A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) (10 page)

Leaping to his feet, Tallen’s dry voice croaked. “Thank you, sir.”

“We’ll see if you thank me in the end.” The mage laughed an odd chuckle. He waved his hand once the door was open. “Come on lad.”

Ardric’s father looked at Tallen with sour scorn. He walked to the man. “I am sorry about Ardric, sir. I would never have meant him any harm. I—”

“Begone, boy,” he spat. “I’ll hear none of your words.”

Tallen nodded his head and stepped out the door.

Glynn and Dawne both waited in the outer room. Dawne tackled him with a hug. His brother slapped him on the back, a bright smile upon his face.

“Told you I’d get you out! Lucky these gentlemen showed up on their way back east to have some of your stew.”

Tallen gulped behind his smile. “I’ll make some fresh for you right away, sirs.”

The mage lifted an eyebrow. “Enjoy your kitchen. It will be your last night there for a long while.”

Sobering his tone, Tallen cocked his head. “What do you mean? I just got free”

Glynn’s smile faded, and Dawne squeezed him harder.

The mage’s grin widened. “You’ll be coming with us. And you’re mine to train until you leave for the Isle of Wizards.”

Tallen’s heart thumped in his throat. He wondered if it pounded out of fear or excitement. “Why?”

The mage inclined his head. “You are definitely a Dreamer. That often brings a great deal more with it. Strength in the Aspect of Psoul usually means strength in one or more of the others.”

“Oh, Tallen!” Dawne cried into his chest.

The general turned that predator gaze on him again, sinking Tallen’s heart even further. He replaced it with a smile, almost hidden behind his untrimmed mustache – a smile that gave Tallen hope. “My name is Earl Boris Mourne.” The general nodded his head and stretched out his hand. “My men will tell you that I don’t stand on formality, so you may call me Boris.”

The mage slapped leather gloves against his hip. “My name is Magus Joslyn Britt. You will address me as Magus Britt.” He gestured toward the door. “By the way, if you intend on serving us a stew tonight, you had better get to it. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”

And the Paladin Farina laid her hands upon Danewid. Her power closed his grievous wounds, drawing him back from death. They kissed one last time, before he drew his flaming sword and returned to the battle.

— “A Legend of Forbidden Love” by Mardon Transton

T
he mist spraying from one of the dozen falls forming Crystal Lake exhilarated Tomas Harte. He climbed along the slick, mossy rock at its edge. Spring brought warmth earlier than usual this year. Once he reached the top of the little lip of stone, Tomas looked out over the plain of Harlong. Harte Castle rose on a hill not half a mile away. He turned to his left and gazed upon the vast stretch of the Northwood. It folded in green waves all the way into the Dragonscale Mountains looming beyond.

Tomas watched the spray plummet to the wide, clear water below. The Crystal Lake earned its name, filled by a dozen streams that tumbled down from the tallest peaks of the Dragonscales. The snowmelt, remaining cold when it reached the lower plain, flowed onward to Crystalport and the Green Bay.

I find real peace only in my family home. Too bad I am the last of us.
He reached his hands into the shower of water, cupped them, and pulled the sweet coolness to his lips. The minerals from the crisp mountain water danced on his tongue. Tomas pulled in a deep draught, the tattooed sigil on the back of his right hand glittering in the sunlight, when he shook off the remaining drops of water. The pearlescent half of his paladin’s mark shimmered against the coal black half. It reminded him of why he hid in this beautiful desolation.

He sighed in futility. “The High Elder is not the only power in the Temple.”

Tomas remembered the brisk autumn day last year when he had entered the High Elder’s private study at the Cathedral. He had watched the entire Isle prepare for winter’s arrival while awaiting the last ship home to Harlong. Varon Hastrian bundled himself in his heavy robes and stoked the fire with fresh pine. The fat man looked no more than a pile of laundry sitting in a wide, comfortable chair near the flames.

The elder pushed pursed lips out from his jowls. “Will you spend winter upon the Isle, Brother Tomas?”

Removing his gloves, Tomas draped them through his swordbelt. “I had considered returning to the capital. I am the only paladin in Gannon right now.”

The elder steepled chubby fingers in front of his squat nose. “Do you intend to take your family seat upon the Common Council? It has been years since you sat there.”

Tomas warmed his fingers at the fire. “I made the decision long ago that my vows as a Paladin of Balance superseded my role on the council. I have offered to name a proxy to speak for the people of Harlong.”

Shaking his head, the elder waved a single finger at Tomas. “The Common Council is not for common people, despite its name. You know the law states that a proxy must be a member of the ruling house.” Hastrian reached to the tray on his side table. It held a dozen pickled baby eels. Their green skin glittered in the firelight. The black and white robed man slurped one down with a slight giggle.

“You really should try one.” He gestured toward the tray. “They are quite spectacular.”

“Thank you, elder, no.” Tomas straightened his leather cuirass with a sharp, downward tug. “Speaking of the council—I know that the rules of the priestly order are less…stringent…than those of the paladins, but do you think it appropriate for any ordained member of the Temple of Balance to sit upon the High Council? Especially one so exalted as…” Tomas swallowed. “…the High Elder. When you took the Lord Magister’s seat, did you not see how you threaten to shift the Balance yourself?”

Hastrian swallowed another eel. He did not seem to notice that the liquor spilled out the corner of his mouth and ran down his flabby chin. “I did not
take
the Lord Magister’s seat. King Arathan
offered
it to me. The Lord Magister willingly stepped down to the Common Council. The vacancy he took had sat there for years, much like your own position.”

Tomas’ beard itched in frustration, despite the fact he kept it neatly trimmed. “The Druidess left the council because she felt the imbalance even before I did. She chose to hide. I choose to meet it.”

“Hah!” The elder slurped another eel, this one juiced with a lemon. He gulped it down with a ravenous smile, before wiping his face on a sleeve. “The Druidess is a fool. Let her rot in the Deepwood. You should not be a fool.
You
should take your seat on the Commons in support of the Temple. Work with me to build our future along with that of Gannon.” His smile widened, spreading wrinkles of fat across his jowls and neck. “This imbalance you say you feel…” The elder did not fool Tomas with his false sincerity. “…would it not behoove you to fight it with me from the next tier of the royal dais? You could bring a great deal of wisdom to the entire council.”

Shaking his head, Tomas turned his back on the High Elder. “You do not understand. It is the Temple’s very involvement in Gannon’s rule that threatens the Balance. Too much Order can be as harmful to the Balance as too much Chaos. It is not the place of the Temple to rule the people.” He shook his head. “We offer them wisdom, perhaps give them justice, but we do not command. I will have no part in it.” Tomas stalked out of the High Elder’s study.

He had given the ship captain a hefty purse to take him directly to Crystalport. His ride up the Crystal River had brought back more memories. The winter that followed was cold, but the hearths of Harte Castle kindled bright and cheery fires. Now, however, the inevitable arrival of spring brought sequestered thoughts back to Tomas’ mind.

“I cannot hide here forever,” he said to the waterfalls. They answered with nothing but babble.

If only father had known his youngest son would be forced to inherit. He would never have made me take my vows. Then I could fairly sit on the council seat for the people of Harlong. I could fight the elder and his cronies.
“But I will not compromise my vows,” he called out to the oblivious torrents surrounding him. “I swore to maintain the Balance, not skew it to any particular advantage—not even my own.” Tomas sighed, allowing his emotions to boil off into the cascade. “Not even my own people…” He focused on the rainbow formed under the noonday sun by the mists, using the techniques of his order to calm his mind and spirit. “One cannot fight Fire with Fire…”

Winds that whipped down from the Dragonscales remained his only answer from the world. With one last draught of the fresh, mountain water, he descended from the pinnacle. His hands grasped the slippery rock with the certainty of having climbed here many times before, seeking solace and center to his being.

A loud snort greeted him when he returned to the lake’s edge. Fireheart trotted over, his gray coat still somewhat thick from winter’s chill. The stallion nudged Tomas with a wide muzzle.

“I wish I had oats for you, old boy.” Tomas scratched the horse’s head. “We’ll get you fed back at the castle.” He pulled his swordbelt from the saddle horn and slipped it around his waist. Steelsheen’s weight felt reassuring on his hip.

With a quick hop into the saddle, he guided Fireheart toward Harte Castle. The stallion made good time, eager for spring exercise.

Tomas caught the scent of blossoms still clinging to the cherry and apple trees in the old orchard where he had played as a child.
Summer is the most beautiful season in Harlong. Perhaps I will stay here with my people. They need me as much as anyone does.
Fireheart tromped across the drawbridge before he knew it, so distracted were his thoughts. He looked down and smiled at the large swirls moving over the surface of the moat.
It would not hurt my own inner Balance to spend a little time with a fishing pole.

Inside the central courtyard, Tomas dismounted, and with a good pat of Fireheart’s withers, he passed the reins to his groom. The young man bowed and led the stallion off toward the stable. Before Tomas climbed the steps to the inner keep, a woman with a pinched face and her hair pulled into a tight, white bun greeted him with a sniff.

“Did Milord enjoy his morning ride?”

Tomas tugged off his gauntlets. “It served its purpose, Manifred.”

“These are the preliminary lists of planted fields and what the farmers have sown in them,” she said, handing him a sheaf of papers and pulling a stylus from her hair bun. “There is also a list of fallow plots. The remaining documents list the likely lumbering areas for this summer, as well as estimates of animal reproduction.”

Tomas groaned. He missed his older brothers often, but seldom so much as when the details of running Harlong required his eye. “Must I?” He smiled at the crease in the woman’s forehead and reached for the papers. “I will take them with me to my study and go over them in detail, Mani. Please send up a lunch.”

Her frown lessened. “Of course, Milord. Just be certain to initial each page as you finish it.”

Tucking the sheaf under his arm, Tomas chuckled. He trotted up the last few steps to the front doors. Inside stretched the great hall of his fathers, though it was not so large by modern Gannonite standards.
Only because it is older than all of their buildings. My ancestors remained during the Exile. My ancestor knelt to the Navigator upon his return…all in the name of peace.

Twisting the steel band on his finger, he trotted up the staircase to his private floor. The Harte signet ring carried more centuries upon it than the castle. One of Tomas’ ancestors had etched words upon it in a language that predated Common Tongue, a human derivation of ancient Elvish.
Copus Eptu
—Face Facts.

“Grandfather,” he had asked as a child after a visit by one of the Snowbourne Barons, “why does our family not have a motto like that of House Darax?
Strong as Stone
. Ours seems weak by comparison.”

His grandfather had laughed. The old Lord Harte had been a jovial man, unlike Tomas’ aloof father. “I’d like to see Baron Maydon punch the walls of Harte Castle. Then we would see just how ‘Strong as Stone’ his fist really is.” The old man’s face sharpened. He cupped his grandson’s shoulders. “Facing facts means accepting reality, even when you don’t want to believe it. It means knowing when you can fight, or – like Roman Harte did four centuries ago – knowing when you cannot. He was outnumbered a thousand to one when Aravath the Navigator turned his eyes northward.”

The memory tasted bittersweet, as did most thoughts of Tomas’ long lost family.

Slipping off the leather cuirass, he walked down a long, windowed hall overlooking the courtyard. A line of doors on his left led to several rooms reserved for the members of House Harte. Most sat empty, with sheet-covered furnishings. Tomas had not entered some of those rooms since his eldest brother died with his entire family during the Bloody Flux.

If only I had been here at the time… Ten years I have ruled this house. Ten years it has ruled me. I love it, but I am chained to it
.

One of the last doors opened into his study. He basked in the wave of nostalgia that washed over him as he entered. When he was a child, this room had been his father’s private refuge. Tomas draped his cuirass over the leather sofa, and then hung his steel on the back of a chair. The warm smell of books and centuries of good pipe smoke calmed his nerves.

“Perhaps I will remain in my homeland for the summer.” Tomas gazed out the wavy glass windows onto the slate roof of the great hall. “The Balance knows I have paperwork to keep me busy.” He tossed the sheaf of parchment onto his grandfather’s desk and sat down. “I trust that Mani knows what she is doing. She’s been doing it since
I
was a child.”

However, his sense of duty would not allow him to simply sign each page. Tomas took the time to skim the first few. Before long, their content trapped his inquisitive mind in a twisting maze of numbers and facts. He was engrossed in a report concerning the new piglet population when a knock came at his door. His stomach growled a reply before his mouth could.

“Please, come in.”

The girl who brought the platter in had been born on the castle grounds. She gave a quick curtsey before entering the room.

“Thank you, Denna.” Tomas gave her a generous smile. “You may place it on the desk and go get your own lunch.”

The girl set the tray of roast beef, brown bread, and spring radishes on the table. Curtsying again before turning to leave, she flashed a smile and closed the study door behind her.

Tomas smeared a daub of mustard onto the bread and followed it with a large slice of the peppered beef. He turned the pages with one hand and held his sandwich with the other. Soon the entire meal disappeared, though he had not yet read half the papers. Steeling himself with a deep, refreshing swig from the mug of ale, he dived into the rest of the sheaf.

By the time he initialed the last page, the sun had set a deep orange through the windows behind him. He placed the goose quill pen into its stand and gazed at the fiery heavens through glass so aged that the panes thinned at their tops.

“At least that is done.” He rose from the leather chair, soft with age. He caressed its back, remembering the many generations who had sat there.