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LEFT TO HIS OWN DEVICES, Mordrak had been lounging in the great hall listening to a friend speak of past events and planning for the coming campaign season in the spring. The hall was noisy with groups of knights talking and boasting so Mordrak had to strain to a certain extent to hear. He was not in much of a mind to listen. The thought of the wraiths, even when they were not around, was predominant in his mind, but he forced himself to appear to attend to Ravinion’s conversation.
A pageboy brought him news of Tabor’s imminent arrival.
“Is my brother, Sir Garlon, with him too?” he asked the lad.
A young wraith’s voice filled his head: Fear Garlon, he’s plotting against you!
The youth looked somewhat bewildered at the pained countenance on Mordrak’s face. “No, sir,” he replied.
Mordrak rubbed his brow. There was no place to hide. Mordrak felt his face drain of colour; the sanctuary of his chamber would only prove to be a trap for him if Tabor came to root him out. At least Garlon was not be around to notice.
“Anything I can do for you, sir?” asked the lad with concern.
“No, thank you.” Mordrak waved him away and urged Ravinion to resume his conversation. Judging by the strange look on his older friend’s face as their eyes made contact, Mordrak feared he had aged ten years as he felt the decade weigh upon him.
He and Ravinion had been long-standing friends. They had immediately taken to each other when they met as young boys, and Ravinion had introduced a younger Mordrak to his company of older and more experienced friends. He and Ravinion began life as pageboys and became squires within a couple of years of each other. Circulating with elders had done much to mature Mordrak’s character at an earlier stage than may have been otherwise. Even so, he had always wondered why he never felt the need for a closer identity with lads his own age who shared the appropriate troubles of their maturation. He did not want to pretend to fight dragons with a practice sword; he wanted to learn how to fight dragons with a real sword. Inasmuch as this was true, he had grown to feel a certain solitude amongst people of his own age group. In truth, he never really related to anyone, he surmised when occasionally he thought about it.
Although he had been delighted by Ravinion’s knighthood and swore the day would come when he would ride always with his friend, he felt suddenly alone when the successful squires rode away as knights, leaving him behind. As for subsequently riding with Ravinion, somehow circumstances always dictated otherwise. He wished events could have been more simple to permit it.
“Prince Tabor!” A courtier loudly announced the Prince’s entry and all the noblemen arose from their seats.
Mordrak could feel himself sway as he stood.
“Are you all right?” Ravinion whispered in concern.
“Yes, yes.”
Ravinion did not look so sure.
“Greetings to you all!” Tabor called. “I bring you news that our campaign is successfully drawing to a close!”
“Hooray!” Knights banged their goblets on the tables, clattered them together and stamped their feet. The place was in uproar.
The Prince raised his hands. “Peace shall be over all Escavia by this time next year!”
Mordrak felt Tabor’s excited eyes train directly onto his own. Mordrak raised a smile. “But what then?” he whispered. “What will we all do then?”
Then it will be to the pit with you! A wraith hissed inside his head, and he felt nauseous and dizzy once more.
“Be seated!” the prince implored with a clap of his hands. Mordrak was grateful not to have fainted and now had a chance to get off his feet. As the prince approached, he greeted and exchanged brief courtesies with people in a friendly and casual manner. Then the prince smiled warmly at Mordrak. “Count Mordrak!”He took his hand with both of his own and shook it. “Come to my chamber soon, I have much to discuss with you.”
Mordrak tried to smile. He was disarmed by the public show of affection, he could feel his mouth drop; nevertheless, he hoped his eyes would not give away his reluctance. He felt his stomach roll and his intestines curl like snakes in their nest.
“Please excuse me,” said the Prince courteously to Ravinion, apparently not perceiving Mordrak’s turmoil. “Rude of me to interupt, but it is mighty good to see you.”
The Prince had not long left the room after further greetings with others when Mordrak moved himself from his seat. He wondered if the Prince had simply ignored his tremors, and how he would be interpreting them if he was now thinking things over. He dreaded meeting the Prince with every step he took, and yet he wanted to get the inevitable done and finished. He could not see that he had very much to lose by denying the Prince his lusty intentions even if he never had the personal favour or friendship of King Tell. Fear for the consequences of their actions, should they be found out, gripped his throat as if fingers were being forced down his throat.
His heart pounded like a dwarf smith’s hammer as he arrived at Tabor’s chamber. He had to deny the prince. A flash crossed his mind that perhaps he ought to have invited Ravinion along, but he shook that idea off as impractical and perhaps cowardly.
“It has been such a long time, Mordrak,” said the prince as he poured them each some wine. “Why don’t you get undressed? We shall talk and have some fun and talk, eh?”
“Your Grace.” Mordrak swallowed, his stomach relaxed. “If I do this, will you marry Adriselle?”
Tabor smiled, and with a delicate motion, took a sip of wine, savouring the taste. “And if I say no?”
“What of the shame if we are caught?”
The prince smiled once more. “Then your sister, beautiful Adriselle might well be my only option. And ... who knows what, if I do, eh? Brother-in-law.” He wrinkled his brow. “But come.” Tabor forcefully unstrung the cord to Mordrak’s tunic. “Slip it off before I spank you for your petulance.,” he giggled like a girl.
“No, I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but this must stop here.”
Mordrak looked at the eyes of the Prince. They were dark and grim. He let himself out of the room, closed the door and stood before walking away to regain his composure.
“He really hates you now,” said a child’s voice.
“Yes he does, doesn't he!” agreed another.
For once, Mordrak decided there was probably truth to the taunts. However, he could not face the future as some kind of whore to the prince, no matter the consequences.
“Everyone hates him really.”
“Yes ...”
“Ssh,” chimed another.
He stopped for a moment, wondering if the wraiths might have something useful to say, but he chided himself for his disappointment. These creatures were not his friends.
The time for the evening feast came none too soon, as it seemed it would be a good distraction from the prince. However, there was little peace as the haunting youths reminded him of the sordid occasion he had orchestrated at his banquet.
The pork, venison, grapes and figs all tasted as potash to Mordrak. The wine that flowed freely might just as well have been sour, for his thirst was unquenchable. The presence of the wraiths and their murmurings seemed to deepen the hole Mordrak sensed was eating at his very soul—not ravening, but gnawing away and consuming him slowly and surely.
King Tell seemed quiet, content to listen to his courtiers around him, and Mordrak would give his ears to know what he said to his most trusted sage. Astocath, at the lower end of the table with Jorlon, looked very anxious. Mordrak wondered if the mage was enchanting his meal against any poisoning attempts. He would not be surprised if someone had considered some such design. He asked after an individual who was clearly not a knight given the way he ate, sitting amongst some of the least respectable knights, below the salt, and even there the man was essentially ignored.
“That, sir, is the Judezzek Hierodab,” the servant whispered in his ear.
A few priests of Odin sat above this Judezzek, barely beneath the salt. No one of a religious or mystic order sat above these. However, many of the priests were laughing and enjoying themselves. The Judezzek looked as much out of place as Astocath and Jorlon.
To Mordrak, the feast seemed to drag on for hours. The minstrels seemed to drone, and he found no humour in the continual barrage of jokes from the Fool. Mordrak wondered if he had already embarked upon the journey of solitude and pain the wraiths ever promised him.
Finally, the King arose from the table, and then everybody stood. Tell called aloud to everyone: “Have a very good night!” and he left the hall with his sages and with Astocath in tow.
Mordrak took this opportunity to break from his company and retired to his room. He supposed he had done his part in finding Astocath, and was not really needed for the subsequent negotiations, though it would be nice to know how worthwhile his efforts had been. As he began to doze and dream fitfully, a knock rapped at the door. He forced his eyes open, fearful of Prince Tabor yet again lusting for him. Hoping the visitor was Ravinion, he called, “Enter.”
But it was a servant who stepped inside. “Sir, His Majesty would speak with you.”
“Very well.” Mordrak rolled off his bed, awakened by the immediacy of the crown, and stood. The servant fussed as he groomed Mordrak’s hair and tunic. Mordrak tightened his belt as they made haste to Tell’s audience chamber.
The King sat upon a small throne before his audience of seven men. There were four sages and Astocath, a priest, the Judezzek, and now himself. Formalities over, he took a vacant seat next to Astocath. There was no Jorlon and no Tabor. As an aside, it seemed the wizard had experimented with perfume—it smelled of roses which reminded him of the moment in the garden, wondering after his errant sister. Thinking of Adriselle, he had to broach the subject and details with Astocath as a matter of urgency. He wondered if the mage saw himself as the girl’s champion where it might appear that Mordrak had failed. But then, why would the wizard have such a care?
“Good sirs,” said Tell, apparently continuing from where he had left off, “it seems we have incurred the antipathy of evil craft-weavers, and not those within Astocath’s Circle, who are happy to help us. And even though the Circle would prefer to continue to live neutrally to our noble efforts in bringing Escavia together as one, I cannot see that we have much choice but to reverse the ban on wizards—at least to those who have been sworn and abide by the rules I am informed the Circle of Medeas have designed for themselves.” He waited patiently for the priest to desist whispering agitatedly in the ear of a sage. Then he continued, “I have spoken long and deep with my counsellors on this matter of late, so my decision cannot come as a complete surprise. I am assured that Mage Astocath’s Circle does not commit the enchantments laid against us, and it is these very people who have the power to contest our common enemy or enemies, who are in fact responsible for all our troubles. We are all aware of Astocath’s claim that the Circle do their utmost to distance themselves from society. Nevertheless, in matters of witchcraft, by endangering their place within society, the Circle will freely become involved against the troublemakers, even if it means apparently serving the people they otherwise prefer to be detached from. Perhaps Astocath here might explain something of his side of the situation?”
Astocath cleared his throat with dignity. “Well, Sire and my lords, there are different streams of magic, all of which can work against the other, but none of which are compatible working with each other. Faerie magic is drawn from either the Seelie Court, or Unseelie, which people consider the more wicked of the two. Seelie, I might add, is perceived by many folk as mischievous when feeling the brunt of its effects, but this very power will ...” He smiled. “... repair the hard-put cobbler’s shoes we hear about in folklore.” Astocath straightened his shoulders. “So too the magic that concerns us here, that is cast against this realm, is not the magic of the Medeanites.”
“You have given us no evidence. You never can prove your arguments. This is why you and your arts are not approved by Odin,” said the priest, Bakkam. He filled his chest with an indignant draw of breath. “The source of your power is wicked.”
“Not so,” said Astocath. “You cannot prove your god exists since you can cast no magic let alone perform a miracle. We have only your word against that of the Judezzek when it comes to which deity is true. And it is by the very virtue of our founder refusing Unseelie magic that he was taught our stringent disciplines. Rather, we draw from a source that is closer to Seelie magic. Faerie magic works best in Faerie, it is true, but consider the elves who are the teachers of Judezzeks. It is also a fact that they sometimes have miraculous powers; these do not work similar to magic, and likewise, gnomes, dwarves and all. Their miracles come by prayer even though they might know magic of sorts and use that. These stouter races belong more to the elven-faerie family to a greater degree than man. Of Medeanite magic, I might direct you to the thought that for men, and indeed for myself, we have roots of magic open to us from the ether that lies between all these worlds I am discussing. You will find we are powerful, yes, but we are limited in numbers. There just aren't enough of us to rule the world! Nevertheless.” Astocath outstretched his hands. “My magic, if I may repeat myself, does share roots with the Seelie, but it cannot really be considered the same as a sorcerer’s, under which these lands currently suffer. It is my considered opinion that the magic affecting the realm at the present is Unseelie magic.”
“Are you suggesting,” began an elderly sage, whose beard covered his face like a gnome’s, “that magic schools, for want of a better expression, are as different as one language is to another, although roots of grammar can be compared to stem from the same source?”
“That is my point,” confirmed Astocath with satisfaction. “And if I may speak on spiritual terms of religion—“
“You already have!” sneered Bakkam
Astocath looked to the priest. “Surely without turning to the wicked gods, yet performing a more instructed form of miracle, we Medeanites should not be considered fundamentally debased diabolists?”
“It is interesting that you always refer to the Judezzeks as above the priesthood,” said Bakkam angrily, a rouge glaze colouring his face.
“I have more sympathy with the Judezzeks.”
“That is because you will not be tolerated by us!” Bakkam snorted. “We’ll sog you in the rivers and burn you on the pyres given one word of authority!”
“Enough!” ordered Tell. “We no doubt shall have interesting debate of such matters once everyone’s snug and cosy,” he said sardonically.
Ruffled, the priest quietened.
“So, Astocath,” a sage ventured, “what of the magic of, say, warlocks and yourselves?”
“Warlocks and witches are all outside of the Medeas Circle. Their discipline breaks our internal rules that must otherwise resist spells concerning summoning the dead and spirits, and of complicating the lives of ordinary mortals.”
“Aha! Yet they will raise the dead and even most certainly commune with them,” dared Bakkam quickly.
“I believe Astocath has made his points?” said Tell, with a look to Astocath that was difficult to read. Tell's straight words belied a look of unfocus.
Wondering if he should voice his defence or let matters drop, the mage nodded mutely instead. He felt the circumstances improper to suggest a wizard could not resurrect the dead, much as he might wish such a thing would be possible.
“What are your views, Volderon?” Tell asked the Judezzek. He was drawn and looked as if any sort of answer would be hard to digest. “Why are you in league with wizards?”
The Judezzek shook his head but otherwise clearly chose his words. “Where elves are concerned, they do not respect the magic of any creed. Rather, they endure it as part of life around them. Nor do they involve themselves much with it.” He glanced at Astocath. “Although they have their share of mystics. They will from time to time speak against it when they have cause to disapprove of certain methods, but they do have righteous diviners who commune with our God. They are prophets. I believe you would be no more foolish to reverse your decision against Medeas than have instated it, if I may be so bold, Sire.”
“You are suggesting that the King is and has been a fool?” Bakkam gasped.
The Judezzek blushed and opened his mouth, but it was Tell who spoke. “Enough. No doubt, if any implication were intended, an apology would be forthcoming?”
“If I have offended you, my Lord,” said Volderon, “I do indeed apologise. But my intent was honourable.”
“The proving is in the bread,” said Tell. “I do not feel well at all, and I have a campaign to organise. I want whatever is bothering my kingdom stopped. It seems the outlawing of magic was a rash decision on my part. Yet I would have a world free of magic. It’s bad enough having many different religious points of view without all the added complications of enchantments surrounding us. I am not prepared to discuss religion one way or another until some God proves himself. As for magic, I have seen it and have had quite enough of it.”
“But we cannot escape it any more than vying gods, Your Majesty,” remarked another sage. “We are in the grip of enchantment. Outlawing these people simply drives everything underground where it is unaccountable.”
The priest took this opportunity to speak up again. “What if the Medianites are cursing you, Sire? What if this is a counter-intuitive plan to be reinstated?”
Tell shook his head. “So, Astocath, what are you prepared to do to finish the accursed spells over us? And how can we tell if it isn’t just you and your people anyway, as Bakkam suggests?”
“I can begin my journey tomorrow; is Mordrak to come with us?”
“Tomorrow?” Mordrak asked, quite taken aback.
Bakkam slapped his thigh and said, “Travel? You cannot remedy this curse now?”
“Indeed.” Astocath looked at the King. “I have engineered a shield around your palace, Sire, so no one can remotely eavesdrop on us, and it should keep any evil enchantments at bay. Other than that, there is nothing I can do for you right now. If I were to relieve any malady, it would soon return when the wizard or wizards simply renew the curse. They must know that I know, though that little matters right now. But since Mordrak is ready, as he feels awaiting the morrow takes too long, I might suggest we leave this very night after all.”
Not knowing whether to be annoyed or amused by Astocath’s deliberate misconstruing of his reaction, Mordrak dared say nothing and noticed the King’s eye quickly glance to the priest as if to dare him in turn.
“Very well,” said Tell. “Suitable supplies will be quickly arranged. Good speed.”
“But Your Majesty, where do they need to go?” asked a sage.
Astocath had anticipated such a question, but even so, Tell’s final query took him by surprise, and he paused for a moment to choose his words. As he had discovered, many here would not believe the world of Faerie. “Your enemy, Your Majesty, has hidden himself in the midst of his magic and dwells abroad. I look forward to receipt of the token feather promised me, and to give you an assurance that the Circle is not your enemy, in due course, Sire.”
***
AUTUMN’S COOL WAS COLDER with the night, and on this night, there blew a northern breeze presaging a harsh winter. It would be interesting to see if it was to be the moderately cold one that Astocath had formerly predicted. Wrapped in furs, Astocath led Jorlon, Mordrak and his squire away from the city along the eastern road. Astocath knew Mordrak was a little sour about being engineered into an immediate start but delay would never strengthen their cause, whilst discomfort would spur them on. Hard-earned wares are never easily given up, Astocath considered.
He did not wish to linger and allow idle talk to fester against whatever plans he was formulating in his mind. He deduced that the wraiths who haunted Tell were a different group to those tormenting Mordrak, and that although layers of powerful magic hovered over many cities such as Nan-Enn, it could be any number of wraiths that caused individual folks to suffer their mental anguish. These malicious spirits, known under a variety of names such as revenants, wraiths or night hags, were all borne from the same source. His greatest fear lay in his ignorance of whether a number of warlocks were at work behind all this, though he suspected one, or simply a servant of the god of darkness whom Astocath labelled ‘the Evil One‘.
Clouds obscured the stars and moon, making the road hard to follow, even given Tulan’s torchlight, so they allowed their horses a walking pace. Astocath intended to rest frequently for short periods to maintain their stamina. Only Astocath knew where they were bound, and accordingly instructed Tulan and Mordrak to head for the city of Laraid that lay northeast of them. In truth, Astocath was keen to arrive at the refuge of the elven forest, not merely for the sake of safety, but to meet Adriselle again and face the confrontation he expected would ensue with Mordrak. He wondered what plans Mordrak had for Adriselle, but he did not broach the subject and felt that he was being rather deceitful in concealing their circumstances. More importantly, they would be close to the tower of Bar Nexus and the mage, White Eye to use the gate to Faerie there.
His attention was distracted by the sight of a distant figure running at a fast pace towards his company, and as the distance closed, it was evident the runner had no intention of stopping.
“Mordrak,” Astocath said, “get that messenger to stop.”
“Halt in the name of the King!” barked Mordrak, to which the figure slowed his run to a steady jog.
“Who are you?” the stranger called, slowing but certainly not stopping.
“Sir Mordrak, Brother of the Order of Vali.”
The runner did not falter as he continued to approach. “I seek the King, sir. The goblins near Le-Annael are moving northwest. They’ve sacked Calama City!”
“Le-Annael? Ye gods!” Mordrak cursed. “With Baron Lerion in winter quarters to the north the lands are wide open.”
“I cannot stop!” The herald was beside them now and touched his lock.
“On your way,” urged Astocath. “Mordrak, it is a wonder there have been no more troubles as these?”
“What can be happening?”
“It is as well Tell intends to reinstate the Circle of Medeas,” said Tulan. “Yet word may arrive too late and many magi join the likes of these.”
“Too little too late,” snapped Jorlon. “Who’s to say everyone will resume the morning as if nothing happened in the night?”
“All right, all right,” Astocath hissed.
“If you don’t get your Circle back together, you two ... well, I’m not threatening ... but it might be too late for anyone,” said Mordrak. “Perhaps Tell will never bring peace to the empire, and everyone is sure to suffer if we fall into the ways of petty kingdoms once more.” Mordrak shuddered, thinking of the tales and history his father had told him in his youth. All the bloodshed ...
Tulan spoke. “Then again, perhaps outbreaks of these goblins’ attacks will rally the remaining kingdoms to Tell’s banner?”
“Or perhaps rally beleaguered kings to the goblins?” Jorlon argued.
“Astocath, I must return home,” said Mordrak.
“We'll stop at the next inn and discuss this in the morning,” Astocath replied calmly. “We are all too tired to plot and plan now.” He raised his hand above his head. “No arguments. No one say anything, not now!”