Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (177 page)

She back lay upon the grass and closed her eyes remembering a happier time. She stood atop the highest tower of Athione with the huge banners just above her head snapping and cracking in the wind. Arms encircled her from behind and she leaned back revelling in his strength…

“Do you see it my love?” Keverin said.

“Hmmm.”

The feel of his muscled arms holding her safe was all her world. His deep voice rumbling at her back and passing through her body making her shiver with a strange delight.

“The archer that one is called.”

“What about that one?” she said pointing.

Keverin crouched and sighted along her arm. “The Great Dragon. See the tail?”

“A dragon? It looks more like a horse to me!” she said and laughed.

“No, no!” he cried and laughed along with her. “A strange horse that would be. Dragons have wings, not horses.”

She turned within the circle of his arms and held him tight. Looking up at his shadowed face and on toward the crescent moon banner, she saw another pattern.

“What of that one?”

Keverin looked up. “Some say that one should be two separate patterns, the King and the Queen, but I like the old name for them.”

“Tell me,” she whispered into the wind.

Keverin looked down into her eyes. “The Eternal Lovers.”

Julia woke from her dream with tears scolding her eyes. She sat up and looked around but none could see her. She wiped the tears away as she looked up at the stars high overhead. She was glad they were called the eternal lovers, glad that he had told her. In her dreams she could pretend that when she died they would be together again. Dared she hope… eternally?

The lovers were just a pattern in the sky, she thought sadly. Everything in the world had a unique pattern that made it different from every other thing. She knew that for absolute truth. She grasped her magic and invoked her mage sight to reveal what was true. The random energy roaring around her seemed to change and coalesce into new patterns that were far from random. Each intricate matrix of energy was a particular thing in the so-called real world. Sometimes she thought the realms were the true world, and the place where people thought they lived was only an illusion pulled over their eyes. The river flowed gently where she sat, but in this realm, it raged at its confinement between earthen banks. The power contained was incredible, yet it was just a river, not even a particularly violent one. What must the sea be like in this place, or a storm?

Blades and stalks of grass were tiny miracles all around her; every one similar but subtly different as snowflakes were, yet still recognisably the same. Each had its own pattern; one among an infinite number of patterns that God had decreed was grass. She looked deeper and found rock through soil, which was so complicated that it dizzied her. It was amazing how complicated a simple thing like soil was. So many different patterns linked together—apart they might be recognisable—but together they linked like a group of shamen into a greater pattern that in this case was soil.

Patterns. The pattern dictated the thing. Change the pattern and… what? Change the thing perhaps, though she had never heard it said that was even remotely possible. Patterns simply were. They were what dictated the nature of the thing. Change the pattern held within a blade of grass to that of a stone, and a blade of grass made of stone should result—at least that seemed the logical result of her conjecture. But if that were true a mage could
do
anything, and
make
anything she wished. It could not be that easy surely? If it were, mages would already be doing it. Maybe changing a pattern was not sufficient. Perhaps there was more to it—understanding how a thing worked for instance. Understanding was important when contemplating a new spell or when making something. That was true whether it be mundane or magical in nature. If a mage with no understanding of masonry tried to build something like Athione with its vaulted halls, the ceilings would likely come crashing down. Without the knowledge that only masons had, the weight of stone ceilings and floors could not be supported.

Magic could do amazing things, but a fortress built
and
supported by magic would quickly fall to magical attack. Any mage worth the name would seek out those supporting spells and destroy them and thus the fortress. Understanding how things worked was important in creating anything, but what about destruction? Did she need to know what she was doing for that? Could she not use these patterns in some way, patterns that only she seemed to be interested in, to kill Navarien?

Julia stared into the distance thinking about all that she had lost. Keverin was gone, and Brian still had not awoken. He might never wake. So many of those she loved were dead, with many more to follow if General Navarien had his way.

She sat quietly contemplating her death. Would it be so terrible? Would it be so bad if the Hasians ruled Deva? Keverin had always thought so. His opinion would guide her. She studied the patterns all around her and imagined a special pattern all of her own. Built with all her spite and hatred, she would craft a spell to end this war. It must be strong, it must leave nothing to chance—it must be one that when unleashed upon the world, nothing and no one would stand before it. She imagined the plain engulfed in flame with Navarien writhing at its centre. Above it all, she watched a column of smoke and debris climbing higher and higher until it almost seemed to touch the stars.

She smiled.

* * *

Brian opened his eyes and stared at the roof of his tent. What he had seen, what he had been shown, was a heavy burden. Renard had warned him that he would walk a perilous road. For the sake of the world it was one he must walk, but only now was the enormity of his peril dawning on him. If he failed, more than his lord and lady would die. Entire kingdoms would die and ultimately entire worlds.

He sat up quickly, finding himself whole. He hungered, but he had everything the God gave him still attached and working. He had seen men wither away to nothing after a blow like the one he had taken, but he was whole. He thanked the God and the Lady for it. The image of a one handed man wandering the plain in a daze went through his mind and his throat clogged with grief for his lord. He wanted to rush to Keverin’s aid, but that would spell disaster. He pushed himself angrily to his feet determined to do what must be done.

He scouted around the tent and found his clothes and armour. He dressed quickly and felt much better for the familiar weight. His sword had rusted. He sheathed it as it was. There was no time to lose. He had to be inside Athione’s walls on a certain date or all was lost.

It was night outside. Somewhere out there the Lady sat crying upon the riverbank. Renard had been brutal with his visions. He knew what had happened to her since Keverin fell. The temptation to go to her almost overpowered him, but Renard’s warnings were as strong. He whispered an apology that she would never hear and turned away to find a horse.

He avoided the guards and stole a fine horse and saddle. They probably belonged to one of the chiefs—Kadar most likely. The swirling pattern of the Night Wind clan was prominent on the saddle. He led his mount away into the darkness.

He did not mount until he was well away from the camp.

* * *

2 ~ Survivors

Lorcan stumbled and cursed his luck. The plain might look flat, but it wasn’t. The long grass hid all manner of holes and depressions seemingly designed to turn the unwary ankle.

“Are you all right?” Keverin said.

“I’m all… Lord! Are you well?” he said and scrambled to his feet in excitement, but the moment he saw Keverin’s eyes, he knew that he had not yet recovered his wits.

“Where is Julia? She was here but a moment ago,” Keverin said blinking around in confusion.

“She’s all right, m’lord. Come with me. We can’t stop yet.”

“But where is she?”

He sighed. He was tired of answering the same questions day after day, but it was not Keverin’s fault. He had been kicked in the head by a warhorse when he fell in battle and had yet to regain his sense of things.

“She is waiting for us, m’lord. Come, we must go to her.”

Keverin nodded eagerly and followed a pace behind.

They had been travelling east for many days. Lorcan had not realised it would take them so long to reach Elvissa, but he should have. They had to stay close to a source of water. The river they were following meandered its way from the eastern mountains to the North Sea—it was very far from a straight course. Realising that backtracking the river’s twists and turns southward would double or even triple the length of their journey, he had decided not to follow it too closely. Instead, he had set a straight course that only vaguely followed the river while keeping it within reach.

Lorcan licked dry and cracked lips. He tasted salty blood. He was desperate for another sip of water, but when he weighed his only waterbag, he reluctantly left the plug alone. A candlemark, in another candlemark they would drink and not before. They were between bends in the river; he dare not use all their water before closing upon its bank again. He stumbled, but this time he did not waste energy in cursing. He was too tired to do anything but plant one foot in front of the other.

His life certainly had changed. Who would have thought that a year on from starving on the streets in Devarr, he would be crossing the Camorin plain leading a one armed lord to his salvation. He could hardly credit it himself, and he had lived it! Things certainly had changed.

His stomach rumbled loudly.

Some things remained the same.

He had been dying by inches in Devarr. Everyone had. He had gone from day to day living off what he could steal or kill for, until the Lady came to set Gylaren on the throne. Now here he was, starving again!

He stumbled on his weary way, barely aware of anything but putting one foot in front of the other. The sun shone down baking his head and making him squint tired eyes. He saw nothing but tinder dry grass and earth parched of moisture. Spring had yet to give way to summer, but it had a good head start on the plain. By the God it was hot!

He staggered to a swaying halt and pulled the plug from his waterbag. He had to drink. He just had to, but first the lord. “Dri...” he coughed and tried again. “Drink... this... lord,” he croaked. His tongue felt swollen.

Keverin seized the water bag and drank eagerly. Lorcan watched the lord’s throat working and took the bag back after three swallows. He allowed himself only a single mouthful of the precious liquid and held it in his mouth until he had to swallow. It felt as if he tongue had soaked up the water. There didn’t seem to be much left to swallow. Keverin’s eyes followed his movements as he securely plugged the bag once again. He shook it, trying to guess how long he had before it ran dry.

“Later, m’lord. You can drink again later.”

They walked on and didn’t stop until well after dark. The evening was cooler than the day; he reasoned it made sense to keep going. Keverin made no complaint, even his ramblings about Julia and how his hand hurt quieted. Neither of them had the energy to do more than put one foot in front of the other. Lorcan judged midnight had come when he could go no further. He stopped following the star he had picked and swayed to a halt. Here was a good a place as any.

He collapsed, asleep before he hit the ground.

The next day dawned, and Lorcan found it almost impossible to find the energy to rise. His body was a mass of aches and pains, but finally he managed to stagger erect and weave his way toward the rising sun. He did not remember much of that day except that the waterbag ran dry. The day fled by in the flicker of an eye, and suddenly he was lying down again. It was dark with the sky ablaze with stars.

He wished he had asked Mathius how to make it rain.

* * *

Keverin, Lord of Athione and Lord Protector of the west, was lost. He was lost in dream and memory. His only reference in a world where he fought old battles anew was the form of a young boy wearily slogging through long grass ahead of him. He was sure he should know the lad, sure he would remember why he should know him, but the reason and the boy’s name continued to elude him.

It did not matter.

Only one name was important to him, though again he could not seem to recall why. A beautiful face drifted before his eyes, one he very much wanted to see again, but like smoke it drifted beyond his reach and was gone. Only the stumbling boy remained.

“Julia?” Keverin croaked. “What’s happening?”

“It’s all right, lord,” the boy croaked through cracked and bleeding lips. “She will be all right.”

“Julia?” Keverin said again.

The face rose before him again, but this time she was different. Her eyes flashed in anger and harsh words poured from her rosebud lips. She was angry with him, but her words were lost with his wits—a memory, or perhaps even a fantasy. He hoped so, he didn’t want her angry with him. He stumbled and went down but immediately climbed to his feet. He couldn’t seem to find his balance. The boy doubled then tripled in his sight. He made to rub his eyes but ended the movement staring at an ugly stump where his hand had been. He hissed at the memory of pain and remembered where it had happened. He had been attacking... someone. An armoured figure snarling in hate rose up in his memory; he stumbled back in shock, the memory felt so real. The man had been Hasian! Yes, that’s right. He had fought the Hasians and fell from his horse... was that right?

“Lord, we can’t stop here,” the boy said.

Yes, he fell from his horse when... Keverin shook his head, trying to remember. He had parried the blow, but the legionnaire had been a wily fighter and had pulled his strike at the last moment, striking at a different angle. He remembered his sword spinning away with his right hand still gripping the hilt—

“Come, lord. We have to find water,” the boy croaked and took his hand to lead him on.

—to fall, lost amidst the chaos of battle. The pain had been slow to come, but when it did, he had shrieked his throat roar. Another blow landed—on his helm this time—and he fell from the saddle. The last thing he remembered was rolling away from the stamping hooves of battling warhorses, desperately trying to stop the blood pumping from his severed wrist. Yes! That was the way it had happened. He remembered now. It was coming back to him. Slowly perhaps, but it was coming back.