Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (7 page)

As always, the sensation was indescribable.  There was nothing like the feelings he experienced when he committed an act of sorcery.  But he knew instantly that the webbing remained, and this display of power was a freak occurrence.

For a second time, he’d been able to use his gift as though it was not damaged.  At least this time, he didn’t kill anyone.

*****

Dak was relighting the lamp, as Lyrra-Sharron sat upon a chair next to the pallet.  Her memory had not failed her, but she knew she’d just taken quite the risk. 

Cam was hunched over, head on his chest, arms over his head, quaking from the exertion.

“I am sorry, Cam Murtallan.  You are correct, you are not of no use.  But I had to push you.”  Lyrra-Sharron spoke soothingly, now.  “I have read a lot of books about Sorcery.  I read once about a man who lost his powers, but could still do things when he was made angry.  I pushed to see if you could do the same.”

“Why?” Cam whispered.

She sighed, taking yet another approach to this complex man.  “We need you.  Maybe we can help you get back your powers.  And perchance you can help us.  I know your kind, Cam Murtallan.  Wanderers.  Vagabonds.  Men without homes or families or possessions.  Men driven by powers and passions only they can understand.  I have read a lot about your sort.  You are not the first Sorcerer to come to this land since the edict banning your practice.  You will not be the last.  But perhaps, with your help, we can create a place where your kind can find those things you live without.”

“You’re an idealist, Lyrra-Sharron Anduin,” Cam said quietly.

“That may be.  But what else do you have?  Is there some other choice you can make?  Where else can you go?”

Cam was silent for several minutes.  Dak simply sat at the table in the center of the room.  No one spoke.

“You have a point,” Cam finally said.  “I suppose I have no better option.”  He raised his head, met Lyrra-Sharron’s gaze.  “I’ll come with you.  I’ll sign on with you, for the time being.  But I will not take any kind of oath, nor will I be forced into any operation or raid I do not wish to participate in.  I will choose how I will assist you,” his voice was growing with increased conviction.  “I may have found a way to reclaim my powers, but I need time.  And you should know up front, there will be a price.”

“You would set a price, Cam Murtallan?” Dak asked.

Cam sat up, looking in his direction.  “Yes, Lord Dak.  If you want my help, yes.  You need me more than I need you, whether you choose to believe it or not.  And my price is not unreasonable.”

“What is that price?” asked Lyrra-Sharron with all the patience she could muster.

Cam looked into her eyes again.  “It’s simple.  When you overthrow the King, and take the throne for yourself, I want you to allow the practice of Sorcery in Sharron.”

Lyrra-Sharron did not answer for quite some time.

*****

King Varlock-Sharron Anduin stood at a window, looking out as darkness settled over the city of Gara-Sharron. 

This tower held several conference rooms, and was high enough to look over the palace walls.  He had been here a while, and watched as lamps ignited one by one all across the streets below.  The King knew there would be nothing for him to see, but he knew she had to be out there...somewhere.

              The members of the Council, more formally known as the Sharron Council of Military, Civil and Foreign Administration, were just taking their seats.  They spoke quietly among themselves, leaving Varlock-Sharron alone with his thoughts.  Some were friends, some rivals, though all were the most powerful in their respective positions.

Time to return to duty.  The King did not wish to delay this further, moved away from the window and took his seat.  Directly to his right, Lord Tulock cleared his throat loudly.  Silence fell upon the room.

“My Lords and Ladies, you all know why his Majesty has gathered us here ahead of schedule, so let us get down to business.”  He inclined his head towards the King.

Varlock-Sharron looked about the table.  “I do not want excuses, nor explanations of the failings that led to this.  To begin, I want reports of our status.  What do we know of today’s disaster?”

Two seats to the right of Lord Tulock, Captain-General Ov Callan, high commander of the Royal Guardsmen, spoke first.  “My liege, we captured about a half dozen possible conspirators.  Of that half dozen, only three could be confirmed as a part of today’s attack.  The other three are still being...questioned.”

King Varlock-Sharron looked to the Captain of his Guard.  Ov Callan was not a tall man, only standing about five feet four inches or so.  But he was extremely muscular, with hard grey eyes, short, close-cut blonde hair, and trimmed beard.  He wore his formal uniform, without armor, a maroon coat with the device of the Kingdom of Sharron on the front, and crest of the House of Anduin on the back.  A sash over his left shoulder of gold trimmed in blue with six silver slashes near his chest indicated his rank.

“And these three conspirators?” asked the King.

Ov Callan’s expression never changed.  “A couple of laborers and a merchant named Vangam.  The merchant, it would seem, is of some rank.  All have been turned over to the Inquisitors for further questioning, your Majesty.”

The King bobbed his head in response to that.

Next to Ov Callan, Constable Val drey-Sharron shifted in his seat.  A big man, with a heavy gut, large eyes and bushy eyebrows.  Val drey-Sharron was deceptively strong and agile under the overweight, flabby exterior.  He was normally boisterous and loud, but not today.  Most of the blame for the scene in the square had fallen to his shoulders.  “The gates are sealed, your Majesty, and no one enters or leaves.  Anyone caught out on the streets is immediately arrested, and I have double my normal constables on duty right now.  We are fairly certain that your daughter and the Sorcerer never left the city.  We can begin a house to house search as soon as you give the word, my liege.”

The King looked at Constable drey-Sharron.  “Are you certain she did not escape the city?”

Val drey-Sharron shifted again.  “As far as my people can tell, yes.  But the gates are General Bodrir’s responsibility.”

The King turned to look at the man seated between Lord Tulock and Captain-General Callan.  General Sir Malov Eisnarn Bodrir was a living legend.  He was a rough and ready man, over sixty, but still perhaps the best two-handed swordsman in the world.  Tall, rugged, with handsome, chiseled features un-marred by age, and long, salt-and-pepper hair worn loose, he had an unreadable look on his face.  Only Lord Tulock and the King himself outranked this man militarily.  He was commander of the Sharron Army, a seasoned veteran and skilled tactician.  He had become second in command of the Army just before the death of Varlock-Sharron’s father.  He had helped to train Varlock-Sharron in strategy. The King and Lord Tulock were among a very small number considered this man’s equal.

He spoke calmly, quietly, but all knew he had a voice that could shake down the palace if need be.  “My soldiers report that no one matching the description of Princess Lyrra-Sharron, with or without the disguise she was wearing, or the Sorcerer, were seen near the gates.  Her horse was found, abandoned, not far from the palace.  In the unlikely event that she may have found her way out of the city, I have two regiments of soldiers patrolling the area within a ten mile radius of the walls.  They have been ordered to search houses, fields, barns, villages, and everything else most thoroughly within that area.  I can order in more within a few hours if need be.”

“All right,” The King responded.  “Did any of her conspirators escape?”

“It is possible one or two may have left before we could seal the gates, though unlikely.  No resistance was encountered by any of my people,” stated Sir Malov.

“Nor mine,” added in Constable drey-Sharron.  “My people haven’t met resistance, either.”

The King considered this.  “How long will it take word of this incident to reach any of the surrounding kingdoms?”

Lord Tulock appeared to give that a moment’s thought.  “That depends on whether the people leaving the city before it was sealed knew of the incident.  Sir Garvol?”

The King turned to look at the man who sat just one seat to the left of him.  Sir Garvol Dorran was Warlord, his chief spy.  Sharron Intelligence, to the casual observer, was a disorganized entity that barely existed or functioned.  As it was supposed to appear.  In truth, it was very well organized, and run quite efficiently.  Sir Garvol Dorran was the same age as his king, with bland features, green eyes, light brown hair, and very plain attire.  Never a soldier, it was rumored that he’d either been a Guardsman, or perhaps a Sheriff or constable from an outer village or district.  No one but he and the King knew his past, nor when he’d been knighted, nor even just how many spies he paid. 

Merchants.  Soldiers.  Constables.  Peasants.  Laborers.  Guardsmen.  Thieves.  He had spies in every walk of life.  Never before had a King of Sharron had so strong a spy network.  Never before had its head been a man of so little notice, that few believed he was who he claimed to be.  But he was the best.

“Well, at high speed, word could leak out of the Kingdom at the earliest in two days.  That is when news of the sealing of Gara-Sharron will likely reach the ears of the other monarchs,” even his voice was very non-descript.  “Less then forty-eight hours, now.”

The King considered this.  “So I can only keep the city sealed tomorrow.  Then it must be reopened, or our security may be breached.  Is that right?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” replied Sir Garvol.

“Why should it matter if this news leaves Sharron?” asked Constable drey-Sharron.

“It could make Sharron look weak,” replied Lady Ara Wiram.

The King glanced at the woman directly to his left.   Once, quite a long time ago now, this place would have been occupied by the Queen.  But Kyrra-Sharron Oroyaq Anduin had passed on many years ago.  Varlock-Sharron’s queen had acted as an advisor, councilor, and to the surprise of many, Minister of the Exchequer.

With the death of Queen Kyrra-Sharron, the King was hard pressed to find a replacement.  But Lady Ara Wiram, the Queen’s best friend, lady in waiting, and chosen head-of-house, was the perfect choice.  She was clever, wise, and in her mid forties like the King, quite attractive.  Dark hair to the shoulder, soft cheek bones, deep brown eyes, and medium build, she had taken over the duties of the office long ago now.  In many ways, she took the place of Varlock-Sharron’s dead wife.  Though Lady Ara had never taken to the King’s bed, as did so many other women of the palace.

Probably the reason the council trusted her.

“Ara is correct,” said Varlock-Sharron.  “We cannot appear frail in the eyes of the other nations.  The stability of Sharron is a thorn in their side as it is.  Many of them will take any sign of weakness as an opportunity to strike.  We will not give them that chance.”

Heads were nodded in agreement all around the table.

“The city can remain sealed through tomorrow.  Fine.  Constable drey-Sharron, I want your men to take to the streets and announce that the curfew is effective throughout the day tomorrow.  No one is to walk the roads unescorted.  Anyone caught outside is to be placed under arrest, but not treated harshly, just held and questioned.  Let them know we lift the curfew after tomorrow night.”

Constable Val drey-Sharron acknowledged.

“Tomorrow morning, we begin to search house by house.  The Constabulary will search the Northern districts and the western districts.  General Bodrir, your soldiers are to search the southern and eastern districts.  Lord Tulock will show you both how we will divide this up.  Ov, I want all my Guardsmen, save my personal company, to patrol the streets.  Double guards at the gates.  Any questions?”

There were none, or at least none that would be voiced in the open.

The three others in the room had been completely silent.  General Sir Portav Sopirr, Sir Malov’s deputy, and Chief of Operations, Admiral Kol Trem-Sharron, commander of the Sharron Navy, and Lord Mika Forkuln, Minister of Foreign Affairs and chief diplomat of Sharron.  It was known that Lord Mika and Lord Tulock did not see eye to eye, and that Admiral Trem-Sharron was not fond of General Bodrir, Constable drey-Sharron, or Captain-General Callan.  General Sopirr rarely spoke, except when he had something poignant to add. 

King Varlock-Sharron was often annoyed by the petty bickering.  There had, fortunately, been little of that lately.

Lord Tulock asked if there was any further business.  But the King’s attention was drawn elsewhere.  An old sensation came to him, like a repressed memory, and he tried to recall what it meant.  He found himself distracted, his eyes unfocused as he stared off into space.

“Your Majesty?  Your Majesty?” Lord Tulock prodded.  He coughed, reclaiming the King’s attention.

“What was that?”  Varlock-Sharron had been gazing blankly out a window, and turned to look at the Seneschal.  “Oh, Tulock, I was...just thinking a moment.  We must begin our search tomorrow in the Gara-Northwest district.  That is a good place to begin.  Pass that along,” the King tried to recall the sensation a moment longer, then returned to himself.  “Very well, then.  Anything else?”

General Sopirr cleared his throat.  “My liege, the Medaelian Army continues to position itself about ten miles from the border, near to the village of Vanntu.  The outpost at Vanntir has expressed concern.  We believe they are reinforcing the town of Penlorka, modifying the walls and outer perimeter.  This is where they began their last invasion, you may recall, your Majesty.”