Bronze Magic (Book 1)

1 Monash St,
Melton South,
Victoria, Australia 3338

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Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Paddy Mary Stentiford who,
from the other side of the world, painstakingly edited
my novel with me through all its myriad drafts.
I would also like to thank my sister Wendy Ealey who
produced the cover design and interior typesetting, and
Burnham Arlidge who painted the marvellous tree filled
with bronze magic that appears on the front cover and
throughout the book.

arkyn threw himself to the ground and rolled beneath the red
streak of light, coming up fast, close to his attacker. Before the
other sorcerer could change the direction of his shaft, Tarkyn had

surrounded himself in a translucent bronze shield. Gasping for breath, he
stood within a foot of his opponent, hands on hips, giving what he hoped
was an unnerving smile.

As soon as he had recovered, he spun himself behind Andoran, his long
black hair fanning out behind him, then dropped his shield and threw a
shaft of bronze power at his opponent’s back. Andoran ducked. Tarkyn’s
bronze beam shot over his opponent’s head and slammed into a rickety
spectator stand. A wooden upright gave way with a resounding crack.

Tarkyn watched in horror as, with ponderous grace, the makeshift
stand sagged to one side. Dozens of panic-stricken spectators scrambled
over each other, swarming onto the arena of the Harvest Tournament,
desperate to get clear before the stand collapsed. Immediately, Royal
Guards surrounded the prince and his opponent to protect them from
the rabble.

From within the ring of guards, Tarkyn glanced up at the strong, wellbuilt grandstand where the nobility and the rest of the Royal Family sat,
well out of reach of any stray tournament-strength shafts of power.

“I warned them that we should have stronger boundary shields,” he
muttered. “It is not right to place people needlessly at risk.”
Gradually, the exclamations and shouts died down as the stand stayed
stoically, if drunkenly, upright.
With a show of bravura, a scruffy young lad with more courage than
wisdom, vaulted back onto the stand and seated himself in the front row.
On hearing no creaking, a prim lady poked her beau in the ribs to push
him up the steps before her. Then she gathered her skirts and calmly
followed him to sit beside the scruffy youth in the best seats the stand
had to offer.
Seeing that the stand still held firm, the rest of the crowd, first in dribs
and drabs, then in a steady flow, remounted the structure to resume their
seats. Once the last of them was re-seated, the guards returned to their
positions around the stadium and the competitors squared off once more.
“Resume!” bellowed the referee.
The two sorcerers circled each other, each protected within his shield.
Suddenly Tarkyn’s shield winked out and he stood exposed but safe, as
long as Andoran was putting his energy into maintaining his own shield.
Andoran was now a step behind in the attack. After feinting right, then
left, the red-headed sorcerer threw himself to the left, winked out his
shield and thrust a shaft of power at the prince. But Tarkyn anticipated
him and as he sidestepped the red attack, drove a shaft of power at
Andoran that caught him cleanly in the chest.
Andoran yelped with pain, the referee blew his whistle and Tarkyn was
declared the winner.
As the prince reached out to haul his opponent up and shake his hand,
tumultuous applause erupted from thousands of watching sorcerers. They
rushed onto the arena, young and old, rich and poor, eagerly clustering
around their victorious prince, but kept at bay by a ring of protective
guards. Tarkyn grinned and waved in response, then placed his arm across
his worthy opponent’s shoulder to draw him into the congratulations.
Andoran mastered his disappointment enough to produce a rueful smile
and wave his acknowledgement to the crowd.
Only the reaction of Tarkyn’s twin brothers marred the occasion. Even
while responding to well-wishers, Tarkyn noticed the look of consternation
that passed between Prince Jarand and the king.
Concerned for my safety in
the midst of this large milling crowd, he thought glumly. I hope Kosar is not so
worried that he refuses me permission to compete again next year.
The trumpets sounded, summoning Tarkyn to stand before King
Kosar to receive the Harvest Tournament trophy. Still grinning at his
achievement, Tarkyn strode across the arena but as he approached the
king, he sobered up and with due decorum, produced a respectful bow.
When he straightened before his brother, he expected Kosar to be smiling
with pride. Instead, he received only a curt nod and a smile that did not
reach Kosar’s hard grey eyes.
“Congratulations, Tarkyn. Your power rivals our late father’s.
Impressive.” The king’s voice was formal. As he handed his youngest
brother the trophy, the crowd broke into renewed shouts of approbation.
Kosar frowned. “You appear to have developed quite a following amongst
the rabble.”
“Yes Sire. I believe all your subjects are enjoying the Harvest Festival.
Thank you for granting me the opportunity to compete.”
Throughout the presentation, Tarkyn mulled over the significance
of Kosar’s lack of enthusiasm. Kosar seemed distracted. Someone or
something had upset him.
Probably Jarand
, thought Tarkyn.
It usually is
.
At nineteen, Tarkyn was seven years his brothers’ junior and, whenever
possible, avoided the constant tensions that surrounded the throne.
Nevertheless, he passed his own actions under quick review, to assure
himself that nothing he had done could be the cause of Kosar’s ill humour.
With the formalities over, Tarkyn withdrew to change into more
formal attire; a deep blue surcoat embroidered with gold thread over a
white shirt tucked into black leggings. As soon as he returned to the
Royal Box to view the afternoon’s events, a blonde, purple-eyed sorcerer
bounced up to him and gave a small bow.
“Ah, I am pleased to see that you managed to get away from
your guard’s duties for a while, Lord Danton,” said Tarkyn, formal in a
public forum.
“Yes, Your Highness. So am I. I didn’t want to miss your match. Well
done, Sire. That was a great effort to beat Andoran. He has been practising
for weeks, you know.”
Tarkyn smiled, “I wondered about that. I was sure he had improved.”
As the afternoon wore into evening, the Royal party retired to the
great dining hall in the castle to preside over the Harvest Feast. The great
dining hall was rarely used; only on Festival days and for visiting heads
of state. Its stone vaulted ceiling soared above three rows of long, heavy
oregon tables, lit by huge candelabra and three enormous chandeliers.
Today, representatives of every guild, town and shire had been invited but
only the highest nobility sat at the king’s table.
All evening, Kosar was unusually genial to his twin brother.
Tarkyn leaned over and murmured in Danton’s ear, “The king seems
more at ease now. It is good to see my brothers getting on so well. They
seem to be at loggerheads more often than not, these days.”
“Yes Sire, it is certainly more congenial when they are in harmony with
each other,” said Danton carefully.
Tarkyn raised an eyebrow. “But…?”
Danton grimaced, “But someone else always suffers when they unite.”
“With justification, I presume?” A note of hauteur warned Danton to
go no further.
Danton met the unwavering gaze of Tarkyn’s amber eyes and heaved a
small sigh. “Just so, Sire.” A few minutes later, he stood and bowed, “If
you will excuse me, Sire, I am on guard duty on the east gate of the city
in two hours’ time. I will attend you tomorrow.”
Tarkyn nodded farewell and returned his attention to the steady but
discreet stream of well-wishers who, throughout the evening, had been
vying for a chance to offer their congratulations.
By midnight, the last guests had been finally ushered out. The rigours
of the tournament followed by an afternoon in the glare of the public eye,
had taken its toll. Tarkyn took his leave of his family and fell into bed
exhausted, his mind spinning with the events of the day. Gradually, the
castle fell silent and Tarkyn fell asleep.
In the early hours of the morning, his quiet was shattered by someone
thumping on his bedchamber door. When he dragged himself out of
bed to answer the door, tousled and half asleep, Tarkyn found himself
surrounded by embarrassed guardsmen who requested politely but firmly
that he accompany them to the Great Hall.
The prince frowned, then nodded curtly, “Send for my man.”
When the guards hesitated, Tarkyn met the eyes of one man he had
known since childhood and raised an eyebrow, “Is it so urgent? Surely
you do not expect me to present myself in my night garments?”
Despite his orders, the guard bowed, “Your Highness, the king is even
now awaiting your presence. But I will assist you to dress, if you will
allow me.”
As the prince inclined his head graciously, no one could have known
the disquiet he felt at being isolated from his servants. The guards waited
awkwardly while the prince dressed, unhurriedly but not gratuitously
wasting time until, with a final nod at his reflection, Tarkyn indicated
that he was ready.
Under normal circumstances, no guard would dare to lay hands on
him, and Tarkyn was not sufficiently concerned at this point to put it to
the test, instead allowing himself to be escorted to the Great Hall. For
their part, the guards made no move to restrain him.
Their footsteps echoed in the quiet of the night as they strode down
the polished stone corridor of the palace, past closed bedchamber
doors behind which palace advisors, courtiers and their families lay
sleeping. For the guardsmen, the statues and portraits that they passed
represented the history of Eskuzor and the bedrock of its society, while
the quiet prince they escorted was a living embodiment of that heritage.
But for Tarkyn, it was more than that; he walked between ranks of his
own family, stretching back over forty-eight generations of monarchs:
some frowning down at him, some regarding him benignly, many of
them great rulers, and others whose lives were mentioned only in hushed
whispers. Their heritage demanded high expectations of him but also
provided a foundation of strength and dominion stretching back over a
thousand years.
They reached the top of the sweeping stone staircase. Except for the
guards standing on either side of the great, carved wooden doors at the
front of the palace, the entrance hall was deserted.Without a word,
the soldiers marched with their charge down the stairs and out into
the night.
The shuttered shops of Tormadell’s main street presented blind eyes
to the procession that passed before them. If anyone watched, they did
so without betraying their presence. As they passed an alley, an orange
cat streaked out into the road and seeing the soldiers, stopped dead,
arching its back and hissing its displeasure at them. In an upstairs room,
a baby started crying and a dim light was kindled but no one came to the
window to witness the passage of the prince.
When they entered the Great Hall, Tarkyn saw that it had been set
up as a court. At the far end, the king sat behind a huge raised wooden
table with Prince Jarand by his side. Tarkyn’s stomach turned over as he
wondered wildly what he had done. He realised his knees had begun
to tremble and he hoped desperately that they would hold him as he
walked down the length of the hall. When finally he stood before his
brother, Tarkyn gave a low bow. His heart thumped slowly within his
chest, beating time with a vein in his temple, as he straightened and
stared up at his brother, “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”
Suddenly Tarkyn found himself plunged from lauded victor to
accused felon, standing trial on a charge of damaging public property
and endangering life. In a daze, he listened as his own brother passed
sentence on him; that he must foreswear his magic for four years or face
imprisonment. With rising panic, he knew he could not allow them to
take his magic. Nor could he face imprisonment. Once he was away from
public sight, he knew he would never see the light of day again. Faced
with the horror of such a future, Tarkyn threw up his shield.
Kosar leaned forward and glared down at him. “Tarkyn, how dare you
defy me? You will accept the judgement of this court.”
“My liege, please, I cannot.” Tarkyn went down on one knee. “Sire, I have
always been your loyal subject. The public stand should have had shields to
protect it from off-target shafts of power. I raised this with the organisers
before the tournament, but they dismissed my concerns. Other shafts went
wide. The only difference is that mine hit a stand. Please reconsider.”
But justice played no part in Tarkyn’s trial and so his plea was irrelevant.
“Even if I may have reconsidered before, the fact that you raise your
shield against me shows us all too clearly the limits of your loyalty and
the reason that your magic must be forfeited.” Kosar glared at him, “My
judgement stands. Release your shield!”
Tarkyn’s heart hardened within him. Never again would he bend his
knee in submission. He stood slowly and straightened to his full height.
He glanced around the room at the closed faces of the guards. No one
met his eyes. He brought his gaze back to bear on his brother and said
with quiet dignity, “I am truly sorry, Your Majesty...but I will not.”
A charged silence followed. At the king’s nod, the guards closed in.
“Bring him to me when he succumbs,” ordered Kosar. With that,
Jarand and he rose and passed through a private exit, leaving their
younger brother to his fate.
Tarkyn stood motionless within his bronze dome, head held high,
masking his desperation. For a moment, no one moved.
Then one guard, more jittery than the rest, threw a bolt of blue power
at him. Tarkyn flinched. But instead of blocking the power, Tarkyn’s
shield reflected it, dropping the guard like a stone.
Pandemonium broke out. Tarkyn held his focus, knowing nothing
could touch him, if he held firm. But now, every guard in the room
attacked. Swords, arrows and beams of magic drove at the beleaguered
prince from all sides. Every arrow or shaft of power that struck the bronze
dome around him reflected back at a different angle, ricocheting around
the Great Hall, injuring and killing guards randomly.
The air fizzed with a maze of dazzling colours as shafts of magic zigzagged crazily around the Great Hall. All around him guards died, either
killed by reflected power or arrows. The constant assault of ricocheting
power pockmarked the vast cream walls of the Hall, sending chunks of
plaster spraying down on the unshielded guardsmen. But still the guards
kept up their attack. In the midst of it all, Tarkyn simply stood there,
stunned into immobility but rigidly holding his focus, as arrows, beams
of magic and masonry assailed him from every side before careening off
his shield to add to the bedlam.
Then cracks began to appear in the ceiling and pillars. Within
moments, aggression turned to fear. Anyone left standing turned tail and
ran. With the imminent collapse of the Great Hall, the guards’ desperate
efforts to save themselves thrust all other considerations aside.
Dimly, Tarkyn realised that while the guards were preoccupied, he had
to find a way out. Unnoticed, he crawled beneath the huge wooden table
and finally released his shield. He strained his mind to remember the
words of the re-summoning spell he had read, desperately hoping that
he could make it work. He drew a deep breath and, focusing his will on
his surcoat, muttered, “