The D'Karon Apprentice (61 page)

“Fine, I don’t have time to argue. If you
feel strong enough, go and find Mott. There’s no sense trying to
track Turiel by the portals, she could have used any of them. But
with her beast, we’ll at least have more to go by.”

Myn nodded and galloped off toward the
castle. Ivy dashed after her, and when Myranda was confident the
town guard could handle last of the flood of nearmen, she followed.
She’d not made it halfway there when Myn came bounding back, fury
in her eyes. From the way she was whipping her head about, gazing
at the sky and sniffing at the air, Mott had not been where she’d
left him, and there was no trace.

“No,” Myranda said, her fingers tightening
around her staff and her eyes shutting tight. “I won’t lose her
after getting so close. This woman, as mad as she may be, is
frighteningly clever. Her goal is to get to the front. If the
massacre was able to provide her with this much power, then I
hesitate to imagine what the front will provide. Kenvard is by far
the closest D’Karon portal point to the front. She wouldn’t have
left this place.”

She gazed up at the sky, following the tower
of choking dust up to the clouds.

“She covered her tracks, mystically and
visually. Brilliant… Myn, can you fly?”

Myn responded by unfurling her wings and
looking to the sky. Myranda climbed onto her back.

“Ivy, I know you don’t want to hear this
but—”

“I’ll stay here and see if I can figure out
where Ether went,” Ivy said, predicting her assignment.

“Tell father to head south as soon as he’s
certain the city is secure. If Turiel reaches it, I suspect she
won’t be difficult to find…”

“I will, and when I’ve got Ether sorted out I
promise I’ll be by your side as soon as possible.”

Myranda nodded. “One way or another, Ivy.
This ends today.”

#

The journey south had not been a pleasant one
for Deacon. He and Myn had gotten off to a bad start, but when the
time came to fly with her, she’d at least always allowed him on her
back. As such was against a very ancient and sacred tradition among
the Dragon Riders, Deacon had been forced to endure the multiday
journey clutched in one of Garr’s forepaws.

“Dragon Rider Grustim!” he called out as best
as his constricted chest would allow.

His host offered no response. Deacon knew
from experience that was not an indication he’d not been heard,
simply that Grustim didn’t feel as though a response was worth his
time or effort.

“I think perhaps Garr’s grip is a bit too
tight.”

As a dragon mount, Garr’s training was
extensive, Deacon had no doubt. Likely the beast had been taught
precisely how to carry a human in this way without injuring him or
her. If that was the case, however, Deacon suspected Garr was
following the letter of the training rather than the spirit,
because the clutch of the dragon’s claws around him seemed to have
been very precisely calibrated to fall just short of crushing his
bones.

“Better that than the opposite,” Grustim
observed.

One positive outcome of the uncomfortable
journey was the peerless view of the ground it afforded Deacon.
Fear of heights was not a problem for him, so the view was not only
fascinating but crucial, as it had revealed to him something quite
curious.

Dark forms had been moving across the Wastes,
small clusters of troops on direct courses from at least three
small cities and settlements. All were heading in the same
direction as they were. Even as Garr shifted his angle of flight
and began to drop down to the surface, another group of soldiers
came into view.

“Grustim, are the Wastes commonly used for
training and readiness drills?” Deacon called.

“Not this far south, not this many, not at
this time of year, and not during a time of military
uncertainty.”

“Then why are so many troops headed
south?”

“I do not know, but I strongly suspect it is
not a coincidence, pleasant or otherwise. And certainly not in our
favor.”

“I suspect you are correct.”

A few minutes later they set down, and Deacon
was rather forcefully dropped to the ground. He stood and dusted
himself off, resolving to take some time when the current crisis
had ended to determine why dragons seemed to more often than not
take an instant dislike to him.

The Southern Wastes were a dry, arid, and
cold place. Not as frigid as the Alliance, but cool enough that
Deacon found himself longing for the traditional Northern garb. The
air had a very slight salty sting to it, hinting at the sea that
lay unseen beyond a line of low mountains to the south.

Deacon held up the page of his pad covered
with the thin, precise lines of Ivy’s sketch and compared it to the
landscape to the south. It was clear why Grustim had been concerned
about the amount of time it would take. Never before had Deacon
seen a mountainside so littered with caverns and crevices.
Considering their destination only needed to be deep enough to
shelter a single woman, even narrowed as they search was they would
have to visit hundreds of them.

“Are you certain you can trust the sketch to
be accurate enough to identify the place?”

“Ivy has a great many gifts. Though music may
be her calling, her skill with the pen and with the brush is no
less remarkable. If this is how she rendered it, then it is at
least as accurate as Turiel remembered it.”

Grustim paced along, his armor jingling. “And
how is this ally of yours privy to the memories of a foe?”

“As I understand it, there was some manner of
exchange that occurred between them,” Deacon explained without
looking away from his task. There was no indication in his tone
that he felt anything he’d said thus far was out of the
ordinary.

“I’d known the Alliance methods of war were
different from the Tresson methods. I’d not realized how great the
difference was.”

“I can assure you, Turiel’s methods are not
typical of the Northern Alliance.” He tapped the pad. “This, the
feature she indicated and detailed… there are only a handful of
stretches of the coast visible that are high enough to host it. It
is simply a matter of finding the proper angle. This upright here
will become visible if we head to the east, I feel,” Deacon said.
“Not more than a few hours and we’ll have it.”

“And you cannot speed matters with your
magic?”

“I’ve been seeking it since we took to the
air. All I can say with any certainty is that it is quite
near.”

Garr stopped and raised his snout, shutting
his eyes and drawing in a long, slow breath. Without any other
indication of danger, Grustim reflexively tightened his grip on his
lance and began to scan the horizon.

“What is it?” Deacon said, turning to his
escorts.

Rider and dragon turned simultaneously to the
north. Garr craned his neck, and Grustim climbed first to his back,
then to his head, balancing effortlessly atop it and taking stock
of the horizon.

“The troops. In the distance I can see at
least three squads heading toward us.”

“Is it possible they saw a Dragon Rider and
felt there may be a crisis that could benefit from their aid?”

“Why they are coming this way is of little
concern. When they reach us, they will find you with me and there
may be questions, at best. Depending on who dispatched them and
why, there may be
no
questions. Do your work quickly. If
they find us and seek to stop us, we will be left with very few
options.”

“Understood… I believe we need to go that
way, east. A fair distance.”

Grustim dropped to the base of Garr’s neck,
and the dragon snatched Deacon up. A few strides and a snap of his
wings took them into a glide that practically skimmed the ground.
Deacon kept his eyes trained south, watching the shape of the
landscape shift. Miles whisked by and his wind-burned eyes focused
on a single point. It was a steep spire, similar to the one Ivy had
drawn, and with each moment it seemed to match the image more
closely. Then, as they neared a section of cliffs that was taller
and more intricate than the rest, he saw his first glimpse of the
tree she had drawn.

“We are close! A bit farther southeast!” he
called. “Farther… Farther…” His eyes flicked up to the land and
down to the page.

Grustim grunted an order to Garr at the
precise moment that Deacon’s hand shot out to a feature on the
land.

“Footprints!” Deacon called.

Garr’s flight shifted seamlessly into a trot.
He canted to a three-legged run with the remaining claw clenched
about Deacon. When he had slowed enough, he dug his claws into the
frigid earth and ground to a stop. He dropped Deacon, who stumbled
briefly but managed to stay on his feet rushing toward the
mountains.

There was no doubt anymore. The footprints
were few and far between, swept clean by the constant wind in all
but a few sheltered dips and gullies. Finally there was the cave.
It was an unassuming one. Not the sort of shelter one would
willingly choose. The mouth was tall and narrow, and a quirk of the
mountain face seemed to funnel gusts of wind inside despite the
constant breeze coming from behind the mountain.

Deacon stepped inside, Grustim close
behind.

“Someone lived here?” the Dragon Rider said,
eying the surroundings.

There was evidence of habitation. A few empty
bottles and casks, and a stunning variety of animal remains, but
nothing as basic as a washbasin or even a bed could be seen.

“I wouldn’t call what she was doing here
‘living,’” Deacon said. “She must have spent most of the time in
deep meditation. It is deeper than sleep. Quite near death. I
cannot fathom the focus she must have developed. The power she must
hold. Do you realize the strength of mind, the singularity of
attention and desire it would require?”

“If there is work to be done, do it. I would
prefer to be gone before the soldiers arrive. And there is no doubt
they
will
arrive.”

“Yes… yes of course.”

Deacon pulled his gem free and buried himself
in the task. In his mind, the physical world dropped away, the veil
pulling aside to the plane of spirits and magic. Most anywhere in
the world had a vitality and life to it. The most innocuous stone
was in some way pulsing with the power of the eons of its
existence. But this place was cold, lifeless. It was as though his
mind, Grustim’s, and Garr’s were the only points of light in an
otherwise empty and darkened pit.

“It is… it is truly remarkable… the power
that has been gathered here… but to the mind, in the astral plane…
it is entirely absent. So well hidden… The
skill
it must
take to achieve such a deception, such a grand illusion.
Using
magic to
hide
magic,” he uttered, in genuine
awe.

“These D’Karon took your nation to war. Held
you by the throat and sent your people to die for their ends,
correct?”

“Not my birth nation, but my adopted one,
yes.”

“And yet you admire their works?”

“Ah… I apologize. It has been repeatedly
observed such a behavior is… nonstandard. … Wait… yes… yes I feel
the threads… the seams of it…
Here
…”

He held out his hand and touched a point in
the air just a few inches from the ground. The gem in his fist,
already glowing with a warm light, suddenly began to pulse
brighter, its color shifting from white-blue to amber-gold, and
from amber-gold to deep violet.

He could feel it, a point in space at once
gorged and ravenous. Wrapped about it was a simple, elegant spell.
That it could hide something so powerful was like concealing a
battle-ax beneath a silk kerchief. And then, with a flex of his
mind, he pulled the sheet away.

The reveal of the unfinished spell was not a
grand and showy thing. There was no burst of light or crackle of
energy. It was simply as though it had never been there, and then a
moment later it had always been there. Twisting in the air was a
knot of shimmering light. Compound curves, like reflections of
reflections, continued inward into a depth and complexity that
seemed to be without end. The longer he stared at it, the deeper it
seemed to become, as if the fist-sized churning mass of energy was
miles deep.

More chilling than the impossible complexity
of it was the sensation. There was a will to the thing. It was
mindful of its purpose, like a chained dog watching an intruder,
patiently waiting until the trespasser came near enough to be
bitten. In the back of his mind, he could feel the D’Karon on the
other side. Watching and waiting, banging on the door and demanding
to be let through.

“You’ve revealed it. Now destroy it,” Grustim
said, shattering the awed silence.

“Grustim… it is not an overstatement to say
that I am among the dozen most knowledgeable wizards alive today. I
have seen acts of power that could lay waste to whole kingdoms at a
single stroke. And I say this not out of ego but so that you will
understand that it comes from a place of considerable experience
when I say that this cave contains the sort of concentrated mystic
energy that I’ve witnessed only a handful of times. I cannot
destroy it. It cannot be destroyed. It can only be changed.
Turiel’s work was very nearly done. If she is allowed to return
here after having harvested any appreciable power, the keyhole will
be opened. Undoing it must be done delicately. If I make a false
move… neither of us will ever know.”

“That may be difficult,” Grustim said,
turning to the fields to the north. “The soldiers will be here
soon, and I am quite certain they will not be pleased to find you
working potentially disastrous spells.”

#

“I’ll stay and find Ether,” Ivy muttered to
herself, both frustration and genuine concern flavoring her
voice.

She climbed over the thrice broken remains of
the castle, pawing through the mounds of stone with one hand while
holding a torch in the other. Her steps were unsteady, due in large
part to the heavy bundle of firewood strapped to her back. She held
the torch high and scoured every dancing shadow, looking for some
hint of a clue as to where her ally might have gone.