Son of a Dark Wizard (17 page)

Sage stared back at him. Sorren could tell he
had questions on his mind, but no heart to ask them. Questions
about Thale, questions about what this whole battle was worth.
Sorren would not have answered them anyway.

“Will you help me?” Sorren asked. “Or do you
wish to stay in Owl’s Grave?”

“What do you need?” Sage asked, his voice a
whisper.

* * *

Sage did as Sorren asked and the two spoke
nothing of it. They kept the door to the airship’s cargo room
locked as they began their journey away from Owl’s Fortress. Along
with his favor for Sorren, Sage had brought some food and drink
from Owl’s Grave to keep their stomachs full. Whether Sage had
asked for it politely or had stolen it, Sorren didn’t know and
didn’t ask. Though he was almost overflowing with Nyrish power,
Sorren only let a small stream flow to the airship’s engine. He was
in no rush to get back to the caverns. Kovola would be waiting, and
Sorren wanted Quove to deliver her message before his own
arrival.

For the next four days, Sorren and Sage flew
the airship across the kingdom in almost complete silence. They
took turns at the controls and making sure everything was well in
the cargo room.

Sorren spent his free moments polishing his
mechanical arm, reflecting on his conversation with Maewyn, and
watching the kingdom pass below his window. This was the longest
amount of time he’d ever spent away from his castle. He didn’t
recognize the lands of the kingdom he’d been promised, not from the
views of the low valleys they were flying over.

Every now and then, Sorren polished Thale’s
blue and gold tovocular eye, twisting it in and out between his
fingers. The distinct whirring sound it made as the lens turned
from side to side always brought Thale’s face to mind. Every time
Sorren put the eye back in his coat pocket, he promised himself
he’d stop fiddling with it. Every few hours, he broke his
promise.

On the fourth night, the airship finally
arrived in the small stony hills where Sorren’s secret caverns were
hidden. Sorren offered Sage a room in the caverns, but Sage
insisted on staying on the airship, as if the caverns were
dangerous or tainted with evil. It didn’t matter. They’d only be
spending one night there. The next day, they’d be off to the
castle, where Sorren planned to face Atlorus once more, or wait for
his return. Sorren had considered using a mirror to portal himself
back to the castle. But even if Atlorus and his Zolen soldiers had
not smashed all the castle’s mirrors, as was likely, Sorren did not
intend his return to his own castle to be so modest. He’d enter
through the front door.

The caverns were as silent as a graveyard as
Sorren made his way to his room. He had missed the smell of the
place. A dank and dirty smell, but it had started to feel like
home. Kovola was most likely asleep somewhere. If so, Sorren didn’t
want to wake him. Not yet.

As he carefully pushed open the door to his
room, Quove came darting from the shadows and perched herself on
his shoulders. The note that had been tied to her leg was gone.

In his room, Sorren lit some candles using
matches. He sat on his narrow bed and carefully unwrapped the
bandages around his leg, discovering that his skin was intact and
healthy. Not even the discoloration of a bruise. It now felt as if
it had never been injured in the first place.

Sorren examined the area that had stung so
much as he’d walked around Owl’s Grave. Had it healed that fast, or
had he ever really been injured in the first place? He poked at and
rubbed the leg. Not even a hint of soreness.

A shadow crept across the stony cavern floor.
Sorren looked up to find Kovola approaching, long strands of
unkempt scraggly green hair dangling down in front of his eyes. He
walked as if trapped in a deep slumber, every step an automatic
thoughtless shuffle forward. His long iron staff clacked beside his
feet with every other step.

The old man stopped before Sorren and met his
gaze.

“I’ve realized something,” Kovola said, “over
these past two days. That I’m as great a fool as you are, for
wasting time on you. For wasting any energy worrying about you.”
The old man’s eyes, what Sorren could see of them behind his
strands of green hair, were red, and they glistened in the
candlelight. “I’ve already packed my things. My oath to your family
be damned.” He turned toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

Sorren opened his mouth, but no words
came.

An oath bound by the Nyrish power could not
be broken. By abandoning his oath, Kovola was, in essence, killing
himself. He’d be dead before the next sunrise if he broke his
oath.

“Kovola,” Sorren said, standing up.

Kovola paused at the threshold of the door,
but did not turn around.

“Kovola, I order you to leave, and serve my
family no more.” It was all he could do to save his life.

Kovola made no response. He stood in silence
for a moment, then continued out the door.

Sorren changed his clothes, dressing in new
pants and a new coat. He decided to leave on his shirt, now stiff
with the dark dried blood of his only friend. He wanted Atlorus to
see it.

Sorren sat back down on his bed. There’d be
no sleeping tonight. All he had left to do was wait. The key to
defeating Atlorus was locked in the airship’s cargo room.

In the castle’s throne room, Atlorus watched
the relentless rains stream down the room’s grand high windows.
Dawn had come hours ago, but the sky was still dark, this part of
the kingdom lost in the shadow of a wild and wicked storm.

Atlorus was dressed in the finest clothes
he’d ever worn. A dark gray woolen surcoat embroidered with flowing
gold patterns, a black silk cloak, and fine brown leather boots,
all prepared for him by tailors and seamstresses in the nearby city
of Faircliff. His hair had been finely groomed and combed back,
ready for the crown.

He was seated on the throne, the only seat in
the room. It sat in the center of a broad stone dais, covered with
a dark blue rug. The throne itself was uncushioned, tall, and wide,
clearly made for a larger man. Still, Atlorus sat up straight,
refusing the temptation to lean to any one side.

Gashdane stood on his left, dressed in his
usual armor, which had been polished thoroughly.

A priest, whose name Atlorus had already
forgotten, stood on his right, dressed in long robes of red and
white.

A small crowd was gathering into the room,
attendants directing them to one side or another. They’d have to
stand for the short ceremony. Most were not dressed particularly
well. Many wore worn-out jackets and faded tattered dresses, but
Atlorus didn’t care. He’d insisted the coronation be performed
swiftly, and he wanted as many witnesses as possible. The small
audience had not had much time to prepare.

Gazing down the long aisle that stretched
from the dais to the wide iron doors on the opposite side of the
room, images of Vonlock seemed to dance before him. It was the way
Vonlock had fallen into the void that haunted Atlorus’s memories.
The dark wizard had not resisted his fate. He’d hurled his staff
aside and remained still as Atlorus approached and opened the void.
Atlorus had expected Vonlock to attack, to cast some sort of
counterspell, to defend himself with winds or flames from the
Nyrish power. But he’d only watched Atlorus with an awful sadness
in his eyes and let the void pull him in. It was like he had
expected to die that day, and knew it was pointless to resist. More
than that, he had seemed sorry, as if he’d been half-hoping Atlorus
would change his mind and not fulfill the prophecy after
all . . .

But what did it matter now? Vonlock was
wicked, his end was justified. Atlorus would be a good king, the
sort of king Morrowgrand truly deserved, the king whose coming the
prophets had foretold.

“Let’s begin,” Atlorus said.

“Soon,” Gashdane said.

Atlorus turned to him. “Now. We’ve waited
long enough.”

“You should put that away,” Gashdane
said.

At first, Atlorus wasn’t sure what he meant.
Then he realized he had the black crystal clutched tightly in his
palm, his knuckles white. He relaxed his grip, but made no move to
pocket the weapon. “I need to keep it close.”

“You don’t need it,” Gashdane said. “You
should hide it. It’s more important than your crown.”

“I could need it at any moment,” Atlorus
said. “I know how to control it. It’s safe with me.”

“Very well.” Gashdane stepped forward to the
edge of dais and cupped a hand next to his mouth. “Close the
doors.”

Attendants slowly shut the heavy iron doors.
The murmurs and whispers of the small crowd faded. There was
supposed to be music, fanfares blasting from horns and trumpets,
but Atlorus had refused the ritual in order to hurry the ceremony.
The only sound was the heavy rain lashing at the windows and the
grumbling of distant thunder.

A servant slowly walked down the aisle,
holding a thin silver crown on a dark blue velvet pillow. He walked
as if on the edge of a cliff, every step precious and cautious.

Atlorus tried to remain absolutely still,
counting the passing seconds with his breath. In a few moments,
he’d be the king, just as the men and women of Owl’s Grave had
always promised. For so long, this destiny had seemed too good to
be true. But now he was here, just as they’d said.

The crown bearer climbed the steps of the
dais and held the crown out to the priest.

The priest took the crown in his wrinkled
narrow fingers, uttering prayers in Old Tavendin, his deep gravelly
voice echoing through the room with power sufficient to battle the
sounds of the storm ranging outside. Lightning flashed across the
windows, glinting off the edges of the crown like dancing sparks.
The priest held the crown over Atlorus’s head and Atlorus closed
his eyes, ready to bear the crown’s weight and authority.

The priest switched to the common tongue. “On
this, the nineteenth day of the third month, I hereby crown—”

Crash!

Atlorus’s eyes popped open. The small crowd
gasped, their eyes fixed skyward. Gashdane drew his sword.

Atlorus noticed the broken window on the
right, storm winds howling through the now empty frame. The icy
wind blew across his skin and whipped his hair this way and
that.

The crowd pointed at the throne as a large
black raven landed on its right side. It stared up at Atlorus and
screeched.

“A raven?” Gashdane said.

Something thin and white was tied to its leg.
Atlorus carefully undid the string and something fell from the
bird’s leg, clacking and rolling against the uncushioned
throne.

Atlorus recognized it as he picked it up.

A long mammoth bone whistle.

His mother’s whistle.

His eyes returned to the raven as he
tightened his grip on the black crystal. “Sorren is here.”

The iron doors burst open. A blast of air
struck Atlorus, flinging him backward, and he struck his head
against the back of the throne. The priest on his right fell
backward, dropping the silver crown at the foot of the throne.
Atlorus leaned forward and reached for it, tossing the bone whistle
down the steps of the dais.

Before he could grab the crown, walls of
blue-green flames erupted along the edges of the room’s center
aisle, creating a narrow corridor of fire. In the center of it, at
the far end of the room, was Sorren. His rain-soaked hair clung to
his face in tangled webs. He wore green goggles over his eyes, and
the back of his long black coat thrashed about behind him like a
cloak. He held his father’s staff in a silver-copper mechanical
hand, its flame burning green.

Atlorus stood and brought the black crystal
to his forefingers. This was a terrible place to open the void,
with so many innocent bystanders crowded close by. Many of them
would no doubt perish.

But there was nothing Atlorus could do about
that.

He raised the black crystal, preparing to
open the void just above Sorren’s head.

But Sorren stepped forward and revealed he
was not alone.

Behind him, dressed in dripping-wet animal
fur, tied up in ropes and chains, blindfolded and gagged, was
Atovin.

“Mother,” Atlorus said.

Sorren slid his goggles from his eyes and
continued forward. “Where is your void, Atlorus?”

Atlorus swallowed, dropping his arm.

“Atlorus,” Gashdane said, his sword pointed
at Sorren, “Atlorus, you must do it.”

“Are you not the Chosen One?” Sorren said,
pulling Atovin stumbling along behind him. “Are you not the one who
killed my father?”

“Atlorus, open the void!” Gashdane said.

“But . . .” Atlorus could
hardly speak. His mouth was dry. His legs trembled beneath him.

“It’s your final test, Atlorus,” Gashdane
said. “You knew it might come to this.”

“Oh, Atlorus,” Sorren said. “Where has your
power gone?” It looked as if the dark wizard’s shirt was stained
with blood.

“Now!” Gashdane said. “Now! Before he gets
closer!”

Sorren pointed his staff at Gashdane, who was
instantly hurled backward, flipping through the air like a ragdoll.
He crashed against a side wall and his body crumpled against the
stone floor, leaving him groaning in pain.

Sorren took one more step forward, then
paused. “The choice is yours, Atlorus,” he said. “You who have
taken everything from me, I offer myself to you. Are you not
willing to lose what you are willing to take?”

Atlorus sat back down on the throne, his arms
shaking.

Sorren just stood there, watching,
waiting.

Atlorus took deep breaths. His mother’s
lullaby seemed to fill the air, as if part of his mind had escaped
to a dream.

This was not part of the prophecy. He’d never
been warned his own mother would have to die by his own hand.