Changing Of The Guard (Book 6) (12 page)

He passed these onlookers, unheeding of their stares.

Will followed behind.

A guard stepped forward to block his way. It was a sergeant, a man named Harol—one of Darien’s many friends in the city’s service. He wore the leathered plate of Dorfort’s guard under layers of cloth and fur. The city’s red and yellow insignia blazed on his shield. His eyes were brown marbles that gazed directly at Garrick, seemingly unfazed by his aura of power.

“Where is Darien?” Garrick asked.

Harol’s eyes hardened further. “Not where he should be.”

Garrick paused. “What’s wrong?”

“The Captain is in the chamber hall with the gaggle of mages that wear your colors.”

“Isn’t that to be expected?” said Will.

“Not when he should be minding funeral arrangements.”

Garrick’s heart dropped. “Commander J’ravi?”

Harol stared at him. “He passed last eve.”

“Dour news,” Garrick said.

“Yes, it is. But today the Toreans have something important going on, so Lord Darien is too preoccupied to attend to his father’s arrangements. I stand guard over the funeral room until he can be available.”

Garrick nodded. “I am sorry to hear this.”

The guard gave a sigh, and the muscles across his forehead relaxed. Despite appearances, he had been afraid of what Garrick might do.

“What issue is taking Darien away?”

“No offense intended, Lord, but I never did understand wizards even a hair’s width, and I don’t care to start now.”

Garrick turned to Will, who was shivering in the cold.

“Stay with the sergeant. I need to see what I can do with the Freeborn.”

“Yes, Master Garrick.”

“Harol, can you get the boy something warmer to wear?”

“Aye, Lord. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.”

Garrick strode again through the hallway, and again toward the government center’s meeting chamber.

What could be so important as to draw Darien from his father’s side? He couldn’t imagine anything beyond total destruction of the city. These thoughts darkened his mood as he walked, his boots clicking off time. Loud voices came from behind the pair of closed, double doors that led to the meeting hall.

Garrick pressed the bronze latch and pulled the door open, giving himself free passage into the midst of a raging argument.

Chapter 2

A wave of heat and angry voices rolled through the hall.

Reynard stood at the dais, shaking a finger at Darien like a mother giving her child a warning. His face was red as a beet.

The Freeborn were positioned in disarray throughout the chamber—some standing, some yelling with voices now going hoarse, some seated on pallet benches arguing with their neighbors, and some loitering in the corners with silent, but dour expressions.

The chamber’s high ceilings gave the room a rounded echo—making it exceptional for speeches, debates, music, and theatre. But now those ceilings molded the arguments into a single, unintelligible roar that hit like a hammer.

Darien was the first to notice Garrick’s presence.

He stood next to Reynard, leaning forward with both hands on the table and looking over his constituency with a black-eyed gaze. His shoulders were hunched, and his gold-threaded cape draped him as if he wished he could hide behind it.

His expression at seeing Garrick was a mixture of relief and anger.

He said nothing, but he stood up taller and squared his shoulders.

Garrick strode toward the front of the chamber.

One-by-one, voices quieted as he drew nearer to the dais, until there was only a single voice remaining—that of Reynard.

“If you think you can run over this order—” he spoke to Darien before turning to see the distraction. His voice froze and his pointed finger hung in mid-shake.

Garrick stood before the two of them, glancing first at Reynard, then at Darien.

A sense of detachment came over him.

He turned, taking in the room. Heat rose to his cheeks, and he felt the presence of each mage around the room.

“What is this argument about?” he asked.

Darien smoothed his hands down his hips. “It’s a long tale.”

“Give me the short version.”

Reynard began. “Our superior—”

Garrick stifled him.

Darien’s inability to hold a steady gaze told Garrick just how nervous he was.

“I’ve developed a policy designed to save lives,” Darien said. “But the rest of the order does not agree with it.”

Garrick turned to Reynard.

“It is a senseless policy that will do nothing but steal energy from mages that would be better used elsewhere. It’s
another
case of a man with no common sense trying to force his opinion—”

Garrick held up his hand again.

“I see,” he said. “I can’t believe you called a meeting about such a trivial procedure when our leader is grieving for his father.”

The order hung on his silence.

There was more to this than he first thought. Garrick sensed that now. Something else was happening here, something deeper.

Garrick saw it in Darien’s face.

“You,” he said, pointing to Amanda, a young woman whom Sunathri had personally recruited.

All eyes turned to her.

She was blonde and tiny, perhaps a handful of years older than Will. Her bones were thin and her face bird-like. Garrick remembered how everyone had thought Amanda would be weak in the battle at God’s Tower, how they thought casting sorcerous energy for so long would overwhelm her. But Amanda, the daughter of a noblewoman in Passidian, had surprised them all. Her gift was strong, and her magic had saved lives. More important to the moment, she was one who would speak her mind clearly and without adornment.

She cleared her throat.

“Darien called the session, Lord.”

His brows furrowed.

“While searching for the boy, Superior J’ravi’s party was overrun in the night, lord. He had set a sentry, though. It wasn’t his fault.”

She was a good leader, Garrick thought.

He listened further as Amanda related pertinent details about the incident.

“Thank you Amanda,” Garrick said when she was finished.

He understood now. He saw Darien’s frustration.

On the evening his father passed, Darien had been away, and he had lost his men. Darien, a man who lived in constant competition with his brother—a brother who had believed in the collective good so boldly that he had died for it—had come up short again. And, Garrick saw how the Freeborn—an order founded on Sunathri’s principles of equal value and personal liberty—would fight Darien’s controls with the very root of their existence.

He didn’t want this to happen now. His friend was downtrodden and needing support from Garrick—but the people here needed him to be bold and decisive. In the end, drawing it out would just be cruel.

“Darien saved this order. I’m sure most of you remember how it felt to see him at the helm those months ago, knowing that we needed him to take this responsibility merely so the Freeborn could exist.”

Reynard spoke again. “That was before—”

“And perhaps some of you will remember another time. Sunathri’s time. I know I do. I remember her offering me a position. It was more than an offer, of course. It was a plea. She believed in me more than I believed in myself, and she put herself on display in front of all of you by rescuing me, then offering me leadership of her own order. Think of the sacrifice that took. Think of the passion.”

Heads nodded.

“Most of you know that story,” Garrick said. “I’m sure it was told over campfires for months afterward. But only a few know that when I turned her down, Sunathri did something important. Something that defines the vision she had in creating this House to begin with. Something we all need to remember right now.”

Garrick moved to stand before Amanda. The silence that filled the chamber was now reverential.

“Do you know what she did?” he asked her.

Amanda shook her head.

“She sat beside me.”

Garrick smiled and turned to the rest of the mages.

“I remember the wind picking through Sunathri’s hair. The way the overcast sky had darkened her skin. I remember the heat of her passion for this order, the intense stare that seemed so bold it could burn you if you dared to let it into your soul.”

He looked across the room and saw smiles on several faces.

“She told me I was free to go, but that she would not be the first to leave. She said she had founded this order so that every human being on this plane—or any other plane, for that matter—would be free to do what they wanted to do, free to be what they wanted to be. She said she would sit beside me regardless of my choice, that while I may leave the Freeborn, the Freeborn would never leave me.”

A man cleared his throat in the back of the room.

Garrick motioned toward Darien.

“Darien J’ravi—son of Dorfort’s commander, and a hero of the magewar—has given much to this order. He has led our armies to victory on the fields, and has kept us together these past months while we sorted out who we are. He has done us a remarkable service.”

Garrick glanced at Reynard.

“For that we are
all
in his debt.”

Then he turned directly to Darien.

His friend’s gaze trembled. To lose the order now would crush Darien, but there was no other course.

“But I believe that I understand my purpose, now. I believe that for the first time I understand Sunathri’s vision, and hence I understand exactly what I am called on to do. It is time, my friend. Time that I step forward to take the role Sunathri asked me to take so long ago, and it is time for you to tend to your father.”

Darien nodded, his eyes growing cold, and his lips set.

“Then that is how it will be,” Darien said. “I hand whatever title I have to Garrick. May he find more success than I have.”

An awkward silence followed.

Finally, a mage put his hands together in a single clap, then another, and another. One-by-one, the mages of the order joined and the sound grew to a deafening crescendo. The mages came forward, then, cheering and clapping.

Garrick stepped into the crowd, amid the sound of voices that were once again gathered into a single force. Hands reached out to touch his arm, or pat him on the back.

“Hail Darien,” Garrick called over the voices.

The hallway erupted in another round of cheering. “Hail Darien! Hail Garrick!”

But when Garrick turned to include his friend, the seat behind the table was empty.

Darien J’ravi, deposed leader of the Freeborn House of mages, had left the chamber.

Epilogue

Neuma would have preferred to meet Hirl-enat somewhere less personal, but he and Fil had returned to de’Mayer Island yesterday, and it was important she get this done now. So she stepped into the elder mage’s chamber.

Hirl-enat looked up from his papers, fountain quill in hand.

“What do you want?” he said.

“I wanted to welcome you home and congratulate you on your success.” She extended her hand.

Hirl-enat relaxed as he reached to take it.

Sorcerous energy from the plane of magic poured into Neuma’s mind. She twisted it, letting the power dance across her fingers, its aura a bluish green as it crossed over gates she had already prepared.

Hirl-enat’s defense was too late.

Neuma’s forked charge filled the chamber—a single blast of electricity that shook the area’s walls. Hirl-enat’s shield imploded with its own force.

The elder mage died before he knew what had happened.

Silence and the odor of roasted flesh settled over the room.

Neuma stooped to examine Hirl-enat’s body. It was charred and crisped. She could barely contain her smile. Her stomach did flip-flops. The expression on the old man’s face had been perfect.

I knew it,
that expression had said.
I knew you were a traitor!

Better a conniver, she thought, than a fool.

She rose and checked her link again, searching once more for a connection to Ettril, but there was no response. After such a long absence, the Koradictine high superior was almost certainly now dead. And she had personally taken out Quin Sar and Hirl-enat.