Bronze Magic (Book 1) (2 page)

Maya Mureva Araya.
...” Between one breath and
the next, he felt himself disintegrate into oblivion before landing
nauseated but safe, at the origin of his clothing in a tailor’s shop near the
edge of town.
or some little while he lay there, wrestling with the shock of the ‘
disintegration that he had endured in the course of his translocation.
He nearly vomited at the thought of it. But as he recovered, he felt
a certain satisfaction that his spell had worked. The events in the Great
Hall crowded at the edges of his mind, but he could not yet allow himself
to think about the scene of devastation he had left behind.
Once the feeling of sickness had passed, Tarkyn realised he was lying
on a long wooden workbench. He rolled off the bench to land cat-like
on his feet, then stood up slowly, grasping the edge of the bench for
support while he regained his sense of balance. A strange combination
of dull orange light from a street lamp a little way down the road and
moonlight, picked out vague shapes in the darkened workroom. As his
eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he realised that the mounds
in the corner were in fact neatly stacked piles of cloth. Completed shirts,
surcoats, cloaks and leggings hung in racks along the rear wall. It was
the middle of the night and the workmen were all at home in their beds.
It seemed no apprentices slept on the premises. He let out a sigh, thinking
that luck was with him.
“Oh, very lucky!” he said sourly to himself.For a moment, the enormity
of his situation threatened to overwhelm him, but he resolutely kept his
mind in the present, knowing he could not afford the luxury of reflection
until he was well away from Tormadell.
Although his own surcoat had been made here, he had never been to
this workshop himself. All fittings were done at the palace. So he had no
idea where he was. As he sat on a pile of cut cloth wondering what to do
next, he gradually became aware of distant shouting. Several times, he
heard running footsteps on the cobbles outside the factory. When the
shouting drew nearer, for horrified moments he thought that the guards
had worked out his location. But no. It was merely townsfolk regaling
each other with the drama of the Great Hall’s collapse and urging each
other to venture forth to see the spectacle.
Tarkyn considered his situation. He knew how to fight, but other
than that, he had had no training in looking after himself. He had been
pandered to from the moment he was born. Now, the obstacles facing him
even to procure breakfast in a few hours’ time, seemed insurmountable.
He had never had to deal with money and did not have any on him
now. And even if he did have money, he could not risk being seen to buy
anything. Not only was he a well-known public figure, but any circulated
description of his long black hair, his height and his unusual amber eye
colour would make him eminently recognisable.
After some careful thought he decided that with an uncertain future
ahead of him, he would need resources. He would not turn to his friends
and jeopardise their safety but somehow he had to get back into the
palace and retrieve at least some of his personal jewellery. Now seemed
as good a time as any; in fact better than most. All eyes would be on the
demise of the Great Hall.
With a wry smile, he focused carefully on himself, better prepared this time
for the feeling of disintegration and murmured, “
Maya Mureva Araya
…”
He expected to land in his mother’s bed where he had been born but
in fact, he landed in the king’s huge four-poster bed. As he fought against
the nausea, he shook his head.
This spell is dangerously unpredictable.
Returning to the place of one’s creation is open to more than one interpretation
.
He shuddered as a thought struck him,
Oh lord. At least it didn’t try to put
me back inside my mother.
A
sound
in
the
corridor
brought
his
attention
back
to
his
surroundings. Even if the present king were elsewhere, he realised,
there would always be a guard at his door. A fire glowed in the stone
hearth, keeping the room warm, ready for the king’s return. Bright
moonlight streamed in through the window, bathing the padded
armchairs and the fine, ornate writing desk in soft, silvery light. In
the distance, Tarkyn could still hear the sounds of turmoil but within
the palace, everything seemed quiet.
Tarkyn considered his options. He could take some of the king’s
jewellery in exchange for his own, leaving a note to that effect, but he
suspected that Kosar would publicise the loss of his jewellery and suppress
the explanation. Tarkyn did not want grand larceny added to the other
accusations against his name.
He could not hope to beguile the guard by passing himself off as his
brother. The king and Jarand were noticeably shorter than he, had grey
eyes and wore their auburn hair shoulder length. Only the set of their
features showed their relationship.
Tarkyn crossed to the window and opened it. Two hundred yards away,
crowds of people clustered around the remains of the Great Hall. Only
one corner of the monumental old building was left standing. The rest lay
in piles of tumbled stone. Even as he watched, the last section gave way
and crashed to the ground, sending up a billow of white dust. The sounds
of shouting redoubled as spectators and workmen scrabbled away from
the falling masonry. A knot of activity centred around one particular
group and when the crowds parted, he could see his mother the dowager
queen, talking intently with guards, workmen and townspeople. Tarkyn
felt sick at the thought of the guardsmen who must have been trapped
inside the building as it fell.
He shook his head to clear it. There was nothing he could do to help
them. He had to find a way out of the king’s room, retrieve what he had
come for and leave. He took a moment to peer down two storeys to the
lawns below. Too exposed. No way of escape there. After a bit of thought,
he moved quickly to the king’s writing desk and rummaged around until
he found some parchment. He tore it quietly into strips and placed it
along the inside of the door. Then he lit a taper from the coals of the fire,
set the parchment alight and waited.
As the smoke seeped out into the corridor, he heard a muttered
exclamation, followed by the precipitous entry of the guard. Tarkyn
stepped behind him and closed the door. At the sound, the guard swung
round, his eyes widening at the sight of the prince.
As the guard’s hand went to his sword, Tarkyn sent a thin blast of
power into the man’s forearm. The guardsman reeled back, clutching his
arm in pain. Tarkyn said quietly, “I do not want to hurt you further. But
if you make any move to attack me, I will retaliate.”
The guard lurched towards Tarkyn, “I cannot allow you to threaten
our king. I must protect him, even if it means my life.”
Tarkyn waved his hand languidly and muttered, “Shturrum”, freezing
the man in his tracks. The prince raised his eyebrows. “I would expect no
less. That is, after all, your duty. However, you have my assurance that I
intend the king no harm. I am merely passing through.” He considered
the guard dispassionately, “I am afraid I will have to tie you up so that
I can make good my escape. I will not gag you if you hold your peace.”
He shrugged, “Besides, I doubt that there is anyone near enough to hear
you at the moment.” Saying that, he dragged the tasselled rope from the
king’s dressing gown and used it to tie the guard’s hands behind him,
before waving his hand to release the spell. Then he frogmarched the
guard over to the huge four-poster bed, sat him down unceremoniously
on the eiderdown and tied him to an upright.
The guard watched warily as Tarkyn stepped back to survey his
handiwork. After a moment, Tarkyn met his eyes, “And now, guardsman,
if I leave you like this, you will avoid excessive punishment, I think.”
“I do not wish to avoid punishment. I have failed in my duty,” replied
the guard stiffly.
“Don’t be such a martyr. I have already told you; the king is safe. And
I do not wish my actions to be the cause of your suffering, any more than
they already are.”
“Huh! From what I hear, your actions tonight have caused a great deal
more suffering than this. I can’t imagine why you would concern yourself
with me.”
The prince’s mouth set in a thin line. “You forget yourself.”
Under Tarkyn’s unbending stare, the guardsman lowered his head. “I
beg your pardon, Your Highness. Tonight’s events have confused us all.”
“That may be so,” Tarkyn conceded, “But whatever else I may be held
to be, I am still a prince of Eskuzor…and you and anyone else who
crosses my path would do well to remember it.”
At that, the guardsman raised his head and subjected Tarkyn to a long
considering stare. But before he could voice his thoughts, Tarkyn crossed
quickly to the door, listening intently.With a brief nod at the guardsman,
he opened the door and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. It was
deserted. He headed to his right, his nerves jangling, expecting at any
moment that one of the doors he passed would open. The sound of his
footsteps, despite his best efforts at stealth, echoed around the stone
walls. With a grimace at the delay, he risked a few moments to take off
his boots. Holding them in one hand, he crept on stockinged feet to the
top of the staircase.
Suddenly he heard the voices of his brothers coming towards him,
somewhere below him in the central hallway. He stepped back and pressed
himself into an alcove, finding shelter behind a large statue of his great
grandmother. As he listened, a messenger ran to catch up with the king
and reported, “Your Majesty, there is still no news. The entire building
has collapsed in on itself. Workmen are even now trying to reach those
trapped beneath the rubble. The streets are filled with anxious relatives
and onlookers. There have been no sightings of your brother the prince,
Sire, and until what is left of the interior is breached, it is too early to say
whether he still lives.”
“Thank you,” said Kosar gravely. As Tarkyn heard the messenger’s
footsteps gradually fade into the distance, the king spoke again.
“Jarand, I think we must go out into the street and show our concern
for our people.” He sighed heavily. “Blast Tarkyn! How did he
have the power to destroy the Great Hall? It will cost a literal fortune
to rebuild.”
Relieved, Tarkyn realised that Kosar had no immediate plans to climb
the stairs and return to his bedchamber.
“Unfortunate, I agree,” Jarand’s voice echoed up the stairs, “But at
least we have achieved what we set out to do. We have removed the risk
of Tarkyn’s pretensions to your throne.”
Above them, Tarkyn listened in stunned disbelief.
“Just as well. Clearly his power is – was excessive…and far too
many people applauded his victory. But look at that mess out there!
I was hoping to remove him with a minimum of fuss.” Kosar came
into sight, heading towards the front door, his twin brother beside
him. “I don’t know what happened after we left, but somehow he
held off my entire Royal Guard and then destroyed the building
around him.”
“Pointless. Juvenile theatrics; petty revenge at the cost of self sacrifice.
He must have known he could not win. And now he has been crushed
with all the others.” Jarand sounded spine-chillingly unconcerned. “Even
if Tarkyn has somehow survived, his popularity won’t have. He will be
the most reviled man in Eskuzor.”
“I will make sure of that,” said the king grimly.
Tarkyn gave a little frown, knowing these words should upset him.
And yet his brothers’ betrayal, followed by the horror of his trial and its
wake of destruction had so numbed his mind that his popularity seemed
of little significance. In fact, when he thought about it, his unpopularity
would be merely one more obstacle in his already impossible future.
As their voices faded away, Tarkyn found he had no energy left to care
that the cost of the Great Hall mattered more to them than he did. He
waited for a few minutes before easing himself out from behind his great
grandmother’s statue to resume his journey across the top of the staircase.
He followed the corridor for another fifty yards until he came to the door
of his room.
He listened briefly before slipping into the haven of his own
bedchamber. He glanced at his mahogany four-poster bed, noting that
someone had already pulled the embroidered eiderdowns straight and
plumped up the pillows. All around him were the objects of his life that
he would have to leave behind: his trophy, books that he treasured, a
small painting of his father, and various gifts and mementoes that he had
kept despite carefully worded protests from his servants about the clutter.
Almost he wished that he had not returned. Seeing what he must leave
behind, highlighted the extent of his loss.
Thrusting his regrets aside, Tarkyn walked to his dressing table where
his jewellery box stood in full view. He searched through his drawers
until he found a drawstring leather bag and, with no regard for the
beauty or delicacy of the finely wrought, gem-encrusted pieces, shovelled
his jewellery wholesale into it. He glanced at the door of his dressing
room, considering the wisdom of taking some clothes with him but he
had limited time and no idea what clothing he should pack for himself.
He had to return to the tailor’s, well before the start of the working day.
In the end, he stuffed a couple of shirts into a bag and grabbed only
his travelling cloak and hunting knife. Then he spent precious minutes
penning a note to say that he had taken his own jewellery, to protect his
servants from accusations of theft.
As he blotted his note, he took one last look around. He attached the
sheath of his knife to his belt, and slipped the leather purse into a deep
pocket in his leggings. Then he placed the cloak around his shoulders and
took a firm hold on his bag, before focusing on his surcoat one more time.
s soon as he had re-oriented himself in the quiet of the tailor’s shop,
Tarkyn crossed to the door and turned the handle. The handle turned,
but the door did not give when he pulled or pushed it.