A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (19 page)

Volusia sat on her terrace overlooking
the coliseum, relieved to be back here, without distraction, after having
killed Romulus’s men, and to be able to immerse herself in the games. She was
especially excited to watch this fight which, for the first time, kept her on
the edge of her seat—it was the one they called “Darius” who fought. He was
unlike any of the other gladiators, a brilliant fighter, one who actually
survived. She admired his courage—but she admired bloodlust more, and looked
forward to watching him getting carved to pieces.

“Goddess,” came a voice.

Volusia spun, in a rage, to see several
of her generals standing close by.

“The next person who interrupts me will be
thrown into the ring,” she snapped.

A general, nervous, terrified, exchanged
a look with another.

“But Goddess, this is urgent—”

Volusia jumped from her seat and faced
one of her generals, who stood there, fear across his face. All her other
advisors grew quiet with fear as they watched.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “If it
is truly urgent, then I shall let you live. But if it is not, and you have
interrupted my viewing pleasure for nothing, then I will kill you here and now.”

She gripped his wrist, and he wiped
sweat from his forehead, clearly debating. Finally, he spoke:

“It is urgent, Goddess.”

She smiled.

“Very well, then,” she replied. “It is
your life to lose.”

He gulped, then said, in a rush:

“I bear news from the streets of
Volusia,” he said. “There is a great outcry amongst your citizens. Everywhere, the
Volks have spread out, killing and gorging on innocent people. They tear off their
heads with their teeth, and suck on their blood. At first, it was just a few—but
now they slaughter our people everywhere. They are torturing and killing our
people and they have free rein in the streets. What’s more,” he continued, “word
arrives from the east: the Knights of the Seven are close, and they bring with
them an army greater than all the earth. They say they are seven million men—and
they are all approaching the capital.”

Volusia looked at him, her mind racing
with a million thoughts, but mostly annoyance at being interrupted from the
arena. She released her grip on his wrist, and he stood up straighter, clearly
relieved.

“You spoke the truth,” she said. “Your
message
was
urgent. For that, I thank you.”

Then in one swift motion, she drew her
dagger and sliced his throat.

He stared back at her, wide-eyed in shock,
as he collapsed to the ground, dead at her feet.

She smiled.

“That part about sparing you,” she
added. “I changed my mind.”

Volusia felt her body grow hot with a flash
of rage as she thought of the Volks, out there gorging on all her citizens. She
had given them too much free rein.

“Enough is enough, Goddess,” said Aksan,
her trusted advisor and assassin. “The Volks have grown uncontrollable. You
cannot control them. They will turn against you, too, eventually. They must be
stopped, regardless of whatever powers they wield.”

Volusia had been thinking the same thing.

She grudgingly rose from her seat and
marched from her chamber, beginning to take the steps down toward the streets
of Volusia.

The Volks, she knew, were the source of all
the power she had. She needed them. Yet at the same time, they were an even
greater threat to her.

She knew she had no choice. She could not
have people around her she could not control—especially sorcerers whose power was
greater than hers. Perhaps her advisors had been right all along when they’d
advised her not to enter into a pact with the Volks; perhaps there was a reason
they had been shunned throughout the Empire.

Volusia, followed by her entourage, marched
down the streets of the capital, and as she went, she looked up and in the
distance saw hundreds of citizens on their backs, the green Volks on top of
them pinning them down, sucking the blood from their throats as their bodies writhed.

Everywhere she looked she saw Volks
gorging themselves, slaughtering her people. And there, in the center, beneath
a statue of her, was the leader of the Volks, Vokin, gorging on several bodies
at once.

Volusia approached him, determined to
put an end to this chaos, to expel him and his people. Her heart thumped as she
wondered how he would react—she feared it would not be good. Yet she took
comfort in the fact that she had all her generals behind her and that they
would not dare touch her, a goddess.

Volusia came up to him and stood over
him, and as she did, he finally stopped gorging and looked up at her, still
snarling, his sharp fangs dripping with blood. He icily recognized Volusia, darkness
in his eyes, looking mad to be interrupted.

“And what do you want, Goddess?” he
asked, his voice throaty, nearly snarling.

Volusia was furious, not only by his
actions, but by his lack of respect.

“I want you to leave,” she commanded. “You
will leave my service at once. I expel you from the capital. You will take your
men and walk out the gates and never come back again.”

Vokin slowly and menacingly stood and
rose to his full height—which was not much—and breathing hard, raspy, he glared
back at Volusia. As she watched his eyes shift colors, demonic, for the first
time, she felt real fear.

“Will I?” he mocked.

He took a step toward her and as he did,
all of the Volk suddenly rushed to his side—while all of her generals nervously
drew their swords behind her.

A thick tension hung in the air as the
two sides faced off with each other.

“Would you be so brazen as to confront a
goddess?” Volusia demanded.

Vokin laughed.

“A goddess?” he echoed. “Whoever said
you were one?”

She glared back at him, but she felt real
fear rising within her as he took another step closer. She could smell his
awful smell even from here.

“No one dismisses the Volks,” he
continued. “Not you, not anyone. For the dishonor you have inflicted upon us this
day, for the injustice you have served, do you really think there will be no
price to pay?”

Volusia stood proudly, feeling the
goddess within her taking over. She knew, after all, that she was invincible.

“You will walk away,” she said, “because
my powers are greater than yours.”

“Are they?” he replied.

He smiled wide, an awful look that she
would recall for the rest of her life, burned into her mind, as he reached up
with his long, slimy green fingers and stroked the side of her face.

“And yet, I fear,” he said, “you are not
as powerful as you think.”

As he caressed her cheek, Volusia shrieked;
she suddenly felt a searing pain course into her cheeks, run along her face,
all over her skin. Wherever his fingers had touched, she felt as if her skin
were melting away, burning off of her cheekbones.

Volusia sank to her knees and shrieked,
feeling in more pain than she could conceive, shocked that she, a goddess,
could ever feel such pain.

Vokin laughed as he reached down and
held out a small golden looking glass for her to see herself in.

As Volusia looked at her own reflection,
her pain worsened: she saw herself, and she wanted to throw up. While half of
her face remained beautiful, the other half had become melted, distorted. Her
appearance was the scariest thing she had ever seen, and she felt like dying at
the sight of herself.

Vokin laughed, a horrific sound.

“Take a long look at yourself, Goddess,”
he said. “Once you were famed for your beauty—now you will be famed for being
grotesque. Just like us. It is our goodbye present to you. After all, don’t you
know that the Volks cannot leave without giving a departing gift?”

He laughed and laughed as he turned and
walked away, out the city gates, followed by his army of sorcerers, Volusia’s
source of power. And Volusia could do nothing but kneel there, clutching her
face, and shrieking to the heavens with the cracking voice of a goddess.

Gwendolyn ascended the spiral stone
staircase in the far corner of the King’s castle, her heart pounding with
anticipation, as she headed for Argon’s chamber. The King had graciously given
Argon the grand chamber at the top of the spiral tower to recover, and had also
vowed to Gwendolyn that he would give him his finest healers. Gwendolyn had been
nervous to see him ever since; after all, the last time she had seen him, he
was still comatose, and she was skeptical he would ever rise again.

Jasmine’s words had encouraged her that Argon
was healing, and her cryptic reference to what Argon knew about finding Thor
and Guwayne was consuming her. Was there something he was holding back from
her? Why would he not reveal it? And how did a young girl know all this?

Gwen, desperate for any chance, any
lead, to be able to reunite with her husband and son, burned with desire as she
reached the top floor and rushed up to the large arched door to his chamber.

Two of the King’s guards stood before
it, but when they saw the look on her face, they thought better of it.

“Open this door at once,” she said, using
the voice of a Queen.

They exchanged a look and stepped aside,
opening the door as she rushed inside.

Gwendolyn entered the chamber, the door
slamming behind her, and as she did, she was startled at the sight before her.
There, in the magnificent spiral tower, was a beautiful chamber, shaped in a
circle, its walls made of cobblestone, its walls lined with stained glass. Even
more shocking was what she saw: Argon, sitting up in bed, awake, alert, looking
right at her, wearing his white robes and holding his staff. She was elated to
see him alive, conscious, back to his old self. She was even more surprised to
see, sitting beside the bed, a woman, who looked ageless, with long silky hair
parted in the middle, and wearing a green, silk gown. Her eyes glowed red, and
she sat perfectly erect, with one hand on Argon’s back, the other on his shoulder,
and hummed softly, her eyes closed. Gwen realized at once that she must be the King’s
personal healer, the one responsible for Argon’s recovery.

What’s more, Gwen immediately sensed the
connection between the two of them, sensed that they liked each other. It was strange—Gwen
had never imagined Argon falling in love. But looking at the two of them, they
seemed perfect together. Each a powerful sorcerer.

Gwen stopped in her tracks, so startled
at the sight, she didn’t know what to say.

Argon looked at her, and his eyes lit up
with intensity as he stood to his full height, holding his staff. She sensed
with relief that his great power had returned to him.

“You live,” she said, astounded.

He nodded back and smiled ever so
slightly.

“I do indeed,” he replied. “Thanks to
your carrying me through the desert. And to Celta’s help.”

Celta nodded back to Argon, their eyes
locking.

Gwen wanted to rush forward and hug him,
yet she was conflicted; she was mad at him for his not telling her whatever he knew
that kept her from finding her husband and son.

“What do you know about Thor?” she
demanded. “And Guwayne? And why did you not tell me you had a brother?”

Argon just looked back at her, eyes aglow,
never wavering, lost in distant worlds she knew she would never understand.
Some part of him was always unreachable, even to her.

“Not all knowledge is meant to be
revealed,” he finally replied.

Gwen frowned, refusing to accept no for
an answer.

“Guwayne is my
son
,” she said.
“Thor is my husband. I deserve to know where they are. I
need
to know
where they are,” she said, stepping forward, desperate.

Argon gazed back at her for a long time,
then finally sighed, turned, and walked to the window, looking out.

“Many centuries ago,” he said to her, “before
your father’s father, and his father before him, my brother and I were close. Yet
time has a way of forking even the strongest rivers, and over time, we grew
apart. This universe was not big enough to hold two brothers—not brothers like Ragon
and I.”

Argon fell silent for a long time, gazing
out the window.

“It became clear that Ragon’s place was
here, in the Ridge, on this side of the world,” he continued, “while mine was
elsewhere, in the Ring. We were two sides of the same coin, two faces of the
same father—much like the two sides of the Ring and the Ridge.”

As Argon fell silent again, Gwen processed
it all. It was hard to imagine: Argon and Ragon’s father. She was overflowing
with questions, but she held her tongue.

Finally, he began again.

“My place was in the Ring, protecting the
Canyon, holding up the Shield. Guarding the Destiny Sword, while Ragon guarded
the Ridge. We lived this way for many, many centuries.”

“But he’s not here now,” Gwen said, puzzled.

Argon shook his head.

“No, he is not.”

“Where is he then?” she asked.

“Ragon foresaw the end of the Ridge,” Argon
replied, “and he took the steps needed to save it. He’s in exile, on the Isle
of Light, preparing for the second coming.”

“Second coming?” Gwen asked.

Argon sighed long and hard, staying
silent. Gwen did not want to pry, but she needed to know where this was all
going, and how it related to Thor.

“What I want to know is about Thorgrin
and Guwayne,” she finally insisted. “What are you not telling me?”

Argon looked anguished as he looked at
the window, until finally, he turned and looked at her. The intensity of his
gaze was overwhelming.

“Some things are given to us in life,”
he said gravely, “while others are taken away. We must celebrate what we have
while we have it. And when something is lost to us, we must allow it to leave.”

Gwen felt her heart sinking at his
words.

“What are you saying?” she demanded.

He took two steps toward her, standing a
few feet away, staring back with such intensity that she had to look away. She
had never seen him wear such a serious expression.

“Your husband is gone,” he pronounced
gravely, each of his words like a blow to her heart. “Your son is gone to you,
too. I am sorry, but they will never return. Not as you know them.”

Gwen felt like collapsing.

“NO!” she shrieked, crying, everything
bursting out of her. She ran forward and grabbed Argon’s robe, and beat him on
his chest with her fists, again and again.

Argon stood there, expressionless, not
fighting her off but not comforting her either.

“I am sorry,” he said, after several
moments. “I loved Thorgrin as a son. And Guwayne, too.”

“NO!” she shrieked, refusing to accept
it.

Gwen turned and ran out the chamber,
down the corridor, and burst out onto the wide parapets atop the castle. She stood
there, all alone, clutching the rail and searching the horizon. She looked out
at the distant peaks, the mist hanging over the ridge. Somewhere beyond was the
Great Waste, and beyond that, the great sea. Carrying Thorgrin and Guwayne.

She could not accept her fate. Never.

“NO!” Gwen shrieked to the heavens.
“Come back to me!”