Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (8 page)

The King could not hide his displeasure.  “King Wilnar-Medira has been scheming to take back the Vann Region since the day he ascended the throne.  He has been a witless imbecile all his life.  His father was at least an honorable man.  Lord Mika, perhaps it is time to press our claim as Second Prince.”

Lord Mika sighed rather dramatically, almost like a yawn.  “Your Majesty, I know that is an appealing notion.  But that title has been considered spurious since King Wilnar-Medira took the throne.  He will not recognize you and the title.  His diplomatic corps agrees that it is unwise, but in many circles he has all but declared war upon Sharron.  I even heard a rumor somewhere that he may have allied himself with Juron of Cordianlott.  But even then, the army they could raise would be no match for ours.”

King Varlock-Sharron leaned forward.  “Mika, how long ago did you hear these, ‘rumors’?  What have you done to prove or disprove them?”

Lord Mika Forkuln looked decidedly uncomfortable.  “The Falcon Raider issue within our own borders seemed far more pressing.  Besides, Your Majesty, I only heard this a couple of weeks ago.  Pure hearsay, from a traveling merchant or some lower diplomat of the Medaelian...”

“Sir Garvol,” the King interrupted a bit too loudly, “find out for me if King Juron of Cordianlott has some sort of alliance with Wilnar-Medira of Medaelia.  Immediately.  General Sopirr, reinforce our garrison at Vanntir, and place more lookouts at Vanntu.  Send scouts right up to the border, but do not cross it.  And make damn sure no one from my army starts anything with the Medaelians.  Let them start this.”

              Varlock-Sharron turned to Lady Ara, continuing to ignore Lord Mika’s offended sputtering.  “Ara, please see to it funds are allocated for these operations as appropriate.  I trust you to approve only what is necessary, but do not wait for me to sign off on it.  Things may get a bit complicated for a while.”

The King then looked around the table at the others.  “Thanks to Lord Mika’s latest error, we have no choice but to move now.  I want all the plans laid out for tomorrow morning to go into effect immediately.”

“But, your Majesty,” Lord Mika interjected, sputtering still.  “There is no proof, and if there were anything of consequence, surely Sir Garvol would be aware.”

Varlock-Sharron ignored the interruption.  “We cannot have the city sealed tomorrow.  I want this search begun within the next hour.  The gates must be opened by morning.”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Mika cut in again, his tone syrupy, patronizing.  “There is no need for such a course of action.  If we take this in stride and…”

He trailed off as Varlock-Sharron threw him a withering glare that spoke volumes.

“Lord Mika, this is a rather disturbing pattern,” spoke Tulock, glancing at Varlock-Sharron for approval.  The King inclined his head in the affirmative.  “Not for the first time have you failed to report everything you come across.  At the least you should have told Sir Garvol.  If they have some kind of alliance, and word reaches them that we have been forced to seal our own Capital, they will presume we are vulnerable, and pounce.”

Lord Mika seemed to swallow his own tongue as he began to take a breath to speak, and stopped as though frozen, as glares reached him from a number of the Council members.  An uncomfortable silence came over the room. 

Varlock-Sharron let his fury over Lord Mika’s bumbling pass, and continued as though he’d never been interrupted.  “We will double the normal guard, and we will also double the numbers sweeping inside Gara-Sharron as planned.  General Bodrir, send word to your soldiers.  Constable, I want your men to be quick and efficient.  Do not panic the citizens, but let them know the danger we are protecting them from.  Do not use force unless it is an absolute last resort.  Captain-General Callan, the Guardsmen are reserves and back-up tonight.  They make sure no one is on the streets.  Does everyone understand their role in this?”

The assembled acknowledged the orders of their King.

“Good.  General Sopirr, go to Vantirr and take personal command of the Garrison there, for the time being.  Let us make sure the Medaelians do not try to take advantage of our current situation.  I will make certain you are relieved as soon as possible.”

Varlock-Sharron shifted his attention.  “Admiral Trem-Sharron?  I want you to dispatch a small battlegroup up the river Mendanaria.  Keep them close to our shores, but have them ready.  They may need to ferry troops at a moments notice.  Have a second group at the mouth of the river prepared in reserve.  Keep the rest of the Armada at normal stations.”

“As you say, my liege,” replied Admiral Kol Trem-Sharron.

King Varlock-Sharron turned finally to Lord Mika Forkuln, who seemed to have shrunk in his seat.  He spoke in a low tone.  “Lord Mika, I am very disappointed, to say the least.  As my Foreign Minister, I expect you to recognize and identify a potentially embarrassing situation immediately.  You failed me here.  You should have brought this up when you heard it, or tried to confirm it if possible.  This is not your first mistake, Lord Mika.  You were appointed to this position because your father served my father and myself well before he retired, and he spoke highly of you.”

The King paused a moment, letting that sink in.  “I am a patient man, but this is your last mistake.  You will send diplomats to Cordianlott directly, your best, and find out what Juron is up to.  You will then, in two weeks, go to Medaelia yourself, and press my interests there.  I want the Council and the Order called together, to meet at Penlorka.  Work with the Chivalry and Nobility if you can.  Do not fail me again, Lord Mika.  I expect you understand?”

“But, your Majesty?  One of my chief diplomats, perhaps a high ambassador, would be better suited to...”

“Are you contradicting my orders, Lord Mika?”  King Varlock-Sharron asked menacingly.  He looked at the man across the table from him.  Medium height, curly hair, fancy doublet, and oversized paunch.  Lord Mika Forkuln was a loudmouthed fop.  He was also a coward.  “I certainly hope not.  This is your last chance to redeem yourself.  Try not to fail once more.  Are we clear on this matter?”

“Uh, yes, yes my liege.  Perfectly clear.”

“Very well.  Your diplomats will depart tomorrow.  You will proceed in exactly two weeks.  Make all the necessary preparations.”  The King stood.  “We
all
have work to do.  We will meet again tomorrow night to further our discussion on this situation.  For now, though, we have a search to commence.  Does everyone know what has to be done?”

The question was met with silence, but the looks Varlock-Sharron received told him they did.

“This Council is dismissed.  Carry out my directions.  It is time to restore order to Sharron, and make certain our enemies know that we are not a fruit ripe for the picking.”

The King turned, and faced out the window.  Yet he knew their attention remained on him.  “Sharron has always been, and will always be, the strongest nation in the world.  I have sworn to keep it that way.  So shall it be.”

Chapter 8

Lyrra-Sharron tossed about on the hard pallet.  She could not get comfortable.  Dak was across the room, seated at the table, sharpening a knife by a single candle.  Cam Murtallan was asleep, as far as she could tell. 

Things had not gone as planned.  She had intended for them to get out of the Capital in the ensuing chaos.  But her father had proven too prepared even when surprised so. 

Lyrra-Sharron had additional doubts about the Sorcerer, and her plans for him.  She’d studied forbidden books, and learned many things about a power she could not possess.  But now she wondered if she knew enough to help make this man a Sorcerer again.  The beginnings of his reclamation of that lost power caught her up short as well, though she was loathe to admit that even to herself.

It was very late now.  She knew the primary reason why she couldn’t sleep - it was difficult to get over the feeling of being a caged rat.  She hoped Dak was right about Max.  If he panicked now, they had nowhere to hide.  She was also certain her father no longer wanted her returned strictly alive.

This came as no surprise.  Death had long shadowed her life.  Her brother had died when she was very young.  The cause of his death had remained a mystery, buried deep and forgotten by her, until only a short time ago, when the details had reemerged from their long slumber. 

There were now no mysteries in her life.  Lyrra-Sharron knew sorrow.  Her brother slaughtered, her mother dead supposedly from grief, her twin sister murdered.  She had shed her tears long ago, and the only thing that remained was her resolve, and the blame she threw whole-heartedly to her father.

Shuffling upstairs caught her attention, and made her sit up.  She noticed Cam Murtallan also upright in his bed.  Dak looked to the door, then up as the sounds of boots on the floor far above came to them.

Dak extinguished the candle, and the small room was plunged into a cold darkness.  Lyrra-Sharron calmed herself, slowing her breathing.  Cam could hardly be heard.

“How many?” she whispered.

“I didn’t get a count,” Dak admitted in a barely audible breath.

“About seven,” said Cam quietly.  “Make that nine.  Though it may be the merchant and his wife.”

They listened intently.  Lyrra-Sharron drew out a long knife.  She thought she sensed Dak near the door.

The footsteps were louder now as soldiers entered the basement above them.  Lyrra-Sharron barely breathed. 

“Three,” Cam whispered softly, scarcely audible.

They were all tense as the soldiers above moved things around, banged on walls and floors in search of hidden caverns and passageways.  One such banging was at the door to the sub-basement.  It was repeated.  Muffled voices were heard above.  Lyrra-Sharron was ready.  But nothing happened, and the guards moved on, going back up the stairs. 

There was total silence in the room as they listened to soldiers shuffling above.  Eventually the sound wore out.  Lyrra-Sharron felt ready to pounce at a moments notice.

“They’re gone,” Cam stated softly.  “I just heard the door close behind the seventh.  Only the merchant and his wife remain.”

“Are you certain?” asked Dak.

“Indeed.  I may not have my powers, but I have worked hard to sharpen even the natural abilities we’re all born with.  My ears are quite sensitive.  They’re gone.  Your merchant didn’t give us away.”

Lyrra-Sharron felt herself breathing easier now.  She hated when she got tense like that.  “Keep the light off, Dak.  I doubt I can sleep, but I think we should be ready.  They may return.”

“Isn’t it unusual for them to sweep at night like this?  I thought The King did not like to disturb his citizens,” said Dak.

“That is true.  But he is probably concerned that his enemies might see him as vulnerable if he seals the city for too long.  That damned Wilnar-Medira has practically declared war upon us.  My father is a great many uncomplimentary things, but a fool he is not.”

“You almost sound fond of him,” said Cam, amusement in his voice.

“Bite your tongue, Cam Murtallan,” said Lyrra-Sharron acidly.  “The man is a political genius, else he would not still be in power.  Take your rest, Sorcerer.  We may have quite the busy day ahead of us.”

Lyrra-Sharron heard the Sorcerer chuckle lightly as he shifted around on his pallet.  Annoyed, she tossed herself onto her own.  Before she could think on their situation more, she was soundly asleep.

*****

Cam Murtallan lay still a while.  Eventually, he heard only the steady breathing of the sleeping Princess, and the soft hiss of a blade being run over a sharpening stone.

Quietly, he sat up on the pallet once more.  Dak hadn’t bothered to relight the candle, and he worked in the dark.  Cam crossed his legs beneath him, and took several deep breaths, quietly releasing them.

He had not expected to live to this night.

His current situation had come as a total surprise.  He was prepared to die.  He was ready to do so in the most dignified manner he could muster.  And then, from nowhere, he was saved. 

Cam Murtallan had never really believed in luck, or fate, much as he did believe in the destiny he saw before him.  For some reason, he never equated that destiny to those concepts.  To his own astonishment, he found himself reanalyzing those beliefs.  Never before had he been in such a desperate situation, devoid of any choices, and able to find a way out anyhow.

After all that had transpired, Cam was uncertain what the future could hold for him.  His original mission now seemed pointless.  If, however, it was possible to regain his powers, he was certain it would take time and persistence.  He did not doubt that it would be a difficult task. 

He still did not know what had happened to his power, or why the webbing was there.  Yet he was determined to find out.

Cam slowed his heart and his breathing way down.  He sank into himself again, to investigate his power.

In this state, he perceived himself as a small creature, confronting the globe of light trapped inside the web.  The power within.  The globe was the size of a large boulder like this.  He could make himself smaller, to scrutinize his power closer.  But he found this to be the best way for him to work.

Concentrating, more then he ever had before, Cam found the hole he’d made.  It was barely a centimeter, but it was there, allowing him very limited access to the power.  To his dismay, it had shrunk some.  Probably from his earlier outburst. 

The webbing shifted faster now.  He could not lose his calm again.  Cam forced himself to take a deep breath, and gain back his control.  He found that it was not so hard to do this time.

He paused, allowing a moment of stasis.  Starting out slowly, he methodically probed at the breach.  Cam once more ignored the power seeping out, begging to be held and caressed and used.

Softly, exercising more patience than he ever had in his life, Cam began to work at the fissure.  Slowly, he gently pulled the webbing away.  As he did so, he felt a tingling sensation starting at his hands and running up his body.  It took tremendous effort and concentration to do it gradually.  But soon, the hole was the size of a half silver piece, about four centimeters.

Cam returned to himself, opening his eyes.  Dak had relit the lamp, and Lyrra-Sharron lay peacefully upon her pallet, still asleep. 

It had felt like only minutes had passed.  But Cam instinctively knew that it was just past sunrise.  He had worked through the night, with little success.

But he reconsidered that.  He had increased the access to the mysterious magical energies by four times.  The success was not to be played down.  Cam Murtallan would teach himself to be patient if he could. 

A realization came to him then.  Being a Sorcerer did not mean he knew everything, as he once believed.  Maybe he actually had something more to learn.

Cam glanced over to Dak, and found him looking at him directly.

“Cam Murtallan,” Dak said quietly.  “I lit the lamp, noted you were barely breathing.”

“Meditation,” Cam replied.  “I’ve been meditating on my power since my imprisonment.  Probably the only thing that kept me sane.”

“The King does not treat prisoners well, Cam Murtallan.  I can see the damage he caused from the way you move.  The standard tortures?”

“Not something I care to dwell on, my Lord Dak,” Cam stated, shuddering slightly.  “The nightmares will probably plague my sleep for years.  You might as well stop calling me Cam Murtallan as well.  Cam will do.”

Dak inclined his head in acknowledgement.  “You may call me Dak.  Max has not yet visited us.  I don’t expect to hear from him until the soldiers leave the streets.”

Cam unfolded his legs, letting his feet touch the ground.  Slowly, he arose.  The pain in his thigh was almost non-existent, now.  “That’s better.  I appreciate you curing my wound.”

“It would have been fixed by you eventually.  I didn’t know Sorcerers could heal.”

“From what I’ve read, not all can.  And it is one of the simplest skills, too.  But it seems to be considered a lower form of Sorcery by most,” Cam replied.

“Do you know many Sorcerers?”

Cam began to walk around, avoiding Lyrra-Sharron’s pallet.  “No.  I came unto my power on my own.  But I’ve read as many books as I could get my hands on.  I know some about the old ways.”

Feeling somewhat emboldened, Cam took a new line of questioning.  “And what about you?  Why do you fight with the Princess and her raiders?”

Dak leaned back, crossing his arms.  “That, Cam Murtallan, is a story for another time.  Suffice it to say, I believe in her.  That’s all you need know.”

Cam sat down at the table across from Dak.  He left that hanging, chose to say nothing more. 

Cam studied the man across from him.  He leaned on the table some, looking at Dak.  “We’re very similar, aren’t we, Dak Amviir?  Both of us are suspicious of others, willing to trust no one.  We’re both alone, without friends.  I see it in your eyes.  I know that look.”

Dak’s expression never changed.  “Do not assume you know anything, Sorcerer.  I believed taking you was a mistake.  Until you prove me wrong, my opinion will not change.”

Cam grinned ruefully at that.  His own response to anyone making such a statement would have been identical.  “As you will then, Dak Amviir.  What’s our next move?”

“We leave Gara-Sharron and rejoin the Falcon Raiders.  We have much work ahead of us.  And you are a part of it now.”

“So I gather,” said Cam.  “What do you need me to do?”

Dak handed Cam a knife and a sharpening stone.  “This will be yours.  Sharpen it.”

Dak reached across the table, grabbed Cam’s wrist.  “Know this.  If you ever use it upon me or mine, you will be dead before you can blink.”

Cam felt a brief moment of anxiety, fully aware it was no idle threat.  He bobbed his head once in acquiescence, and Dak released his wrist.

Dak continued.  “We wait for Lyrra-Sharron to awaken, and for Max to update us.  When it’s time, we leave.”

He was not being very courteous, but Cam did not care, and found himself appreciative of the man’s honesty. 

Cam would join these Falcon Raiders.  As he continued to work to regain his powers, he would help them. 

Dak understood what he would not give voice to, Cam was certain.  The Sorcerer was only with the Falcon Raiders until he could continue on his way, to his own ends. 

The Falcon Raiders would give him a purpose, while Cam Murtallan worked to reclaim his power, and fulfill his destiny…if he could.

*****

In the highest tower of the palace, King Varlock-Sharron Anduin paced.  He had not slept the night, waiting for news of the search.  Now, almost an hour past sunrise, he was alone. 

The study was actually new, once a pleasant cell for noble prisoners.  But Varlock-Sharron felt the room could serve a higher purpose.  Ever the student, he had converted it to a private office, with shelves upon shelves of books, small machines and mechanical devices on various tables, and a large desk, now cluttered with writing materials and assorted papers. 

The King let out a slow breath, and moved to the window, looking out over the palace grounds and across to the mountains westward.  His children had been fond of this room.  They had all studied here as well.

Of course there was another, official library in the royal apartments.  But this place was one of the few where the King could be truly solitary.  Only Lord Tulock and Lady Ara were allowed here.  His guards knew enough to allow no others to disturb him.

There was a sharp rapping upon the heavy door.  Varlock-Sharron turned from the window.  “Enter,” he called.

Lord Tulock Oran came in.  He, too, had clearly spent this night awake.  “They are gathered in the council chambers awaiting you, my liege,” he said simply.

The King acknowledged him, and picked up his cloak from a peg by the door.  “Do you know if they found her?”

“I don’t believe they have, my king.”

“A pity.  Let us go.”

Together, they descended the stairs.  Lord Tulock opened the door for his King, and the pair of guards outside saluted crisply, falling in one behind and one in front.  They marched smartly, quickly reaching the conference chambers.