The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) Read online

  “My father used to trade for Southron steel,” Darik said, eyeing the blade with greater appreciation. “Kallia’s pashas paid dearly for his shipments.”

  They retrieved shields and practice swords from the armory, rounded wooden blades without a lethal edge, but heavy enough to bruise or break bones. Whelan led him through a rigorous workout, frequently stopping with pointers. The man was so strong and light on his feet that Darik’s blows frequently met nothing but air and he had to parry furiously to avoid even Whelan’s weakest attacks. He imagined what it would mean to face Whelan when he held Soultrup in his hands and not a practice sword.

  “Are you captain again?” Darik asked a few minutes later.

  “I don’t know. Soon, I hope. Nothing against my brother Roderick, but something must be done to gather the Brotherhood. I only hope that he doesn’t resist me.” He blocked a thrust from Darik’s sword, then stopped the boy to show him how to bring more force to his blows. “Why do you ask?”

  Darik paused to catch his breath. Whelan was barely breathing hard. “I don’t understand, I guess. If the king pardoned you, why would the Brotherhood still refuse to accept your return?”

  “I’m not the captain in the way you’re thinking. I can’t order a man beaten for disobeying me, for example, or force the Knights Temperate to war. Only lead them, not compel. Mainly, a captain is respected and listened to, but not much else. I believe in teaching men and women to lead themselves, and then getting the hell out of the way. Much as the Martyr taught.”

  Darik said, “Is that what the Citadel is about? Everybody doing their own thing? Is that why the Brotherhood sponsors Sanctuary?”

  Whelan nodded vigorously, swinging his practice sword at Darik’s head. But Darik remembered a similar blow at Flockheart’s aerie and blocked the attack.

  Whelan said, “Yes, that’s right. Only you can sell yourself into slavery, either body or soul, and you can redeem yourself. That’s what the Citadel means, and that’s why the dark wizard must be stopped. He thinks everyone should answer to him and him alone. The Dark Citadel is a center of power that will bring heaven and earth and everything in Mithyl under its sway.”

  They sparred for another hour, then returned to their rooms. Darik brought a basin of water from the well and washed himself, then took a spell watching the king while Markal studied in the libraries and Whelan gave Scree some exercise outside the city gates.

  Hoffan and his men straggled in at dusk. Beaten and worn from their defeat at Montcrag and their trek through the mountains, they collapsed when they climbed from their mounts, horses purchased with bandit’s gold when they reached Eriscoba. Hoffan himself looked a full stone lighter than when Darik saw him last, as did Whelan’s brother Ethan. Only Sofiana looked the same, wiry and tough as a boy. After embracing his daughter, Whelan said as much.

  “Of course she looks well-rested,” Hoffan gruffed. “I carried her over the Dragon’s Spine on my shoulders.”

  “That’s not true,” Sofiana protested. She killed Darik’s grin with a glare. “I sprained my ankle, but he only carried me for a few hours.”

  Hoffan ruffled her hair. “You’ve got your father’s surly temperament, don’t you, girl?”

  Whelan put her down, visibly relieved to see his daughter safe. “I met a griffin rider in the mountains and he said he hadn’t seen you. I was worried.”

  “With all the dragon wasps buzzing around?” Hoffan asked. “If I poked my head out, they’d have bitten it off. No, we traveled at night.”

  “I’d hoped as much,” Whelan said. “Ninny, go with Uncle Ethan. It’s best if we aren’t seen together too much right now. There are plenty of people who think I dragged you off to Balsalom against your will.”

  “Hah!” the girl said, looking angry. “I went by myself.”

  “Still, it’s best if we don’t remind people that I took away the king’s only daughter, no matter the circumstances.”

  She looked at Darik and frowned, as if jealous of the time he’d spent with Whelan, then said, “I want to go see my father—Uncle Daniel, that is.”

  Darik said, “He’s really sick. I wouldn’t trust what he says if he gets angry.”

  Sofiana snorted. “I know that. Don’t you think I know he’s sick?”

  Ethan put a hand on her shoulder to calm her, but Whelan only grinned at her spirit. Ethan said, “Come on, Ninny.”

  Hoffan’s men found quarters in the rooms of the Brotherhood. Whelan and Ethan readied themselves to leave in the morning to gather the Knights Temperate and the rest of the Brotherhood to battle, although the two men warned it would take several days to assemble a fighting force, scattered as they were by Chantmer’s quest.

  Darik and Markal went to the library while Sofiana went with Ethan to see the king. Markal showed him differences between the various scripts of the old tongue.

  “Darik,” Whelan said, coming into the library some time later. “Do you want to ride with me in the morning?”

  Excited by the offer, Darik looked at Markal, searching for a hint of displeasure in the man’s eyes. But if the wizard felt it, the emotion didn’t show. “Go with Whelan,” Markal urged. “Plenty of time for the books when you get back, should we survive the battle.”

  Relieved, Darik turned back to Whelan. He’d spent the last few hours poking through dusty tomes and glimpsing how hundreds of years of history connected. What amazed him more than anything were the wizards like Markal, who straddled history, and watched generations rise and fall before their eyes. But the knowledge and power in the room also scared Darik; he remembered the Tome of Prophesy.

  “Yes, I’d like that,” Darik told Whelan. “When do we leave?”

  “Very early. You’ll need more sleep than you got last night.”

  But Darik couldn’t sleep that night either. Because neither did King Daniel.

  Midnight found Markal and Whelan wrestling with the screaming king while Darik dabbed his face with a damp cloth. Whelan broke down at one point, weeping to see his brother reduced so low. This was too much for Darik; he hurried back to the rooms, where he threw open the window and gulped the fresh night air. The harrowing screams of the king penetrated even to his room.

  His attention fell to the Tome of Prophesy. The steel book sat open on top of his bed; he supposed Markal had left it out, although this was odd, since Markal kept it hidden even from the other wizards of the Order.

  Darik paused before he picked it up. Don’t touch it! a voice cried in his mind. He remembered how close he’d come to falling into the dark wizard’s power last time he tried to read it without Markal’s approval. And if he used it, he might draw the attentions of other seekers, such as Chantmer, or Kreth in the Cloud Kingdoms. But the urge was so compelling and felt right this time, somehow. He picked it up.

  The book lay open to a blank page, but when he took it in his hands, a picture formed across the page, painted in bright colors. In the picture Daniel sat on his bed, hands clutching into the air, while two figures fought to restrain him. Darik blinked in amazement. The two figures were clearly Whelan and Markal.

  The picture moved. The figures of Markal and Whelan struggled with the king, while he arched his back and screamed in conjunction with the actual screaming coming down the hallway. In the picture, a candle appeared on King Daniel’s bedside table, casting blue light. The blue light spread through the room and where it illuminated the air over the king’s bed, a figure appeared, a woman with a pale face and a flowing white dress. She floated in the air, lowering herself toward the king, passing through Markal and Whelan and onto Daniel. The woman wrapped her arms and legs around the king, drawing his breath into her mouth. He screamed and tried to free himself.

  Darik watched in horror, unable to move or shut the book. At last, the blue candle in the picture blinked out, leaving only the three men, still struggling, the king screaming again. The meaning was clear.

  Darik shut the book and ran for the king’s quarters. When he threw open
the door, a smothering wave of sweat, urine, and vomit overpowered him. He fought a reflex to gag and pushed his way to the bed. No sign of the blue woman.

  “Get a blue candle,” he told Markal. “Quick.”

  “What?” the two men asked simultaneously, letting the king go.

  Daniel thrashed free once more, foam flecking his lips. “Ah, Serena!”

  “Hurry,” Darik said. “A blue candle. Markal, do you know where to get one? Then hurry, go.”

  A light dawned in the wizard’s eyes. He rushed from the room, while Darik eyed the empty spot over the bed suspiciously. He saw nothing, but the air was cooler above the bed than to the side. Markal returned with the candle a moment later. He thrust the wick into the torch, catching it instantly on fire, then snuffed the torch.

  And she appeared.

  The blue woman floated over the bed, dressed in long robes. She lowered herself to the king, who shrank back in horror then struggled to get away.

  “A wight!” Whelan exclaimed. He turned and ran. Darik watched him flee the room, alarmed that he’d abandoned them.

  Markal hissed. “Tainara!”

  She released her grip on the king and rose into the air. She smiled, sending a chill into Darik’s heart. He drew back in terror. Tainara. The wife of the high khalif, murdered in Veyre ten years ago. Her death had destroyed the high khalif, much as the death of King Daniel’s wife had destroyed him.

  Tainara narrowed her eyes at Markal, “Leave us, old fool. Or you will join me in sheol, summoned forth at the whim of the dark wizard.”

  Markal made a warding sign with his fingers, but he looked small next to this woman. Small and old. The wight drained the heat from the room. But still, sweat boiled from Darik’s skin.

  “The Harvester take you,” Markal whispered.

  Tainara reared her head and laughed. “I have long prayed for such a release, you fool. But it is not my lot. Neither will it be yours.” She soared at Markal, who shrank toward the wall, fumbling out a spell of some kind.

  Whelan returned at last. Soultrup blazed in his hands. Tainara blanched and fell toward the window. But she was no mindless creature like those wights at Balsalom, and she quickly regained her courage. She cupped her hands and blew at Whelan. A frosty wind split the air, punching into Darik as it knocked Whelan to the ground. His sword clattered helplessly to one side. The woman drew a blue dagger from her robes and flew at Markal. His spell froze on his lips.

  But she had forgotten about Darik. He scrambled for Soultrup. The sword hurled itself into Darik’s surprised hands. He staggered under its weight and struggled to bring it to bear. It hummed audibly, and vibrated in his hand. He felt very much alive and aware of every movement. It was as if time slowed down or he sped up. He threw himself at the wight.

  Tainara noticed him immediately. She turned her attention and swung her dagger at Darik’s neck. He nearly fell trying to get out of the way, but Soultrup danced in his hand, parrying her blow. It swung at her head and she darted backwards, pulling her dagger up to defend herself. But at the last moment, Soultrup turned and bit into her shoulder. Eyes wide in stunned horror, Tainara turned to flee toward the window, but didn’t make it all the way around before Soultrup stabbed her back.

  “No!” she screamed and then exploded.

  The force threw Darik against the wall. Fire burst into the curtains and bedding, threatening to engulf the entire room. The chill vanished at once, replaced by a wave of heat. At last Markal got control of his magic; water showered from the ceilings and poured from the walls, struggling with the fire before the water won.

  Whelan regained his feet and checked on the king. Whelan’s cheek was scraped where it had hit the flagstones. Satisfied that Daniel was unharmed, he turned back to Darik with a surprised look on his face.

  “Apparently, Soultrup has chosen you now,” he said.

  Darik opened his mouth to protest and immediately made to drop the sword to the ground. But before he could, it leapt from his hand and returned to Whelan’s fist.

  ”Or,” Markal remarked, “maybe not. At least not yet. Well done, Darik.”

  Whelan raised his eyebrow. “It didn’t bind Tainara’s wight, I’m afraid. Soultrup doesn’t know where she is.”

  The king groaned and they turned back to his side. His eyes cleared. “Is she gone?”

  “She’s gone, my king,” Whelan said. “Go to sleep. We’ll keep vigil.”

  The king eyed Darik. “I felt you looking for me. Thank you. For a moment, I thought you were the child Serena and I could never have together. I was comforted to have a son such as you.”

  Darik nodded, still fighting to control his breathing. The king lay back and sighed. His eyes fluttered shut.

  “Are you all right?” Whelan asked Darik in a low voice, pulling him toward the window, where they joined Markal. Both men looked shaken.

  Darik swallowed hard and nodded again. He tried to take everything in, but it was overwhelming. “What happened to Tainara? Is she gone for good?”

  Hounds bayed somewhere in the city. Markal smiled at the sound. “Perhaps I drew the Harvester after all. For her sake and ours, I hope he tracks her down.”

  Whelan whistled, soft and low. He looked at the king, sleeping already. Then he turned back to Markal. “How has she avoided gathering for so many years?”

  Markal shook his head. “Force of will perhaps, like King Toth. More likely, however, the dark wizard binds her soul. Perhaps Darik’s blow weakened that binding enough for the Harvester to do his work.”

  “Yes, I hope so,” Whelan said, but he looked worried, as did the wizard. “But it didn’t weaken the binding enough for Soultrup to do its work. Still, if Darik hadn’t known what was happening, King Daniel would have joined her.”

  And who else would join this gallery of dead kings and queens assembled by the dark wizard? Darik’s thoughts turned east to Balsalom, to the khalifa and Cragyn’s child that grew inside her. A worried look passed over Whelan’s face and Darik knew that his friend had just come to the same conclusion.

  Chapter Five

  Darik and Whelan left while the rest of the Citadel slept. By all rights, Darik should be sleeping too, but Whelan had other ideas. They rode quietly through the city, avoiding the city guards but taking no care to disguise their exit in any other way. Faces appeared in windows at the sound of hoof beats on the cobbled streets, and two men lurked in the alley between two buildings, but they slipped away before Darik saw who they were. Ethan had vowed to rid the city of Veyrian spies, but until then, Whelan didn’t want to reveal their true direction. And he left Sofiana at the Citadel, to join them later, still concerned about how others perceived the delicate relationship between the girl and her two fathers. Whelan thought it best if they didn’t leave together.

  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.