Children of Fire (42 page)

Jerrod recounted the events of his capture and meeting with Keegan, and the death of Rexol.

“I warned you Rexol's ambition would be his downfall,” Vaaler said to Keegan, though from his tone Scythe could tell he was troubled on hearing the news.

“You don't find this all a bit hard to believe?” Scythe asked, inserting herself into the conversation.

“I always knew Keegan had a great destiny before him,” he said softly. “But even I never imagined this.”

Scythe began to laugh. She couldn't help herself, it was all so ludicrous.

“There is little about this that is amusing,” Jerrod said sternly.

“I'm sorry,” she gasped, bringing the laughing fit under control. “It's all just a bit much to take.”

She noticed everyone was staring at her strangely, even Norr. They were all looking at her as if she was the one who was crazy.

“I …” Another fit of the mad laughter cut her off. She struggled against it and managed to calm herself down. Jerrod was right; it really wasn't funny. Not funny at all.

“I guess I was expecting some other type of reaction from you,” she said to Vaaler. “I just don't understand how you're taking this so well.”

The Danaan scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I do not have the Sight, but I know many who do. My mother—the Queen—has seen many visions of the coming Cataclysm. She has seen Daemron's return; she calls him the Destroyer of Worlds.

“In our own way, we have also been searching for a savior. Someone with the Sight and the Gift who can lead us in our time of greatest need.

“Rexol was a mage of great power,” he continued. “His magic far surpassed that of all the wizards in my mother's court, even the High Sorcerer. I knew this when I went to study under him.”

“Great,” Scythe grunted. “Another wizard.”

“No,” the prince whispered. “Not me.”

He took a deep breath, then continued in a more normal voice.

“I used to think my time with Rexol was wasted. But maybe being sent there was part of my destiny after all. Maybe it had a purpose.”

He glanced over at the frail young man sitting beside him, then turned back to Scythe and continued speaking.

“While I was his apprentice, I saw only hints of Rexol's power. It was in his bearing: his arrogance, his pride—everything about him gave evidence to it.

“He was a legend throughout the Southlands; he bowed to no man. The Order itself was afraid of him. Nobles, kings, and even other wizards were in awe of Rexol. And Rexol was in awe of Keegan.

“So why couldn't he be our savior?”

Something in the prince's tone made Scythe suspect he was trying to convince himself as much as her. She waited for Vaaler to say something more, but instead it was Jerrod who picked up the tale.

“Rexol refused to accept Keegan's destiny, and it destroyed him. Even he could not deny the savior's power.”

“So all of you really believe this?” Scythe pushed. “Even the part about this Slayer sending Minions here to hunt for these magical Talismans? These supposedly powerful artifacts that have somehow been lost for centuries?”

“Not lost,” Jerrod clarified. “Hidden.”

“The Talismans are real,” Keegan insisted. “I've seen the power of the Crown. And I can feel the power of the Ring. It's close.”

“You're right,” Vaaler agreed. “It's very close. And I know where to find it.”

Drake dropped to one knee at the Queen's bedside. He was relieved to see that a hint of color had returned to her face since he had last spoken to her four days ago. The servants had assured him she was eating again, and sleeping. But after his last meeting with Rianna he had almost been afraid to believe their reports. Now that he could see her for himself he knew it was true. Her strength was returning, though slowly. It was as if something terrible had held her in its grip and now suddenly she was free.

She stirred slightly, aware of his presence. Her eyes fluttered open. The glassy, faraway expression was gone, but it had been replaced by a deep, deep sadness.

“I did not summon you, my love,” she said softly. “Have you come to check up on me?”

Drake thought he almost detected a hint of a smile pass across her face. It had been so long since she had smiled. The weight of her visions had borne her down into a deep, dark despair; only now was she beginning to climb out. As he prepared to deliver the news, Drake prayed it wouldn't send her spiraling back into the dark place that had nearly killed her.

“I have news about Vaaler, my Queen. The members of your son's patrol have returned.”

“My son is not with them.” It wasn't a question, merely a statement of fact.

“He sent them on ahead. He follows, with a group of humans. They are his guests. A young woman from the Islands, a barbarian from the East …”

“A monk of the Order, and a young Chaos mage,” she finished for him, briefly bowing her head.

“Yes, my Queen.”

“It is as I have foreseen,” she said calmly, as if sorrow and grief were no longer a part of her. Or a part so familiar she no longer cared.

She took a deep breath as if to steel herself.

“Vaaler has betrayed our ancient laws. For this crime, he is forbidden from ever setting foot in Ferlhame again. He must live the rest of his life in exile.”

Drake's eyes opened wide, but he didn't protest. There was no point. She had reached a decision; he could see it in her face and her bearing. Something in her visions had been revealed to her, and he was neither proud nor foolish enough to speak out against what she had seen.

“I shall do as you command.”

“Take a patrol and intercept them before they reach the city,” she commanded. “Tell my son he is banished from the Danaan lands, by my proclamation. Do this yourself, Drake. If he hears it from you he will know it to be true.”

“Yes, my Queen.” Drake hesitated before asking the question he feared he already knew the answer to. “And if he refuses to obey your edict?”

“My son and those who travel with him cannot be allowed to enter the city. If necessary, you must kill him.”

For the past five days Vaaler had been leading his new companions toward Ferlhame. For the patrols, the entire journey would have taken only three days, but the humans couldn't move with the speed of the Danaan, and Keegan was still too frail to push their pace beyond a slow, steady walk. Even at this pace the young mage was forced to lean heavily on Rexol's staff to support him.

None of them spoke much on the journey, which was fine with the prince. He had enough on his mind as it was.

Everything made sense to him now. It had all come together as he had listened to the monk and Keegan tell their story. Vaaler was no wizard, but he had learned much about magic during his years studying under Rexol. He understood Chaos better than anyone in his mother's court, including High Sorcerer Andar. When they mentioned the Talismans, the truth had struck him in a sudden flash. Suddenly the signs were all too clear to him.

Rexol had devoted decades to learning and mastering his craft; however, his Danaan counterparts needed no such study. The Danaan were a people of magic. There were more wizards in Ferlhame alone than in all of the Southlands. Controlling and shaping Chaos came naturally to them; they took it for granted. Vaaler had never understood why this should be, until now.

The ring his mother always wore around her neck—the symbol of the Danaan Monarchs—was one of the Talismans. Forged to allow a mortal to shape the very fires of creation, the power of the Ring had guided and shaped the Danaan nation and its people. It had become a part of them, molding them into a nation of Chaos users.

And now with the Legacy weakening, the full potential of the Talisman was being unleashed. And it was destroying his mother.

That was why she dreamed of fire and destruction: The waxing power of the ring was twisting her visions and her mind. She had seen the coming of the Destroyer of Worlds and a second Cataclysm for her people, but she had not understood that the means to stand against their enemy was close at hand. None of them had realized it.

He would tell them. He would explain everything to the Queen and her council. He would free his mother from the terrible burden by convincing her to give the Ring to Keegan, that he might fulfill his destiny.

He would bring his people a savior, and his people would finally accept him as the heir to their throne.

Walking a route he knew by heart, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he wasn't even aware of his surroundings. Not as aware as he should have been.

“We have company,” Jerrod whispered, coming up behind him to place a hand on his shoulder to stop his progress. “Watching us from the branches.”

Keegan's physical strength was returning quickly. Each morning he felt more refreshed and alive, despite the miles they had traveled the day before. The witchroot in his veins was no longer at a toxic level. Instead it energized him, made him feel confident and powerful. It drove him onward.

He also felt as if he was drawing strength from the forest itself. The woods were old; many of the trees had survived the Cataclysm; their roots ran deep. They reached down into the earth and touched the well of life below, drawing on the magic the Gods had used to create the world itself. Powerful enchantments had been cast over the forest long ago; the magic of the ancient spells still lingered. Jerrod had said the enchantments obscured and confused his Sight, but Keegan felt his own abilities feeding on them. The magic of the forest was healing and regenerating his Chaos-ravaged body.

But it was more than just the witchroot or the woods. When Vaaler had told them where to the find the Ring, it was as if a spark had flared up within Keegan. He could feel the power of it calling to him even across the forest, just as Rexol must have felt the power of the Crown calling to him in the Monastery. Vaaler was leading them to the hidden Danaan capital, but Keegan honestly believed he could have found the way himself.

Ahead of him, Jerrod reached out a hand and stopped Vaaler in his tracks.

“We have company,” he heard the monk whisper. “Watching us from the branches.”

Now that he was aware of them, Keegan could see them clearly with his mind's eye—they had walked right into an ambush. There were a dozen of them all told; they were surrounded on all sides.

“What's going on?” Scythe demanded from the rear of the group, her voice tense and nervous. “Why'd we stop?”

As if in answer to her question, half a dozen Danaan descended from the treetops: two behind them, and two each on the left and the right. They had their bows drawn, arrows notched and aimed. Like Vaaler, they had long, thin swords strapped to their belts. Their uniforms were similar to Vaaler's as well, except that they had the insignia of their own patrol emblazoned over their hearts. The other six remained hidden in the branches above, each taking careful aim at their targets below.

Another Danaan—this one older than the others and wearing a different uniform—stepped from the trees directly in front of them.

“Drake!” Vaaler exclaimed in surprise. “What is the meaning of this?”

Keegan guessed the man to be in his late forties. He remembered Vaaler mentioning him before; after the King's death Drake had taken over many of the duties of raising the young prince. Unlike the others he did not have a bow, but in his left hand he held the hilt of a rapier.

“Vaaler, by order of Rianna Avareen, ruling Monarch of the Danaan people, you and your companions are hereby banished from the Danaan realms. This company is to escort you to the border of the kingdom.”

It was obvious to Keegan that Drake took no joy in the proclamation.

“What are you talking about?” Keegan couldn't tell if Vaaler was confused, insulted, or afraid. Probably all three. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“If you do not comply I have been ordered to use any force necessary. Even lethal force.” The man hesitated then added. “Please, Vaaler. Don't make it come to that.”

“This is an outrage!” the Danaan prince shouted, directing his wrath at the archers training their arrows on the company.

Like Keegan, the others were completely motionless, knowing the slightest movement might trigger a barrage of deadly missiles. Vaaler, however, seemed unable to grasp the danger they were all in. His head turned from side to side, his body twisting round and round as he tried to look at all of their assailants at once.

“Lower your weapons this instant!” he shouted. “How dare you threaten the heir to the throne!”

The archers made no move to comply. From the corner of his eye Keegan saw Jerrod's head give a faint tilt upward. Like him, the monk sensed there were more Danaan than just these in the clearing. The woods around them were filled with enemies.

“Vaaler, you are no longer the heir to the throne,” Drake told him. “By order of the Queen you are banished, forbidden from ever returning to Danaan lands.”

“I … I don't understand,” Vaaler stammered. “What are you saying? My mother has disowned me?”

Without even realizing he was doing so, Keegan began to gather the Chaos. “The Queen knows the path you walk,” Drake told him. “She knows you threaten to bring destruction on us all. She has seen it in her visions.”

“Damn her visions! Damn your blind faith in prophecies and dreams! I have done nothing wrong!”

Keegan's body began to tingle as he gathered his power. The beating of his own heart slammed against the walls of his chest, trying to burst free. It took all his effort to remain still as a sudden surge of Chaos flared up within him, a caged beast hurling itself against the bars so that it might unleash its fury on the world. But somehow he kept it in check.

“You have brought humans to our lands!” Drake spat out. “You're leading them straight to Ferlhame itself! You have violated one of our people's oldest laws! You have disobeyed the will of the council and your Queen!”

There was little chance he would be able to invoke a proper spell. Several of the archers were aimed specifically at him, poised to fire. Any movement from Keegan, a single arcane word, any hint that he was channeling magic through Rexol's staff, and they would let fly.

But as Rexol had told him time and time again, the single greatest tool available to those who dared to call upon the fires of Chaos was the strength of the wizard's own Gift. Ultimately it was the ability of the individual that determined the effects of any given spell. In theory, a wizard who was strong enough in his talent could unleash magic through the sheer force of his will. And Keegan's Gift was stronger than any other mage in the mortal world.

“Please, Drake, you have to trust me,” Vaaler begged. “I am bringing salvation to our people.”

“You are like a son to me,” the older Danaan replied, his voice near to breaking. “Had you become King, I would gladly have bowed down before you. But you do not have the Sight, you cannot see what lies ahead. The Queen has seen the destruction you will bring upon us, and she has sent me to stop it.”

“My mother is sick,” Vaaler implored. “Her power has become too much for her to bear. It's twisted her mind. You've seen it just as well as I have—something is destroying her. Let me go to her, and I can save her!”

Drake bowed his head, and for a moment it seemed as if the young man's words had reached him. But when he looked up his eyes were hard and cold as steel.

“I must obey the will of my Queen,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. He raised his arm, and Keegan heard the creak of the bows as the strings were drawn taut. If they were to have any chance to survive, they'd have to find some way to stop the archers from mowing them down.

“Surrender your weapons to me now, Vaaler, or this will end with blood.”

Keegan unleashed the Chaos he'd been gathering. Set free on the mortal world, it exploded outward, the air rippling as a wave of force rolled out across the clearing in all directions, moving faster than thought itself. The ground buckled; the boughs of the trees bent and swayed as the concussive wall ripped through them. The bows and arrows of the archers cracked and splintered, shattered in a single instant by the power of the spell.

A shower of leaves and small twigs rained down from the foliage. The Danaan in the trees above came crashing down to the ground below, dislodged from their perches by the same spell that had destroyed their bows before a single shot could be fired.

Everyone in the clearing staggered, knocked off balance by the invisible wave. But only Keegan, standing at the magic's epicenter, fell to the ground. The effort of casting and controlling the spell with only the force of his will had taken all his strength in a single burst, as if it had been a candle snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind. He collapsed and lay there panting, his body exhausted and utterly drained, Rexol's staff lying on the ground beside him.

For a brief second nobody reacted; the archers simply stared in confusion at their suddenly useless weapons. And then Drake raised his sword. “For the Queen!” he shouted, and the battle began.

Jerrod was the first to react. With three running steps he crossed the distance between himself and the nearest archer, who still stood staring at his cracked bow. Without breaking stride the monk dropped into a somersault, wrapping his ankles around the other man's neck as he tumbled past. Then he twisted his body at the waist, jerking his torso around hard to generate enough leverage through his hips and thighs to snap the neck of the helpless opponent. And then he was on his feet again, already moving to his next victim.