Dreamwielder (3 page)

“Or course not,” Caile snapped, immediately regretting losing his temper and reminding himself to stay calm. “I'm not the foolish boy I was when I left, Father.”

“Then what of this business on the road with the firewielder? Are you mad? Trying to speak reason to such a person. You would have been killed if it weren't for Lorentz.”

“She was a girl, no older than me, not some vile creature. When I left, you had an arrangement, offering amnesty for any sorcerers who turned themselves in and agreed to live here under your watch.”

“That was five years ago. Times have changed. Emperor Guderian…”

“Emperor!” Caile spat. “This is no empire. This is the Five Kingdoms, and
you
are the King of Pyrthinia. Guderian is the King of Sargoth, nothing more.”

“I'm afraid the Five Kingdoms are no more, son. With each passing day he wrests more power away from us. Nothing can be done.”

Caile thrust himself back into the cushions of his chair, and neither of them said anything for a long while. Caile stared with a mixture of sadness and disgust at his father, a man who had seemingly shrunk since he'd last seen him. Five years before, the King of Pyrthinia had been a robust man, exuding energy and confidence. Now, Casstian Delios was old beyond his years. His arms and chest were still thick but lacked the hardened, muscular definition he was once known for. His face, too, was thin and ashen, and his once glorious mane of golden hair now hung limply above his shoulders, thin and mottled with gray.

“Do you mean to send Taera to Col Sargoth?” Caile finally asked.

“What choice do I have?”

“Send me. That's why you had me return from Valaróz, isn't it?”

King Casstian snorted. “The imperial mandate states I must send my eldest child as a ward to Col Sargoth.”

“There are exceptions. Tell Guderian that Taera is too ill to travel, that I'm coming to Col Sargoth in her stead. All he cares is that he has his hostage.”

“But she's not ill. Would you have me forge false documents? I don't take lying as lightly as you, especially when it means treason.”

Caile could feel his face flush with anger. His father clearly was not one to let the past go. “If you ask me, it's better to lie to an evil man than to sign your daughter's death sentence.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Casstian demanded, sitting up in his seat, his face taking on some color and life.

“Don't pretend like you don't know, Father. She's a sorceress.”

Casstian slumped back as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

“She's a seer,” Caile continued. “She's the one who warned us to the presence of the firewielder today. She saw it in her visions. You can't send her into Guderian's grasp. That monster of his will sniff her out in an instant and they'll kill her just like they've killed every other sorcerer. I've met him, Father—I've met Wulfram. In Sol Valaróz. He's not human. He can see inside of you. He'll know. Sending Taera to him would be sending her to certain death.”

Casstian was silent for a long moment. “And you think you will somehow fare better than Cargan or Taera?”

Caile sat up straight. “I have no magical ability to put me in danger. I've lived these last five years as ward to that usurper Don Bricio, and I stayed alive, bit my tongue while vile lies poured from his mouth. I met Wulfram and avoided his scrutiny. I know how to stay alive in a den of lions.”

Casstian laughed without humor. “King Bricio and his court in Valaróz are a pack of kittens compared to what you'll find in Col Sargoth, boy.”

Caile shrugged. “So be it. I'm not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“It makes no difference. I want to go and you can't send Taera. You love her more than me, I know. We're the same in that regard. She means more to me than you ever will.”

King Casstian Delios looked into the flames of the fireplace and said nothing.

“Well?” Caile asked.

“Go then. Tell my porter to send for the physician, and I will compose the letter to Guderian.”

“Thank you,” Caile said, standing.

Casstian nodded and watched his son leave. It pained him that Caile could see through him so easily. He bore Caile no ill will, but it was true he loved Taera and Cargan more. He simply couldn't help it. Casstian's wife, Hedia, had died shortly after birthing Caile, and as much as the King tried to tell himself he could not blame his son, the resentment had faded little over time, especially with Caile being so stubborn and overly-confident as a boy.
That boy is the heir to my throne now by Sargothian law
, Casstian mused, but that only reminded him of Cargan and fresh tears came to his eyes. He pushed the thoughts aside and wiped his face clean. He was King of Pyrthinia and could not be seen crying, not by the physician, not by anyone.​

Taera was sitting on her bed with the lamp at her nightstand still burning brightly when Caile knocked at her chamber door.

“Still awake at this hour, Brother?” she asked as she ushered him in.

“I was worried you'd be the one asleep.”

“So I could go back to my visions?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…”

She smiled for him. “It's not your fault. The visions are my concern.”

Caile snapped out of his reverie and grabbed her in a nervous embrace. “No, it's all of our concern. That's why I've come to say goodbye.”

She hugged him, then pushed him away, not unkindly, and straightened the leather jerkin he wore. “Goodbye? Is Father sending me off so soon then?”

“No, you're staying. I'm going to Col Sargoth in your stead.”

“But how—”

“Please don't argue with me,” he interrupted her. “I've convinced Father that it is best this way. I'm leaving now before he changes his mind.”

“But you've not yet slept and you've been on the road already for weeks, and today, the firewielder…”

“Don't worry, I've learned to sleep in the saddle,” he said with a grin. “Besides, I'll be safe in Col Sargoth—I'm no danger to the Emperor. Your job is the more difficult one.”

“Oh?”

“You have to pretend to be deathly ill. And you need to get Father back. Remind him that he's the king.”

Taera closed her eyes. “Be easy on him, Caile. He's weary. He must choose his battles with the Emperor. It's not easy.”

“A king hasn't time for weariness. That's what he always used to tell us.”

“I know.”

“Remind him. Make Pyrthinia ready. I mean to find out what happened to Cargan. I don't know what will come of it, but it may be trouble.”

Taera could only nod in agreement. As scared as she was for her brother, she knew it was pointless to try and stop him, for she had already foreseen him in Col Sargoth in her dream visions. Her own path lay in another direction.
A ship. A cavern of ice. A beautiful girl.
Whatever end fate awaited each of them, she could not say, but their paths were clearly set out for them in her mind. She kissed Caile on the forehead.

“Be careful, Brother.”

“Careful is the way of old men. I'll stay alive. You do the same, and be wary of having too many visions—the houndkeeper here can sense magic as well as the ones in Col Sargoth and Sol Valaróz.”

From the rooftop, Makarria could see far beyond where Spearpoint Rock jutted out from the turbulent waters and off into the horizon where the Esterian Ocean and gray sky melded into an imperceptible border. Somewhere beyond the horizon, farther to the south, were the East Islands, and beyond that Makarria could only imagine. Maybe another land where the sun shone every day and a girl could run in the grass and wear a proper dress without having to worry about it being ruined by never-ending ocean squalls. Makarria smiled at the thought of actually being free of the salty air for once. She did love the ocean, especially when sailing with her grandfather, but she would love it a lot more, she decided, if she didn't have to live right next to it.

“Makarria!” her father hollered from where he lay sprawled out a few feet away from her. “Thatch!”

“Sorry,” Makarria said, handing him one of the long palm fronds she'd set down on the roof beside her feet. Galen took it from her and threaded it into a gap in the roof where a frond had blown free the night before.

“You're not much help to me up here just staring off into the distance,” he said when he was done. “Why don't you go see if your grandfather needs help?”

“Really? You're sure?”

“Yes, go.”

“Thanks,” she said, turning to tiptoe her way down the pitched roof along one of the main support beams.

Galen watched her leave with a wry expression, wishing he could navigate the roof with such ease. He had to crawl around on all fours in order to spread his weight out along two beams, otherwise, he'd crash right through the roof and into the house below. He'd hoped to teach Makarria to mend the roof on her own, but the girl seemed incapable of keeping her mind on any task for more than a few minutes. It was all well and good for her to daydream while tending to the garden or milking the goats, but it was too dangerous to be absentminded up on the roof. Galen sighed and grabbed the bundle of palm fronds, resigned to doing the job himself.

Back on the ground, Makarria raced from the house and down the grassy slope to the seashore where her Grandpa Parmo was pushing a skiff into the water.

“Wait, Grampy, wait!” she yelled after him, and he halted, knee-deep in the waves, until she got there.

“In you go,” he said, giving her a boost into the boat. “You going to help me pull in the traps?”

“Yep.”

“Hold on, then,” he told her and pushed them off with the outgoing surf, timing it so as to pass between two breaking waves. He pulled himself aboard with a grunt and paddled them out past the breakers, then gave her the signal to hoist the small sail as he put aside the oars and grabbed hold of the rudder. Within a few moments, he had angled the skiff to catch the wind and they were racing toward Spearpoint Rock and their traps. “That's better,” Parmo said, breathing heavily. “I'm getting too old to be launching skiffs from the beach.”

“You're not too old, Grampy,” Makarria assured him, smiling as the wind whipped her walnut hair across her face.

“If you say so,” he replied, unconvinced. “How are you feeling? Is your tummy ache better from yesterday?”

“Yeah, mostly better, but Mother thinks I was pretending so I wouldn't have to do my chores.”

“Nonsense,” Parmo said with a wave of his free hand. “You may be absentminded at times, but you're no liar—that I'm certain of. Your mother is just worried. She's had a lot on her mind.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing that need concern you for the time being. You just mind your parents and try to pay better attention to your chores. No more daydreaming.”

“I know,” Makarria said. “It's just that chores are so boring. Except for helping you pull in the traps, of course.”

“Of course,” Parmo agreed with a smile. “Ready the pole-hook and prepare to drop sail, First Mate.”

They were nearing the first of their buoys, some thirty fathoms out from the leeward side of Spearpoint Rock. The red-painted coconut bobbed up and down on the rolling waves, functioning both as the marker for their traps and the hooking point for dragging the traps up from the water. Parmo steered them toward it and signaled for Makarria to drop the sail. As they slowed and drifted alongside the buoy, he threw the rudder to the side and they came to a near stop no more than a fathom out from the buoy.

“Pull her up,” Parmo said. “Let's see what we've caught.”

Makarria reached out with the pole-hook and looped it around the line receding beneath the buoy. When she tugged, though, the skiff moved more than the buoy line. “It's snagged on something,” Makarria said, leaning out over the portside of the skiff to get a better hook on it.

“Careful now,” Parmo warned.

“I've got it,” Makarria said, but as she reached farther out she got the sudden sensation she was wetting herself, and in a panic she lost her balance. She dropped the pole-hook with a scream and toppled face first overboard. The water was shockingly cold, knocking all the air from her lungs and sending her into a panic to reach the surface. She had not sunk far, though, and she surfaced almost immediately, embarrassing herself by how loudly she gasped for air.

“Quit flopping around like a fish and grab my hand,” her grandpa yelled. She took his hand, and he yanked her up over the side rail to plop on the deck. “Are you alright?” he asked, calm but breathing more heavily than she was.

“I think so,” Makarria replied, but she wasn't certain. She was wet and cold, for sure, but it was something else. She felt like she was uncontrollably peeing in her britches but not exactly.

“What have you done, cut yourself?” Parmo asked.

Makarria followed his glance downward and saw that bloody water was indeed running down her legs where her short breeches ended above the knees. She ran her hands over her thighs; she didn't feel any cuts or pain, but when she looked at her hands they were covered in diluted blood.

“I, I don't think so,” Makarria said, confused. “I don't feel any cuts. I…”

“Oh,” Parmo said, with sudden understanding.

“What?”

“It's your first moonblood, Makarria.”

“What!” Makarria jumped to her feet, covered herself, then spun around, only to find she had nowhere to go.

“Relax, it's fine,” her grandpa said. “Just sit down. I'll take you home.”

“I'm sorry, Grampy,” Makarria said, too embarrassed to look at him.

“There's nothing to be sorry about. It's perfectly normal.”

“But what about the traps?” she asked, now worried she'd ruined his chores.