The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-Two

Not long after returning to Valewind and taking up his position as Loremaster to the Duke of Telvany, Wilem had begun looking into the secrets of the castle, hoping to find some evidence that might lend some credence to suspicions he'd had since he was a boy. Initially, his searches had turned up little he hadn't already known, but then he'd come across an unblocked passage that lead to levels that were below the dungeon, which meant that, like most other structures in the kingdom, Valewind was just as vast below ground as it was above. One day, Wilem hoped to take his search one step further and discover the tunnel he was sure connected Valewind to every other castle and palace in the kingdom – a tunnel he suspected might, somehow, predate recorded history – but today was not the day for thinking about such pursuits. Today, he had to get Garrold to the room with the Eltaran spell etched into the floor, and then pray that Garrold would know what to do once he got him there.

And what about after that? Wilem wondered as he lead the way down a narrow flight of stone steps. Will Garrold be able to face an Eltaran Sword Priest using nothing but instinct to guide his magic?

“You still haven't said where we're going, Brother,” Garrold said from behind him, his voice echoing off the stone walls to either side of the stairs.

“There's a room I found down here that has an old Eltaran transit spell etched into its floor,” Wilem said. “I think you might be able to use it to reach King Lyrian's forces before they arrive at Valewind.”

“Reach them? You want me to leave the castle and face them alone?”

Wilem stopped and turned back, raising the torch he held so he could see his brother's face. “There isn't time for anything else. You know that as well as I do. If we hadn't been so foolish, we might have had more time to better prepare ourselves for Lyrian's attack.”

“And if I don't go . . .”

“More people will die. Every village between here and the place where Lyrian's forces crossed into Telvany will be put to the torch.”

Garrold sighed. “Lead on, then, Brother.”

It wasn't long before they reached the bottom of the stairs. Using what little Arcane Magic he was strong enough to wield – magically, monks were even weaker than clerics, though their talents did give them flawless memories and a degree of superhuman speed – Wilem reached out and touched the door that lead into the corridor beyond. Despite being hung on heavy iron hinges, the door opened silently, and when it did, Wilem's torch went out, its light replaced by that of the others that lined the corridor beyond.

“How far below the dungeons are we?” Garrold asked as they stepped out into the corridor.

“Twenty feet,” Wilem said. “Maybe more. And there are other corridors beneath this one, all of them older than everything above.”

“Astonishing,” Garrold said. “Wilem, how come you never said anything about this, before?” He smiled. “Was this one of your pet projects?”

Wilem turned away and started down the corridor, feeling suddenly embarrassed. Wasn't he Garrold's Loremaster? Wasn't it his duty to inform Garrold about things like this? Ever the slave to my own curiosity. What foolishness! “Something like that,” he muttered.

When he reached the door of the room he was looking for, Wilem opened it – again with a touch that caused the door to swing on its hinges without a sound – then faced his brother and indicated that Garrold should go in first. Garrold hesitated a moment, frowning in puzzlement, then stepped into the room. Wilem went in behind him, with Stevan and Robert bringing up the rear. Once inside, Wilem took up a position against the wall beside the door, and watched as his brother examined the ancient design that had been etched into the floor.

The design – a seven-pointed star surrounded by words written in Eltaran script – turned the floor of the room into a large, circular platform. Garrold paced around the design, studying it with one of the most intense expressions Wilem had ever seen on his brother's face, and even knelt down to touch it a few times, closing his eyes each time he did. Wilem could feel the magic flaring inside of Garrold, stronger than it had been at any time during their conversation back in his study, and wasn't surprised at all when, the last time Garrold knelt down to touch the design, he noticed that blue light had begun to leak out from behind Garrold's eyelids. When Garrold stood and opened his eyes, however, Wilem had to suppress a gasp of surprise at just how bright Garrold's eyes had started to glow.

“I understand the purpose of this platform and the spell that surrounds it,” Garrold said. “But I can't do anything with it. The spell has been disrupted.”

Touched by a Spellbreaker! A Spellbreaker who wanted to make sure no one could sneak into the castle with magic! I wonder what happened here? “You can still sense the spell, though?” Wilem asked.

Garrold nodded. “I can. It's very faint, and I'm having to stretch my senses pretty hard to do it.” He paused, frowning and glancing again at the floor. “I get the feeling I'm not really supposed to be able to sense it, at all.”

“A normal mage, with access only to Arcane Magic, wouldn't be able to,” Wilem said, trying to keep the excitement he felt out of his voice. “A Spellbinder, however, would. Spellbinders are the natural antithesis to a Spellbreaker, and are even rarer.”

“And that's what I am?”

“It would seem so. We won't know, for sure, until you try to recreate the broken spell.”

“You knew this spell was broken before we came in here, didn't you?”

“No,” Wilem said, “but I had my suspicions. Try and recreate the spell, Garrold. If you are a Spellbinder, it shouldn't be too difficult.”

“And what if I can't?”

“Well, if that happens, I'm sure we'll think of something.”

“Sometimes, Brother, I really hate your optimism.”

Wilem smiled. “No, you don't. You'd be lost without it.”

Garrold snorted, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. For several moments, nothing happened, then Garrold began to sway back and forth. His swaying wasn't that of someone who was about to fall – it was far too rhythmic for that – and, after a time, his lips began to move. No sound accompanied the movements of Garrold's lips, but Wilem thought that, if it had, his brother would have been chanting. Spoken spells are all in Eltaran. I don't think Garrold's chant would be. And it wouldn't be in Common, either.

Garrold stopped swaying. Keeping his eyes closed and his lips moving, he raised his arms to either side, fists closed, and began to turn in a slow circle. As Garrold turned, green light rose from the edges of the design, then streaked inward toward his closed fists. Garrold cried out when the light touched him, but he did not stop turning, and it was then that, for the first time, Wilem started to hear the words of his brother's chant. As he'd suspected, the words weren't in Eltaran or Common, and hearing them, sensing the raw power they contained, made the hairs on his arms stand on end. They're ancient! Gods Above, they're ancient!

At last, Garrold stopped moving and fell silent. Opening his fists, he made a pushing motion with his arms, and the green light that had risen from the floor vanished. He opened his eyes – which still glowed, though not as brilliantly as before – and looked at Wilem. “It is done,” Garrold said, his voice not quite sounding like his own. “The spell is restored.”

“Are you . . . are you all right, Brother?” Wilem asked.

Garrold blinked, the last of the blue glow vanishing. Wilem felt Garrold's magic die down to where it had been before they'd entered the room, and wasn't surprised to see his brother slump a bit with fatigue. “I think so,” Garrold said. “That was . . . amazing. I can do that to any broken spell?”

“I don't know about any broken spell, but you should be able to recreate most of them.”

“Recreating that spell will leave the castle vulnerable. It was broken for a reason.”

“It can be broken, again. The new head of my order is a Spellbreaker, and we can employ her talents should we decide we need to. Right now, though, we need to be able to travel like the enemy does. Can you do that, Garrold?”

Garrold gave a crooked smile, and Wilem was pleased to see he didn't look as tired as he had a moment ago. “That, and a Hel of a lot more, I think.”

“One question before you go.”

“What's that?”

“That language you were chanting in. What was it?”

Garrold raised an eyebrow. “I was chanting?”

“Yes. You don't remember?”

Garrold frowned in thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I remember something, but I'm not sure what. I was just doing what felt natural to do.”

According to the teachings of history, magic had first appeared in humans not long before Solanas the Elder crowned himself Magister. There were legends, however – the same legends that claimed the Eltarans had once ruled everything on both sides of the Ivory Spires, with humans as their slaves – that said the spark of magic had come much earlier, and had been what helped humans earn their freedom. I think it came even earlier than the legends claim, Wilem thought. So much has been lost to us!

“Go, now, Brother,” Wilem said. “Show King Lyrian and his master that we are not to be dealt with as easily as they hope.”

Garrold smiled, then spoke the words of the transit spell. Flames leaped up from the floor, surrounding and engulfing Garrold, and when they were gone, so was he.

“Will he be back?” Stevan asked.

Wilem looked over at the frightened sounding guard. “Oh, yes. And he'll be stronger than ever before.”

“Will he still need us?” Robert asked.

Wilem smiled. “Of course he will. Even the greatest Magisters still needed guards.”

“The Conclave had the Holy Knights,” Stevan said. “Is that what we'll be?”

“Holy is one thing you'll never be, Stevan. Not after that last night in town, anyway,” Robert jeered, which earned him a glare.

The exchange made Wilem chuckle. “The Council of Mages had no need of knights. They had the Silver Shields.”

“Silver Shields? I kinda like the sound of that,” Stevan said.

“So do I,” Robert added.

“Then, when he comes back, and if he's feeling extra charitable, maybe that's what Garrold will make you.” And I have no doubt that he will, Wilem thought. No doubt, at all.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-One

“You're certain that's what she meant?” Wilem asked. “That you're supposed to rebuild the Conclave?”

They'd been in Wilem's study for hours, discussing Garrold's revelation about what he was and what it meant for the future of the kingdom. Just as Garrold had suspected, Wilem hadn't been surprised at all when Garrold told him he was a mage. He had been relieved, however, as he – just like Therese – had known for years about the potential Garrold held within himself, and had lately begun to worry if that potential would ever get a chance to be realized. Over the course of their discussion, Wilem had tested Garrold a number of times, wanting to see just how much he could do, and Garrold had surprised himself by succeeding every time. How could he do so much when he didn't even know any spells? I don't know any, but, apparently, I can create them, he mused, thinking again about Therese.

“What else could she have meant?” Garrold asked.

“What do you know about the Conclave, Garrold? About how it functioned? About what rules it was governed by?”

Until the night before, Garrold had been frightened of mages and the powers they wielded, which, he now realized, made his knowledge of them embarrassingly poor. The Conclave had been a good thing, though, hadn't it? If it hadn't been, why had Atraxos the Black gone to so much trouble to see that it was destroyed? “I don't know very much about it, at all, I'm afraid,” Garrold said.

“As I'm sure you remember from your history lessons, the Conclave was what took the place of the Council of Mages when the Torvaran Empire fell apart during the last Mage War. Though it was meant to take the place of what had come before it, it was only ever a pale echo of what it replaced, its members little more than hermits who were afraid of their own potential. The mages of the Conclave taught that magic must be controlled at all costs, and that no one outside of themselves could ever be allowed to wield more than a trifling amount of Life Magic. Anyone outside of the Conclave who was found to have a talent for Arcane Magic was to be inducted into the Conclave's ranks, and, if they refused to join, they were hunted down and executed. Wild mages were an unacceptable danger – after all, who else could possibly become a Necromancer aside from a wild mage who hadn't been properly trained? – and Arcane Magic could only be used with the buffer of spoken spells. So, I ask you, again, Brother. Are you certain Therese meant that you are supposed to rebuild the Conclave?”

Garrold was silent for a time. “I think I'm beginning to understand why you monks and clerics always had such a hard time getting along with the mages,” he said at last. “They were afraid of you because you always did more than what they allowed, and, when their threats against you didn't stop you, they grew envious.” Garrold laughed and shook his head. “And I always thought the mages were supposed to be good guys.”

“And yet you feared them,” Wilem said.

“I did,” Garrold said. “The odd thing is, now that I think about it, I never really understood why I feared them. They never did anything to make me afraid.”

“I think maybe they did.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the last five hundred years, every living mage in the kingdom has been a member of the Conclave. As members of the Conclave, they were tasked with finding wild mages, and were constantly on the lookout for them. Garrold, you, by definition, are a wild mage, and I think it likely that your talents began to express themselves much earlier than they do with most others. I think your fear of mages and magic was an inward expression of one of the first spells you ever cast – a spell to protect yourself from the probing of anyone looking specifically for someone like you.”

Garrold lifted the mug that sat on the small table next to his chair, taking a sip of the brandy that, when his talk with Wilem had begun, had been warm. “You might be right, Brother,” he said. “You just might be.” He looked at his brother. “So, what do we do, now?”

Wilem smiled. “Rebuild, of course. But not the Conclave. No, what we need to rebuild – what you need to rebuild – is the Council of Mages. And one of the most important things a rebuilt Council of Mages needs is a Magister to lead it.”

Garrold raised his eyebrows. “A Magister? You want me to declare myself a Magister?”

“Not a Magister, Garrold. The Magister. There was always ever only one.”

“And he didn't just lead the Council,” Garrold said, his voice quiet. “He lead the whole of the Empire.”

“Indeed.”

“Gods Above, you're serious, aren't you, Wilem?”

“I am, but I leave the choice up to you, Brother. This isn't something I can force you to do.”

“What if I prove not to be strong enough to be Magister? We don't even know what in Hel's name I'm capable of, yet, save for the few tests you've thrown at me.”

“Not every Magister was strong, Garrold. Some, in fact, were little stronger than clerics. In your case, though, I think that's something we don't need to worry about. My question for you, Brother, is are you prepared to lead? You've been a good Duke – better, in some ways, than even Father was – but can you translate being a good Duke into being the face of an entire nation?”

Garrold said nothing for a long time. For fifteen years, he'd been hearing how good of a Duke he was, and he'd even seen that sentiment reflected in the faces of the other nobles who occasionally attended court at Valewind. Those other nobles, some of whom had come from duchies and baronies scattered throughout the kingdom, had respected him, and more than just what was expected of them for the sake of keeping up appearances. Would they follow him if he declared himself Magister? And what was a Magister without a Council of Mages? A tyrant no better than Atraxos the Black.

“I need mages to fill my Council if I'm going to do what you suggest, Wilem,” Garrold said.

“Which is why my fellow monks are already searching for them,” Wilem said, smiling and taking a sip of his own brandy. “I'll make sure to let them know that they are to tell those whom they find that there is nothing to fear by flocking to your banner.”

Garrold laughed. “My banner. Gods Above, I must be insane for even considering this.”

Wilem grinned. “Being insane helps if you're going to try to save the world.” He suddenly frowned, the grin vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “Something's wrong.”

Garrold stood, turning toward the door. “I sense it, too.” He focused on the feeling, stretching his new senses out toward it. An image of a burning village filled his mind, its people fleeing before the blood-stained blades of mounted soldiers. The soldiers were members of the King's Guard, and at their head was a hulking, pale creature wearing black armor emblazoned with a crimson serpent. “So, Lyrian strikes.”

“They used the same magic that allows the couriers to get here so fast,” Wilem said. “We were fools not to expect it.”

Garrold looked at him. “What do we do?”

Wilem stood. “Follow me. I have an idea.”

They left the study, Garrold's personal guards – Stevan and Robert – falling in behind them as soon as they entered the hallway beyond.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty

Most people who possessed magical talents began to manifest their abilities during late adolescence, usually around sixteen or seventeen years of age. Zoe had been no different in that regard, but, when her abilities had begun to show themselves, it had quickly been discovered that she not only had an affinity for Life Magic – the comparatively weak magic that clerics used to heal themselves and others – but also the broader powers granted by Arcane Magic. Women who could use Arcane Magic had always been rare – at least as far as recorded history was concerned – and it was even rarer when a woman who could use Arcane Magic was able to combine it with her talents in Life Magic. Zoe, as it had turned out, could do just that, and so her teachers had taken it upon themselves to not just teach her the ways of being a cleric – they had also decided to pass on what little was known about being what was called a Spellbreaker.

Spellbreakers could destroy spells that were cast by others. This was different than dispersing a spell, which, though it undid the spell, left its underlying energy behind. Spellbreaking unmade the spell entirely, making it impossible for anyone to reuse the energy that had gone into its casting. Spellbreaking is what Zoe had done to dispel the shield the Lich had used during the encounter on the hill, and though that had been the first time she'd ever done it, Zoe had found it child's play, not even taking into consideration her new abilities as Abbott of the Order of Catharzen. And then had come the moment when she'd had to put Thaddeus back together, which was when she'd learned just how much her Spellbreaking powers had changed.

No longer was Zoe confined to breaking spells. She could now take their energies into herself, using them to augment her powers and make it possible for her to do things she otherwise wouldn't have been able to. Wish I'd understood that better before allowing the static spell around the Guardian's dwelling to snap back into place, Zoe thought as she looked at the Sword Priest Atraxos had left behind to deal with her and Thaddeus. I could've broken it, instead. Which would probably have left us crushed when the dwelling came down on us.

The Sword Priest – who had been made to look so much like a Vampire that it caused Zoe's blood to run cold – drew his black-bladed sword and hissed at them. Immediately, Zoe recognized the hiss for what it was, and wasn't at all surprised by Thaddeus's curse when he found he could no longer draw his sword. Break it! She reached over and touched Thaddeus's scabbard but, at the last moment, decided to draw the spell's power into herself instead of banishing it. The resultant inrush of energy flooded Zoe with warmth, and she found herself grinning. What couldn't she do if she could augment her powers so easily?

“Draw your sword, Thaddeus!” Zoe shouted. “Now, before he can cast, again!”

Thaddeus's sword was out and in his hands before Zoe could blink. The Sword Priest – who had appeared so menacingly confident, before – had a moment to look confused, and then Thaddeus was upon him, attacking with magically-enhanced, superhuman speed that the Sword Priest was only just able to defend himself against. Zoe circled the perimeter of the fight, wincing in pain each time Thaddeus's sword met that of the Sword Priest – the clash of the blades coincided with crimson flashes that signified small rents being made in the fabric of reality – looking for any opening that would allow her to use her power.

Conjure me, Priestess! Aylander said inside Zoe's head.

She did it without thinking, speaking the words that made the dead Eltaran appear. Before when he'd appeared, Aylander's form had been ethereal, like that of a ghost. This time, however, he looked much more solid, and there was a sword – all but the twin of Thaddeus's – in his hands. A look of horror appeared on the face of the Sword Priest when he caught sight of Aylander, and then there were three people fighting, the Sword Priest retreating across the platform as he desperately tried to turn away attacks coming at him from two directions.

Satisfied that Thaddeus could now hold his own, Zoe decided to turn her attention to the stone platform. From her research at the abbey, she knew the spell etched into its circumference was an Eltaran transit spell. It was the most powerful spell she'd ever encountered – even more powerful than the static spell that had supported the Guardian and his dwelling – but, at the moment, it was dormant, and would only become active once its words were spoken. I can energize it without activating it, though! Zoe suddenly realized. How else could she have known how powerful it was? The words had no inherent power of their own. Zoe knelt down and laid her hand flat against the stone.

All at once, Zoe had access to a record of everyone who had ever used the spell. She also could see all the other, identical spells it was connected to, a network that spread out like a spider's web across her consciousness. If she had been powerful enough, Zoe knew she could have disrupted the entirety of that network, destroying every single one of the transit spells forever. Even with the Abbott's abilities, however, and even with the added augmentation provided by her absorption of the Sword Priest's spell, she wasn't quite powerful enough to do that. She could stop Atraxos from reaching his destination, though, and she did, breaking the spell, there, while unconsciously absorbing the energy of the one, here, at the same time. Zoe gasped when she felt the effects of what she'd done, her body coming alive with power.

“No, you cannot!” the Sword Priest Thaddeus and Aylander fought cried, apparently realizing for himself what Zoe had just done. “YOU MUST NOT!”

Zoe came to her feet. “Nevertheless, it is done. And, now, you shall die.”

Zoe unleashed her power, but didn't direct it at the Sword Priest. Instead, she directed it at Thaddeus and Aylander, and found herself watching in awe as they absorbed it all. Things happened too fast for her to see, then, punctuated by a horrible, high-pitched shriek from the Sword Priest as Thaddeus ran him through with his sword. Thaddeus could have decapitated him, then, and taken his soul – his sword, at the moment, was empty – but, before that could happen, Zoe banished it, never once thinking to offer the same mercy she had offered the Lich. Not Twisted enough! Not even close!

Silence fell. Abruptly, Zoe became aware that Thaddeus and Aylander had turned toward her and were staring. Zoe felt drained, but not so bad that she was afraid she might pass out. Aylander looks like a ghost, again, she thought, and giggled giddily.

“What did you do, Zoe?” Thaddeus asked. “That last surge came from you. It was incredible!”

Zoe didn't fully understand everything she'd done, which made her feel like giggling even more. “I helped save your gorgeous arse,” she said. “And made it a lot harder for friend Atraxos to get where he wants to go.” She giggled, again, and grinned. “I fucked shit up.”

Thaddeus's eyebrows shot up.

“Such language!” Aylander said, sounding more amused than shocked.

Zoe started laughing. And, before long, Thaddeus and Aylander were laughing, too.