RANDAL had to admit, those children had made him pious. In the past he’d given no more or less credence to the gods than any other man. He knew the gods’ names, he knew their stories and their constellations, and occasionally when he passed a church or temple he would offer a prayer, but he would never have described himself as devout.
After several weeks of looking after the children in his care and observing their daily rituals, he found himself making the sign of the Maiden before he slept, or saying a quick prayer of thanks to the wolf god Vadir at repast.
It was obvious now where the children had gained their powers from, and though Randal knew he would never receive the same benefaction, he observed the gods just as devoutly as they did. He came to see himself as their high priest, ensuring that they followed every rite and ritual, and said every new prayer as keenly as the last.
Randal had hunted down every tome, codex and scroll written on the Crown Sorcerers of old, and pored over every last word. Those texts said little of the connection between a sorcerer’s powers and the act of prayer, but Randal could easily read it between the lines.
Some of those ancient mages were deeply spiritual, while others seemed to actively shirk the worship of the gods, even hold it in disdain. But the one thing they all held in common was the fact that they were revered. Though the Crown Sorcerers worked in service to one monarch or another, it was they who were held in awe, not the ancient kings. It was they who were feared and exalted in equal measure. That adoration was channelled to a higher power, and in return they were granted gifts beyond those any mortal should have been bestowed with.
The more Randal read, the more he understood. What he had witnessed in the Ramadi – the god Innellan, her inhuman power – it all had to be linked. The gods had returned, and in exchange for worship they would grant divine powers. Randal realised if he could harness that power before anyone else he would be more influential than any Crown Sorcerer who had ruled the Suderfeld from the shadows of a king’s throne.
And so harness it he would.
* * *
Randal watched Selene from a dark alcove within the palace of Northold. He had to admire her charm as she spoke to Clydus. The man had arrived with an entire cohort of warriors. Perhaps overcautious of him, but the old rat hadn’t lived so long by being reckless. Nevertheless, no number of armoured men could protect him now.
Clydus laughed at something she said; whether it was a joke or a proposition of alliance, Randal couldn’t quite hear. Either way it didn’t matter. Any offers of a truce made by the queen of Canbria were merely a ruse. Honeyed words to put Clydus at ease before Randal made the final coup de grace.
As they walked through the vast and ancient hall of Northold, surrounded by Clydus’ guard, Randal had just about seen enough. Placing his hand on Hestan’s head he stepped into the light shed through one of the many stained glass windows that lined the huge room. The guards surrounding Clydus spotted him immediately, hands moving to weapons. To his credit, Clydus seemed unperturbed, but who would not be, surrounded as he was by such a formidable guard?
‘Ah, Randal,’ Selene said, sensing the sudden tension. ‘Clydus, please allow me to introduce—’
‘That’s enough, I think,’ Randal interrupted. ‘You may leave us now.’
Selene glared at him. He had undermined her authority on numerous occasions but never in front of such a prominent guest. Randal could tell the wound to her pride would never heal, but what could she do against him? He had already shown her that resistance was pointless.
Her fear won over her pride, and Selene turned and slowly walked away, leaving Clydus looking confused.
‘It appears I am missing something?’ asked King Ozric’s consul. Randal admired his shrewdness. Hopefully this was a man who could be bargained with.
‘Not for long,’ Randal replied with a grin. ‘You see, I’m relying on the fact that we both know about crowns and kings, Clydus. We both know there is always a figurehead, a monarch of the people. And then there are those who play the instruments of politics. Those who make that monarch dance to a dainty tune. I know who makes Ozric dance.’ Randal looked directly into the consul’s eyes. The side of Clydus’ mouth turned up into a smile. The man knew he was found out, but he didn’t care. No matter. ‘Stellan also loves his music. I play the tunes in this palace.’
‘And there was me thinking the songstress was Queen Selene,’ Clydus said.
‘Modesty prevents me,’ Randal replied.
‘I’m sure it does. So why am I suddenly so honoured? I would have thought a man in your position would covet his anonymity.’
‘Some things must be done in person. And proposing an alliance is a tricky subject I would never presume to leave to an underling.’
‘Queen Selene, an underling? My, you are a bold one. So what would be the nature of this alliance?’
‘The War of Three Crowns has gone on for long enough. Stellan is the clear candidate to wear the crown of Suderfeld. You will persuade Ozric of the sense in this.’
Clydus cackled a dry and grim laugh that echoed in the open hall. He was the only one who found it funny.
‘You’re a fool if you think I’m about to give up so easily. I control Eldreth. Ozric dances to my tune and when he wins the War of Three Crowns so will the Suderfeld. You were a fool to reveal yourself, Randal. And fools rarely last long in times of war.’
The consul clicked his fingers. A dozen swords were drawn.
Randal calmly placed his hand on Hestan’s head, drumming his fingers across that shaven pate. Immediately every one of Clydus’ warriors sheathed his sword, turned around and walked away to the edge of the room as though they had been scolded by their mother.
Clydus glared at them, then at the boy.
It was Randal’s turn to smile. ‘Alone at last.’
‘What is this?’ Clydus was trying to appear calm but his voice was taut.
‘This is the birth of a new era,’ Randal replied. ‘The birth of a new power. One I hold in the palm of my hand.’ He ruffled the stubble atop Hestan’s head.
‘So what do you want?’ asked Clydus. ‘To kill me? To wrest control of the crown for yourself?’
‘Nothing so crude. I merely want peace. What form that takes is up to you. King Banedon has already been brought into the fold and made to understand the way of things. Your task is now to persuade King Ozric of the same.’
‘Surrender? You think I can make Ozric kneel before Stellan’s throne? What am I to do? Tell him I have seen some parlour trick and he should fear a child with… magic? You have overestimated my influence.’
‘Come now. We both know that’s not true. You have more influence in Eldreth than any man alive. And fear a child? You think this is my only weapon? Clydus, don’t force me to give a further demonstration of the power I wield.’
‘I– It’s just…’ Clydus was defeated. Randal could see him trying to work out a way to get out of this. He was wondering if it really was a parlour trick. Trying to come up with some rational explanation for his loyal guard to leave him so exposed. Eventually he accepted there was none.
‘Banedon is already making preparations to offer his daughter’s hand to Stellan’s eldest son,’ said Randal. ‘But a decision has not been made yet. There is still a chance that Ozric’s heir could sit on the throne of a united Suderfeld. He must be persuaded.’
‘I will try, but there is no guarantee Ozric will listen. He is determined to be the victor in this war.’
‘Then I suggest you try very hard, Clydus.’
The two men stood in silence for an uncomfortable moment, but Randal had said all he needed to say.
Clydus nodded politely and turned to leave. Randal took a certain satisfaction from that nod. It was a small gesture but it shouted his victory as loud as any battle cry.
One by one, Clydus’ guards seemed to come to, looking around in a daze before they followed the consul from the great hall.
When they had left, Selene walked back into the light. Of course she had lurked in the shadows, listening in like some trespasser. Randal could hardly blame her for that. In her position he would have done the same.
‘This is too much of a risk,’ she said.
There it was. Her nerve was giving out, and Randal could understand her fears – she had gone from possessing all the cards to holding nothing but a worthless hand.
‘Fear not, milady. Clydus will do his part. And if not…’
Randal didn’t have to elucidate on what he and his wards were capable of. He had already given ample demonstration.
‘I just—’
‘You just need to do as you’re told. Keep the king occupied. That is your job. I hear he’s become quite the drunken sot in recent weeks, so it shouldn’t be all that difficult for you. Just keep that cup of his filled.’
Anger flashed in Selene’s eyes. ‘You see that as my job, do you? To be serving wench to that idiot? I’m worth more than that. Why don’t you just bewitch him? Have your little demons—’
‘Careful,’ said Randal, placing a protective arm around Hestan. ‘You wouldn’t want to upset them.’
She glanced down at the boy as though he were a serpent in Randal’s arms, before all defiance leaked away. ‘I will do my part,’ she said, leaving the chamber as fast as she could.
* * *
When Randal fell asleep that night the air had been still, the sky becalmed. As he woke from a troubled slumber, he could hear a storm had whipped up beyond the walls of the temple. It took some moments, as he overcame the fug of sleep, to realise it was not just inclement weather that was raging outside his chamber.
A bang at his door and he was roused fully. Randal stood, pulling on his tunic and opening the door to see Forgrim standing there. His face was troubled; Randal had never seen the stoic tallyman look so worried.
‘Milord,’ he said, an affectation his men used that Randal hadn’t seen fit to dissuade them from. ‘You must come quickly.’
Forgrim led the way through the temple. As he made his way down the corridor Randal could hear the sound of raging and banging as though an army were trying to batter its way into the building, screaming and shouting as they came. It took some moments for him to realise it was no adult voice, but a child’s.
‘Is that Olivar? What has happened? Why is he so distressed?’
Forgrim shook his head. ‘I don’t know, milord, but it’s not Olivar that’s the problem.’
Randal found that hard to believe, the way the boy was smashing against his cage like a wild beast, but he followed Forgrim as he led the way to where the rest of the children slept.
His tallyman motioned to the door, the fear plain in his eyes. Forgrim would go no further.
Randal opened the door to the dormitory. Candles flickered in the room, casting peculiar shapes on the walls. The four children knelt in the centre of the room facing each other, hands gripped together so they formed a tight ring. Their heads were cast back to the ceiling, eyes blank white, lips moving in a silent incantation.
Despite his fear, Randal stepped into the room. His presence suddenly broke the spell, and the children ceased their silent prayer, bowing their heads.
‘Hestan?’ Randal whispered. ‘Lena? Castiel? What is it?’
It was Mabel Fogg who was the first of them to look up. Randal was relieved to see her eyes had returned to their usual blue. There was a look of fear on that doleful face.
Randal knelt beside the girl, trying to reassure her with a comforting hand. ‘What is it, child?’ he asked.
She regarded him with eyes that seemed to have experienced a lifetime of worry. ‘They are coming, master,’ she said.
‘Who?’ asked Randal, though he dreaded the answer.
‘Our gods,’ she replied, as though it were obvious. ‘Our gods are coming.’