The Kingdom of Eternal Sorrow (The Golden Mage Book 1) (14 page)

Hidden within the shadows behind the throne, a figure watched the king
and the mind-mage, Galen, as they moved to a secluded corner to speak. Perfect.
Knowing Galen, they would be occupied for a few moments on whatever grievance
that sniveling fool had this time. Luckily, a few moments was all that was
needed.

After one final glance in Diryan and Galen’s direction to make sure
they were still occupied, the silent observer settled comfortably onto the
cool, marble floor and prepared to thought-speak the Master. Since three of the
most powerful thought-speakers in Lamia aside from the hidden observer currently
occupied the Throne Room—Aidric, Galen, and Gaelle—the Observer needed to be
extremely careful this time sending his message. If his mind-shield was
anything less than perfect, then one of the three would likely sense that
someone was using thought-speech and investigate because of the distances
involved in the sending. The distance, alone, would instantly condemn him. The
Observer couldn’t allow carelessness to ultimately sign a personal death
warrant.

“Master…?”
the Observer carefully sent after a few moments of
concentration.

“Speak,”
came the faint, immediate reply.

“I’ve learned something today that I think you’ll find of interest.
There’s a great uproar in the palace concerning the mysterious arrival of a
maiden into Lamia.”

“A maiden?”
The Master asked skeptically.
“How could the arrival
of one maiden, no matter how unusual she may be, cause such an uproar? I find
the idea absurd. Why are you bothering me with that courtly gossip? I sent you
to Lamia to learn Diryan’s military strategies, not to wag your tongue with
those arrogant fools.”

“Oh, but Master,”
the Observer said hastily,
“she’s not just
any maiden. The Lamians think she’s the Golden Mage of their ancient prophecy.”

“What!”
Roderick exclaimed loudly, his voice echoing painfully
throughout his spy’s mind like thunder.
“Can this be true?”

“I’ve seen her with my own eyes, Master. She has hair of
gold
,
and from what was said in court, she lived within a realm different from our
own before appearing here this morning. She was also given to the Mage-general
as an apprentice, so her mage powers must be great to warrant such a teacher.”

Interesting
, the Observer heard his Master think to himself, a
trick the Observer’s master had no idea he could do.
Most interesting,
indeed. If that claim holds true, I may yet still have a chance of claiming
Lamia as my own. If I were to have the Golden Mage under my power, and if the
prophecy holds true, then nothing would ever stand in my way again. Lamia’s
Mage-field would be mine to control at last!

Hearing the Master’s thoughts while they thought-spoke over great
distances, and
only
over great distances, was a surprising side effect
that the Observer did not feel inclined to disclose. Any edge held over his
master, no matter how small, was an edge that no sane person would relinquish
willingly. The Observer refused to even contemplate what would happen if his
master ever learned this secret.

“What will you do, Master?”
The Observer asked innocently.

“For the moment, nothing,”
the Master replied, his mind-voice
distant.
“She must be untrained if she was given to Aidric as an apprentice.
Untrained, she is of no use to me, and I don’t have the patience to train her
myself. No—let the Lamians deal with her for now, but in the meantime, I do
believe that I have an addition duty to add to your plate. Since you obviously
have an ear for gossip and the access to court, you will keep an ear out for
word that this so-called Golden Mage is near to adept status. If the legend
holds true, it shouldn’t take long at all. You must contact me immediately the
moment you hear word. The Horae must not proclaim her a mage, else I cannot
hope to control her mind, thereafter.”

“It’ll be done. I swear it.”

“Good. Now go before you are discovered.”

The Observer slumped over in exhaustion as the link to Roderick’s mind
was released and shuddered weakly as he tried to push away the darkness that
was starting to seep into the edges of his vision. It took a considerable
amount of concentration and power to thought-speak with his master. The Master
was not a powerful thought-speaker, so the Observer had to search for his
thoughts and extend their range in order for the Master to be heard. It was a
highly complicated and energy-draining process, so it often left the spy
feeling like a piece of chewed meat that had been dragged through the six hells
of Ter-ob.

He softly groaned and forced his trembling legs to carefully rise to
equally unsteady feet. He swayed a little as a fresh wave of fatigue washed
over an already greatly-fatigued body that was dangerously close to collapsing
in exhaustion. Nevertheless, somehow, the spy managed to keep all bearings by
grabbing the back of the king’s throne seat and leaning a little weight towards
it for support.

The Observer closed aching eyes and breathed deeply for a couple of
depths before cautiously peering out from behind the throne seat to see if any
eyes were looking anywhere near his direction. The Circle was deeply engrossed
in a discussion, so it was unlikely that any of them had noticed the shadow
lurking behind the throne seat. Most of the pompous bastards never looked past
their own nose long enough to notice the knife about to cut their lordly
throat.

At the moment, all eyes were on Lord Caith, the Arms-general of King Diryan’s
army, who was outlining to the Lord Commander the newest attack strategy that
he planned to use along the Kemosian-Mihran border. That strategy was old news
as far as the Observer was concerned.

His attention turned once again to the king and Galen. They were still talking
animatedly. The two men appeared to be in an argument. King Diryan’s body was
tense, and from the king’s tightly balled fists held at his sides, the spy knew
that the king was fighting to control his temper. They spoke in whispers, so
the Observer couldn’t hear any of their discussion. Galen gestured in
frustration with his arms. Apparently, Diryan was less than impressed with
whatever the mind-mage was saying.

After Diryan whispered one final retort, hidden eyes watched with
amusement as the king turned on his heel and silently stalked away, leaving
Galen to stare with a stupid look on his face at the retreating figure and
muttering angrily to himself.

It was all too easy, really.

***

Sitting in the comforts of his study, Roderick stared at a painting of a
particularly gruesome battle scene mounted on the opposite wall, lost in
thought. The knowledge of the Golden Mage’s unexpected arrival had come as a
fierce shock to him, affecting him more deeply than he cared to admit to
himself, and that fact really infuriated him. Seldom ever had any news from the
many spies he had planted in various kingdoms outright shocked him, and because
he had been caught so completely off-guard, he had allowed himself to show
emotion to that fool in Lamia. But that was the least of his worries now.

What disturbed him the most about the news of the Golden Mage was the
uncanny similarities of that particular Lamian prophecy to a series of dreams
he had been having for some time now. In each dream, the landscape was the
same, open plains similar to the terrain of southwestern Mihr, skies filled
with dark, angry clouds ready to release their fury onto the world, and an
army—his army—stretched seemingly from horizon to horizon.

In several of his dreams, Roderick had been leading his great army
against the Kemosian army or sometimes, against the Na’aran army, kingdoms that
bordered Mihr in the north and west. In all of them, Mihr always triumphed in
the end, the enemy armies either annihilated or captured.

However, in another dream, the dream that reoccurred the most, it was
the infamous Lamian army that he had faced. In the Thrones above, the storm had
raged as usual. Only a span separated the two armies as they had readied their
initial charge.

That’s when the maiden in the sapphire cloak had stepped into view, her
face hidden within the folds of a cowl, and beneath, wearing the sapphire robes
of a Lamian adept-mage. The soldiers on both sides had seemed frozen into
place, transfixed by the mysterious maiden as she had slowly glided into the
center of the grasslands between the two armies with complete disregard for her
safety. Then she had raised her hands and shouted into the very voice of the
storm in the ancient language of magic an incantation whose meaning was irritatingly
just beyond Roderick’s understanding.

Her upraised hands had then come alive with a brilliant, golden light
that somehow wasn’t blinding, parting the storm clouds until the rays of the
suns had shone down upon her and engulfed her, had
become
her,
transforming her into a being of pure light that was beautiful beyond
comparison. Her body had become the sun and the long, wavy hair spilling from
within her cowl its sunbeams. Like the rising of the first sun, the golden
light had begun to radiate from her body, illuminating the lands around them
until not a trace of the once raging storm had been evident.

It was at that point that Roderick had heard the voice, a male voice
that seemed distinctly familiar, seemingly coming from the very air around him.
It was a voice that only he could hear, urging him to approach the powerful
creature before him, this light incarnate.

Each time he had the dream, he would hesitate suspiciously, and the
voice would whisper that claiming her was necessary, that it was the only way
he would win against the force of the Lamian army. The voice always insisted
that the mysterious maiden was the key to his ultimate triumph. Urged by the
voice, Roderick would always venture forward, hungry for the power he sensed
within her. Yet, she would always turn to face him just before he reached her.

He could never distinguish her features, just that her face and body
were proportionate to a woman’s, but he had definitely been able to feel the
heat of her eyes boring down into the very depths of his soul, searing the terrible
coldness of the Dark Powers within with the heat of her rays.

Roderick would wonder who in the six hells she was before being overwhelmed
by the pain and beginning to scream—only to wake up in a cold sweat, occasionally
with his lip bloody where he had bitten it or an offensive spell ready to cast
in his hands. He had never understood the meaning of those dreams, though he
was certain that a hidden meaning did lay somewhere beneath the theatrics. Now,
he knew only too well.

The Golden Mage…

For years Roderick had hungered after the power of the Lamian
Mage-field, and for most of those years, he had devoted his life entirely to
the conquest of Lamia. Yet, no matter how organized his military strategy
was—how large and powerful his army of fighters and mages—they couldn’t
penetrate that damned shield around the kingdom. His army might as well have
consisted of a child’s toy soldiers for all the good they did against the
Shield.

Nor had he been successful in forcing Diryan to surrender by invading
many of Lamia’s allied kingdoms and threatening to destroy them. Lamia’s army
always drove his forces back, mostly on the account of that accursed mage,
Aidric, who seemed to wield ungodly powers.

Damn him!

Roderick sometimes suspected that Aidric wasn’t even human. His
appearance was certainly uncanny, especially those pale eyes that seemed to
find and pluck the deepest, darkest secrets directly from your soul. Rumors
floating around Mihr said that he was a demon wearing the guise of a human,
Summoned by Lord Othos, Diryan’s former Mage-general, on his deathbed.

That particular account served only to amuse him. Roderick had done his
fair share of Summoning creatures from Ter-ob over the years, and he doubted
that the late Mage-general would have had the courage to do such a blasphemous
thing. Well, demon or not, Roderick was determined to dispose of Aidric.

I have labored too long and too hard to let that bastard upset my
plans any further.

Ever since he was a boy old enough to understand the ways of the world,
Roderick had lusted after power. From that first taste of power he had
experienced at the tender age of seven when his father had allowed him, as his
first duty performed as the prince-heir to the throne of Mihr, to pass judgment
on a prisoner who had been caught stealing from the palace, Roderick wanted to
savor even more. There was nothing compared to the feeling of holding the power
of life or death over another human being. The only way he could accomplish
that, his young mind had reasoned, was to become king, himself, far sooner than
his father had anticipated.

To draw attention away from himself, Roderick never disclosed to his
father that he had any ambitions of his own. He made a big show of being the
lazy prince who cared nothing for the kingdom and only for his own pleasures.
It had been disgustingly easy to convince the king that he cared nothing for
the crown and was content on being the pampered prince. It was insulting,
really, that a man of his blood could have been such a fool. The thought still
made Roderick gnash his teeth in disgust.

When, at age ten, Roderick’s channeling abilities awakened, his father
had eagerly sent for a Domnae, a mage-priest from the Temple of Seni, to
instruct him, thinking that perhaps the discipline of the Domni would shape up
his son to accept his responsibilities as heir to the throne. Roderick sulked
and whined at every given opportunity, refusing to give his maximum effort
during his lessons, but secretly he hung onto every word that emerged from his
teacher’s lips and practiced hard on his mage lessons, determined to learn
everything the Domnae had to teach him before he made his move for the throne.
He stole spellbooks from the Domnae’s library and studied them at night when no
one dared to disturb him.