Son of a Dark Wizard (18 page)

Slowly, he raised the black crystal once
more. He aimed the spell to open the void just below Sorren’s feet.
Just a thought and it would be over. Just one little thought to
open the void.

But he’d have to watch his mother fall into
that black abyss.

There had to be another way. If the prophecy
was true, there had to be another way. This was not the time.

He lowered the black crystal.

Sorren stepped forward, climbing up the dais,
leaving Atovin on the aisle. Now he was so close that opening the
void was impossible, unless Atlorus was willing to sacrifice
himself.

Could he? Was he willing to die for this?
Perhaps his own life was the true price of fulfilling the
prophecy.

He slowly raised his arm one last time, but
Sorren caught it in his icy human hand. He leaned his staff against
the throne and forced Atlorus’s fingers open with his mechanical
hand, his silver fingers cold and hard as iron.

Atlorus thought the spell to create the void
under the throne, but it was too late. Sorren took the black
crystal in his silver-copper hand. He held it up and examined it as
lightning burst through the windows and thunder shook the air.

“I will not call you weak,” Sorren said. “We
were both made to bear such darkness.” He clutched the crystal in
his hand, took his staff, and met Atlorus’s eyes. “But you were not
born to be a king. And I am stronger.” He knelt down, curling his
fingers around the silver crown. “You can keep the castle,” he
said, “but I’m taking the crown. I have another throne.”

Atlorus felt the blood drain from his face.
He could hardly move. Could this really be happening?

He’d lost. He’d failed the kingdom. He’d
failed the world.

The flames that had trapped the small crowds
on each side of the aisle faded away. The men and women stared up
at Sorren, frozen in fear. Children were crying, but no one made
efforts to comfort them.

“People of Morrowgrand,” Sorren announced,
stepping down the dais, “put no hope in your savior. Atlorus will
not be your king. His prophecies will not come true.” Sorren passed
Atovin, leaving her standing there tied up and blindfolded. He made
his way down the aisle, toward the open iron doors. “I will return
soon, and I will make a new kingdom from the shadows of what my
father left behind. Continue with your songs and celebrations if
you wish. Curse my name and spit on my father’s grave. I do not
need your prayers for the world I am building.” He paused at the
door’s threshold, turning back to the small crowd in the room as
his raven flew to his shoulder. “But for your own sake, remember
this day and remember my face. Prepare for what is coming. I will
return soon.”

Then Sorren turned and vanished into the
shadows beyond the door.

For ten heartbeats, there was silence,
nothing but the tortured song of the storm outside. As people began
to move and murmur in cautious whispers, Atlorus ran to his mother.
He pulled off her gag and blindfold and the ropes and chains that
bound her. Then they stood there clinging to each other, trapped in
each other’s embrace, and spoke nothing.

Sorren stood on the top deck of his royal
airship, the same place Atlorus had stood when he’d created the
portal to the void over Owl’s Fortress.

The airship had been easy to commandeer. The
few Zolen soldiers that had been guarding it had not put up much of
a fight after Sorren demonstrated that he could fling their bodies
from his path with little more than a thought. Some soldiers had
called out for Atlorus, but of course their cries were left
unanswered.

Sage was flying the ship, a task he seemed to
enjoy, especially after Sorren promised he could keep it in
exchange for flying him around for the next year or so. When Sage
asked what had happened with Atovin, whom he had kidnapped for him,
Sorren replied, “Family reunion.”

They were flying out over the cold eastern
seas to the Atrolius Kingdom, where the Nyrish Council met in a
tower in the mountains by the coast. Most wizards would use mirror
portals to get there from across their scattered castles around the
world, but the tower was close enough to Morrowgrand’s borders that
an airship could fly there in only four or five hours.

Sorren leaned over the rail, rolling the
black crystal from hand to hand. It was only this small weapon that
had made Atlorus anything, only this small weapon that had torn
Sorren’s life apart.

Sorren still carried Thale’s small tovocular
eye in his pocket. He knew he’d have to return to Owl’s Fortress
someday to see Thale’s grave. For now, the eye would be a reminder
of that.

He also wanted to ask Maewyn more questions.
Surely the woman kept many more secrets than Sorren could know.

Watching the blue light of the Nyrish moon
gleam along the edges of the black crystal, Sorren wondered if his
Nyrish power could be used to activate the weapon and open a portal
to the void. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, like a
bizarre memory from a half-remembered dream, Sorren knew he could.
If he tried it and practiced it a bit, he knew he could use the
weapon just as Atlorus had.

Which meant, at this moment, with the black
crystal in his hand, Sorren was the most powerful being in the
world, completely unstoppable.

He raised the black crystal in his
flesh-and-blood hand, pointing it at the stars.

Then he flung the weapon out into the
sea.

It fell into the black waters below and was
gone.

No one would ever be able to open a portal to
the void again.

Sorren took a deep breath, closed his eyes,
and enjoyed the chill of the frigid salty sea wind on his face.

“We should’ve disbanded,” Mordock said.

Oakren scoffed, taking a long sip from his
chalice. “At least the Chosen One is defeated. He won’t be a threat
to anyone else now.”

“I suppose,” Mordock said, “but I’d rather
Sorren had been destroyed.”

The eight wizards of the Nyrish Council sat
around their long black marble table. The clocks were chiming
midnight as they waited for their new Head of Council to arrive and
take his seat.

“What’s so terrible about Sorren, anyway?”
the young wizard at the end of the table asked.

“He doesn’t listen,” Mordock said. “He has no
respect.”

“The real trouble,” an old wizard said, “is
that he’s powerful. More powerful than any of us.”

“The worst thing about him,” Oakren said, “is
that he always gets what he wants.”

Just then, the door at the other end of the
room groaned open and Sorren stepped through, his green-fire staff
in his silver-copper hand and his black raven on his shoulder.

The torches that lined the walls dimmed, and
the air grew cold.

The other wizards were silent as the new Head
of Council walked around the table, most of them avoiding eye
contact. He stood in front of his empty chair at the end of the
table, put his staff against the chair, and filled his chalice from
a nearby pitcher. Taking a small sip, he smacked his lips.

“Do I make you so glum?” Sorren asked. “I am
not my father.”

“We know,” Oakren said.

“You must understand,” Mordock said, “most of
us are more than five times your age. Your lack of experience may
be . . . a problem.”

“And yet,” Sorren said, setting down his
chalice, “you had no problem designing a trial meant to kill
me?”

“Well,” Mordock shifted in his seat. “That
was . . . uh . . .”

“Naive,” Sorren said, “because you doubted
me. You’ll learn not to do that.” He sat in his chair and leaned
forward, folding his hands together around the chalice in front of
him. Quove hopped down from his shoulder and stood by his hands.
Sorren took another small sip from his cup. “This council has so
much more power than you men seem to realize.”

“Sorren,” Oakren said, “we
do
operate
with limits. It can be very dangerous to—”

“Do you realize the sorts of things we can do
with the world?” Sorren said, smiling.

“We can’t be careless,” an old wizard said.
“There is a fine balance to—”

“I have magnificent plans for us,” Sorren
said. “For the world. Best prepare, old men. I’m changing
everything. We’re starting something new.”

End of Book One

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Sean Patrick Hannifin’s stories have appeared
in
Daily Science Fiction
and
Buzzy Mag
. He blogs
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He lives in Fredericksburg, Virginia.