
he sacrifice required.
Then a revelation struck.
I failed Priella, distancing Raskor and myself to avoid her tainted image. Ariella had told herself it was for the sake of the wizardom, not considering how it might affect her own daughter. If only that twisted wizard hadn’t cursed Priella before the axe fell. If only we hadn’t made his execution public. By then, Rictor was already dead, Priella only a toddler, unaware and unable to understand. That evil man was behind Rictor’s death, his darkness pursuing my other boys until all were taken from me. Placing the blame on Balcor Serranan, the true culprit, eased her guilt.
She climbed the stairs to the lower tier of the dais and took position, facing the audience. Guards stood a few strides to either side, watching, prepared to protect her. Theodin positioned himself behind her, ready to do the same.
The high priest and a pair of clerics, the holy fire of Pallan gracing the top of their staffs, came next, moving as quickly as the old man’s decaying body would allow. He climbed past Ariella and continued to the upper dais, wincing and groaning during his ascent.
A cluster of old men appeared next – four former soldiers, a former cleric, and Granton Leordan. Ariella was surprised but understood. Still fit enough to climb the stairs, although requiring concentrated effort to do so, the six men waved to the crowd, almost as if they had just returned from a successful battle. It was fitting, for they had been allowed the honor of joining their god on their own terms, giving birth to a new era for the citizens of Pallanar.
When the six who would be sacrificed reached the top, each stood beside an altar. From the center, Moargan raised his staff high, the crowd falling silent.
“We have gathered today to witness the crowning of a new wizard lord, one who would harness the power of Pallan and lead our wizardom into a new era.”
The room darkened further, the eclipse near completion.
Fate of Wizardoms Boxed Set Page 84
