Legends of Ahn (King's Dark Tidings Book 3) Read online

  The blonde mage took the papers and scurried over to the second mage, a young woman who wore her auburn locks braided in the shape of a butterfly on top of her head. The two communicated in harsh whispers as they surveyed the messages and shook their heads while pointing animatedly at the relay.

  Rezkin leaned across the counter and kept his voice low as he asked, “Is there a problem?”

  The two glanced at each other and then looked back at Rezkin with embarrassment. The man returned and nervously said, “Well, sir, Mage Calderson was suddenly called away on official business, and his replacement has not arrived.” With a nod toward the other mage, he said, “We are both apprentices, and neither of us has sent anything to these relays before.”

  “I see. Perhaps if you tell me the problem, I might be able to assist you,” Rezkin suggested.

  “Are you a mage?” the young man asked hopefully.

  Rezkin smiled and said, “No, but I have seen it done before, so I might possess whatever bit of information you are missing.”

  Rezkin had never actually operated a relay, but his masters had insisted he memorize the rune arrangements for each of the relays in Ashai. He learned the pattern of motions required to activate the pathways that would have allowed him to send messages had he been a mage. He had not questioned his masters and had learned everything they asked of him, even though it made little sense to him at the time. He had not understood why he should learn the actions for something he was incapable of performing, but now it made sense. He could show these mages how to do their job.

  The blonde mage looked at him doubtfully. “It is a little more complicated than that.”

  “Of course,” Rezkin said. “Then we will have to wait until the next mage arrives.” He motioned to the female mage who was busy sending a message for one of the other patrons and said, “Since she is busy with the relay, would you mind explaining to me how it works? I have always been curious.”

  The young mage brightened and appeared eager to share his knowledge, explaining as he pointed to the different components of the relay. He even invited Rezkin to walk around the device after securing a promise that he would not touch anything. Like the other relays he had seen, it had a wide, cylindrical base approximately two meters in diameter. At waist height, it became conical, rising nearly to the woman’s shoulders where the vertex appeared to have been sheered away, leaving the top flat. From the ceiling hung an identical form pointing downward so that only a handspan gap lay between them. The rune engraved into the flat surface of the top section was the final rune that identified this particular relay. Dozens of other runes decorated both the top and bottom conical sections.

  The mage explained that the runes did not actually hold any power. Rather, they identified the necessary spells and how to form them. Each rune represented a collection of spells, and the shape of the rune designated the shape and order in which the spells were to be layered upon each other. If a mage could memorize the order of dozens of spell sets, each containing dozens of spells, and the shapes in which they were layered with unerring precision, he or she could potentially use the mage relay without the runes.

  The shape of the relay, and in fact the entire building, was designed to magnify and focus the mage’s spells so that the messages could be transmitted and received by other relays. Each relay had rune configurations representing only the relays within its transmission range, which partly depended on the strength and capability of the mages powering it. Even if a mage could somehow manage to shape the spells without assistance from the runes, he or she could not possibly have the power or focus to transmit the spells without the relay.

  The mage’s explanation was fascinating and not at all what Rezkin had been taught. Aside from the healings, he had never witnessed the use of talent by his masters. The strikers with talent or other visitors had been called upon anytime he was required to train with talent wielders. Still, he had never found fault in his masters’ teachings, so he thought perhaps there was more than one way to accomplish the task.

  Eventually, the senior mage’s replacement arrived and was able to send Rezkin’s missives. The man became quite flustered when he found out that the councilor’s administrator had been delayed for so long, and he did not stop to ask questions or read the messages.

  Rezkin was finally free to complete the remainder of his tasks. By the time night fell, he had visited four more of the councilors. He had dropped in on the last while the man was using the privy. The councilor had been extremely uncomfortable during the entire exchange and agreed to do whatever the Raven asked if he would just leave him in peace with all his extremities intact. Some of the councilors had held their positions for many years, and Rezkin felt reasonably sure they would vote in favor of the king’s proposal without the Raven’s influence. A few, like Councilor Onelle, were more likely to vote in his favor to spite the Raven when he encouraged them to do otherwise. He needed seven of the ten votes, but outworlders were fickle. If they did not vote in his favor, he would resort to other methods.

  The darkness enveloped him as he bounded across rooftops in the heart of the city. He crossed to the lower end where the average commoners drank and socialized. His stomach grumbled expressing its displeasure at being starved for the past few hours. This surprised him since he had eaten more than usual throughout the day. Crouching on the rooftop of a tavern, he changed his appearance once again. He stuffed his doublet into his sack, untucked his undershirt, and buckled his belt on the outside. He reversed the tattered cloak so that the worn spots were on the inside with the outer part being of average quality for a respectable commoner. The floppy hat went into the bag, and his lose hair was pulled back into the usual queue.

  Rezkin did not dally in the tavern, only staying long enough to consume two meals, a pint of ale, for the sake of appearances, and a pitcher of water. When he left, he still was not satisfied, and he began to wonder if he was ill. When he returned to the ship, he would have one of the healers examine him. Then he wondered if he would be better off seeing one of the healers in the city. A regular healer in Serret would be no more concerned for his weakness than for any other stranger, but exposing the potential weakness to the mages on the ship might have severe consequences. He decided to consider the problem later. For now, he had to exact an entire island from a kingdom. At least it was a worthless island.

  The palace gates were open when Rezkin arrived. Unfortunately, they were manned by well-armed guards, and a line of carriages surrounded by a forest of torches was rolling through. Had he arrived earlier, he might have been able to hide himself among the carriages, but it would be difficult now with so many alert guards and coachmen. Even the bedecked passengers were peeking out to witness their grand entry onto the palace grounds.

  King Ionius was throwing a ball to celebrate his daughter’s engagement, although the princess was only sixteen and would not actually marry for another year or two, depending on the terms of the arrangement. Such was the custom in Channería unless she was found to possess the talent, in which case she could put off marrying for another ten years to ensure the best matching of mage power. Channeríans believed they could influence the development of certain talents through proper breeding.

  So long as so many eyes were on the front of the palace, fewer would be watching other possible entrances. Rezkin slinked along the wall perimeter in the moon-cast shadow. Guards paced the wall walk beyond the torch-lit battlement. He pressed himself against the stone and waited for the two guards above to finish their conversation and move in opposite directions. As he began climbing, his fingers and soft boots finding purchase in the cracks between stones, he felt a surge of battle energy. His masters had told him the energy was the body’s way of preparing a warrior for difficult physical and mental tasks. He usually did not feel its familiar heat until he was about to engage an enemy, and sometimes even then it was delayed or never came at all. Tonight, it was preemptive, and he hoped it was not a sign of difficulty to come.
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br />   The castle had only one curtain wall, a front bailey, a rear bailey, and a keep in between. The rear bailey contained the guard barracks, smithy, and small training grounds. The front bailey had been cleared of anything useful and was presently drowning in decorative frivolities. Rezkin was over the wall without incident. He dropped into the darkness below and then stole across the practice grounds using a low fence and hedges to hide his progress. He rounded the corner of the barracks just as a guard exited. The guard squinted in the darkness, and Rezkin knew he could not be seen clearly, but he was definitely exposed. He grabbed the ladle hanging from a water barrel and dunked it noisily into the water before raising it to his lips.

  “Got any root?” the guard asked, referring to the crass root that some outworlders chewed for its slightly intoxicating effects.

  Mimicking the guard’s guttural drawl, Rezkin said, “Ran out hours ago.”

  The guard spit off to the side. “Bloody balls. Hate ’em. Been on duty near on two days straight.” The man was still grumbling to himself as he tromped away.

  Rezkin hurried past the barracks. After surveying the area for guards, he began climbing the keep wall. The window was at least thirty feet above the ground, and he had to scale the wall before anyone glanced his way. He chose this wall because it was likely to be under the least amount of scrutiny. Who would attempt to steal into the castle from the guards’ barracks?

  The window was small and heavily warded, but he did not think he had set off any alarms when he squeezed through. It was a little difficult to tell since there appeared to be several wards created by different mages that were layered on top of each other. The room was musty, despite the open window, and held a table in the center with a workbench along one wall. Books, mixing bowls, several bottles of ingredients, and other alchemy essentials were scattered across the workbench. A candle burned beside an open book, and one of the bowls held a steeping mixture, so he knew someone had been there recently. He peeked at the title of the recipe, which indicated it was to be used to cure headaches. After reading the list of ingredients, he decided the author must have meant a metaphorical headache, since the brew was sure to kill anyone who drank it.

  The door creaked as it opened, and Rezkin ducked under the center table. Two pairs of soft, brown slippers padded by the table beneath swishing grey robes. Both mages wore brown panels indicating a primary affinity for earth, and each had a white stripe denoting a secondary air affinity. One had an additional blue stripe indicating a third affinity for water. According to Wesson, most mages had only one or two affinities in which they were strong enough to earn stripes. Three was unusual, so it was likely this was the king’s mage and the other was his assistant or a visiting mage scholar.

  “Is it ready?” the triple-striped mage asked. His voice was slightly raspy with age.

  “Yes, I just need to transfer it to the bottle,” the younger man said.

  They were now standing away from Rezkin’s hiding place and were turned in profile. He peered around the edge of the table and saw that they were both hunched over the workbench examining the concoction. The younger mage transferred the contents of the bowl into a bit of cloth, wrapped it tightly, and then squeezed it so that the liquid streamed into a cup. He then emptied the cup into a small green vial with a cork stopper. After tossing the cloth and its contents into the hearth, he scrubbed at his hands furiously in a basin of water. The room quickly filled with the stench of a fetid corpse. Rezkin felt the tingle of mage power and then a gust swept through the room carrying the malodorous vapors out the window.

  The older mage gathered the book and ingredients into a sack and then knelt on the floor near the window. He swept away a section of rushes and then pried at the timber with an iron rod. A piece of the floor tilted upward, and the old man stuffed the sack into a hole beneath. When he was finished, he covered over the area and turned as he struggled to his feet. If he had raised his eyes, he would have seen Rezkin. The two men turned and left the chamber, locking the door and creating a ward as they departed.

  Rezkin shuffled over to the hideaway and retrieved the burlap sack. He surveyed the other books but found only one on alchemy that might be of interest and was also small enough to fit into the sack. The others were mundane apothecary tomes, several of which he had already studied. Two of the ingredients on the shelf were unfamiliar to him, so he stuffed those in the sack as well. He bundled the sack tighter with the black strips of fabric he had wound about his limbs and then secured it to his belt. He slipped through door, relocked it, and then followed the retreating shuffle of distant footsteps. The two mages were up to something, and it would likely lead him to the king. Whether they were working for or against the king, Rezkin did not know, but one thing was certain. Someone was going to die.

  The Channerían king’s castle, like the other castles and palaces of foreign monarchs, had been among the floorplans he memorized when he was young. He remembered learning this one when he was fourteen. Strikers Baen and Ridney had collectively spent nearly four years in service at the castle and had provided him with firsthand accounts of its structure and workings. They had also helped him to design the best strategy for infiltration, one which he was now implementing.

  The mages turned down the corridor that led to the king’s chambers but stopped short, only halfway. The younger mage rapped lightly on what Rezkin knew to be the princess’s door. A portly woman slipped into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind her. Rezkin could hear most of what they were saying from his hiding place. He was crouched behind a decorative suit of armor, but he knew he could not stay long. Thus far, this part of the castle had been relatively clear. Regular servants were not permitted to use the main corridors, being relegated to the hidden servants’ passages behind the walls, and most of the guards and other staff were attending to the ball.

  “Has the gift arrived yet?” the older mage asked the woman.

  The woman was dressed as a nursemaid, and her wide eyes, tense stance, and constant ringing of the hands indicated that she was expecting trouble.

  “Yes, only just. Are … are you sure this is necessary?” She spoke in a loud whisper that carried farther down the passage than the man’s gruff voice. Her gaze darted back to the closed door, and she bit her lip. “She is just a child. What if we get caught? Surely there is another way.”

  “It is not your place to question the king’s orders … nor is it mine,” the old mage snapped.

  The nursemaid curtsied deeply and bowed her head. “Of course, Archmage. My apologies. I do not doubt the king.” Her voice turned contemptuous as she said, “I admit I will not mourn her. She is a horrid, petulant girl.”

  The younger mage handed the green vial to the woman, and she took it with shaking hands. He said, “If you fail, you will not survive the consequences.”

  Rezkin doubted the woman would survive the night. He was now in a quandary. It seemed the king wanted to kill his own daughter on her engagement night, and he had to decide whether to intercede. The girl was not his friend, nor was she one of his subjects. He was under no obligation to assist. Getting involved would make this mission far more complicated than necessary. If he did nothing, the princess would die, and he would go about his business as planned. It seemed the logical choice.

  The mages continued down the passage toward the king’s chambers, and Rezkin wondered again why no guards were posted. Perhaps the king had called them into his chambers or they were dismissed to prevent additional witnesses. Rezkin was about to follow the mages when he observed the woman returning to the princess’s rooms, the green vial clasped tightly in her palm. A chill slithered up his spine, and he was assailed by an emotion. It felt something like a mixture of anger and fear. His stomach dropped, and his blood was cold. The buzz of battle energy seeped into his system unsummoned. He had no explanation for the reaction. He tried to push it down, to separate himself from the emotion per Rule 37, but it would not yield.

  He took a step to follow
the mages and had another thought. Perhaps his instincts were trying to tell him something. Somewhere in his mind, he may have already deduced the benefits of saving the princess, but he had not yet come to realize them consciously. Rule 41—heed your instincts. It was good enough. He could worry about his reasoning later. If he did not act soon, the princess would be dead, and that could not be undone.

  Rezkin checked the corridors around him and then sprinted toward the princess’s chambers. It was unlocked, so he let himself in without notice. The sitting room was comfortably appointed with two lilac settees and two high-back chairs, each dotted with small pillows embroidered with flowers. A tea set occupied one sideboard, and dinnerware containing a partially eaten meal was abandoned on the dining table by the window. Hot air from the hearth mixed with the cool night breeze to produce an eddy of shifting temperatures.

  The princess could be heard squabbling with the nursemaid in the next room.

  “I told you I do not want any wine,” the girl huffed. “I can barely fit into this dress as it is, and it is too hot in here. Why is it so hot in here? No, I cannot go. Tell them I am unwell. Better yet, tell them I have contracted some fatal illness.”

  The young woman’s distress was clear. She did not sound like a lovestruck bride-to-be, and her words were disturbingly prophetic.

  “You should not be so overly dramatic, Ilanet,” said the nursemaid. “The prince is not so bad. You have barely spoken to him. I am sure you will grow to care for him in time. Here, drink this and all will be well.”

  Rezkin peered through the open doorway and saw that the two women were preoccupied on the far side of the room. The princess turned from the window and dropped inelegantly onto the seat at the vanity along the far wall.