Master of the Five Magics Read online

  “But you know, father, the competition runs keen for Vendora’s hand.” Feston laughed. “I was but the second man to challenge Bandor’s vassals on the high wall. Some fool thaumaturge was there before me, somehow planning to stop the rush with but a single blade. I suppose to be fair, I should have given him his chance first.”

  “Yes, it would have served him right to take on such pretense as to be a man-at-arms,” Festil replied. “These people have their uses, but they should also know the limits of proper behavior.”

  Alodar flung his half-filled bowl of swill to the ground, red flushing his cheeks, too fatigued to let the irritation pass by. “The defense of Iron Fist rests as heavily on our shoulders as it does upon you lofty lords,” he blurted. “Without the thaumaturge, carpenter, and smith, these walls would have fallen long ago. Fault me not for picking up a sword when it was needed. It is far more than I have seen you do when the rubble was cleared or the horses fed.”

  The crowd fell abruptly silent, and Feston turned to see who accosted him. “Well, well, if it is not the budding hero?” he said. “And what would you have done with your great prowess at arms? Dispatched a dozen men to my nine or ten?”

  “I claim no great skill at arms, my lord Feston,” Alodar said slowly. “Thaumaturgy is my trade and I am here only by chance. I follow an itinerant master from settlement to outpost, earning what we can by applying our craft where it is needed. Had not the siege doors slammed shut, we would be long gone from this place and our paths never crossed. But we are here, all of us together, lord and man alike. And each of us, mason, carpenter, smith, tanner, and flockmaster, aids our common cause as best he can. I do not envy you your skill at arms, only question your judgment that its value far exceeds what I have to offer.”

  Feston advanced slowly back to stand directly in front of Alodar, eyes glaring down from his extra six inches of height. “Do I hear your right, most bold journeyman? Your trade of equal worth to a man-at-arms? If so, then tell me quickly now how much training have you received at the hands of warmaster Cedric in his sparring yard in Ambrosia? How many lives has your blade cut short? How many battles for Procolon have you won? How many great deeds in the sagas relate to the smith or carpenter? How many times has your like been hero of the day? Yes, perhaps even hero of the realm?”

  Feston’s supporters broke into laughter at his ridicule, and Alodar breathed deeply to maintain what composure he had left. “No, my lord, the sagas are silent indeed on what you speak,” he said at last. “But mark you, suppose that lowly Alodar be born to the table of mighty lord Festil, and Feston scion to doomed Alodun. What then of my chance to be a hero, with blade paid for with gold, with training in arms from the likes of this Cedric, with soft bed and groaning board always provided for? And what then of yours, forced to survive as but you could, grabbing at whatever trade gave you enough coin to feed your belly and keep out the cold?”

  Feston eyed Alodar’s lean form, tilted his head back and drowned out even his chorus with his booming laugh. “Sweetbalm, might the blackest demons aid the house of Festil, were the likes of you born to be heir. Know you that I am marshall of the west wall, hero of the day, and the mirrors know what else, because I deserve it so. The blood of glory runs in my veins, and I will burn my name into as many pages of legend as I am able. I and men like me will chart the destiny of Procolon with as firm a grip of iron as this castle has upon the plain. And for that stewardship the men of this land sing grateful praise.”

  Before Alodar could reply, someone in the background shouted, “Hail Feston, hero of the day and savior of Iron Fist.” The crowd took up a rhythmic chant, drowning out any chance of Alodar’s being heard. Feston turned slowly around in a small circle, arms folded across his chest, and attempted a stern smile to acknowledge the accolade. Alodar looked at the throng as well and saw adoration on every shouting face. He spotted the first archer he had attended raising his good arm and yelling hoarsely, unmindful of who had saved his life. Even Morwin could not resist the hypnotic tug of the rhythm and shouted with the rest.

  After a minute, Feston raised his arms to stop the cheers, and the courtyard fell silent, under his complete control. With even heavier sarcasm, he addressed Alodar again. “And what makes you aspire to rise above your station so, journeyman? Could it be that you hope by such a feat to turn the head of our fair lady away from true men-at-arms and upon your own heroic profile?”

  To his own surprise, Alodar’s cheeks flushed involuntarily as he thought of the beauty of the queen.

  “Sweetbalm, my son,” Festil’s deep voice roared, “you have hit upon it. This shamed varlet’s son seeks no less than Vendora herself and truly to be hero of the realm. You had best redouble your efforts tomorrow to stay in contention.”

  The crowd crowed with laughter in unison with the guffaws of the retainers, drowning out any of Alodar’s sudden protestations. The noise echoed across the courtyard and seemed to him louder than any of the din of battle. He looked about for a sympathetic face; finding none, he lowered his eyes to wait until they tired of the sport. Eventually the noise began to subside, and the charge, “Feston, hero of the day,” started again in its place. The men-at-arms resumed their pace towards the tower, and the crowd fell in behind, cheering them on. Alodar looked up and, seeing no eyes still upon him, headed in the opposite direction across the courtyard, torn between the tugs of haste and decorum.

  In a moment, he was alone. Seething in his own thoughts, he paced along the wall into the night. He struggled to submerge again the memories of hurt and frustration, but this time they would not go. He ran his hands through the many pockets of his cape, trying to concentrate on the contents he found there, enumerating the ways in which they aided him in his trade.

  Had he fooled himself all this while, pretending that it did not matter? Accepting what deep inside he could not? Choosing to float and seek, when he should fight the current, no matter how swift? Is that why, regardless of what he had tried, it always seemed the same, empty, incomplete? With an uneasiness that was compelling, pushing him onward to yet another craft? If he was a lord’s son, could he truly rest content until he was what fate has chosen for him to be?

  He stopped and filled his lungs as the anger did not cool but boiled higher within him. By the laws, he was as much a man as Feston or any of his peers! If not by deed then by birth, every respect shown Feston was his by right as well. Enough of drifting; he would accept half rations as his lot no longer.

  Alodar let his breath out slowly and threw his head back, eyes closed, trying with reason to divert from the path his emotions were taking him. But how? How could he grasp what had eluded his father’s every effort and in the end crushed his spirit from him? Whenever Alodar had dared to consider it in the past, the answer had always been the same. First try reason, then plead, and finally beg as they tossed him out of each manor in which once he was welcome.

  What would make the likes of a Feston meet him eye to eye, weigh courteously what he would say, force from the noble’s memory whatever had befallen Alodar’s house before? No, even better! Feston should meet him on bended knee in recompense for what has happened and with the deference such as that shown to the queen.

  Alodar blinked his eyes open and jerked his head forward fully alert. The queen, he thought, a beauty who would be the fair prize of a quest from the sagas. A queen besieged, who had yet to select her hero of the realm. A queen naturally gracious to whomever might rescue her from the peril in which she was now ensnared. Title and estate restored would be the least of her favors. And the hero of the realm. For him they would be forced to bend their knees.

  He looked up at the night sky, the tension suddenly gone, his lips curving into a slight smile as he savored the image forming in his mind.

  He envisioned himself rounding the corner to the main throughfare that led to the palace gates. The roar of the crowd intensified and he patted his mount gently on the neck to soothe already jangled nerves. From the second and third st
ories which dotted the way, streamers and confetti rained down onto an already clogged street, and many a lesser building seemed on the verge of collapse from the humanity it carried.

  Royal guardsmen paced slowly ahead trying to clear a way for the procession. Young girls sighed as he passed, batting eyes or gesturing outrageously to catch his attention.

  “Alodar, Alodar the hero, Alodar the savior of the fair lady, Alodar of Procolon,” the crowds shouted over and over without tiring, each small group trying to drown out the rest as he passed. And Alodar smiled and waved expansively. He glanced over his shoulder at his groomsmen who followed and saw them riding straight and tall, sharing in the fame that showered down on their leader and touching them as well.

  Far too quickly the concourse was traveled and Alodar and his guard dismounted at the base of the wide gate that led to the house of the rulers of Procolon. The crowd momentarily fell silent and trumpets sounded from within with the voluntary of the queen. With regal slowness the gates parted and, five abreast, the nobility marched down the steps to meet the one who had saved the queen.

  White-haired lord Festil was first. With a dramatic flourish of his cape he fell to one knee and bowed his head.

  “Where you command, may you see fit to let me follow,” he said. “Your deed will forever shine in my heart and in those who come after me.”

  He stepped back into line and Feston swore his allegiance in turn. In quick precision the barons of the outlands, the lords of the fortress towns, and the lesser nobles as well knelt and gave Alodar the accolade of the hero.

  The trumpets blared again and Vendora appeared unaccompanied at the gateway. With a long gown trailing behind she gracefully glided down the steps to extend Alodar her hand. Alodar knelt before Vendora and kissed her offered hand and she immediately bade him rise.

  The fantasies raced on as Alodar continued his pacing, unmindful of the time. Finally, as the moon rose against the gatehouse of the east, he broke out of his reverie as he saw Morwin’s lazy shuffle coming his way.

  “Ah, there you are, Alodar. Thinking of another scheme to get the attention of the lords on the morrow?”

  Alodar wrinkled his brow and his eyes shot flame at the apprentice. “Listen, Morwin, I strive to break this ring of siege as much as anyone, but by the laws, I will no longer abide some popinjay taking more credit than is his due. I tell you this, the battle is not yet over and we shall see who is most deserving of the chant of the crowd and who the ridicule.” He paused, recalling his newly found resolve. “And yes, the hand of the fair lady.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he stomped off to seek sleep in what remained of the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Castle’s Secret

  THE next morning Alodar again was roused out of deep slumber, but this time the figure bending above him was shrouded in black cape and hood.

  “Master Periac?” Alodar squinted through sleep-filled eyes. “I had almost given you up for lost in the underground chambers. We have not seen you for days.”

  “Yes, it is I,” Periac said, pushing back his hood and patting into place his ruffled black hair. His temples were bare; but, by judicious positioning, he was able to cover the bald spot on the top of his head. His watery, pale blue eyes straddled a nose too small for the blocky face, and his mouth was hidden top and bottom by white flecked hair.

  “I have been busy with contemplation, Alodar, busy with contemplation. A well turned thought may save the fevered activities of many. In any event, I trust you have conducted yourself to credit our craft in my absence. A good reputation goes a long way towards unlocking the next door, as I have often instructed you. But there is no time for lecture now. We must go at once for audience with the queen.”

  Alodar immediately sat up, eyes wide awake. A chance for information, he thought. Information for the plan that I must soon put into shape.

  “But Morwin and I are assigned to aid Feston’s men on the west wall, master,” he said with distaste, “and should prepare for the bombardment soon to begin.”

  “There is no time for that; it will wait. The queen summons and we will go. It is an opportunity, and we must use it as best we can for advantage. A queen’s gratitude goes even further than reputation.”

  Alodar smiled and Periac’s brows knit into a frown.

  “Do not presume you know already the full value of what I instruct, Alodar,” he said. “You are quick to learn, yes, and have experienced more of the craft than those who have spent twice the time as journeymen. The best that I have had, I truly admit. But the practice of thaumaturgy and living with profit from it can come only from patiently following what a master has to pass on to you.”

  “But have I not correctly performed whatever you have asked of me?” Alodar asked, rising to his feet. “And then eagerly pressed for more?”

  “It is exactly that impatience of which I speak, Alodar,” Periac said, stroking his goatee. “One evening’s discussion on the weaker similarities of form, the next day a single trial with stream-rounded pebbles and a few acorns, and then you are done with it. Why, when I studied, I spent more than a year on that one subject alone. You seem less interested in learning thaumaturgy than in just getting through it. But as I have often said, there is no great mystery revealed at the end. You become a master by solid progress, not by superficial dabbling or sudden revelation.”

  “I do not fault your methods, master,” Alodar said. “The haste comes from beyond the boundaries of the craft. Look, when you were a journeyman, how sure were you to dedicate your life to the art?”

  “Why, there was no question,” Periac said. “My father and uncles were masters before me. From their hands I learned my trade. No other calling did I consider.”

  “And had I come to manhood a nobleman and a nobleman’s son, then I think I would have felt the same,” Alodar said. “Content with my lot, not questioning what else could be. But instead, I have raced through thaumaturgy as I have the rest, seeking the mystery that you say is not there, the feeling that this indeed is what I really am.”

  Periac stared at Alodar for a moment in silence. “You have the makings of a master in you, Alodar,” he said. “But that feeling will come only when you are truly worthy of it.”

  He paused again, and then suddenly drew his cape around him. “But enough of this for now. The business of the moment is the audience with the queen.”

  Periac started for the keep in the center of the courtyard. As the barrage began, Alodar ran to catch up with his mentor.

  Once inside the keep, they spiraled several times around the staircase along the inner wall before they arrived at the level of the queen. One of the two guards with crossed halberds at the doorway checked a list with his free hand and motioned them to enter.

  Beyond the doorway, Alodar found himself in a large, quiet anteroom, with smooth stone walls hung with tapestries that damped the battle’s din. Low benches and stools, covered with rich velvet and scattered about like a child’s cast of jackstones, cluttered the entire floor. Two more men guarded a small archway draped with a thick curtain, and from time to time a page emerged and called out a name to the group sitting or pacing about. In response, one of the waiting men would spring up and follow the page when he just as quickly disappeared. No one ever returned; presumably they all left after their conference by some other door. From time to time, additional messengers burst into the room and proceeded unchecked through the curtain, waving hastily scrawled notes on the progress of the fighting down below.

  Time passed, and Alodar saw Periac settle into a comfortable introspection, staring off into space. He tried to imitate the master as best he could, but the anticipation made the time crawl. The shadow from the window to the east diminished to nothing, and the one from the west had grown nearly full length when finally the page motioned them to come forth.

  As the guard pulled back the curtain and Periac stooped to enter, Alodar understood why he had been asked to attend. The inner room was tape
stried like the first, but almost devoid of furnishings. In its very center stood a long, oaken table with seats for eight. Seven of the chairs were occupied by Vendora and her advisors, and behind each stood an attendant arrayed in the colors of his master. Periac took the seat at the foot of the table, and Alodar stood behind him, gripping the chair back in imitation of the others.

  He looked down the length of the table at Vendora and saw that she wore a sea-blue dress deeply cut in front with a large aquamarine snuggled like a nesting egg in the cleavage of her breast. Her hair coiled in elaborate wavelets, framed by a sparkling tiara. In regal attire, she seemed impersonal and distant, less of a woman and more like a trophy to be placed on the mantle at the end of an adventure.

  On her right sat lord Festil, arms folded across his chest and his back ramrod straight. To her left, lady Aeriel rose to speak, and Alodar noticed she wore the same clothing as when he had seen her before, tunic and leggings on a pleasing slender form, dagger at the waist, but on her right side rather than the left. Her hair was shoulder length and simply kept, and her cheeks were clear and fresh, covered with freckles scattered about like a sunburst through a willow tree. She glanced down at Periac and Alodar, and her dark eyes smiled encouragement as she began.

  “We have solicited and heard diverse suggestions today, my lords, from commander to soldier alike, on how we might break the grip that tightens about us,” she said. “But we must leave no possibility unexamined, and I have recommended to our fair lady that we hear also what the common craftsman has to offer for our cause.”

  “The hour grows late, my fair lady,” interrupted Festil, “to waste our time in so fruitless a manner. Exactly what is it that you would perform for true men-at-arms, tradesman? How will your pox healing and wart removal gain us deliverance when sword and shield will not?”

  “My lord Festil,” Periac responded in a voice cool with deliberation, “judge the potency of my craft not merely by the practices you see about you. These wastelands are but one corner of the world. Here by tradition, for want of a better reason, thaumaturgy and the other arts play but a small part in warfare. But I assure you that in realms elsewhere, my craft has a bigger role in deciding affairs of state.”