Gathering Of The God-Touched (Book 4) (2 page)

The reception from the people of Dorfort was not particularly warm, but it gave Garrick a sense of comfort to realize he no longer really cared.

His life force was strong enough that he felt the city as he and Darien proceeded over streets that the dry weather had turned into ribbons of hard-packed, reddish clay. The town was in full mid-morning churn, but he felt everything as it moved around him. An essence of concern permeated the city, sticky and tasting bitterly of angst. It reeked of possible magewar. And amidst that concern and fear he sensed the edge of distrust brought on by rumors of Garrick’s own sorcery, distrust that was caustic and carried the faint smell of distant lightning.

Garrick heard whispers as they passed, though he could not say if the whispers were real, or were merely fearful sighs caught in the web of his god-touched magic.

There was no doubt, however, that the people of this city were anxious and wary. They knew why Darien and Garrick were here, and they didn’t agree the quest was needed. The Freeborn’s concern was a squabble between mages, they said. It had no effect on the world as they knew it.

Garrick understood better, though. The citizens of Dorfort may not see the truth properly, but that didn’t change that truth. And the truth of the day was that two armies of mages, each led by god-touched wizards, were preparing to sweep across the plane of Adruin. This truth—and the fact he was hot and uncomfortable from the ride—were the only things that bothered him right now.

Did that mean he was growing up?

Perhaps.

But rather than worry about it, he spent his time thinking about the task.

Darien had been quiet throughout the morning—something out of character. The air of disdain the city held for them seemed to bother Darien more than it bothered Garrick. He looked downright grim, and spent most of the trip chewing the inside of his cheeks and glancing up into the sky.

Of course, everything in the Freeborn’s plan depended on the argument Darien would make to his father this morning. Without Dorfort's might behind them, Garrick and the Freeborn would fail. The pressure had to be intense.

“I never knew my own father,” Garrick said, hoping to find something to keep Darien’s mind occupied.

Darien gave him a sideways glance.

“I don’t know what it’s like to live in a shadow like that,” Garrick continued. “But I do know what it’s like to be seen as an apprentice in a world of mages. Perhaps it’s similar to what you’re working through today?”

“What are you saying, Garrick?”

He shrugged.

“I always feel … incompetent … when I’m around real sorcerers. Like they've done so much more than I have. They always seem to know so much more, seem to be so comfortable.” Garrick waited a moment. “But things, they seem to happen however they were fated to.”

Darien laughed, and Garrick felt better.

“I’m not worried my father will think me incompetent.”

“What are you worried about, then?”

“I’ve gone against his wishes.”

“So you think you’ve let him down?”

“Maybe.”

“You think he’ll be angry.”

They traveled farther without speaking.

“No,” Darien said. “That’s not it.”

“So, what is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“I see,” Garrick replied, though he most definitely did not see.

“What if he doesn’t even grant me audience?” Darien finally said.

Garrick gave a grunt in return.

“He
will
be angry,” Darien said. “It’s certainly possible he won’t want to see me.”

“Your father loves you, Darien.”

“No. My father loved the boy I was. I have no idea what he thinks of me now.”

Garrick brought a gloved hand up to scratch the side of his cheek. “Well,” he said. “I suppose we could just skip it all. Just head back to Caledena, hit the Dragongriff tables again, and put it all on griffin five.”

Darien laughed again.

“Only if you use your sorcery right and proper this time.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

A short while later they came to their destination.

The wall surrounding Dorfort’s government center was impressive, a thick and impervious barricade made of mortar and stone. Heavy oaken doors blocked the entrance, and guards stood between crenellations at the top of the wall. The university center, brilliant in its whitewashed splendor, rose to the sky to Garrick’s right, a granary complete with its water-driven millstone was built to his left.

Garrick had spent hours at the university center over the past weeks. He had picked through hundreds of scrolls and diaries that were filled with musty ruminations made about the orders. Yet, he didn’t feel any wiser for them.

Their horses approached the gate.

“Greetings, Harol,” Darien called to the guard.

“Darien,” Harol replied. “It has been too long.”

“I need to see my father.”

“With whom do you ride?”

“This is Garrick, a Torean mage. I vouch he has no ill intentions.”

“Aye,” Harol said. “Your word is good.”

The door rumbled and creaked open with the strained sound of taut rope.

Darien gave the guard his weapons, and Garrick promptly did the same. After stable workers took their mounts, they followed Harol as he escorted them across the manor yard and toward the inner castle. Women stopped their washing as Garrick and Darien passed. A young boy tending goats leaned on his staff to stare at them. Guards watched their every step.

It was Darien they were looking at, Garrick realized.

“You’ve created quite a stir,” he said.

“Yes,” Darien replied. “It’s not every day that the commander’s boy comes home with a demon mage in tow.”

Their boots rang out against the stone walkway.

As they approached the central manor, the door swung open to reveal an old man, draped in blue robes, standing in shadow. He was tall, with silvery gray hair that swirled around his head. His eyes were the same green as Darien’s. His body was aged, but still carried a heft that spoke of his robust youth.

The man took a breath. “Darien,” he said.

Chapter 3

“Father,” Darien replied.

Garrick’s heart pounded as they stood apart. For a moment he thought either of them might turn away. Instead, Commander J’ravi stepped forward and they embraced.

“You must be Garrick,” the elder man said.

“Yes.” Garrick replied as he clasped the commander’s extended hand. Despite J’ravi’s age, the grip was firm and dry.

“Come in, then,” Afarat J’ravi said, guiding them through the doorway. “Let’s have a talk.”

Darien walked with easy steps beside his father, and Garrick followed. The hallway was lined with swaths of colored cloth, and the floor was padded with rugs. The commander led them to a comfortable room where sunlight streamed through an open window. A tray of bread sat on a small table—overflowing with thick cuts of ryes, wheats, and barleys that smelled good.

Darien tore a piece off as they sat down.

The commander’s lips looked as if they were permanently too dry. He licked them and peered at his son.

“Wine?” the commander offered.

“No, Father. We cannot stay long.”

“I assumed as much.”

Garrick felt suddenly out of place.

“I heard you had left the university,” the commander said. “But I didn’t realize you had aligned with the Toreans.”

“We need your help,” Darien said.

The elder J’ravi shook his head gently. “I’ve always found that meddling in sorcerous concerns is better left to the wizards.”

“In this case, Father, the concerns of those sorcerers bleed into those of the rest of the plane. You know that, don’t you? The orders will turn their attentions to the rest of the plane when they are finished with the Toreans.”

The commander stood and walked to the window.

“Our scouts suggest as much, but I’m not sure how much trust to put in them.”

Darien came to stand beside his father.

“Your scouts speak true.”

The commander raised a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s time to do something.”

“I don’t know, Darien,” his father replied. “Dorfort has shed so much of its young blood. How much of that has been necessary? Do you really know how deep the effects of war can be? Do you really know how many lives we have given in efforts that gained us nothing?”

Darien sighed, then replied in low voice.

“Sometimes I remember the way Thale would stomp around this place and demand everyone within earshot listen to him. You remember that, too, don’t you?”

“He was always the emotional one,” Commander J’ravi replied.

“Yes. And people loved him for it.”

His father nodded.

“I used to hate him, though,” Darien said.

The commander’s face darkened.

“I hated him because everyone else loved him, and I knew I could never match him. He was so perfect. Bigger than life, you know? And as he grew up I hated him because he put his beliefs before us—because he felt them so strongly he was willing to die for them. I thought that was terribly selfish, and I hated him even more for it.”

“What is your point, Darien?”

“I understand him now, and you do, too. There are times when risks must be taken. Thale
had
to do what he did or he would not have been Thale.”

“No.” The old commander’s eyes grew vacant. “Thale died because I signed the battle order.”

“Thale died because he believed in what he spoke of. It was his choice, and it was the right one. Just like mine is to fight against the orders.”

The commander walked from the window and took his seat. Only then did Garrick notice his limp. Afarat J’ravi had been a soldier his whole life, but now he was a soldier grown old.

“Has war ever accomplished anything?” he said.

Darien gestured outside.

“Look at this city for your answer, Father. Think of the dangers this city has faced, the evils you've fought. These people would not be living in peace without the decisions you’ve made, and this city is what that bloodshed has accomplished.”

The commander stared at Darien for long enough that Garrick grew uncomfortable.

“I have been a foolish old man,” he finally said, “holding so tightly to my dead son that I could not let loose of the one that lived. I am sorry, Darien.”

Darien put his hand on his father’s forearm.

Garrick sensed the sense of purpose that Darien stood for crashing against the pillar of strength Afarat J’ravi had built over the entirety of his life, and Garrick realized Darien had become a man in the eyes of his father today. The realization made him jealous.

“We need Lord Ellesadil to throw his lot in with the Freeborn,” Darien said. “If we don’t stop the orders now, they will roll over the rest of Adruin before it is done.”

Commander J’ravi sighed. “You feel this fully, then? There will be magewar?”

“Magewar is already being fought, sir,” Garrick interrupted with more vitriol than he meant.

“What Garrick means,” Darien said, “is that the Torean House has already been destroyed on the western half of the plane, and it’s likely that raids of the springtime have killed most of the powerful Toreans in the eastern regions, too.”

Darien’s father sipped wine from his goblet, and seemed to find a new strength.

“The orders have always skirmished without causing problems outside their ranks. Why should this be different?”

“The orders have god-touched mages,” Darien said, glancing at Garrick. “All of the orders do.”

Commander J’ravi turned to Garrick. “So that rumor is true, also.”

Garrick nodded.

“I need your help, Father. The armies of the orders are strong and dangerously unpredictable. We are going to confront their god-touched mages directly—or at least Garrick will. But we need your help to convince Lord Ellesadil to send an army of Dorfort’s guard to accompany us.”

“It sounds like a suicide mission.”

The commander looked at Garrick then, his eyes piercing with an unspoken question.

How?
He was asking.
How will you deal with mages who are more powerful than you? Why should I think you can do this?
The questions lay like acid in Garrick’s stomach. The answers boiled up through his life force, and he found he had to take a breath before he spoke.

“We have a plan,” Garrick said.

“A plan.” The commander chuckled. “There is always a plan.” He sat back in his chair and took another quick sip of his wine. “All right,” he said. “Let me hear of this plan.”

Chapter 4