The Blackguard (Book 2) (8 page)

Henrick sat back with his cup of tea as he considered Alador’s question. “Not all Lerdenians choose to live in the tiers. Many have farms or other homes outside the cities. They may or may not have or practice skills in magic. Some have potential, but no training. Those that choose to live in Lerdenian cities are usually one of three types. They might have been born here and know no other way to exist.  They would be just as astounded to see the villages of the Daezun as you are to see Silverport. What seems perhaps evil to you is seen as normal to them. Evil is always in the eye of the beholder.
“

Henrick took a sip before continuing. “
The Daezun see the Lerdenians as evil because they broke a pact made long before our time, and because we are willing to go through great lengths to harness magic. Yet they hate an entire nation for the few that experience higher than the third tier. For the most part, while Lerdenians can learn magic, few have a natural disposition to it or are born with innate skills. A country is judged by the actions at the top. Such is the way across the world. Nations are judged by their rulers, and not by those that live within the borders.”

Alador listened with fascination, considering his father’s words carefully. They had merit. If the Daezun were judged by men such as Trelmar, even Alador could see why the Daezun would be hated. “What are the other two types?”

“The second type…Those who have found no other way to live and see living in the city as a necessary evil. Those who live in the trenches or those in the first tier. Sometimes they are motivated by slips, and sometimes they are motivated by the need to survive. Both are powerful motivators,” Henrick answered, staring absently down the length of the table.

“The last are motivated by the need for power, for prestige, or recognition. These are the most dangerous, for they will go through great lengths to gain what they want and often have little conscience to hinder their advances.” He sipped his cup and then glanced at Alador.

“You live in the fifth tier…does that mean you fall into the last category?” Alador asked softly. He looked disappointed at his father.

“That would be the usual assumption. However, I assure you that I live as I do
strictly as a necessary evil. You will be in the Blackguard and that will be your necessary evil. We do what we must because we must do it.” Henrick put his cup down and pushed his plate away.

“What is it that we must do?” Alador asked as he spread preserves over a generous portion of bread.

Henrick pulled out his pipe and filled it before answering Alador. “What I must do, I am not ready to share, but it involves staying in my brother’s good graces for the time being. Your purpose has yet to be revealed. If your stone was a geas stone, eventually you will realize what it is you must do. The best way to prepare you for what a dragon might have pressed upon you is to ensure that you are capable of fighting. The best way to do that is to put you in the Blackguard –again, your necessary evil.” He lit his pipe and watched Alador with an expression that made it seem as if his words had just explained it all.

Alador’s stomach heaved at this thought. He set his half-eaten piece of bread down slowly. “What if I refuse whatever it is this dragon pressed upon me?” He would not kill for a dragon. He would not fight his own people. He would not hurt his village. Alador’s mind raced with all of the things he knew he would not do.

“I don’t know. I honestly have never known anyone who did not finish a geas and still lives. It seems to me, given this, that your options are limited: complete the geas, or die.” Henrick puffed out smoke rings casually, as if they were discussing the weather and not Alador’s life. “I am sure I have given you much to think about. Why do you not return to your room and write to your little skirt you left behind?”

Alador’s heart leapt at the idea of writing to Mesiande, and for a moment he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. He missed her so much, and though a lot had happened since he’d fled the village, Alador still pined for her the most
of everything he had left behind. His heart sank as quickly as it had leapt.  “When a village takes your name off the book of life, no one can communicate with you. You might as well be dead.”

Henrick rolled his eyes. “I am a mage of the fifth tier. You do not think I can get one little letter to your lady love? I am really quite insulted.” He drew deeply off his
pipe, slowly blew it out, and looked at Alador. “Besides, I never told you to put your name on it.”

Alador slowly grinned. He rose from the table, eager to go write a letter to Mesiande.  Surely a chance to explain would help him repair much between them, and maybe, once he’d settled this whole subject of magic, he could send for her. He knew how to farm and so did she.  Perhaps they could find a small farm on the edge of
Lerdenia, where none would bother them. Hope flared in his eyes.

“One last question,” Alador began. “How did we get here?” He wanted to know this before he left to go write to Mesiande. He scooted in his chair as he looked at his father.

“It was clear that my plans for a slow trip so that I could teach you were foiled by the slide. You were in need of rest and healing, so I simply used a travel spell.” Henrick puffed the pipe as if it had been no more than a simple matter, looking at Alador with a smile.

“Why don’t you just use this spell all the time?” Alador asked in amazement. He knew that he’d much rather just be somewhere then ride along behind slow, scrabbling korpen.

Henrick shrugged. “I like to travel, and I hate spending spells I do not have to. It is careless and vain. Besides, flying is usually so much more exhilarating.” Henrick rapped his pipe out on his plate. “Now, off with you then. I have some business to attend. Stay in your rooms until I return. I want you to practice with the wet and dry cantrip when your letter is done.” Henrick’s tone held sure dismissal and an end to the conversation.

Alador snapped his mouth shut. He was determined that if there really was such a spell, that he would get his father to teach it to him regardless of it being careless or
vain. It meant he could visit Mesiande whenever he wanted to. “Yes, Father,” Alador politely answered, leaving this battle for another day. He left his father at the large dining room table. For now, he would write to Mesiande and explain everything. Maybe she would find it in her heart to forgive him. Maybe, just maybe, she would wait for him.

Chapter Six

Once Alador finished his letter, he set about practicing. He didn’t have any dirt, so he took a small square of linen he found in the closet and started wetting and drying it. It was getting easier; he almost didn’t have to search for that well of power within him anymore. He didn’t know what else to call it, a “well” is what it felt like, this pool at his core. Alador sat and thought about it for a while, bored with his task. He wondered if it had always been there, and he just hadn’t noticed before…or had it appeared when he’d taken the bloodstone from the ground?

Whatever the case, Alador was very aware of it now, and found it easily. He wondered if all magic was this way, nothing more difficult than imagining something and just…making it happen. He decided not to experiment, but the thought did concern him; what if he couldn’t control it?

Alador had no idea how much time had passed
until his father strode through the door without knocking, wearing a formal robe of black with red thread and trim. Henrick did not offer a greeting, he just walked to the closet and pulled out a dark blue robe, trimmed in silver. “Put this on,” he ordered, tossing it to Alador.

Alador caught it in surprise. He’d seen his father short with him before, but now Henrick actually seemed angry. There was a deadliness to him that Alador didn’t like. “What’s wrong?” he asked, holding the robe out with distaste.

“Your uncle has decided we will attend him, now. He has denied my request to allow me time with you as my son. I suspect that we will part ways today.” Henrick moved towards the open windows and stared off into the horizon. “Always at such a frantic pace. Bah!” he snorted out with disdain. “There is never enough time.”

Alador turned the robe around. “Do I have to wear this?” he asked as carefully as he could. He didn’t want to offend his father, but robes just seemed…Unmanly to him.

“It is a status symbol, Alador. It tells all that you are of mage blood and, therefore, accorded a certain level of respect. I will not go before Luth—the High Minister with my son clothed as a mere farming peasant,” Henrick snapped without turning. “I do have some standards to uphold. Pull your shirt off and wear it. You may keep your britches if you feel more comfortable,” he commanded.

Alador quickly did as he was told. He saw that the robe had a place for a belt, so he removed his and put it on around the robe, making sure his knife was still secure at his waist. Henrick remained silent, staring out the window.

Alador realized that he’d have no idea what to do if they were going to part ways. “I wrote the letter,” Alador started with hoping this offer hadn’t changed. He needed to make sure it got to Mesiande before anything else. She had to know how sorry he was and how much he still loved her. He moved to the desk and looked hopefully at his father.

“Yes, let us take care of that first.” Henrick pivoted on his heel and strode to the desk. “I will add instructions, should she decide to write you back.” He picked up Alador’s
quill and with strong strokes wrote an additional note at the foot of the letter. He sanded it and then, before Alador could look at what he wrote, rolled it up and shoved it into a silver tube with strange markings on it. “Take this and put it under your pillow. Lie upon the bed and think of your little skirt. Fix her in your mind’s eye.”

“I wish you would quit calling her that,” Alador muttered. He took the tube and examined the markings written on it, strange symbols and lettering he wasn’t familiar with. “What language is this?” He asked in amazement, tracing the lines along the tube with a nail.

“Draconic, the language of magic. You will learn it soon enough. Now go see your letter off,” Henrick ordered, arms folding with impatience. He nodded to the bed as if time was wasting.

Could it really be that simple, just wish it to her? Alador went to the bed and slipped the tube under a pillow, then hopped up and stretched out. Alador sighed gratefully when his father went to stare out the window. Closing his eyes, he imagined her. Her braided hair, desperately trying to escape its confinement. Her sparkling eyes as she laughed at him. The way she would put her hands on her hips when she was yelling at him for something she’d decided needed a proper scolding. A knife seemed to pierce him as he realized how much he loved her and how much he needed her. The feeling twisted the longing and loss back to the surface of his thoughts.

“That should do it. We need to be off, and there are still other things I need to tell you.”  Henrick’s tone was firm as he turned from the window and headed for the door.

Alador sat up, somewhat startled. He felt beneath his pillow. “It—it’s gone!” He moved the pillow to be sure.

Henrick rolled his eyes. “For a man nearly grown, Alador, you are in many ways still such a fledgling.”

Alador’s eyes flew to his father. “What did you say?”

“I said you are in many ways still a small one.” Henrick repeated stopping to look at Alador with exasperation.

“That isn’t what you said.” Alador slipped off the bed. “You said ‘fledgling.’ Why did you say fledgling?” He searched his father’s face anxiously.

“I am quite sure that I did not,” Henrick replied with a frown.

“You did!” Alador moved to Henrick, who now looked confused.

“If I did, what does it matter? A slip of the tongue.” Henrick said, looking flustered as well as confused.

“Yes, a slip of the tongue,” Alador murmured, eyeing his father suspiciously. Had his father been the voice? Was his father making the dragons in the dream to convince him of some task that was this supposed geas? “I have only heard that term in my dreams, Henrick,” Alador accused.

“Here, you will call me Father,” Henrick ordered tersely. “I most likely heard it from my friend, the dragon. It was a slip of the tongue or your imagination. We have more pressing concerns than a word misspoken.”

Alador knew he hadn’t misheard the mage. It made him wonder if he could really trust his own father. He felt like a pawn in a game he didn’t understand. “What other matters?”  Alador asked feet planted and arms crossed.

“This is your third tier pass. It is to always be on your belt.” Henrick held up a silver square with three eyes on one side. He handed it along with a copper one to Alador, forcing Alador to stop his childish posture and take the passes. The copper square had a large P with a strange dragon looking mark on one side, with five eyes on the other. “This other is a pass to come to me. It holds my mark so if you are found anywhere in the fifth tier except en route to or in my home, it will not protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” Alador asked as he took them and inspected them curiously, still cautious about his father. He felt a strange tingle in his hands as he held them.

“A mage found above his tier and without a pass is put to death without explanation or trial.” 

“What if you lose it?” Alador asked worriedly.

“I do not recommend that,” Henrick breathed out, his manner tense and worried.

Henrick’s ability to understate the obvious was irritating. Alador frowned but tied the pass to his belt as directed. He held the other one, curious at his father’s choice of mark. “What else?” Alador eyed his father. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the other square, but his father moved over to take it out of his hand and drape it around his neck. Alador stood staring at his father as the man tucked the pass under the front of his robe. It was cold against his chest.

“Luthian may take many paths today, and I am not sure which will be his choice. It is often determined by his mood. He may be authoritative and order you to the guard as is his right as High Minister. He may choose to go the route of doting uncle.” Henrick turned away from Alador, his voice hard and cold. “He may just kill us both. I do not know Alador. This is a fork in the road which cannot be divined.” Henrick’s shoulders drooped somewhat as if the thought tired him. He braced and turned back to look Alador firmly in the eyes. “Be wary. Speak only when spoken to and do not elaborate. Once you are in the Blackguard, there will be little I can do to protect you. You will be on your own except when you can slip away to visit.”

“What about my things?” Alador asked worried about his pack and other belongings.

“Your room will be as you left it.” Henrick gentled his manner, noting Alador’s agitation. “I will keep here what you do not absolutely need. You can come on your first visit and decide what you want to take with you. Once a week, you will be allowed a half day with me. Come when allowed and I will teach you the things that you will need to know and that the Blackguard will not teach.” Henrick frowned as he looked over his son. “You are still too young in thought for this,” he muttered sadly. “I fear that Luthian will not be swayed in your path.”

“I am nearly a man by rights of age, and I passed my ritual to manhood with the Daezun.” Alador drew himself up proudly.

Henrick just sighed as if Alador had just proven his father’s point. “If I teach you nothing else, I want you to remember these things. A ritual does not make you a man. A man has the strength to face what he is thrown in life. If he falls or is beaten, he does not complain but gets up and rides in to face the challenge once more.” Henrick grabbed his son by the front of his robe and pulled him close, looking down into his eyes as if trying to plant his very words in Alador’s head.

“A man does not lose focus, as a child does,” he continued. “His purpose is unwavering, and though he may find distraction in a wench or wine, he never loses sight of his end goal. Your mind should be on one thing and one thing only: gaining enough power to be free to live your own purpose and not another man’s.”

Alador went to speak, but his father held up a finger to Alador's lips. “For once, boy, stop your babble and listen. Commit your fractured thoughts to what I am saying in case I do not walk out of that council chamber.”

Alador swallowed hard at the intensity in his father’s gaze and tone. He realized that Henrick was not acting on showmanship or humor as usual. He could see in his father’s eyes that they were headed into real danger, so he nodded.

“You must make your own way. Seek council but hold your tongue. Trust no one and nothing but this.” He smacked Alador’s head lightly. “I know you are a smart boy, but you are quick to anger and quicker to speak. Learn to hold that anger and that tongue. Look for men who have learned the same, for they will have wisdom that you will need.”

Henrick tapped his chin, apparently thinking about what other words he needed to speak to his son, while Alador frantically tried to commit what his father said to memory. “There are rules to magic. Remember, nothing comes from nothing. Magic draws on everything around it and most through you. Because of this, consider the consequences of every spell. What will it draw from and what result will it cause? An example for you, if I use magic to water the apple orchards in Oldmeadow and I do not pay attention, I might very well draw that water from every insect in the orchard. Then there is nothing to bring fruit to its blossoms.” Henrick looked at Alador, beseeching him to remember. “There are rules to all things in life. Pay attention to them, only then will you know when you can break them. You cannot break a rule if you do not know the rule, and the consequence.”

Alador stood, wide-eyed, at this barrage of information, much of which conflicted with itself. “You aren’t going to die today. You can teach me these things when I come visit on those half-days you mentioned,” Alador said, trying to slow his father down.

“I do not know the outcome of today, Alador, no matter how many times I have cast a spell to see it.” Henrick looked displeased at this. “Promise me one thing: if my end does come today, find the red dragon that lives high in the mountains, next to a lake of immense size. He will be able to help you, regardless of what may come today. Tell him the man who stuck in his throat sent you.” Henrick eyed Alador with a deep intensity.

Alador felt as if something squeezed his chest tightly. “I promise,” he managed to whisper to the mage who still stood very close.

There was a long pause, and then Henrick smiled as if nothing had just occurred. He let go of Alador’s robe and straightened what his grip had wrinkled. “All right then, let us get this business over with. Never a time like the present to see where the path will choose to lead.” Henrick’s easy tone of voice was back, and he turned and strode out the door.

Alador shook his head and hurried after him. The more answers he discovered about his father, the more questions he had. If he lived a hundred turns, he didn’t doubt that there’d still be unanswered puzzles. His father was truly an enigma.