Read The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within Online
Authors: J. L. Doty
The SteelMaster of Indwallin, Book 2 of The Gods Within
The SteelMaster of Indwallin
Book 2 of
The Gods Within
by
J. L. Doty
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE STEELMASTER OF INDWALLIN, BOOK 2 OF THE GODS WITHIN
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Copyright © 2012 J. L. Doty
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ISBN: 978-1-938701-87-0 (eBook)
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Version 2012.12.14
Contents
The SteelMaster of Indwallin
Book 2 of
The Gods Within
Can one ever rule both the steel within, and the shadows without?
Beware the power of the self-forged blade,
for the heart of the steel is ice,
the soul of the steel is fire,
and the child of the steel is blood.
Only the master knows the steel as the steel was meant to be known.
Only the master shapes the steel as the steel was meant to be shaped.
Only the master rules the steel as the steel was meant to be ruled.
But the heart of the master is the steel, for the steel was ever meant to rule.
The strength of the steel is the master,
the power of the steel is the master,
the glory of the steel is the master,
but always the life of the master is the steel.
Beware the power of the self-forged blade.
Morgin looked at his reflection in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction. It had taken some doing, and of course careful planning, but he’d managed to alter the outfit Olivia had chosen for him into something more to his liking. He’d cut away the white lace at the cuffs, replaced the bright red vest with a soft brown leather one, then discarded the skin-tight red pants in favor of a pair of well-cut and well-made, loose-fitting, tan breeches. He’d kept the knee high black boots—they were comfortable and extremely well-made—and as a concession to Olivia he’d decided not to discard the bright red coat she’d chosen. He completely ignored the pretty little blade she wanted him to wear, and instead buckled on his own sword. As another concession, he’d polished and cleaned both it and its sheath; though try as he might the old steel refused to shine.
He looked again in the mirror, and decided that while he was not up on the latest fashions, he was at least dressed well, and in good taste. Avis would be a little upset at his modifications, and Olivia would be downright furious, but she wouldn’t know about it until they stood face-to-face in public, and then it would be too late for her to demand a change.
At a discrete knock on the door Morgin called out, “Enter.”
The door swung open and Avis stepped into the room. He stopped beside Morgin, and looking at them both in the mirror Morgin noticed he stood more than a head taller than the servant. He’d grown a great deal in the last few years, and was now taller than most of the other young men. And while he didn’t carry the bulk of a Malka, he was stronger than most, with a lean and wiry frame not unlike that of Tulellcoe.
Avis looked at the changes Morgin had made to his clothing and raised an eyebrow, but he said only, “I am to inform you the banquet will begin shortly, and the Lady Olivia would like you there early so you may greet the other clan lords as they arrive.”
Morgin nodded. He understood the title of warmaster carried with it certain responsibilities, and he had learned to accept them, if only Olivia would accept him. “Would you tell the Lady Rhianne I’ll stop by her apartments shortly to escort her downstairs?”
Avis’ eyebrows shot up happily. “Yes, my lord. Will that be all?”
“Yes,” Morgin said, “And thank you.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Avis bowed and left the room.
Morgin hesitated for a few minutes to give Avis a good head start, then followed. He wasn’t sure how he’d handle the situation with Rhianne. She still spurned him, was still angry he’d believed she had betrayed him, and the foul names he’d called her certainly hadn’t helped matters. They were both trying to start over, but the best they could do was a strictly civil and polite peace, and always there remained a wall of formality between them they couldn’t breach.
He tapped lightly on the door to her apartments. A wide-eyed young girl answered and quickly admitted him to a waiting room, then she nervously offered him some wine. He declined politely and added, “Tell my wife I’m here.”
“Yes, my lord,” the girl said breathlessly, curtsied, then disappeared into another room.
Morgin had thrown Rhianne’s staff into an uproar. He heard muffled voices in her boudoir, then suddenly Rhianne entered the room alone, though Morgin was left with the faint impression her servants had hovered nervously over her up to the last instant before she came into his sight, making last moment adjustments in her gown and makeup, and then had peeled away from her to avoid creating just that impression. She paused, composed herself, and when she spoke her tone was cold and indifferent. “My lord, it is gracious of you to come.”
Morgin almost melted. As he looked at her a small lock of hair broke loose from the elaborate tangle atop her head and floated down over one eye. He’d seen the same lock of hair floating over her eye a hundred times, and he wondered sometimes if it wasn’t a subconscious manifestation of her magic. He smiled. “I thought it would be . . . proper.”
He winced. That had been a poor choice of words, though it didn’t seem to bother her.
She nodded. “Yes. A husband and wife should be seen together, especially at times such as this.”
Morgin winced again. He turned toward the door, opened it, and held it there. She took his arm and they walked out into the hall, then down the long procession of stone steps. They walked in silence, and Morgin sensed that, like he, she wanted to say something, but could think of nothing that wouldn’t sound forced, or trite, so instead he took those few moments to prepare for Olivia.
The old woman had spent a busy winter trading messengers with all of the Lesser Clans, carefully negotiating the conditions of the yearly meeting of the Council. Using Morgin’s newfound notoriety and his victory at Csairne Glen, she’d arranged to have the Council meet at Elhiyne this year. And so, with the arrival of spring some weeks earlier, the walls of Elhiyne had quickly filled with the high born of the four Lesser Clans.
On the surface nothing had happened during the first two weeks, mostly a lot of entertainment, and of course they all went hunting quite frequently, most often in small groups, though sometimes in large expeditions. But it was on these hunting trips, or in small rooms in the back of the village inn, or perhaps on a pleasant stroll through the forest, that clan leaders conducted most of the serious business, though hunting did seem to be the preferred method of getting someone alone for a quiet chat.
But three days ago that stage of the negotiations had ended when the more formal and public meetings in the Hall of Wills had begun, though Morgin came away from the preliminary negotiations with the impression that Olivia was not pleased with the results. She wanted the other clans to back Elhiyne in a bid to crush the Greater Council, but Penda and Tosk and Inetka were all skeptical of her chances at victory. Tomorrow they would meet for the last time in the Hall, and there seemed little doubt Olivia had failed to achieve her desires, though everyone could see she blamed Morgin for that failure.
The old woman had had the Hall arrayed in splendor for this night’s banquet. The servants had spent days cleaning everything they could find to clean, and at Olivia’s orders had positioned a grouping of long tables in the shape of a horseshoe at the center of the Hall. When Morgin and Rhianne entered the Hall, Olivia, in the midst of giving some poor servant a tongue-lashing, interrupted her tirade to bark at Morgin, “In another moment you would have been late.”
Morgin looked at her coldly. “But I’m not late, am I?”
“Well that’s about the only thing you’ve done right.”
Morgin tried to ignore the rebuke. “Where do you want me to sit tonight?”
“Why, at the head of the table, of course, oh ShadowLord.”
Rhianne looked at him kindly, and for the first time in a long time showed him some sympathy. “I’m sorry, Morgin.”
He shrugged. “We’re all sorry I can’t be what she wants, aren’t we?”
Rhianne’s face saddened. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Morgin shook his head. “I know.”
In short order the other lords and ladies of the Lesser Clans arrived and were seated. As Olivia had instructed, Morgin sat at the head of the table. On his right sat Olivia, then BlakeDown and Tulellcoe and a long line of noble men and women. At the far end of the table sat Valso and Illalla, each with a heavily armed guard standing immediately behind him. On Morgin’s left sat Rhianne, and next to her BlakeDown’s son ErrinCastle—the heir to Penda was about Morgin’s age, and he constantly paid far too much attention to Rhianne. JohnEngine had seen to it that he and France were seated far down the table where they could get drunk and enjoy themselves.
The servants moved quickly to fill everyone’s goblet or tankard with wine or ale, though as yet they’d served no food. When the servants stopped moving about Olivia stood slowly and all eyes fell on her. She waited for some moments until the room was absolutely still. “My Lords and Ladies of Penda, and Tosk, and Inetka. We of House Elhiyne welcome you. We give you thanks for the wisdom you have lent to this council of equals, and we are humbled by the sage council of the Lords BlakeDown et Penda, PaulStaff et Tosk, and Wylow et Inetka . . .”
Olivia’s words dropped to the back of Morgin’s thoughts as he noticed ErrinCastle whispering something in Rhianne’s ear. The Penda looked Morgin’s way and their eyes met. ErrinCastle grinned and leered, though Rhianne, with her head turned to listen to the whisper, did not see his face. The Penda was a handsome young man, and could have had a dozen of the most desirable young women at the drop of a hat, but he focused his attentions on Rhianne. And more than that, his advances were so blatant he seemed to be trying to goad Morgin into jealous anger, as if challenging Morgin to confront him. It was absolutely idiotic, for nothing good could come of such a public display. So for the good of Elhiyne, Morgin was determined to swallow his pride and avoid making an issue of it. At least Rhianne had been careful not to encourage the young Penda lord, though if ErrinCastle continued to be so obvious, eventually Morgin would have to do something. If only Rhianne would do more to actively discourage him.
Morgin became conscious of Olivia’s eyes upon him.
“. . . And so, my lords,” Olivia finished. “Tomorrow will be the last day of the Council. We have come to many agreements, and we have come to many disagreements, but we have not lost our unity, and I believe we all agree the unity of the Lesser Council is the only thing that keeps the jackals off our backs. So let those jackals be warned.” She looked down the table at Valso and Illalla. “If our enemies seek contest with us, they will again face the shadows of Elhiyne.”
Someone in the back of the Hall—Morgin suspected one of Olivia’s lackeys—shouted, “ShadowLord!” Several Elhiyne clansmen took up the cry, and a few Inetkas as well, but Morgin didn’t encourage it, and none of the Pendas or Tosks joined in, so it died quickly.
“Enjoy the hospitality of Elhiyne,” Olivia cried, and sat down.
The servants moved quickly, filling the tables with food while the Hall filled with the buzz of laughter and idle conversation. Morgin wanted to talk to Rhianne, but while ErrinCastle monopolized her interest, Olivia was determined to monopolize Morgin’s.
“Lord BlakeDown was speaking to you,” Olivia chided him, forcing his attention away from Rhianne.
“I’m sorry,” Morgin said politely. Olivia’s eyes narrowed angrily; she’d told him time and again he must never apologize in public. The ShadowLord, the Warmaster of Elhiyne, should never appear to debase himself before another. Morgin tried to sound less apologetic as he asked, “What were you saying?”
BlakeDown smiled insincerely. “I was wondering what ransom you will demand for the Decouixs.”
Morgin looked at Valso and wondered how the Decouix prince could maintain such an air of unconcern in captivity. “I don’t know,” Morgin said flatly. “I think if I really took what I wanted, it would be their heads. But I’m afraid I’ll have to be content with something less.”
ErrinCastle demanded, “And why is that? Why don’t you just kill them?”
Morgin shrugged. “They’re more valuable alive.”
“Is it because of the story I heard about you?” ErrinCastle demanded loudly, glancing about the table at several of his friends with a sly grin. “Is it because of these gods I’m told you speak with? I’ve heard they told you not to kill the Decouixs. But then perhaps I heard the story wrong. Please. Tell me about it.” One of ErrinCastle’s friends smirked into his handkerchief.
Morgin reached for a piece of roast pheasant and said flatly, “Maybe I’m just tired of killing in general.”
Rhianne tried to rescue him. “Well now, in my opinion, that’s a very good thing to be tired of.”
“I believe it’s your power,” Olivia said, knowing full well his power was dead. “I believe it’s giving you wise council, though it’s quite common for one to be unaware of such a subtle manifestation.”
“You know it’s the oddest thing!” ErrinCastle observed to no one in particular. “I’ve heard so much about your power, Lord AethonLaw, and yet I’ve never seen the slightest hint of it.”
Morgin wanted to show him the power of his fist, but had to be satisfied with a simple comment. “I see no reason to flaunt my abilities.”
Most of the evening went that way, with ErrinCastle baiting him, BlakeDown looking on like an observer at a cock fight, Rhianne trying to rescue him, and Olivia always trying to gain some advantage from even the slightest tension. Morgin was relieved when he finally got away. He wanted to find JohnEngine and France and have a little fun, but they’d disappeared somewhere so he drifted toward the stables where Mortiss, at least, would not talk back to him.
He didn’t scratch her between the ears as he’d done with poor old SarahGirl. Mortiss had no need of such comforting. “What a rotten evening this has been!” he said to her.
She snorted, as if saying she didn’t really feel like listening to his troubles.
“I know,” he said, “I know. But I have to talk to someone.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“I wish you could tell me what happened to my power,” he said. “And I wish I knew what to do with Rhianne. Ellowyn was right. I do still love her, even if I don’t want to admit it.”
“And why don’t you want to admit it?”
For an instant Morgin thought Mortiss had actually spoken, but then Rhianne stepped out of the shadows. “Why don’t you want to admit it? Tell me. I do want to know. And who is this Ellowyn you speak of? And what did you mean when you said you wished the horse could tell you what happened to your power. What did happen to your power?”
Morgin shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s just gone. It died some place; I think at Csairne Glen.”
Rhianne stepped closer and frowned. “What do you mean died?”
He wondered for a moment if he should be telling her this, but if he ever hoped to trust her at all, he must trust her now. “Just that! My power is dead. It’s as if I’ve lost an arm, or a leg. No! It’s as if I’ve lost my sight along with both arms and legs. I’m almost helpless.”
She reached up and touched his cheek gently. “I’m so sorry.”