Magebane (21 page)

What she told him boiled down to one astonishing fact. Within the mysterious Anomaly he and the Professor had come to this remote part of the world to investigate lay a hidden Kingdom where magic worked—a Kingdom, in fact, ruled by magicians: the MageLords.

Anton had never been very good at history back in Sutton Sterling's Preparatory School, even before he'd run away and taken to the streets of Hexton Down. He'd focused most of his intellectual powers on the considerable challenges of evading the unwelcome attentions of the older boys, and sneaking off the school grounds to run wild through the streets. But he'd learned a few things during his apprenticeship with the Professor over the past three years, and he'd always been a voracious, if indiscriminate, reader. “MageLords” was a word he had come across before; it was the name given to the tyrannical rulers of an ancient empire that had once held sway over the great island now known as Krellend and a large portion of the west coast of the First Continent, including what was now the city of Hexton Down but had then been a tiny fishing village.

The MageLords had been driven from the mainland to Krellend, pursued by an army, retreating at last to their capital city of Stromencor. Presumably there had been a siege, and perhaps even a final battle. Stromencor might have fallen, or the MageLords might have rallied to push back the attackers. No one knew, because the city, the MageLords, and the surrounding armies of Commoners were all destroyed by an enormous natural disaster of some kind, a vast explosion—presumably volcanic—that had reduced the city to rubble, flattened forests and fields with a scorching wind, and burned every living thing caught within it to charred bones and drifting ashes. To this day, nothing grew on Krellend, where the very soil had been turned to glass and cinders.

On the mainland, the alliance against the MageLords had been short-lived. Petty kings had arisen and fought, towns were built, laid waste, rebuilt, abandoned. Gradually larger kingdoms had coalesced; and finally, some two hundred years ago now, the Union Republic had been forged from a dozen of those squabbling kingdoms. After a couple of civil wars, a new era of peace had unleashed a golden age of science, philosophy, art, and history.

From the very beginning of their study of the MageLord Empire, historians had been divided over exactly who or what the MageLords had been, and what the old records meant by “magic.” Since, self-evidently, magic was not real, the MageLords could not really have been the powerful wizards of the old stories. The prevailing opinion was that the MageLords had somehow leaped past their neighbors in technological know-how, their greater ability being interpreted as magic by those they conquered. The successful rebellion had supposedly been led by someone calling himself “The Magebane” (obviously a
nom de guerre
), who apparently stole the MageLords' own “magical” technology and outfitted his own armies with it, allowing them to use their superior numbers to overrun the kingdom. The final cataclysm had simply been a coincidence, an astronomically (or perhaps geologically) unlikely coincidence, but a coincidence nonetheless.

But if Brenna spoke truth, the MageLords had been exactly what their name implied: lords of magic, with inborn abilities to manipulate matter and energy simply by force of will. They had used that power to create and then rule an empire. Cruelly, according to the history Anton had been taught; benevolently, according to Brenna. She claimed those long-gone MageLords had used their magic to help the nonmagical “Commoners” they ruled live happier and healthier lives. According to her, the uprising had not been against oppressive government, but based on religion. A new cult had sprung up that saw magic as a tool of the King of Demons, and had used the latent resentment of the MageLords among the various conquered peoples to eventually ignite the revolution that forced the MageLords to flee for their lives.

Anton had never heard of such a religion, but said nothing.

The conflagration that had destroyed Krellend, Brenna said, must have been the backlash of the enormous energy the MageLords had expended in transporting themselves and their loyal followers instantly to the other side of the world . . . here! . . . where they had founded the Kingdom of Evrenfels, and hidden themselves safely behind the Great Barrier.

That Barrier, Brenna said, would stand for at least another two centuries, then the MageLords would emerge peacefully into the larger world once more, a world hopefully purged of the superstition that had driven them into hiding, and once more bend their magical abilities to the betterment of all humanity.

“At least, that's what I was taught,” Brenna said as she finished. Anton looked at her sharply—was that doubt in her voice?—but her expression was smooth and with her accent, he couldn't be sure. He reached for another scone, wondering if Brenna shared his feeling that they were both skating on thin ice, circling the open water of the fact that he was descended from those who had driven the Mageborn into exile, and that his presence here meant the Mageborn were no longer safely isolated from their former enemies; and the fact that Brenna, though not herself Mageborn, was the ward of one of the most powerful MageLords in the kingdom.

And then someone came into the breakfast nook from the hallway outside, and Anton suspected the ice had just given way.

Tall, thin, with a sharp-edged face and hair the color of frosted steel, the new arrival wore a gray tunic and trousers, boots so highly polished they might have been covered with glass, and a similarly polished belt into which a pair of black leather gloves were neatly tucked. Around his neck he wore a plain disk of gold on a fine-linked chain.

A cool draft seemed to follow him in from the hall, as though winter had accompanied him into the room. Brenna, seeing him, got to her feet at once. Anton didn't know why, exactly, but he copied her a heartbeat later, though his leg twinged beneath him.

“Anton,” Brenna said, “Allow me to present my guardian, Lord Falk.”

Anton wondered if he should bow, but settled for raising his hand. “Hi,” he said, sounding incredibly lame, even to himself.

“Welcome to my home,” said Lord Falk. “And to the Kingdom of Evrenfels.”

“Um . . . thank you.”

“Did you enjoy your breakfast?”

Anton glanced at the all-but-empty table. “Very much,” he said truthfully.

“How is your leg?”

“Still a little sore, but I didn't expect to be able to walk for a week, so I can't really complain.”

“I've asked for another Healer to examine you. Not that Eddigar is not very good, but Mother Northwind has exceptional skills. Possibly she can relieve the pain you are still feeling.”

Anton glanced at Brenna, who wore a puzzled frown.

Falk indicated the door. “She's waiting in my study, if you'd care to accompany me?”

“Uh . . . sure,” Anton said. He didn't exactly feel he had a choice. He took his crutch from where it leaned against the breakfast table and limped out in the wake of the tall gray figure. Brenna started to follow, but Lord Falk stopped. “I don't think you need to accompany us, Brenna,” he said. “Mother Northwind may want privacy for her examination.”

Brenna stopped. “I'll talk to you again later,” she called after Anton, who gave her a quick wave with his free hand.

To Anton's relief, Falk's study was on the same floor as the breakfast nook, just inside and to the left of the big front doors. He'd managed to descend the stairs with his crutch, but he wasn't looking forward to the return trip.

Dark wood panels covered those few parts of the study's walls not hidden by locked, glass-fronted bookcases lined with tomes Anton would dearly have loved to get a good look at. He had not donned shoes that morning, and his stockinged feet sank into thick, dark-red carpet. That color repeated high above on the ceiling, showing between crisscrossing beams of dark wood, in the upholstery of the chair behind the desk . . . and in the armchair in the far corner, right beside one of the two tall, narrow windows, where a figure, half-hidden in shadow, awaited them.

Falk sat behind the gnarled desk. It appeared to have been carved out of a massive tree stump, the polished top revealing several centuries of rings. The only things on that desk were a stack of fresh white paper, a fountain pen, and a bottle of ink. Anton was relieved to see that not
everything
in this strange place was done by magic.

Falk gestured to the two armchairs, identical to the one in the corner by the window, facing him across the desk. “Please, be seated,” he said.

“Thank you . . . Lord Falk.” It felt odd and archaic to be calling someone “Lord,” but when in Evrenfels . . . With a glance at that shadowy figure in the corner, which had yet to speak or even move, he seated himself carefully, leaning the crutch against the arm of the chair.

“Allow me to present Mother Northwind,” Lord Falk said, nodding to the seated figure. For the first time it moved, raising its arms and pulling back the hood that had shrouded its face, then leaning forward to reveal . . .

. . . the kindly face of an old woman who could have been Anton's grandmother.

Not that he knew who his grandmother was.

The reality was so much less ominous than the foreboding born of light and shadow that Anton almost laughed out loud.

“Good morning, young man,” said Mother Northwind. “Welcome to Evrenfels.”

“Thank you . . . um, Mother?”
That
felt even odder in his mouth than “Lord,” and he wondered if it was the correct greeting, but it seemed to be. Mother Northwind did not correct him.

The old woman got to her feet, joints audibly creaking. “Now, then, young man,” she said. “If you'll just take off all your clothes . . .”

Anton gaped, not knowing what to say, and Mother Northwind laughed a long, cackling laugh which for some reason earned a raised eyebrow from Lord Falk. “Well, it was worth a try,” she said. “Just joking, youngster. You can stay dressed.”

“Um . . . thank you,” Anton said. “I'm afraid I would get chilly, otherwise.” He hadn't been around old people very much . . . well, not at all, really . . . and was a little shocked at her sense of humor, but he found himself liking Mother Northwind—even more so when she laughed again.

“All I need to do is touch you for a few minutes,” said Mother Northwind.

“Touch me
where
?” Anton said dryly.

Mother Northwind chuckled. “Your hands will do, young man . . . for now.”

“All right.”

Mother Northwind sat down in the other chair in front of the desk, then leaned toward Anton, holding out her hands, palms up. Anton placed his hands in hers, and her fingers, dry and bony, closed around them.

“Close your eyes,” Mother Northwind said. Anton did so. “Now ...”

Something . . . happened. The sensations were sudden, disorienting. A feeling of pressure, then of dizziness; a rushing sound, a smell of burning; a sense of cold, then heat, then tingling; images, snatches of conversation; a moment's heart-stopping pain, gone almost before he registered it . . .

Anton found himself slumped in his chair, bathed in sweat. He blinked and shakily straightened. “What—”

Mother Northwind stood over him, a strange expression on her face. “You're perfectly healthy, young man,” she said. “Healer Eddigar has done his work well.” She glanced at Lord Falk.

“Thank you, Mother Northwind,” Lord Falk said. “If you'll see Gannick, I'm sure he can find you some breakfast. I'll talk with you a little later on.”

Mother Northwind nodded and went out without another word.

What just happened?
Anton thought. He remembered the strange feeling he'd had when he'd awakened in the night to find Brenna in his room, that feeling of something outside himself pushing down at his consciousness. This had been similar, only far more intense—something from outside that had somehow found itself into his inner being.
Magic!
he thought. He was beginning to hate the stuff. No wonder his ancestors had revolted.

“I'm pleased Mother Northwind has found you healthy, Anton,” Lord Falk said. “I apologize if there was any discomfort.”

Anton still felt a little shaky, but the feeling was fading quickly. “I'm all right,” he said. “I'm just . . . unused to the way you do things here.”

“Ah, yes. Magic. Well.” Lord Falk leaned forward and rested his elbows on the edge of his desk. In anyone else it might have seemed casual, almost friendly; in Falk it was more intimidating than anything else. “We are equally unused to the way you do things outside the Kingdom, it seems. You flew into our Kingdom in a . . . machine. Something we have never seen before. So . . . I need reassurance from you. I need you to reassure me that you are not a scout for a planned aerial invasion of our Kingdom.”

Anton blinked. He hadn't expected
that
. “I'm not, sir,” he said. “Uh, Lord Falk. In fact, most of the people back in Elkbone—the village the Professor and I launched from—thought we were crazy. They certainly weren't preparing to follow us. They thought we were committing suicide.”

And in the Professor's case, they were right
, he thought, another stab to his heart.

Falk sat back again. “Village,” he said. “Then there are not great numbers of people outside our Barrier?”

Anton shook his head. “Elkbone is the largest town I know of on the other side of the Barrier, and it's only got three or four hundred people, cattle ranchers and coal miners, mostly—they ship cattle and coal down the Swift River by barge to the bigger towns to the west. There's a saying that once you're in sight of the Anomaly, you know you've reached the end of the world.”