The Faerion (23 page)

The light failed quickly in the mountains and they made camp. Wynne could not shake the sensation of watchfulness. They ate in silence.

"There is something out there," said Wynne. "It is not animal. I can sense that. Would Berimar have left a trap for us?"

"Possible. Might be the defenses of the land. Something magical to save live soldiers. It would be difficult to be stationed out here. See how dark the night is?"

"It's cold. Should we build a fire? I wanted to ask you before."

"No. Our eyes must be suited to the darkness. A fire would locate us and destroy our night vision. We will endure the cold to save our lives."

They sat back to back, watching the darkness.

"I will tire, even if you do not."

"Forgive me," said Navir. "Again, I think only as a Daerlan. It is a terrible thing I do."

"Not terrible, just selfish."

The night deepened. Shadows closed about them. Slender shadows moving from rock to rock, tree to tree, closing them in a tight circle.

"What are they?" Wynne whispered.

"Wukka. They are death itself. I fought one, years ago, but never so many. I don't know how we shall survive. It will require more strength than either of us have."

"The Faerion? If we could find a proper spell..."

"Do it!"

Navir leapt to his feet, shouting spells. His hands flared in blue light sending the Wukka back into the shadows. The Daerlan walked the perimeter of their camp glowing like a firefly.

"My strength will give out after a short time. Use the light to search the book. Look for something with fire or brightness and something that will last."

The Wukka stopped retreating after seeing Navir would not leave the campsite. The creatures moved back within a few feet of Navir, as close as they could stand the light. The reedy voices of the slender stick creatures startled Wynne but she kept reading.

"What are they saying?"

"Keep reading. They are deciding whether to brave the light."

Suddenly, one rushed forward, touching Navir on the leg and dodging back. Navir yelled in pain and anger, sending the creatures further away.

"Are you all right?"

"Keep reading! You must find a spell. It burns but doesn't spread. We are in a difficult situation."

Navir heard the pages flip as the Wukka closed the ring tight. He called up the strength to send fire to two of the creatures. The others watched their brethren burn, and then continued their measured approach. Navir did not know what to do. His magic had little to do with destruction and what strength he retained would not transport them away as he and Estes had escaped High Cedars.

Navir felt his light dim and started to warn Wynne when the Wukka pulled back, looking to the north. Navir followed their gaze and saw the red glow rushing down the slopes to them. It did not appear to be of fire, but whatever it was; the Wukka feared it. Navir increased his light with a large flash. The Wukka fled.

"What is it?" asked Wynne.

"I don't know, but I am tired." The only movement was the red glow. The night was silent.

They watched the red glow stop before them and transform into a man, tall and dark.

"Blackthorne!" cried Wynne.

"You really must give me more credit. Your ward proved difficult until I realized it guarded nothing. You see, Navir, there are two kinds of wards and they unravel in different manners. I knew Wynne to be strong, but there was no way for me to unravel the ward. There should have been some clue. Even Berimar's wards can be revealed in time. I was perplexed, but then I figured it out. And here I am. And here you are-following Berimar and his prizes. Well, I admire you for that, but do not walk into Galamog's lair with the Faerion unless you know what you are doing with it. She will destroy it immediately for it is the one thing she fears above all else."

"Why?" asked Navir. "What spell could possibly harm such a creature?"

"Ah, it is not a spell. The Faerion itself is a living creature and will destroy Galamog on its own."

"I don't understand," said Wynne.

"I know. And that is why I've decided to help you."

"At what price?"

"Clever girl. For the Faerion itself."

"It belongs to the Daerlan."

"A joke, surely. Navir's father killed your kind his entire life and he had a very long life. He does not deserve the treasures the Faerion holds."

"And you do?"

"A separate argument. After we have settled the Daerlan question."

Wynne drew near to Navir.

"We do not trust you," said Wynne. "You sold my friends."

"I did not sell them, Berimar took them."

"I thought your home was warded against Berimar," said Wynne.

"So did I," said Blackthorne. "He made a fool of me again. Since you headed in this direction I thought the three of us might teach the old bugger a lesson."

"We must hurry," said Wynne. "He should have reached his cavern by now."

"Most certainly," said Blackthorne. "But Berimar rushes not. He will keep them secured for the present, while the demands of Galamog and the invasion of Calendia keep him occupied for the immediate future. Why are you so quiet, Navir?"

"I am trying to ascertain your motives in all of this."

"Motives? Your friends are in danger."

"Thanks to you," snapped Wynne.

"Wynne, I tried to be a good friend to you. I advised you on many matters, and I told you of your father."

Wynne glanced at Navir.

"I wonder how much of your advice is sour."

"You insult me!"

"You protest too much," said Wynne.

"I agree," said Navir. "Explain yourself in detail or we shall part forever from henceforth."

Blackthorne sighed, shaking his head.

"I want to use the Faerion to destroy Galamog. Because I think it will be destroyed at the same time, I want to learn the spells within it. They must be committed to memory. I tried to write some down, but the words vanished when I finished. The power of the Faerion will not permit the existence of a second Faerion."

"Who made it?" asked Wynne. "Why would it have such powers?"

"It is the guardian of this land, created when the evil called Galamog set foot on this soil. It was hoped that one day Galamog would touch the book and die."

"And did the Daerlan make it?"

"No, they coveted it. It was made by the Wierluns encompassing all their lore."

No one spoke for several minutes.

"Come," said Navir. "Berimar's home is this way."

"Have you decided?"

Kirkes turned away from the window to address the speaker. He wore a black tunic yet he towered over the others as if he wore full armor. He exhaled deeply. Thoughts tugged at his mind, pulling him in diverse directions, but he knew what was right, knew what was true. He could not have decided any other course.

"Yes, Apal. I will oppose Treteste."

Apal grasped his arm.

"Good. We are brothers once again." He smiled warmly at Kirkes. "Treteste cannot hold his throne against us. We shall bury that usurper in a pauper's grave and drink wine until dawn."

A throat cleared behind him. They turned to the young man.

"There is another issue," said Estes. "Wierland soldiers surround Nantitet."

"I think little of them," sniffed Kirkes. He flinched at the reedy sound of Estes' voice. He turned away from the prince. His lips pressed tight while he rolled his eyes. Tension swelled in his chest. A hand touched his arm. He fought with himself to stop from striking the prince.

"Even Galen? The berserker?" Estes watched the color deepen in the knight's face.

"Speak to me in that tone when you are king, not before. I think little of berserker's. This one shall fall like the others before him." He stared hard at Estes, but the young man refused to divert his gaze. Long minutes passed, and then Kirkes nodded, a faint smile on his lips.

Apal continued. "We will pass the word among our people that you oppose Treteste. We shall have the numbers to dethrone him. We can round up several hundred fighters by tomorrow night."

"Who will be king?" asked Richela, speaking for all of them.

There was an uneasy silence.

"I see," said Estes. "I have not earned the throne in your eyes, yet you are not dishonorable enough to claim the throne for yourselves. I count Apal or Kirkes suitable for the crown. What do they say?"

"It is not for us to say," said Apal. "Creatures such as Treteste proclaim their own fitness for the throne. Time enough to decide on a king later. Although, I do not intend to belittle the importance of your question, we must rid ourselves of the Wierland army and Treteste. Only then can intelligent decisions be made."

Kirkes looked long at Estes. "There is much to you that might be molded into a king. The question is-do we have the time? If you are king, you will need to be strong and brilliant."

"Oh great," said Estes. "Just say you don't want me as king. I can't stand this double-talk."

"I speak no double talk. Listen to what we say. You take each comment personally when you should be thinking of Calendia. Calendia must come before any personal ambitions. It is not a time for weakness. Calendia and your life would depend on your ability. It is not lightly undertaken and cannot be tossed aside. Kingship penetrates your very bones and you have no other concern than Calendia. Your father did not teach you enough or begin soon enough."

"That was my complaint for which your father tossed me aside," said Apal.

"Who are you?"

"He's Tagera, of course," said Richela. "Even I figured that out. The hair color doesn't change enough of his features."

Estes did not answer.

"I warned your father about Treteste but he was deaf to my voice. He believed that his crown would demand loyalty from his vassals. He believed the kingship a sacred gift to which everyone would bow. He never considered treachery. Never. I warned him, time and again. I warned him against those he favored and he grew angry with me. He thought I undermined his authority, banning me from Nantitet and threatened to take my lands from me. I chose to leave Nantitet and your father. He missed so many chances to be a good king, but his foresight did not serve him."

"I won't listen to you attack my father. He's dead. Have some respect."

"Estes," said Kirkes. "There is no time for arguing. You must learn from your father's failures as well as his triumphs else you become the same king. Calendia cannot afford that now. Treteste must be our focus."

"You all push me around. I…"

Kirkes backhanded Estes who fell against the wall. Deenie helped him to his feet. Estes' eyes glazed and he could not focus. They stumbled to the back of the house to a private room.

"Was that necessary?" asked Apal. "As much as I would have liked to do it myself."

"The boy has no respect. He must be taught to respect something and my fist was the closest thing."

"You're terrible," said Richela, suppressing a smile.

"Thank you, my dear."

"Whatever you think about him," said Apal. "Estes is right about one thing: we must halt the Wierland army first. That means you must seek out Galen and kill him. Do it quickly. Treteste must not be in power by the end of the month."

"That gives me plenty of time. I will prepare today. Tomorrow I will confront Galen."

"Tomorrow? You need to recover from your ordeal." Richela's eyes implored him to listen to her.

"My wounds are not serious. Navir healed the worst of them. I shall be able to fight. I have yet to meet a fighter of any merit to challenge my skill. This Galen will prove to be no match. Do not worry, my love. I shall not be overcome."

"You are amazing, my friend," said Apal. "You cannot be entirely human. Are you hiding Zidar blood somewhere Kirkes? Come with me, Melana."

They walked outside. The room quieted. Kirkes sat near Richela, whispering to her.

Later, Apal came back alone and asked Kirkes to accompany him.

Kirkes and Apal entered a room at the back of the house. Apal shut the door behind them. Kirkes stood near the wall; his arms folded, a scowl marring his face.

"I do not like this, Apal."

"I know, I know. But what are our choices? Estes is heir to the throne."

"He is not ready. He cannot wield enough power to hold Calendia together even after Wierland is defeated. I heard rumor that Mordyn is marching north. If the sorcerer Berimar leads them, what will that boy do? He is merely a boy, Apal. He will crack under the strain."

"Then you must claim the crown. Until recent times the mightiest warrior always took the crown."

"That is true. Or it was true. I do not know if I will be accepted."

"Accepted? You take the crown; do not worry about acceptance. Your strength makes acceptance."

"Makes? Can I really force myself upon Calendia? Will I be any better than Treteste or Yeates?"

"Then you cannot dismiss Estes so easily. Who knows what he can do?"

Kirkes stared at his friend. He exhaled, kicking at the floor with his foot. They stood silently for many minutes, Kirkes trying to distill his thoughts into agreement with Apal. It proved difficult.

"If he survives the battle with the Wierlandians and if he fights well leading men, I will support him. Not until then. He is unproven."

"Agreed."

They stood silently watching each other. Finally, the two men left the room.

In the corner shadows crouched below their sight, a figure stirred, rising to its feet. Estes' grim expression did not show his inner thoughts. At least he has a chance to prove himself. A chance. He will show Sir Kirkes how a prince fights, how a king fights.

He waited then left the room, his mind a swirl of thoughts.

Deenie, left behind in the dark, felt a tug of loyalty. Apal must be told that Estes overheard him. She owed at least that much to Apal. More, in fact. However, she liked the way Estes looked at her. He would be king. Her mind followed unlikely paths for a minstrel. Still, it was something to hang onto in a world where there were so few moments of light and joy. She would hold it tightly. Now, she had to find Apal.