Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (9 page)

“Does this mean I can work magic?” Julia said.

“I’m the weakest of mages, Lady. You should speak to Renard or Wregan or... but not me!”

“Why are you so upset?”

Mathius looked at Julia warily. He was wondering what he had done to deserve her. His face was one that gave away his thoughts so clearly that Julia wondered if he had any friends at all. The thought sobered her. She didn’t have any friends either.

“I know what you’re thinking but it’s false. Lady Jessica knows the stories about mages, and Lord Keverin saw first hand what could happen only yesterday. Women have no place in that.”

Julia turned to Keverin. “What does he mean?”

Keverin shook his head and spoke instead to Jessica. “I didn’t come up here to talk about mages. Renard thinks he can hold the wards, but to be safe I want you to evacuate. I’ll send a strong detachment with you to Devarr. You can return in just a few tendays.”

Julia frowned. She could tell he was lying. Keverin knew the wards would not save the fortress. With a shiver Julia realised that these people were the only ones in the whole world who knew her. She couldn’t leave. How would she get home? She needed to stay close to the mages. Maybe one of them could send her back.

“I said no, and I meant it!” Jessica said fuming. She stalked away from her son toward the fireplace and abruptly turned back. “No Hasian is making me leave my home. If you think you can, you can think again! I’ve lived here with your father over forty years—good years. I will never live anywhere else. When my time comes, I’ll take my place beside your father, and still will I be
here
,” Jessica said stabbing a finger downward.

You tell him Jessica!

“The same goes for me I’m afraid,” Julia said before Keverin could turn his attention to her. “I know that you could force me to leave, but I’ll not go voluntarily. You kidnapped me—I know you think you have a great need, but that’s not an excuse in my book. The very least you can do is allow me to stay in the fortress where I know a few people.”

Keverin was angry but Julia thought for the first time that she saw respect in his eyes. She couldn’t be sure because she was distracted by what he said next.

“Very well. I hope you do not regret this decision. If we live through the coming days there
may
be a chance. I can promise you food and shelter, not safety.”

“I understand,” Julia said with a shiver at his bluntness. “I need to talk to the mages about getting home. Will you escort me?”

Keverin could hardly refuse a guest’s simple request. He offered his arm and agreed to show her the way.

Julia took his arm. “Thank you.”

Keverin said nothing.

* * *

Interlude I

Set in a lush valley on an island called Black, a pristine white castle stood. Built with magic of the hardest stone, and clad in limestone spelled to remain white through the centuries, the castle dominated the valley in which it stood. No, more even than that. Castle Black controlled the entire island and a goodly portion of the mainland as well. The island was dotted with prosperous villages filled with happy people. The farms benefited from weather that was never harsh, the crops never failed, everything was perfect. Nowhere else will you find such happy contentment. The island was as close to a paradise as the sorcerers could make it, but the scene was at odds with the castle’s avowed purpose. Castle Black was the home and seat of Lord Mortain, Voice of the God, First Lord Sorcerer, and undisputed ruler of the Protectorate.

Mortain watched the image in his mirror closely. The view was of a middle aged man in black robe talking with another sorcerer. The fact he could scry Godwinson at all meant he was unlikely to hear anything of real use. A ward to prevent scrying was easy to erect, which meant Godwinson was saying nothing of consequence. He still hoped for a slip that might lead him to something he could use.

Suddenly the mirror clouded.

Mortain cursed and blanked the image. “He’s up to something, I can feel it.”

His body servant, Marcail, moved forward and proffered a silver tray with a glass of ice water upon it. Mortain drank away his thirst. Whenever he scried for extended periods of time he dehydrated. Marcail always kept cool water on hand. Mortain nodded his thanks and replaced the glass on the tray. Marcail moved back to his place without uttering a sound.

Mortain frowned again. He was sure Godwinson was planning something, something against him. Godwinson was his heir by virtue of his strength in the magic. It had to be that way, but he didn’t have to like it. It was little known by the ordinary citizens of the Protectorate, but many Godwinsons had assassinated their way into power. He had killed his predecessor after all. It was almost a tradition, but one he was determined not to fall foul of.

“Hmmm, Godwinson’s boy. What is his name?” He said to Marcail wracking his brain. He was useless with names. One boy sorcerer was the same as another to him. Every one of them was a tool made to fit his hand.

Wotan, that was it.

“Perhaps I can use Wotan against his father,” Mortain mused but shook his head. “Too risky. Beltran will have to do it.”

He grasped his magic and summoned Beltran.

While Mortain was waiting for the man to make his way up from the lower levels, he used the time to scry Fifth Legion where it lay siege to Athione. The huge mirror on his study wall cleared to reveal Navarien watching the bombardment of Athione’s ward. General Navarien was one of the best, if not
the
best general under his command. He seemed too good to be true sometimes and strictly speaking he was. The man could be too pushy when trying to get what he wanted and he had no care for the political niceties of his position. His
requests
were all too often demands. Navarien didn’t like sorcerers.

Mortain snorted in amusement. “I don’t even like sorcerers. Who does?”

Marcail remained silent his eyes glittering.

Navarien’s peers had urged his execution for treason on any number of occasions, but Mortain was unwilling to lose such a resource to mere backbiting. Navarien had stepped heavily on more than a few toes in his rapid rise to generalship, but that was normal to his way of thinking. It would take more than a few disgruntled underlings to make him order Navarien’s execution. Much more.

Clunk!

The knock on the door heralded Beltran’s arrival. Mortain quickly cleared the mirror and nodded to Marcail to open the door. A moment later Beltran stood before him.

“You wished my presence, my lord sorcerer?” Beltran enquired quietly.

Mortain didn’t answer the obvious. He had used his magic to call for Beltran. Of course he wanted him here. Beltran was one of his most powerful guardians. He wasn’t even close to Godwinson’s strength of course, if he had been he would have to be eliminated. One rival was more than enough. No, Beltran was no threat to his position as Mortain but he did have his uses. Beltran was a pure killer, which was the first, the last, and the only thing that came to mind when his name was mentioned. Beltran was his favourite assassin.

“I have a task for you,” Mortain said as he took his place behind his desk. “Godwinson is recruiting a cadre of mages for his bodyguard. There’s nothing wrong with that—I did the same, but I want you to join them. You will obey Godwinson as you would me with one exception.”

“Exception my lord?”

“Exception,” Mortain leaned back and regarded his minion. “You will report to me anything you think I should know, whether Godwinson has already reported it or not. You will follow his orders, but you will do nothing to risk my position or me without first reporting for instructions. Is all clear?”

“Yes my lord sorcerer. I am to obey him in all things except your death or removal.”

“Very good.”

“Will there be anything else, my lord sorcerer?”

“You will find Godwinson in Athinia. I want you to journey there immediately. Make sure he does not suspect you of being mine.”

“I understand,” Beltran said and bowed deeply before leaving.

Marcail closed the door behind Beltran and moved to the side table where a selection of wines sat in crystal decanters. He poured a deep burgundy coloured wine and placed it on Mortain’s desk within easy reach of his hand. Mortain drank, and nodded his thanks. He was always polite to Marcail. It was compensation for having the man’s tongue removed fifteen years earlier. He had thought to use magic to silence him, but had decided against it. With so many sorcerers coming and going there was a remote chance of someone reversing the spell. No one could make a tongue re-grow.

* * *

Three men took their ease in a sumptuously appointed room in the fortress called Malcor. Ambassador Abarsis wears a black robe proclaiming him a dangerous man—a sorcerer. He sits at a remove from the others. There is a striking resemblance between the other two men, not owing to their clothing. The older man is Lord Athlone, and the younger, his only son Jihan.

Both are handsome men. Not tall as Japurans invariably are, nor are they wiry like a Camorin, but both have a swordsman’s physique and unconsciously bear themselves with the inherited arrogance of their forbears. Jihan wears his hair long, but platted like a Camorin warrior. An affectation he learned from one of his tutors who came from the north. Athlone wears his hair cut short for comfort while wearing a helm. Both men are blond. Jihan’s eyes are chips of diamond, ice blue and cold—Athlone’s the same. Both father and son wear rich silk shirts and tight leather trousers.

Jihan watched his father carefully as he always did. He had learned long ago not to attract the man’s attention. He feared and hated him more than any other thing, and with good reason. Athlone could be unbelievably vicious if crossed, as his mother had found to her cost.

His mother had made just one error in her plan to escape Athlone, but one was all it took. She had assumed her maid was trustworthy, she hadn’t been, and Athlone was waiting for her. He had beaten her within an inch of her life. Jihan tried to shut out the image of his lovely mother battered and bruised. It was a terrible shock to him back then—learning that his father was evil. He never let himself forget it for a moment. His mother’s beauty was lost forever now, but thank the God Athlone had no plans to take a new consort. He used all his time scheming against the other lords. Keverin was one he particularly hated. Although Keverin didn’t deserve hatred, Jihan was just as happy that this was so. Anything that distracted Athlone had his vote.

Jihan’s mother had escaped Malcor in the end. Desperate, and finding no other option, she had chosen the only means left available to her. She had thrown herself from the battlement one night. The guards found her the next day where she lay all broken and dead at the base of the wall. Jihan didn’t blame her for leaving him with the monster. He could wish she had killed the bastard instead of herself. He flicked a glance at his father and away again. If only... what? If only he had the courage to challenge the bastard himself!

Lord Athlone smiled at Abarsis and took another sip of his wine. “And what precisely does Lord Mortain want from me this time?”

“Nothing too onerous, my lord. He merely wishes for you and your forces to remain neutral during the coming conflict. He is most pleased with your decision not to aid Keverin. He wishes for this to continue.”

“I did not refuse Keverin aid for your lord’s sake,” Athlone said in a cold tone. “My father and his were enemies, which makes him
my
enemy. I do not aid enemies of Malcor.”

Jihan shifted in his seat. No, Athlone didn’t aid
his
enemies, but he did aid the enemies of Deva. The feud had started between Lord Kevlarin and Athlone’s father, Lord Aethra. Lord Aethra tried to seize lands belonging to Kevlarin’s father in law, who of course was unable to defend them against the might of Malcor. Kevlarin went to the aid of Lord Padrig together with his son and two thousand Athione guardsmen. The resulting raid and counter raids left both Aethra and his eldest son Arik dead. Athlone inherited Malcor and paid a huge sum of gold in compensation to Padrig for the raid. He swore eternal enmity on Kevlarin and his family. Since then, Athlone had continued the feud in petty ways, or so Jihan thought. Refusing aid during an invasion wasn’t a petty matter however. If it were up to him, he would end it today and aid Keverin against the sorcerers.

“I understand my lord.” Abarsis offered a small smile. “We know you have... how should I put it? We know you have been
encouraging
the Chancellor in some of his less wise policies. Lord Mortain, may he live forever, wishes to congratulate you. He offers you rulership of Deva as a province of the Protectorate.”

Jihan was finding it difficult not to speak up against this madness, but thoughts of what Athlone was capable of stopped him. He just wasn’t ready to challenge his father.

Coward! When will you be ready?

Jihan hunched his shoulders raging at himself, but he was unable to make himself speak up.

Athlone laughed at the sorcerer’s offer. “It’s a little premature for dividing the spoils don’t you think? You have yet to take the fortress.”

“A mere formality as I’m sure you’re well aware,” Abarsis said with eyes boring into Athlone. “Keverin’s amateurs cannot possibly stand against an entire legion of our best men. Especially not with fifty sorcerers in attendance. Even if they could, fifty is only a fraction of what we could devote to the task.”

Athlone was amused. “Very true. Well then, let us talk about the details of your proposal.”

Jihan watched as Athlone sold the kingdom and Malcor’s honour to the black-hearted sorcerers, and cursed his own cowardice.

The next morning Jihan and Jezy flew from the gates of Malcor. So fast was she, Jihan didn’t hear the gates boom shut behind them. He was free—for a morning at least. He wished it were longer but it was Tenday again. He wished he dared defy his father and not return for the judgement.

“Coward,” he growled to himself. Jezy’s ears swivelled to listen. “Not you my heart.”