The Wounded Guardian (16 page)

‘Don’t you think I know that? What can I do?’

‘My dear Bishop, have you thought about praying for Aroaril’s forgiveness?’

‘He doesn’t answer my prayers—hasn’t for years as you bloody well know! That’s another reason why the Archbishop hates me! So, are you going to help me, or just keep tormenting me?’

Prent smiled thinly. ‘And where would the church be if we removed all the people who had fallen out of favour with Aroaril? The good news is, I can help you. I can speak to the girl, see that she does not testify against you. But…persuading…her will not come cheap.’

‘I can afford it,’ the bishop admitted bitterly.

‘Excellent. Then this sad incident will soon be forgotten—except by you and me.’

Martil discovered a new horror as they started that day’s trip. The forest was sparse around here, more like patches of trees interspersed with farmland and rolling hills. It also made a fine place for flowers to grow, and Karia decided she wanted to pick them. So flower stops were included along with food stops and toilet stops. She even added a rather bedraggled arrangement to Tomon’s reins, much to the horse’s disgust.

Karia found herself enjoying this lifestyle. It was nice to ride gently through the countryside, eating when you wanted, and stretching your legs to collect flowers. If she pestered him enough, Martil would even
use his knife to help cut some of the bigger blossoms. It still wasn’t life at Father Nott’s, but it wasn’t bad. Sometimes she even forgot to annoy him, although her frequent questions still had him muttering what she was sure were square words sometimes.

She was a fund of questions, about the trees—Martil knew some of the varieties, but made the rest up and hoped she would never notice—the few birds and animals they saw and, of course, about the merchants and farmers they passed on the road. It was not the main road west, but it was still well travelled. At first Martil tried to discourage her questions, by giving her short answers, or ignoring her. But this only provoked more questions. So he finally gave up and told her as much as he knew.

The days stayed warm, although twice they had to cut short their travels because of rainstorms and shelter at an inn, which meant more reading for Martil, as well as playing games.

They also spoke to some of the travellers they passed; people were not in a rush and were happy to chat. They often complimented Karia on her dress, as well as swapping news about the road ahead, and concerns about the missing Dragon Sword.

‘What a beautiful little girl,’ they said again and again.

‘Takes after her mother,’ Martil always said, which, as far as he knew, was entirely accurate.

One merchant even invited them to join him for lunch. Martil had been unsure, and wanted to ride on, but Karia had been hungry and he was aware of the need to conserve his own supplies.

So they sat down beside the road, ate cold pork and apples, washed down with water, while Tomon
enjoyed a few apples with the merchant’s draught-horses. The merchant’s name was Berne, and he was a short, muscular man with brown hair and a neat beard who had lived all his life in eastern Norstalos, buying crops from small farmers and then selling them in larger towns. He was evidently in no hurry to get his load to market, because once he had been asked about the Dragon Sword, it was hard to get him to shut up.

Martil had suggested what seemed to him to be the obvious solution. If one sword had gone missing, ask the dragons to give them another.

‘Ask the dragons for another sword? Are you mad? King Riel had to save a dragon’s life to get this one. They don’t just pluck magical swords off a tree like so many apples, you know!’ Berne spluttered, waving around a piece of the fruit. ‘Do you not know the Sword’s rich history, understand its intrinsic importance to this mighty country?’

‘No.’

‘What do they teach you down in Rallora?’ Berne gasped in horror.

Martil ground his teeth together. ‘Have you not heard of a little thing called the Ralloran Wars? Killed thousands of people over the past sixteen years? It kept us a little busy to study the legends of some sword in Norstalos.’ He paused, aware he was starting to lose control of his temper. But how could he explain what things had been like to an apple merchant? Never knowing if you were going to survive another day. Why would he care or even think about what was going on in another country?

‘Well, I shall tell you,’ Berne announced, settling himself comfortably. ‘Back in the days of King Riel,
Norstalos was a country at siege. We had just begun exploring the north—and clashing with the goblins that lived there. The Tetrans were raiding across the border, the Berellians looked threatening and, worst of all, half the nobles refused to acknowledge the crown and pay taxes, instead raising private armies and ruling their own little fiefdoms. Then King Riel saved a dragon from being killed by the goblins and everything changed. The dragons gave him the magical Dragon Sword. Many claim it has the power to keep Norstalos at peace but I, for one, believe that to be incorrect. Rather its power is in inspiring other men to do what is right. Either way, the nobles joined Riel in punishing the goblins for their horrendous crime, the people rallied to the crown and we discovered rich farmlands and gold in the hills of the far north. Our prosperity was assured and, with it, our peace and safety. The King had money to raise a large army and pay it to keep us at peace. All because of the Dragon Sword. Riel died soon after but he passed on the rules of the Dragon Sword to his son…’

‘Yes, and I’m sure they are fascinating,’ Martil interrupted. As if he would ever need to know that! ‘Anyway, why are you all so worried about it? Your army is still the biggest around, nobody is going to invade you,’ he pointed out.

‘The trouble will not come from outside but inside the country. There wouldn’t be a problem if Duke Gello had drawn the Sword but it refused him; he’s got about as much chance of invoking the magical powers of the Dragon Sword as I have of sprouting wings.’

‘What’s magic?’ Karia asked into the sudden silence.

Martil could see this becoming a long lunch. ‘That’s a question that would take too long to answer. Berne has to be on his way, and so do we,’ he said hastily.

‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of time. These apples aren’t truly ripe yet,’ Berne smiled.

Despite Martil’s protestations, he began to describe in detail how magic worked. Martil remembered Father Nott saying something about Karia and magic, but he could not believe it. Being able to use magic was a rare gift. Perhaps one in a thousand people had the power and not all of them were able to do anything with it.

‘Magic is in all of us. It is the force that nurtures us, helps us grow and breathe and love and see. When something is born, a little bit of magic is used to make it come alive. As it grows it uses more magic, then its death releases the magic back into the world, where it is used to create something else. It is all a circle, a great circle. But magic-users, or wizards, or magicians, whatever you want to call them, they have a way of taking this raw magic and using it in different ways.’

‘How?’ Karia wanted to know.

Berne smiled. ‘Magic is a natural force flowing around the world, which can do anything from causing the wind to blow to making this apple grow. You can learn to turn this to your use. Wizards study plants, weather, birds and animals, trying to see how they do things. Then they try and learn how to copy that, so they can make it happen through magic.’

‘How do you know so much?’ Karia asked, open-mouthed.

‘I once studied with a wizard. My parents thought I had some power, with my obsession with growing
things, and of course I had been dreaming of dragons. But I never even made the First Circle.’

‘What?’

‘Pass your tests and you gain entry to the First Circle, then the Second Circle and so on, until you have reached the Ninth Circle.’

‘How long does that take?’ Karia asked.

Can’t be any longer than this lunch
, Martil thought to himself, stirring restlessly.

‘Oh, many never make it. To be admitted to the Seventh Circle is seen as a great honour. There are probably only three or four wizards in Norstalos who have attained the Ninth Circle. They can use magic in ways you’ve never even thought of, they can take a natural process they have seen happen in a rare plant, and replicate it with a human, or an animal. But it costs them. They have to give back in energy what they take in magic. If they use too much, or try to do too much when they are already tired, it can kill them. That is why there are some things, such as flying, which are impossible. They take too much energy. The magic must be replaced, and it will take their life force if that is necessary to keep the circle flowing smoothly. The circle is everything. Everything must die, and release its energy back into the circle to allow it to continue.’

‘Everything must die? Even dragons?’ Karia asked.

‘Well yes, even dragons. Nothing can break the circle. But I hope I never see the day when the dragons start to die! Aroaril knows what will happen then!’

‘But…’ Karia began.

Martil recognised the danger signs. She was going to keep asking questions until nightfall. And Berne seemed happy enough to keep answering them.

‘We need to get going, and so does Berne. Thank you for lunch, and your stories, but if we don’t go soon, then we’ll never make the next village by nightfall. It’s slow going with a small child.’ Martil smiled apologetically at Berne.

Despite Karia’s protests, and Berne’s offers to let them sleep under his wagon that night, Martil managed to get her onto Tomon and riding off, waving goodbye to Berne. But that small victory gave him little peace. All the questions she had wanted to ask Berne, she now asked him.

Karia had always been fascinated by the thought of magic. Seeing Father Nott use the power of Aroaril to heal and help had sparked her interest, but for the past couple of years she had also dreamt of dragons. She loved those dreams. They always started the same. A dragon would come to greet her, although the dragons changed each night. Sometimes they were golden, and massive, sometimes lithe, small and green, and at other times were all different colours, with different voices. They would take her for a ride, swooping high into the air. It made her want to learn about magic. So now she eagerly grabbed the chance. Martil must know. He knew the answers to all her other questions.

Martil struggled to answer. He had no idea how you used magic, or how you knew you could do magic, although he did know that the dragons were the guardians of magic, who made sure the circle of magic kept turning, that life kept being replenished.

As for the elves, they were not the magical creatures of the sagas, but a race of men who served the dragons. Apparently, living so close to such strong magic for so long had changed their appearance, so
their faces looked something like a dragon’s, leading to their comparison with the mythical beings that lived only in sagas.

Karia had been bitterly disappointed about that.

‘But elves and fairies and goblins are real! They’re in all the sagas!’ she protested.

‘There’re no such things,’ Martil pointed out, as gently as he could. ‘They’re just in the sagas. What we call goblins are a race of men who look strange to us, what we call elves are a race of men affected by magic. There are no fairies or talking rabbits or anything of that sort. It’s just people making things up.’ He looked at her crestfallen expression and sighed. ‘How about we find a wizard somewhere who can tell you the full story?’ he suggested.

‘All right,’ she shrugged, disappointed she would not meet real elves.

The village inn they stayed in that night was, if possible, even worse than others. The talk was the same, however. The Dragon Sword and the future.

After much pestering by Karia, Martil asked the innkeeper if there was a wizard in the area, so she could learn some more about magic.

‘A wizard? Here?’ The innkeeper, a skeletally thin man with a dripping nose, looked around the musty inn. ‘Folks around here can’t afford wizarding. You go and ask the priest, real nice, or you do without. Old Wood’s second son, Rush, he became a wizard. Went away to the big city to learn it, never came back.’

Martil relayed the information to a less-than-pleased Karia but there was nothing he could do about it. Personally, he was getting frustrated with the farmers and their endless worries about the Dragon Sword, so he stayed in the room after
putting Karia to bed. Of course, first he had to read her a story, about some silly princess who was stuck in a tower until a prince came to rescue her, then had to sing Karia his song about going to sleep. It worked, as far as putting her to sleep, although he still found she had a tendency to kick him in the middle of the night. By now he had accepted defeat in the partition of the bed, so when he woke up to find himself perched precariously on the edge, while she was snuggling into his back, he just left her there. But at least he wasn’t getting any more nightmares, while her early morning starts ensured they made good progress on the road.

Martil noticed the countryside was changing, becoming more hilly, as the road curved gently around and met up with the main eastern trade route. He was fairly confident that Havrick would have given up the search by now, or found more useful things to do. Still, he kept an eye out, just in case. Anything to stop him doing what he really should have been doing—thinking about what was waiting for him in Thest. He could not rid himself of the compulsion that he had to go there, even now it had been revealed to be the stronghold of a bandit.

Though they were now back travelling on the main road, this far east it was pretty quiet. The farmhouses around here were bigger, often built on the tops of hills, and surrounded by cleared ground. Instead of mud and thatch, or wood, these were built only of stone. Their windows looked more like arrow slits and they all had solid stone outhouses. Martil guessed they were enough to hold off a score of bandits for a night. There were few animals, and the crops seemed to be things such as turnips and carrots—vegetables that could not be stolen easily.