Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (10 page)

Suddenly Morgin felt a presence at hand, a
being both foreign and unknown, having no place in this world of
mortals. It hovered at eye level over the black sand, neither
visible nor touchable, but there nonetheless, and angry at being
summoned so.

“Demon ElkenSkul,” Olivia cried. “You have
come at my bidding, soul taker. Giver of names, yield unto the
newborn his power.”

There came no answer. Morgin stared at
Olivia, holding his breath. If ElkenSkul gave him no name, he would
live his life in disgrace, bearing no more than his earthly name
and always relegated to the most menial and servile of tasks. His
newfound status would be gone, erased by an instant of silence. It
would have been better had he never been given the honor of a
Naming.

The silence was broken by the sound of
scratching, as if a single claw were drawn across the floor. The
demon’s claw slowly scratched a small circle in the sand. Then it
hesitated for several seconds before scratching a small line; just
that, a simple line pointing outward from the circle, then another
and another and another, a grouping of lines around the circle all
radiating outward, like a child’s drawing of the sun in the sky. It
finished with one, long line slanting through the middle of the
circle.

Morgin had no idea what it meant, but Olivia
leaned forward and hissed, sucking air between her teeth as if the
symbol held some special meaning. “The sunset king? Aethon? Aethon
what?” she demanded. “Complete the name, demon. Complete it now. I
command you.”

There came a pause, then the invisible claw
began to scratch again, slowly adding two more lines beneath the
symbol, two lines crossed.

“Aethon’s Law!” the old witch cried to the
heavens. She looked down at Morgin with purest greed in her eyes.
“You are the Law of Aethon, my grandson. Rise AethonLaw.” Olivia
crowed to the crowd about them, “He is AethonLaw.”

Morgin started to climb to his feet, his
eyes still on the symbol scratched in the sand. Olivia didn’t see
it, but suddenly the claw scratched two more small lines, bisecting
each of the two crossed lines beneath the sun symbol. The two new
lines were like cross-guards on swords, making the lines beneath
the sunset symbol appear like two crossed swords.
“But . . .” Morgin said, pointing at the sand.

Without warning Olivia sliced her hand
through the air where the demon had been. “Be gone, demon. Leave
us, ElkenSkul,” and a magical wind scattered the sand across the
floor. Morgin was certain she hadn’t seen the last two lines
scratched in the sand.

The demon paused before obeying Olivia’s
command, as if reluctant to do so. But finally, resigned to
Olivia’s power, it winked out of existence, and with it went the
power that had accumulated within the Hall.

Olivia took a deep breath and exhaled
slowly. She looked down at Morgin, proud and willful, her eyes
alight with godmagic. Morgin felt like a mouse that was prey to
Olivia the cat.

“Arise,” she said to him. “Stand, AethonLaw
et Elhiyne. Embrace the clan, for you are named.”

~~~

In the days that followed the Naming Morgin
was unsettled by his change in status. No longer was he
boy
,
or
child
, or merely
Morgin
, he was now Lord Morgin,
or Lord AethonLaw, however he chose to be called. In the small
village near the castle people nodded their heads as he passed.
Even other clansmen took note of him, greeting him warmly in
passing or inviting him to join them.

It had all begun with the celebration
following the Naming. There was food aplenty, and wine, much wine.
Morgin had become quite giddy with drink, though AnnaRail was
careful to see that his consumption was limited. But even with a
light head he became aware of an enormous change in his status.

Marjinell was, as usual, openly hostile.
Malka seemed indifferent. Roland and AnnaRail were boldly proud,
and Olivia boasted endlessly of how the AethonLaw would someday be
a great wizard. Needless to say, to a twelve year old boy who had
begun as the lowliest of the low, the attention was quite
unnerving.

But what bothered him most, and yet was the
least noticeable, was the attitude of the other boys. He was now
treated differently. It was a difference so subtle that at times he
wasn’t sure it even existed, then at other times it stood out like
the blunt edge on a poorly kept sword. The only one who didn’t
treat him differently was JohnEngine, for as always, when not
fighting and beating each other up, they were inseparable comrades.
One day Morgin asked him about it.

“You’re crazy,” JohnEngine said. “Nobody
treats you any different than me.”

That gave Morgin something to think about,
for while JohnEngine didn’t realize it, he had answered Morgin’s
question in a very direct way. It was true. He was now treated like
JohnEngine. But DaNoel and JohnEngine and MichaelOff and Brandon
were always treated differently by the other boys. They were of
House Elhiyne, and while you might pick a fight and bloody one of
their noses, they were still paid a certain deference because of
their status. And now, Morgin realized, he too was of House
Elhiyne, and that fact made him uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable
indeed!

But while that explained the boys his age,
it didn’t explain the adults, especially the old witch Olivia. She
now demanded that he see her regularly, during which time she would
quiz him on his lessons, paying particular attention to the magic
he had learned, or, as was most often the case, failed to learn.
Some of those sessions were quite grueling.

One day, after a particularly difficult
audience with the old woman, who, as usual, found him wanting, he
sought out AnnaRail to ask her why the Naming had changed so many
things.

“Things?” she asked patiently. “But it’s not
things in which you’re interested. It’s your grandmother, is it
not, and her increased attention?”

Morgin nodded silently.

AnnaRail smiled as if she found something
amusing. “Clan law recognizes no difference between adoption and
birth, and so by that law you are now a son of the House of
Elhiyne. Your grandmother, therefore, is concerned that you
represent us well. Overly concerned, perhaps. But nevertheless
concerned.”

Morgin couldn’t conceal a frown. “There’s
more to it than that.”

“That’s very perceptive of you. Yes, there
is more to it. Do you remember when we spoke of names, you and I,
and I told you that the clansman reflects the name and the name
reflects the clansman?”

“Yes.”

“Well, AethonLaw,” she said, placing
emphasis on his new name. “You bear a name of power, a king’s name,
which tells us that you may someday control much of the
arcane.”

“A king’s name?” Morgin asked
wonderingly.

AnnaRail nodded. “Aethon was the last of the
Shahotma kings to rule the Sword. There were kings who followed,
and were called Shahotma, but they were false kings who bowed to
the Sword, and they brought much sorrow to the land. You bear the
name of Aethon. To bear such a name is a great honor—for you, for
our clan, and for House Elhiyne—for Aethon was also of the eighth
tribe. To my knowledge ElkenSkul has not granted such a name in
millennia. The only question that remains is: Will you reflect the
name, or will the name reflect you?”

“But I can’t be all that,” Morgin said.

“Ah, but you can,” she said. She took his
hands gently in hers. “Someday you may be a great wizard, perhaps
even greater than Malka or Olivia. Then again, you may not. You may
never be more than you are now, and there is no shame in that. Grow
strong and healthy, and be just and kind to others, and serve
Elhiyne faithfully, and you will bring us honor. We can ask for no
more than that.”

“Grandmother wants more.”

“Indeed! Sometimes she does expect too much,
especially from a young boy who’d rather be out getting in trouble
with his brother JohnEngine, eh?” AnnaRail winked. “Your
grandmother is excited for you, Morgin, and proud that you should
receive such a name. So be patient with her, and I’ll speak to her
about her demands.”

Morgin resolved then never to mention the
extra slashes that ElkenSkul had added at the last moment, the
extra slashes that no one but he had seen.

AnnaRail was good to her word. Morgin
noticed the difference immediately the next time he saw Olivia, and
the next, and the next, and each time he saw her. He always noticed
the difference because the difference was always there. The effort
to no longer scold him with such vigor when she found him lacking
clearly grated on the old woman’s nerves. But she still quizzed him
thoroughly. Occasionally, something else was on her mind, and the
session would be short, but most often she’d ask him endless
questions, withholding permission to leave until AnnaRail came to
rescue him.

At first Morgin felt persecuted by such
treatment. Being a member of the family should mean less trouble,
not more. Then one day, after a particularly short session, he was
leaving and met JohnEngine waiting outside the old witch’s audience
chamber.

“How was she?” JohnEngine whispered
quickly.

“Short,” Morgin said.

“Oh no!” JohnEngine moaned. “All the worse
for me.”

“What do you mean?” Morgin asked.

“I’ve been on the plains with father so she
hasn’t seen me for a month. She was short with you so she’d have
all the more time with me.” The look on JohnEngine’s face combined
both fear and disgust. “She has to make up for lost time, you
know.”

“JohnEngine,” Olivia called sharply from the
other room. “You’d better not keep me waiting.”

JohnEngine spun on his heel and disappeared
instantly through the door. Morgin shrugged and walked casually
away. Somehow, though he’d wish her on no one, it felt just a
little better to know that he wasn’t the only one required to
endure grandmother’s interviews.

~~~

“Damn women!” Malka cursed as he stepped off
the stairs at the top of the parapets. It was well past sunset, and
Morgin, who’d been seated in the lee of the battlements, jumped to
his feet, startled out of his thoughts by the warrior’s unheralded
arrival.

“Sorry, boy. Didn’t mean to scare ya. But
that grandmother of yours can be damnable at times.”

Morgin wanted to step into a convenient
shadow, but to do so now would be an open insult no matter how much
he feared Malka. The warrior was a big man, powerful in every way.
Few men would face him squarely, especially when, as now, anger
clouded his features.

“Give me a battle to fight, an enemy to
kill, but the
gods
save me from the sharp tongues of those
damn women. Blast and be damned! By the name of the Unnamed King I
wish they’d give me peace. I’d rather face the Queen of Thieves
herself.”

Malka spit and cursed as he stormed the
length of the dark parapet. He could be heard more than seen, for
the night was moonless and gray. He reached the end of the walkway,
turned and came thundering back. Morgin stood directly in his path,
trembling, wondering if the great warrior might choose to vent his
anger on a helpless boy. But before reaching Morgin the big man
stopped, threw his arms up in disgust, then sat down on the walk
with his back to the wall. He pulled his knees to his chest and sat
almost exactly where Morgin had been a moment before. “Damn!” he
whispered softly. “Damn!”

For some odd reason Morgin felt pity for the
big man. “What’s wrong, uncle?” he asked.

“Ahhh!” Malka growled. “Women! They’re
what’s wrong. Your grandmother wants a king to unite the Lesser
Clans, and all I can give her is a warrior. Granted, few men can
best me in a fair fight, but she wants more. I’d give it to her if
I could, but I don’t even know what it is she wants. And when I
ask, she gives me that superior look of hers and tells me I should
know without being told. And Marjinell, that mindless cow, stands
beside her nodding as if she knows what in netherhell the old witch
is talking about. It’s enough to make a grown man cry.”

“But you’re the most powerful wizard in the
Lesser Clans,” Morgin said.

Malka laughed bitterly. “Powerful? Aye, that
I am.” As if to demonstrate he reached out, and without a word the
red fire of Elhiyne magic danced among the five fingers and thumb
of his hand. It was done so casually that anyone would be
impressed. “Aye, lad, I have power more than most, and I have
control, and I can lead men to war, and they will follow me, but I
can’t lead them in peace. That’s not in me. I’ll never be able to
play their games, their politics, their intrigues. Oh, what I would
give if I could. But I cannot. I recognize that, even if your
grandmother won’t. Bah! Women!”

Malka stopped his growling and looked about
suddenly, as if realizing for the first time where his feet had
taken him in his blind anger. “What are you doing up here at this
time of night, boy?”

“I uh . . .” Morgin shrugged
noncommittally and shuffled his feet. “Just thinking.”

“Come up here for a little peace, did you
boy?”

Morgin nodded.

“I came up here for the same reason. Looks
like instead of finding my own peace I disturbed yours. Sorry about
that.”

Morgin shuffled his feet again. “That’s all
right.”

“Spend much time up here, do ya?”

Morgin shrugged unhappily. “Sometimes, after
seeing grandmother.”

Malka laughed quietly, knowingly. “Well,
Morgin, she’s my mother, and I’ve been coming up here for a little
peace for more’n thirty years. It’s a good place for thinking,
isn’t it?”

“Yes, uncle, it is.”

“Well you watch out, boy. She’s got her eyes
on you. You’ve got power, lad, more’n yer share. She’s got a nose
for power, that one. I expect you’ll be spending many a night up
here. And when you do come, and you’re all alone, peaceful as you
be, think a thought for your old uncle Malka, eh? Because I’ll
likely be with your grandmother wishing I was up here enjoying the
quiet.”