Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening (36 page)

Fuming mad, Glidewell next walked slowly and deliberately with each step toward his valiant general standing near the fireplace, who still held his hand by his left wrist, studying his burns without any expression of pain on his now red marked face. Doing so when the damage was severe enough that a lingering smoky stench of his own flesh still hung in the air was only a further testament to his great inner strength. As he came closer, he noticed that one of the specters had also left a gash on his breastplate that damaged the armor but had missed the man underneath it.

“Your hand?”

“It’s not bad, sire. Things could have been worse.”

“Indeed. Go see the court physician and have it taken care of.” Wainwright turned and took a few clanking steps away, still holding his left forearm with his right hand. “One more thing, general,” he called out to him.

The armor clad officer turned around. “Yes, sire?” His deep voice responded, his head still staring at the severe burns.

There was a pause before his majesty spoke. “Make ready my knights and wizards. We ride when this letter’s source is found.”

Wainwright’s head slowly came up from staring at his hand. On his face there was a grim look that hungered for battle and said that he found the idea agreeable. “With pleasure, my king.”

* * *

After the other preparations had been made, Glidewell stood in General Wainwright’s long rectangular office wearing his king’s armor and black cape. His helmet with crown-like protrusions of gold at the top was nestled in the crook of his left arm. The general stood in front of the desk to his right along with the other knights flanking the king. Hovering around the monarch were scribes with ledgers ready to record anything he deemed important or pen any edict he might make. With his warriors assembled, he waited for any information that a gaggle of gray robed mages standing with their backs to a fireplace, pouring over the infamous letter, would finally provide.

“What do you make of it?” Glidewell prodded impatiently.

The older wizard holding the undamaged letter continued to inspect it closely, his eyes squinting in concentration. He seemed almost not to have heard his king. A hum came out of his pursed lips. “The material it’s made from appears to be Human skin,” he said in thought, “maybe from someone’s back, the poor bastard,” he added under his breath. “The ink, rather than a messy blood that would dry and flake off without making the journey, is from a pen of some sort. A magic pen. Yes, there can be no doubt of that. There aren’t many, and this one’s mark is quite distinctive. And, if I’m not mistaken…” he looked more closely with a frown and a squint. “…I believe it to be the Arkiban Quill Pen, your majesty,” he at last pronounced.

“Where was its last known location?” King Glidewell asked next.

The wizards each looked at each other uncomfortably. None looked willing to speak. It was as if the question itself were a spell unto them.

“Where is it from?” The king intoned, his irritation rising.

One of his wizards, a blond man in red robes, finally answered. “Gadrale Keep, Sire.”

Gadrale Keep was the home of the mage academy from which all wizards in his employ gained their original training, the source of the magical elite that he surrounded himself with. He knew exactly why his retainers had been reluctant to tell him. The border fortress on the outskirts still held a place in each of their hearts.

Glidewell closed his eyes in a smoldering rage. “General Wainwright,” he called out.

Without yet opening his eyes he heard a smart clank as the general stepped forward at attention. “Sire.”

“Have our men search again every possible means by which this letter could have been delivered.” His tone became angry though the anger wasn’t directed at the general. He spoke through clenched teeth, “find out who sent it!”

“It will be done, my king,” he acknowledged before walking off in a series of noisy clanks.

Glidewell opened his eyes but did not bother to look at the next person he beckoned. “Scribe.”

An older man with a ledger came forward to his side. “Yes, your majesty,” came a higher pitched and more studious voice.

“I wish my words conveyed to Gadrale Keep.”

“You wish a cerebist sent to you, your highness?”

“No. I want to dictate a letter so that my words and my meaning are delivered in no uncertain terms. Then I want it sent by our fastest rider. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sire,” he acknowledged quickly. “Please go on.”

King Glidewell took a deep breath and spoke each word slowly. “Dear esteemed Treyfon, Grandmaster and Director of Gadrale Keep Mage Academy…”

Chapter
XV

T
he stone hallway carved with the depictions of Gadrale’s historic grandmasters lay ahead in his vision, each moment going by feeling as though it brought him closer to a disastrous fate he could not escape. Pairs of light orbs placed near the walls at even intervals marked brightly his path through the gloom. It was a dire occasion that promised him only cruelty and humiliation, yet strangely, Vincent held his head high. He had been ashamed of himself before; this time he was ready to defend his actions.

The big gray-iron double doors to the council chambers grew larger and larger in his view. As they walked, the collective footsteps of he and the two wizards escorting him thudded on stone like the beat of drums before an execution. They stopped several feet in front of the closed doors, giving themselves enough clearance. The blue robed wizard with the iron rod for a staff held up his hand, causing them both to open.

Inside, Vincent saw the council of masters sitting in a half circle on the other side of the large black meeting table, their robes covering up the reflective silver chairs they sat on. Rick, Karl, and Stacy were standing in a row before the table and had their heads turned around to watch him entering. The two wizards who were his guards stopped and stood on either side of the doors, letting him go the rest of the way on his own since it was clear where he was supposed to stand.

Rick looked on at him with serious eyes above his red mustache as Vincent approached. Karl, whose rock rested on the floor just behind where he stood, wore a disconcerted expression that said things were not going well. Stacy, still looking somewhat pale and maybe even a little faint, offered a meek smile in greeting before turning back around with the others. Vincent scratched at his stubble and
tried to keep his courage while he went to stand with them to the right of her.

The doors to the adjoining halls that led to the twelve offices of the major department heads, as well as the other for the Grandmaster’s Abode, stood closed with the runes on each surface clearly visible. Light from each hall was shut out, giving the room a cloistered feel. Creatures carved into the glossy black stone walls within the circular room all seemed to take a frightening leap closer. The gray stone-block floor beneath served only to lift them off the ground and support their attack postures. In the center of the room up at the ceiling, was the largest light orb to be found in Gadrale Keep. Vincent’s eyes had to adjust; the room was much brighter than where he had recently been spending most of his time.

All of the masters were gathered, their eyes giving the appearance of passing judgment over him, each incriminating him in their own way. Vincent didn’t like the look of it. It was as if they had already made up their minds about him.

Grandmaster Treyfon sat in the center of them, his big deep-blue pointy Elf eyes gazing on him passively with hardly a blink, his keen mind concealed within. A flat metal plate with raised edges and a round indentation in its center held a shiny metal ball that was bigger than one’s fist. It was his tool for marking judgments and keeping order during the proceedings, and the plate holding it rested on the table in front of him side by side with a rolled up scroll. Gray hair running down the sides of his wide face and parted by each sharp ear tip denoted his
millennia of life. The simplicity of his dirty, plain tan robes, marking his profession as a botanical mage, made him stand out among the others and almost seemed to do more to elevate his status than hide it.

To his right sat Master Anthony, dean of atmomancy, an old man with short white hair, a neatly trimmed white beard, and venerable blue eyes. Rather than showing Stacy a look of disappointment, he sat straight up with his eyes staring at Vincent as though this were all his doing, that he had somehow dragged her into it. At least that was what Vincent perceived.

Disappointment though, was exactly what Master Clemens was displaying right now. An agitated frown creased his brow and his face was contorted into a mild scowl. He sat with his dark stained hands folded, leaning forward with his elbows on the table in front of him.

At Clemens’ right sat three people Vincent recognized by sight but not by name. The Master Seeress, a woman in an elegant light gray and white dress, wore an intricate tiara with wiry strands of shiny metal and a brilliant blue sapphire mounted in its center. Her pupils were those with the vision: the gifted few who could project their awareness outward to sense things far into other lands. She, like most others assembled, looked on at Vincent disapprovingly. At her right sat a man in gray robes who was the Master Cerebist, and right of him, The Master of Illusion, wearing purple robes and a furled pointy hat, all of which had gold moons and stars throughout.

At Treyfon’s left sat someone who Vincent knew was going to be his chief opponent in these proceedings: Master Magnus, possibly the greatest pyromancer ever to have lived. The red-robed wizard was none too pleased during their last meeting; he had even proposed that Vincent be expelled for his mistake in the vault. It left him wondering if he considered this the kind of failure that would not be tolerated a second time. Beneath his angry brown eyes and bald head with bushy graying hair on its sides, he wore no beard, just a scowl. Vincent was surprised to see that it was only a partial one and that his face was not nearly as red or livid as he expected it to be. It didn’t change when he occasionally glanced at the others, including Rick. Magnus was a hard, strict elitist who had no favorites, not that Rick would necessarily qualify as one if he did. Unlike Anthony and Stacy, it did not appear as though he intended to show anyone, much less him, any special leniency.

Left of Magnus sat a kinder, perhaps more impartial face which was that of Master Gautrek, dean of geomancy. The brown eyes of the gray bearded old Dwarf looked on at each of them, including Karl, without any particular bias, except for Vincent, whom he appeared unsure what to think of. Or else hid it well.

At his left sat a woman in a white dress who was the Master Healer. Left of her sat a bald man with a long gray beard wearing black leather pants and a vest made of animal skin as well as a necklace made of bones and teeth from creatures unknown. Magical runes and spells were tattooed all over his muscled chest and arms, mostly in black but also in a few other colors, notably in a thick swath of blue on his head from which his nearly black eyes gazed out from underneath. He made each of them uncomfortable when he looked their way. Vincent had heard only that he was called a summoner; a summoner of what, he didn’t know. The other two on the end past him were a musician and a spell-writer.

Vincent’s eyes returned to Grandmaster Treyfon, who motioned with a slight upward tip of his head toward the two wizard guards standing not far behind them. The doors shut with a loud deep boom, encasing them solidly within the chamber as though it were their tomb. The council was convened.

The ancient Elf kept his voice raised not as much as he would for addressing a crowd but enough for all in the room to hear. “Vincent Faren, Stacy Clark, Karl Faren, and Erick Miller, you have been summoned here before The Council of Masters of Gadrale Keep to testify your full knowledge of the events that unfolded on the night of June 22
^nd
in which as a result the four of you suffered injuries and in which Craig Randall and Stanley Jones perished, to testify your full knowledge of the criminals you faced during your unsanctioned search, and to answer the charges leveled against you.” He picked up the parchment scroll in front of him on the table and unfurled it. “You will all be facing one count of treason, except for you Vincent Faren, who will be facing three counts of treason and one count of criminal negligence.

“The first charge of treason, which you all face, is contingent on your withholding the information you gathered on thieves and murderers who recently performed a raid on The Crafters’ Vault within our citadel. This lapse of judgment or else deliberate action on your part will be rectified immediately before you receive punishment.” His hand lowered the parchment, and his gaze went to Vincent. “Once your testimonies are heard, an inquiry regarding the other charges leveled against Swordsman, Vincent Faren alone will commence.”