Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (5 page)

Max checked the clock over the fireplace.  Timepieces were expensive and rather rare things.  Lyrra-Sharron had almost forgotten about them in her two years out in the country.

“A couple hours.  The party was called for nine.  We’ll even have our friends, the constables, outside guarding the place.  Invitation only, you know.  We’re known for throwing private parties, celebrating holidays, extremely good business, hangings, that sort of thing.  We’ll have no trouble getting everything into place.”

A short, wiry man Lyrra-Sharron had not noticed before opened the door to the alley, and Andim and Kallan came in.

“That was easy enough,” said Kallan, smiling brightly has he removed his cloak.

Andim made a low noise in his throat.  “Getting in isn’t the problem.  It’s getting out that’ll be tricky.”

“Will we have everything in place?” Lyrra-Sharron asked, as she accepted a bowl of stew proffered to her.

“I believe so,” Dak replied.  “But I am still concerned that this will risk over half our contacts in the city.”

“If we get the Sorcerer, it will be worth it.  And even if we do not, the embarrassment we shall cause the King will not be something easily shaken.”  She grinned at the lady who had passed her the food.  “Thank you, my lady, this stew is wonderful.”

The merchant’s wife made a quick curtsy, blushing.  She quickly laid out bowls and spoons for everyone else, serving all.  Lyrra-Sharron waited until the others were eating before continuing herself.

“You do realize, that if you get caught in Gara-Sharron, our plans will all be for nothing,” stated Dak, picking up the same argument he’d begun in Tarmollo.

She glanced towards him thoughtfully.  “Fair enough.  If I am caught, I have failed.  But if I succeed here, we finally turn these plans into actions.  I know what a risk this is.  But it is all for naught if we do not act.  It had to happen sooner or later.”

“I would have preferred later,” Dak muttered. 

“We are all with you, my Lady,” Kurr murmured, chewing on a fingernail fretfully.

Most of the others around the table indicated their assent.

Lyrra-Sharron observed them.  Her soldiers.  Following her because they believed in her and what she stood for.  It was not an easy burden to carry sometimes. 

“I would not let you down.  Not a one of you.”  Lyrra-Sharron turned to the lady of the house.  “Now then, I believe, Lady Areiana, that you have a wig for me?  Let us fit it before the party begins.  We have a lot of plans to set in motion.  Time is short.  Let us get this right the first time.”

Chapter 6

The Sorcerer lay upon the bunk, staring out through the barred window into the courtyard.  It was a perfect sunny day, without a trace of cloud.  Even the air in the musty cell smelled somewhat fresher than before.  A pleasant day to die, he thought.

He had slept fitfully that night.  He could not concentrate enough to work on the webbing that held in his power.  He admitted to himself that it could not save him.  It was simply too little, too late.  Nothing could save him.
  

Just after dawn they had come, offering food.  Anything he wanted.  He did not speak.  They brought him eggs and chicken and bacon and fresh bread, the best food he’d seen in years.  For all his resistance, he found himself ravenously hungry.  He ate it entirely.  His final meal.

He would be dignified.  He would not speak, nor cry out.  He would never show an expression upon his face.  He would be hanged.  To his way of thinking, a far less unpleasant punishment than the King had promised.

He would be dead in a few hours
. 
Everything he believed would be a lie, if he died now.  When he had come to Sharron, he had been so confident, so arrogant, so completely certain nothing could get between him and his destiny. 

It was only the loss of his power that allowed for his capture.

The sorcerer let his mind wander, remembering how they had taken him.

It was a typical tavern, no town within twenty miles in either direction.  Inside was a large open space, broken only by the occasional unadorned wooden column, stained a dark brown.  Small tables were all about the dusty wood floor, just enough room between them for the serving wenches and patrons to pass through. 

The room was dim, with only a few narrow windows emitting sunlight, and half the candle chandeliers lit.  The smell of sweat and grease and roasting chickens and ale filled the room, mingling with the smoke of pipes and cigars.  The space was well worn, not unclean, but scuffed and littered with the signs of nearly unending use. 

A small group of musicians on a raised platform, with a lute, a mandolin, a recorder, and a drum called a bodhran, played a pleasant popular dance tune, though there was no room for dancing.  It was an altogether noisy place, filled with the sounds of music, laughter, and the dull roar of the various cartmen, travelers, and others taking a moment from their journeys for a pint of ale, or a quick meal. 

His mind returned to the present time for a moment.  He found it hard to believe he recalled all of these details now.  He had barely noted them at the time. 

He had become extremely disheveled, and very very drunk.  Three days prior, he had been a powerful sorcerer.  But he could not touch the power anymore.  He had sat alone at a table in a corner, drinking his umpteenth pint of cheap ale.  Almost three days had passed since his encounter with the soldiers.

He drained his current full tankard, and banged it down upon the table, demanding more.

It was still there, as it always had been, but he could not tap into it.  He would often try for hours, without success, finally giving in to his terror, loss and grief, crying uncontrollably for quite some time after.  As he thought on it once more, he could feel himself being overwhelmed again, and he took the ale the serving wench set before him and began to gulp it down, trying to keep control.

The girl went to the next table, where a pair of cartmen lounged, drinking.  As she served them, one spoke too loudly.  “What the ‘ell’s ‘is problem, eh?  Scrawny pansy weepin’ for ‘is lost love?  Too weak to fight the bloke ‘oo stole ‘er?”

His temper was quick when he had no control of his emotions.  He arose swiftly, stumbling to his feet, spilling his ale all over the table and the floor.  In an angry voice, he cried out.  “Bastard!  I could turn you inside out with the power I possessed!  I could destroy you without laying a hand on your stinking hide!  And I lost it!  I damned well lost it!  You worthless cretin, I had the greatest force in the universe, and I lost it!”

Without even thinking, he lashed out with his anger and frustration.  “Bastard!”

For the briefest instant it had returned, and the cartman was unexpectedly tossed across the room, slamming into the wall.  Following surprised shouts from the various tavern patrons, and the screams of several of the serving wenches, the room became eerily silent.  The music stopped, and he had felt all eyes turning his way to stare at him.

He slowly sank back into his chair, trembling, nauseous.  The briefest moment of sheer ecstasy, and again it was gone.  He could not move, he could not think, he only sobbed, folded in on himself, drunk, became unaware of the tavern around him.

In his drunken, delirious stupor, he had only half noted their presence.  A pair of soldiers summoned by a hastily dispatched serving wench.

“This is the one,” he recalled hearing.  It had been as if the voice came from a long ways off.  He had nothing to say, no fight left, no will, no strength.  “The King is looking for you.  Don’t try anything, he’ll take you dead or alive.”

Twice more the soldier had addressed him, but the Sorcerer could not recall what he’d said, had not heard him, only his tone.  There was only a slight moment of pain as the pommel of a sword had been slammed down upon the back of his neck.  He had slumped onto the tabletop, unconscious, but alive.  When he next awoke, he was a captive in chains. 

The noise of his cell door opening brought the Sorcerer back to the present once again with a start. 

Though he hid the surprise from showing on his face, King Varlock-Sharron stepped in.  The door remained ajar behind him.

“Well, lad, you look far better than last we spoke,” he said.  The Sorcerer sat up, never looking away from the King.  He was able to keep all emotion from showing, even from within his eyes.  But endless questions flooded his mind.

“You lie upon your deathbed, and still do not speak?  Do I seem such a monster to you?”

He made no move, only continued to look towards the King blankly.

Varlock-Sharron did not even flinch.  “Very well.  I had hoped you may finally be willing to speak to me.  I decided to let you simply be hanged.  At first, we were going to have you tortured publicly, then beheaded.  But I think this simple execution will get the point across.  Your kind do not belong in this Kingdom.”

The Sorcerer said nothing, keeping his expression unchanged.  It took a great deal of will to not demand answers from this man, or to plead for his life.

“Do you know why we are having you killed?  You broke our most ardent law, a law known throughout this part of the world.  I could not let you go free, even if I wanted to.  I have to make an example of you.  You are the first Sorcerer to openly walk these lands in over twenty years.  I cannot ignore that.”

The King turned away from the sorcerer, and started pacing.  “Yes, you were tortured.  Yes, my methods are rather harsh.  I do not deny that.  I am a strong King, and, I believe, a good King.  We have peace.  We have stability.  Other than a few bandits and outlaws, these lands are safe.  Safer than any of my predecessors made them,” he spun back to face the condemned man.  “Had you come to my lands, and kept your power to yourself, or even come before me, perhaps things would have gone differently.  I am making no apology for what I do.  I wanted you to know, from me, why you must die.”

The Sorcerer was taken aback.  This man was King.  He need not justify his actions.  Why did it matter?  He struggled inwardly, yet kept his face a complete blank.

The King seemed to be looking right into him, but turned abruptly away.  Before leaving, he turned back.  “Paper and quill are being brought to you, so you may leave messages for loved ones.  They will be sealed, and delivered.  I will see to that.  I am no tyrant, Sorcerer.  I hope your last meal was satisfactory.  Your time is short.  Use it well.”

Varlock-Sharron departed, and a moment later a guard brought forth the promised writing implements.  Setting them down on the end of the bunk, he took his leave and closed the door.

The Sorcerer finally allowed his emotion to come out, a look of consternation crossing his face.  It was strange that the King, so cruel in his torture, so cold in his letter of the law, saw fit to come to him.  He sensed something more, something nagging at the back of his brain, but could not put his finger on it.

There were no letters to leave.  He was alone.  No one would mourn him.  It was of no consequence.  Not even the destiny he believed to have led him here could save him now.

His time on this world had been short.  For all he had learned, for all he had seen, it was not enough.  He concentrated, trying to let the little power he could hold suffuse him with calm and strength, so he could die with dignity.

He did not want to die.

******

“M’lady, that piece is handcrafted, one-of-a-kind,” he said in a soft, melodic voice.  “Like the others on that rack, ‘tis three silver chaplets.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said with genuine appreciation.

Lyrra-Sharron was with Andim and Kallan, examining a cotton scarf.  They stood just behind her, acting as guards.  She wore a blonde wig now, the hair pulled back tightly, covered by a head-scarf.  Her face had been lightened with make-up by the merchant’s wife.  She wore an unadorned but fine riding dress, and a short coat.  She appeared as a minor noble, with a pair of guards, probably father and son.

The others were scattered about the marketplace, moving around the crowd, blending in. 

As per usual, there were carts and wagons bearing samples of the complete wares of the local merchants ringing the central market square.  There was nothing manufactured or grown that could not be purchased in Gara-Sharon.  The goods on display ranged from clothing to spices to the last of the fall fruits to paper and writing implements to weapons. 

Often this square was crowded, but never to the extent it was on a feast day, Solstice celebration, or public execution.  The crowds were just beginning to truly fill in the area, awaiting the coming spectacle.

In an hour, the Sorcerer would be paraded out.

It would be her job to grab the condemned man, if she could.  The gallows, which has been erected around dawn, along with a dais for the Crown and other ranking officials, was guarded for now.  Timing would be everything. 

Their borrowed horses were picketed nearby, among those of the other spectators.  They were ready.  Or so she hoped.

******

He was placed in a cage, tall enough for him to stand in.  He was not chained.  The cage sat atop a cart, drawn by a pair of large workhorses.  Guardsmen were all around him. 

It was a parade, with jugglers and larger-than-life puppets and drummers.  They were in the courtyard before the main gate of the palace, awaiting the order to march.

He could see the King himself at the rear, atop a large warhorse.  Varlock-Sharron was dressed in colorful plate armor and a cape with the seal of the House of Anduin, a pair of falcons in flight with a sword in their talons, over the crescent moon.  Beside him sat another similarly attired, younger man.  The only differences were the lack of cape and crown, and he held a long, ceremonial staff.  The Sorcerer guessed he was some sort of important advisor.

The pair were surrounded by men in maroon leather armor, with square steel plates mounted upon it.  Every one of them were riding atop fine war horses, and wore burgundy tabards with the device of the Kingdom of Sharron upon them, a proud falcon, talons extended, attacking the crescent moon.  Upon the back of the tabards was the crest of House Anduin.  These, he had learned, were the elite Royal Guardsmen. 

He could do nothing with the little power he held, except to suffuse himself with calm.  He was a man with no time. 

A signal was given, voiced by a loud sergeant-at-arms.  Banners were raised, bearing the device of the Kingdom.  The gates were opened.  The drummers began to beat out a rhythm for the march, and shortly the cart bearing the Sorcerer began to roll forward.

He knew his fate was sealed.  He resigned himself to face death with every bit of dignity he could muster.

******

King Varlock-Sharron sat atop his faithful steed, watching as the procession marched out of the gates before him.  It was a slow but steady pace, which would parade the Sorcerer to the center of the city over the course of an hour or so.  He looked to the condemned man, who sat cross-legged within the cage, no expression upon his face.

The King spurred his horse forward, his guard spreading out some around him, a solid ring of protection.  Lord Tulock was at his side, wearing a somewhat amused grin on his face.

“Word has it, my liege, that the crowds gathered in the marketplace far exceed any from celebrations of Solstice over the past five years.  This will be quite the show.”

The King glanced over at his Seneschal.  “I shall be glad to be done with it, Tulock.  We have a lot of things to take into consideration.  When this is over, we have to finalize plans to deal with the Falcon Raiders.”

“Aye, my Lord.  Do you wish me to convene the Council tonight?”

The King shook his head.  “No.  Let them all enjoy the celebration this day.  We will deal with this band of outlaws tomorrow.  Let us take care of the business at hand, for now.”

“Admit it.  You enjoy this like everyone else does.”