The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) (11 page)

The northern edge of the city turned into well-groomed fields and a maze of farm roads, most of them rutted. Whelan turned them immediately east, toward the mountains, and sent Scree into the air to watch for danger. A light rain fell from the sky; darker clouds to the east promised worse weather. The cloud castles had drifted further south.

“Where are we going?” Darik asked. “I thought we were riding toward the Wylde.”

Whelan didn’t answer, but stood tall in the saddle. Scree plummeted toward them, pulling up at the last moment to land on Whelan’s wrist. The sound of horses came from farther down the road.

“Follow me,” Whelan urged. He turned his horse and jumped the short stone wall on their left and took off across the hillside, scattering a flock of sheep. Darik followed. Scree lit into the air again, circling overhead.

As they crested a short hill, Darik glanced over his shoulder to see a dozen men on the road they’d just left. Impossible to see from here whether they were friendly troops or not. Once over the hill, Whelan slowed down. They picked their way through pastures, continuing east and south.

“I thought I’d trust Scree’s reaction,” Whelan said as the falcon returned to his wrist. “To answer your question, we’re not riding to the Wylde because we’re not gathering the Knights Temperate. I’m leaving that duty to Ethan.”

“That’s not what you told Markal.”

“That’s not what I told him
publicly
. He knows, as do a few others. But with so many enemies about, not everyone can be trusted. No, we’re going somewhere else.”

“And that would be—?”

“Into the heart of the enemy’s army,” Whelan told him.

Darik’s mouth dropped open. “Just us?”

“Yes, just us. Oh, and Ninny, of course.”

“Of course,” Darik said. “We’d be helpless without a twelve-year-old girl.” He shook his head, spurring his horse to catch up with Whelan who had reached another road and picked up his pace. “And just what are we going to do when we get there?”

“What are we going to do?” Whelan turned back, a bold grin on his face. No, a
foolhardy
grin, Darik decided, the kind of grin that worried him. “We’re going to kill the dark wizard.”

#

Markal eyed Chantmer across the Thorne Chamber, the room reserved for the most solemn meetings of the Order of the Wounded Hand. It stood atop the Golden Tower, giving a sweeping view of the city and the farmland outside the walls. The ceiling was almost forty feet high, and the room wide enough to hold every wizard in the Order thirty times over. When King Steven had built the Citadel, he had told Markal that he envisioned a day when five hundred wizards would follow the Order of the Wounded Hand, filling every corner of Mithyl with the strength of their magic. That day, needless to say, had not come yet.

Lately Chantmer had taken to sitting on the raised dais at the center of the room, which grated on many of the others. The chair had been purely symbolic, representing the seat where the Martyr would sit if present. Markal found irony enough in reserving a chair for the dead man; Jethro hadn’t believed in following any man but himself. That one of Jethro’s professed followers should actually take the seat of power was especially irreverent.

Chantmer wore red robes and an amulet about his neck. He returned to his interrogation. “So what you’re saying, Markal, is that you think yourself above the Order.”

Markal sighed, looking to the other wizards for support. Several had arrived that morning. Nathaliey Liltige, occasional ally, often rival of Chantmer, looked down at her hands, while Narud muttered to himself. The eccentric old wizard no doubt preferred to be among horses or dogs, rather than wasting his time with the affairs of men. Other potential allies avoided Markal’s gaze.

“I haven’t said that,” Markal said. “I thought it prudent—”

Chantmer interrupted, “You thought it prudent to keep one of the Oracular Tomes from our knowledge? Such a weapon will help us defeat the dark wizard.”

“It might,” Markal said, “but it might be more powerful still in the hands of the enemy. It has drawn his attention already.” His left hand itched from the magic he’d called last night. He scratched with his right hand, knowing this would only cause him grief later, but helpless to disobey the urge.

Chantmer snorted. “In the hands of that boy, yes. Or maybe a
lesser
wizard.” Here he paused significantly. “But in the safekeeping of the Order,” he said, meaning in his private library, no doubt, “it poses no risk.”

“Markal has shown its use as well as its danger,” Nathaliey spoke up for the first time. “This same boy you disparage saved the king’s life last night.”

“Yes, there is that,” Chantmer conceded. “And I am grateful. But the book should be turned over for safekeeping. At least until the enemy is defeated. What say you, Markal?”

Markal hesitated. Perhaps he was overcautious, but he didn’t trust Chantmer. He remembered the promise made to the Mountain Brother and wondered if this was a violation of that promise. Markal didn’t worry that Chantmer would use the tome for evil purposes, but that he’d use it recklessly, and draw more unwanted attention. But Markal had no power to resist Chantmer without support.

He sighed. “Very well.” Catching the triumphant smile on Chantmer’s face, he added, “I can’t guarantee that you can use it, however. It is selective in the information it disseminates.”

Nathaliey and Narud found Markal languishing in the libraries later that day. They pulled chairs next to his and Markal shut his books to give them his full attention. Dust motes danced in the light that filtered through the thick glass windows. Narud, rarely without an animal of some kind, put his cat on the table, where it curled up in the sunny spot.

“Something must be done about Chantmer the Tall,” Nathaliey said.

“Hunger for power,” Narud said, looking up from the cat, “is an ugly malady, and a vice from which I thought Chantmer was immune.”

Nathaliey shrugged. She had an unfortunate way about her that made every gesture look dismissive. “Perhaps that isn’t it at all. In his zeal to defeat the dark master, he has come to believe that he is the chief counterbalance to the enemy’s power.”

“Chantmer is the strongest of any of us,” Markal conceded. He wondered where this conversation led. He didn’t relish the idea of a power struggle within the Order. They couldn’t afford such a conflict. Not now.

“He is powerful, indeed,” Nathaliey said, giving that dismissive toss of her head again. “So powerful that he no longer counsels with us, preferring to battle the dark master on his own terms.”

Markal remembered the ease with which Cragyn had destroyed the magical gates at Montcrag, and when he’d chased Markal from the griffin aerie. The Dark Citadel rose in Veyre, testament to Cragyn’s power.

“He’s a dead man if he battles the dark wizard by himself. But,” Markal added cautiously, rooting out the others’ plans, “we might forgive his excesses at times such as this. Do you remember when Chantmer the Tall spent ten years among the poor freeholds of Lekmoor, practicing the healing arts and working beside the farmers?”

“Purging himself of pride, I believe,” Nathaliey said with a touch of irony in her voice.

Markal looked at Narud, who still watched the cat, as it licked its paw. Narud was a queer old fellow, growing more eccentric every year. Some day the man would withdraw from human society altogether, to live among the birds in the mountains, or in the Wylde.

“What I fear is that Chantmer will use the book and draw unwanted attention before we are ready. The dark wizard searches, yes, but the Cloud Kingdoms would also seize the book for their own.” He thought of rows of winged knights and Collvern’s hostility to outlanders. “We do not want the Cloud Kingdoms involved.”

“Our thoughts are in perfect harmony, my friend,” Nathaliey said.

“What do you propose?” Markal said.

Narud looked up. “No violence,” he said. “Just deception. Prevent Chantmer from using the book without his knowing.”

Nathaliey said, “Which is why we need you. We need your knowledge, more than your magical ability.”

Markal considered, then had an idea. He climbed to his feet and searched through the shelves. The library wasn’t organized by time or subject, but by author—author meaning the school of wizardry that had compiled the book. He found what he was looking for in the handful of partial and complete tomes that had survived the burning of the library in Veyre. Gingerly, he slipped a packet of charred leaves from the shelf and brought them to the table. The leaves were enclosed in a leather jacket tied together with twine, which he untied and set aside. Some of the leaves were charred and brittle, others surviving intact by the magicks that bound them.

Narud and Nathaliey looked over his shoulder, trying to read the writing. The writing was a transitional style bridging the gap from the cartouches to the old tongue, and was obscure enough that few wizards could understand it fully.

“A blinding spell?” Nathaliey asked after a few minutes. “He’ll feel that kind of action and counteract it easily. I wasn’t thinking we would
physically
prevent him from reading the book.”

“Look closer,” Markal suggested. “The correct translation is not
blinding,
but
occlusion.
”

She gave a confused frown. “I’m not sure I see the difference.”

“Here, let me translate. ‘And the mind will be covered, diminishing its ability to discern new knowledge and—” Markal hesitated. “I think this word is related to the old tongue’s
nubela,
which means to occlude and confuse.”

“So he’ll look at the book but won’t be able to understand it,” Narud said, nodding.

“Exactly!” Markal said. “And being filled with the pride of Chantmer the Tall, he won’t admit this failing. Look also at the subtlety of the incantation. He’s unlikely to detect its actions, should the two of you prove powerful enough to cast it.”

“Yes,” Nathaliey said. “That will work. Thank you, Markal.”

#

Nightfall came and still Whelan and Darik picked their way south and east. The free kingdom of Estmor stood at the edge of the mountains, where it sat as a buffer between Cragyn’s army and the Citadel. Bathed by winds from the southern seas, Estmor was overly wet. Only thirty or forty thousand people lived in the kingdom, on small farms and villages built on drained fens. King Daniel had protected Estmor against an overly aggressive neighboring kingdom many years earlier and had promised to perpetually defend them in return for their loyalty. But so far no help was forthcoming.

Hundreds of campfires speckled the foothills at the base of the mountain range. Cragyn had seized the entire length of the Tothian Way to the edge of the Free Kingdoms, even though the Teeth still stood free and defiant for now. The enemy still gathered his forces; even on the Way, it would take days to bring Cragyn’s Hammer to bear.

They crossed the Tothian Way briefly and picked their way into the swamp on a footpath. Darik looked at his new armor, worried. “Should I take it off and wrap it?”

Whelan inspected the cuirass, appraising the brass sheets between thumb and forefinger before pinching at the leather, “It’s good armor, it will hold its shape and strength. There is magic in Eriscoban leather.”

Water crossed the path several times and the footing for the horses grew tricky. The rain had stopped and they set their bedrolls about a mile from the road, on a slight rise that supported a copse of trees. They ate bread and cold mutton for dinner. Darik was exhausted after the last two nights, but Whelan didn’t let him sleep before they sparred for an hour. At last he lay down, barely noticing the lumps beneath his bedroll before he fell asleep.

Darik woke to a poke in the neck. “Don’t move,” a voice whispered. “And don’t speak.”

Instantly awake, he opened his eyes, but it was too dark to see much at all. A dagger blade rested beneath his chin, not yet deadly in intent, but insisting that he pay attention. A hooded face watched his reaction. His head was turned at a slight angle and he could see that Whelan was gone from his bedroll.

“Now,” the voice whispered, “sit up slowly and keep your hands where they are.” He obeyed and his attacker laughed and pulled the dagger away. “Oh, it’s only you.”

“Sofiana?” Fear turned to annoyance. “What the hell are you doing?”

She shrugged and put the dagger away then drew back her hood. “I was supposed to meet my father here, but he said nothing about you. Where is he?”

“How am I supposed to know? He probably went to take a piss. You could have killed me.
I
might have killed
you.
”

She snorted. “You might have killed me? Not likely. You were so far gone I just had to follow the snoring to find you.”

“I might have made a grab for my sword.”

“And I’d have slit your throat before you moved two inches.”

“You’re pretty confident, aren’t you?” Darik said, fighting his growing irritation. “What makes you so sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“That’s enough,” Whelan said, emerging from the direction of the trees.

Darik was embarrassed to be caught bickering like a child. He resisted the urge to tell Whelan how her childish display of bravery put his life at risk.

“But father,” Sofiana protested. “You should have heard what he said.”

“I heard what he said, Ninny. And yes, how are you so confident that Darik can’t defend himself?”

This last statement took Darik by surprise, remembering how he’d been told rather curtly to sit behind Sofiana on the camel when they fled into the Desolation.

Whelan lit a small fire on the west side of the trees, to shield it from watchers in the mountains. Rain fell again, this time harder. Whelan warmed a pot of water on the fire, then turned toward Darik and Sofiana.

“I found what I was looking for. When I rode into Eriscoba, I met a group of knights riding to Estmor to investigate ghost lights in the swamps. Something about Estmor makes it hard for the Harvester to gather wights and they collect here. But what had disturbed them? It didn’t bother me greatly, until I heard Markal talk about how the dark wizard turned away while he hunted Markal in the mountains. Markal thought he might bind his energy to a single site that would allow him to draw on excess magic as needed.”