The Seventh Sentinel Read online

  Though once a cavalier of mighty repute, Mercadior’s ascendance to the throne had put an abrupt end to that career. He was considered a good and just ruler by everyone Bram respected. The emperor was thick through the chest, shaped like a barrel, though nothing about him suggested a sedentary man’s softness. His clothing was finely made, but of a simple pattern little different from what any commoner might wear: a long, dark red tunic, heavily embroidered with geometric patterns and heroic scenes, gathered at the waist by a sword belt stiffened with silver plates. Beneath were leggings wrapped with white leather and soft leather boots. Still, some undefinable quality about his bearing brought to mind words like “impressive,” “composed,” “commanding,” “distinguished,”

  Bram’s uncle found his voice first. “Guerrand DiThon, your humble servant,” he said by way of introduction. “I am Lord DiThon’s uncle, chief advisor, and wizard.”

  The emperor looked with great interest at Guerrand and granted him that uncommonly white-toothed smile. “We had heard that a mage of great ability was at work here restoring the holding.”

  “Did you study at the great guild hall in Gwynned?” asked Thalmus, the emperor’s wizard.

  Guerrand shook his head. “It was my desire to attend, having heard of its great reputation. But … circumstances did not allow me to seek application there. I was self-taught, until I traveled to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. There, I was fortunate that my skills were sufficient to catch the eye of the Master of the Red Robes, Justarius, who took me as his apprentice.”

  Mercadior glanced back at the quiet, red-robed man who stood behind him. The wizard’s eyes were wide with approval. “You must visit us in Gwynned, then. Thalmus would happily give you a tour.”

  Guerrand bobbed his head respectfully. “I would enjoy that, sire.”

  “Let us walk,” Redic commanded, leading the way through the newly enlarged village gates. “Never could understand the trend since the Cataclysm to distrust the Art,” the emperor remarked. “Such a useful skill, magic. I see it playing a significant role in rebuilding the glory of Northern Ergoth.”

  Emperor Mercadior Redic’s life-goal was well known to most educated citizens of the island nation, who had learned the history of their people while in knee pants.

  More than two thousand years before, a mighty chieftain named Ackal Ergot, Redic’s ancestor, had united the tribes of Khalkist barbarians and founded the first nation of humans. He called it Ergoth. Ruled by sword and flame, Ergoth quickly became a dominant nation, with Ackal Ergot’s primary goal expansion through war. But his heir, Ackal Dermount, had found war unprofitable. Dermount brought Ergoth into the mercantile age. He set aside Ergoth’s swords and began trade with the Silvanesti elves and the dwarves of Thorbardin. For nearly six centuries, Ergoth was a vast and grand kingdom, the center of the civilized world.

  But peace did not last, as always was the way between humans, elves, and dwarves. The worst of these battles was the Kinslayer War, which scarred the land for forty years. The war irreparably weakened Ergoth’s dominance. Two thousand years passed, and still Ergoth did not recover. Then the Cataclysm struck, splitting Ergoth into two islands.

  The great man paused, seemingly to study the wattle and daub houses that lined the road nearby. “Let it be understood it is my goal, my only goal, for our island nation to regain the former glory of Ergoth. I expect all my subjects to contribute to that end. For instance, our coffers are ever emptied by the need for castles, new ships, and strong armies. At the same time, there are many ruins of the former empire both on land and beneath the seas. I pay men to excavate these ruins and regain their riches, both in gold and knowledge, thereby helping to refill those coffers.

  “What’s more, in exchange for a state-sponsored education, mages who study at the great guild hall and pass the Test must return to us for a period of five years to research new magical arts.

  “I’m pursuing diplomatic ties with the elves of Qualinesti, hoping to reestablish trade routes that would be beneficial to both nations.”

  Mercadior stopped speaking abruptly and began to walk. Then, just as abruptly, he continued: “Many believe Ergoth will never see a return to greatness. They would not say so if they could see what you have accomplished here in Thonvil—with the aid of magic.”

  “I have played but a small part,” Guerrand interjected humbly. “The credit goes entirely to my nephew and his ability to inspire his people.”

  “The state of your village testifies to a miraculous recovery,” observed the emperor. “Everywhere I look I see new houses, bountiful gardens, barns and stables filled with livestock. The surrounding fields are green and lush. My advisors had predicted a steady decline in this region, a failure of crop and citizenry.”

  Turning to Bram, he declared, “I have heard great things about you, young DiThon. I have also heard that a veritable army of faeries have aided you in the revitalization of the region.”

  “Is that so?” Startled by the abrupt revelation, Bram struggled to keep his face clear of any expression that might betray him.

  “You realize, of course,” Redic continued, “how useful such a force could be in our crusade to restore Ergoth to its former glory.”

  “I can see why you would think so, Sire,” Bram said softly.

  “One cannot help but ponder how far the servant who commanded such a skill would rise in my court, particularly a servant of the old Ergothian stock.” The corners of Redic’s bright eyes crinkled as he regarded the native dark skin and sharp angles of Bram’s young face. “I am no bigot—[would take ability over blue blood on the worst of days—but I am always pleased when both reside in one body.”

  Mercadior scanned east, his keen eyes obviously noticing the thin trails of smoke streaming skyward from the funeral pyre. “I hear you cremated your father according to the ancient custom.”

  Bram colored, but he maintained his composure and dignity. “Yes, Sire. My father asked that his remains be treated in the manner of his grandfathers, and their fathers before them. I simply respected his wishes.”

  Redic nodded solemnly. “I confess, I had not heard the most favorable reports of Cormac DiThon. But it took great courage for him to break with recent fashion, and an even greater strength for you to comply. I don’t know why we departed from the traditional pyre. All that black serge and weeping over a decaying body for days—what an ignominious departure. Far more impressive, I think, to go out in a blaze of glory.” Redic turned to his wizard and flicked a ringed finger. “Make a note of that, Thalmus.”

  Mercadior sighed contentedly. “Ah, well, it is long past time for me to return to Gwynned, and for you to rejoin your citizens in celebration. I enjoyed the walk and the conversation. Bear my words in mind.”

  “I will,” Bram vowed.

  “Fare-thee-well, young DiThon. I will be looking forward to continued good reports of your progress.”

  Mercadior turned to Thalmus. “Let us return straightaway to the palace. Important matters await.” Clearly the wizard had expected this request, for he opened his palm to reveal a glass bead. With no ceremony whatsoever he hurled it to the ground between himself and Redic. As the bead shattered, a vapor twined out of it and seemed to devour the two men from the floor upward. In only a moment they were gone.

  Bram brushed off the dirt raised by the emperor’s magical departure and looked to the hill where the pyre still smoldered. “Overall, I’d say it’s been a full day, wouldn’t you?” he remarked with biting irony. “Where do you suppose Redic got his information about the tuatha?”

  Guerrand shrugged. “Who knows? Redic’s a smart man. Perhaps he found the changes so remarkable, he assumed magic was involved. With or without suspicions, he could have had Thalmus perform a divination to confirm it. The tuatha are masters of subtlety, but even they can’t hide their magical aura from a determined searcher who has mastered the Art.”

  “I didn’t like evading his pointed remarks,” Bram confessed sourly.
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  “Even if you did admit to their presence here, you couldn’t promise their aid to the emperor. It’s not yours to give. My guess is that Redic knows more than he let on. He was merely trolling for confirmation, hoping he had stumbled upon some new magical tool.”

  “So did I fail some loyalty test?”

  Rand smiled without humor. “Not yet.”

  Bram pushed himself away from the fence where he was leaning. “That’s a problem for tomorrow. Right now, I should join the citizens celebrating back at the castle. They must be wondering where I am.” Bram took a listless step toward Castle DiThon. “Coming?”

  Guerrand’s hand on Bram’s arm stayed him. “Yes, but first I need to speak with you about something.”

  Bram looked back anxiously at his uncle. “Can’t it wait?”

  “It could,” conceded Guerrand, “but I think it’s already waited too long.” He waved his nephew back through the gates of the village. “Share a drink and a seat with me while we talk.”

  Bram’s eyebrows raised. “I need to sit to hear this?” Still, he followed Guerrand past the bakery, into the tavern known as the Red Goose. “What you have to say must be very important—or very long-winded.”

  Rand led him to a hard-benched booth facing the street. “It may be the most important thing you’ll ever hear.” The mage signaled to the barkeep to bring two glasses and a pitcher. Guerrand wiped the dust from the mugs on his crimson robes, then filled both to the brim. Bram watched his uncle warily as Guerrand tossed back half a mug before handing the full one to him.

  “To your father,” Guerrand added hastily, seeing the look of surprise on Bram’s face.

  “To your brother,” Bram replied. The new Lord DiThon took an obligatory sip of the strong, bitter drink and waited.

  Guerrand regarded Bram over steepled fingers. “I have envisioned having this conversation many times, but my thoughts always stopped short of the words I would use. I had hoped, even until Cormac’s death, that he would have saved me from this.”

  Bram shook his head. “What has my father to do with this?”

  “Everything. Or perhaps nothing.” It was Guerrand’s turn to shake his head, irritated at himself. “I will tell you the story exactly as it was told to me.” Guerrand took another small sip from the mug. “Three years ago, when Wilor the silversmith lay dying, he confessed something to me, something that has remained at the forefront of my mind ever since.

  “Wilor told me, with great conviction, that my father and mother—your grandfather and step-grandmother—believed you to be a changeling.”

  Bram blinked. “A what?”

  “A changeling. Descended from the tuatha, to be specific.”

  “I know what a changeling is!” snapped Bram. He closed his eyes to gather his thoughts and calm his tone. “What I meant was, what would a silversmith know of such things, particularly about me?”

  “Despite class differences,” Rand said, “Wilor was a long-time friend to the family. He recalled to me the night Rejik met him at this very inn. Apparently your grandfather arrived all sweaty-faced and edgy. After many tankards of ale, Rejik confessed to Wilor that he feared his grandson—you—were a changeling.”

  Bram swung away restlessly. “But what would make him think that?”

  “My mother,” Guerrand said levelly. “Apparently, she was very magically inclined. Rejik believed she was never wrong when it came to perceiving the magic in another.”

  “Let me get this right. You’re asking me to believe the ravings of a pain-racked, dying man and your mother, whom many considered to be a bit unusual herself?”

  “That was a slight worthy of your father,” Guerrand said evenly. “I know you don’t mean it. When you have a moment to consider this seriously, you’ll recall that you yourself said you feel somehow magical. Have you never wondered why the tuatha approached you, but never Cormac? Why they thought you of high moral character?”

  Bram met his uncle’s gaze briefly, then looked away. He stood with his mug of ale, paced, drank, then peered out the window before pouring himself another mug with shaky hands. “Who else suspected this?” he asked at length.

  “Rejik never said so, but Wilor believes that either Rejik told Cormac, or that Cormac guessed. Wilor thought it explained why your father kept a distance from you.”

  Bram was unable to deny the truth of that painful observation. “But why didn’t my own father tell me if he thought it were possible?”

  “Perhaps he believed he’d risk the wrath of the tuatha by exposing their deception. Or maybe he was afraid it would make it true if he said it aloud.”

  “Is it physically possible?” Bram asked, seeming to consider it for the first time.

  “I think so, yes,” conceded Rand. “From my readings I’ve discovered that changelings can be part human or entirely faerie, substituted for a human child at birth. I wouldn’t suspect the latter, however, considering your human appearance.”

  Bram’s eyes went wide. “You really believe it, don’t you?”

  “Having worked at your side for more than three years, I’ve had ample opportunity to observe you. I have consulted every written document I could find about changelings.” Guerrand folded his hands in his lap. “To be honest, you exhibit enough of the outward signs of changelings for it to be possible.”

  Bram let out his breath, unaware that he’d been holding it during his uncle’s answer. He reeled from the revelation. “All that time you were watching me—why didn’t you tell me of your suspicions?”

  Rand’s eyes were downcast. “I felt that it was Cormac’s responsibility—and his right. I was bitterly disappointed that he let the opportunity pass with him, but I was not very surprised.”

  Bram’s mind jumped back to his last conversation with his father. Candles had just been lit in Cormac’s bedchamber. The smell of the evening meal still filled the room, although once again the full tray had been sent away untouched. Bram had been seated, watching Cormac’s still form in the huge bed and listening to his muttering. The new lord’s heart skipped when he recalled one sentence that Cormac had spoken clearly: “I always loved you as my son.” Bram had taken such heart from the words. It was the first time his father had ever expressed fondness for him. Now the words had a different meaning.

  “I tell you all this now for a reason, Bram. If it’s true, you may have inherited the aptitude for magic that you’ve always admired in others. You owe it to yourself to explore the possibility.”

  “I won’t discount it outright,” Bram conceded, “but it would mean that everything I ever believed myself to be is no longer true.”

  “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Rand cautioned. “First you need to verify your heritage. And there’s only one being from whom we can request that answer.”

  “King Weador,” lord and mage said in unison.

  Lyim rubbed his hands together in joyful anticipation of his favorite duty: tax collection. Today was Montigar, the third day of the week and traditional tax day. In addition to counting profits, it gave Lyim the opportunity to assess the mood of the citizens in his district. Did they still have that right combination of fear and adoration that made them loyal to the death? They were like infants who needed constant tending. But he would need them, the whole of this city in the desolate Plains of Dust, if he hoped to achieve his ultimate goal: the destruction of magic.

  But first he had to stay alive. The amir strapped a broad-bladed punch dagger to the inside of his thigh. The weapon was unnoticeable under his baggy brown trousers, gathered at the ankle in the style favored in this city of thieves and cutthroats. Over his bone-white tunic, the short woolen jacket matched his trousers and announced him as a citizen of the highest rank, an amir of Qindaras. He had risen to the position quickly through hard work and determination.

  After three years, he thought of the largest city in the Plains of Dust as the only real home he’d ever known. His decision to return to the lands of his childhood had nothin
g to do with sentiment, everything to do with survival.

  As he waited to leave the town house, Lyim considered the events in his life, the tragedies that always harbingered triumphs. Coincidences? Lyim didn’t think so. The gods seemed to strike him down, only to provide him with the means to raise himself again. He knew now it was no accident he’d been drawn into the plots of his master, Belize, who sought to gain ultimate power by opening a gate to the Lost Citadel. Belize’s scheme had been thwarted by Guerrand DiThon, but not before Belize had crippled Lyim by thrusting his arm through an imperfectly formed gate between dimensions. In that brief moment of exposure, a nightmarish, snakelike creature from that other world had fused itself to Lyim’s arm, depriving him of his right hand and turning him into a monster. The greatest mages of the Orders of Magic had been unable to free Lyim from the entity that had attached itself to him, or to restore his hand.

  That regeneration became an obsession with Lyim. For a decade, he had researched every aspect of inter-planar transit, spiritual and physical possession, biological rejuvenation, and other teachings too blasphemous to admit even now. His research eventually led him to the answer that ultimately restored his hand.

  It also provided him with a solution to his current problem as a renegade mage. When Lyim had escaped the wreckage of Bastion, he’d returned to Palanthas, the city of mages, not knowing where else to go. Casting about for a secluded place to relocate, a historical note he’d previously turned up in the city’s famed library came to mind.

  More than three centuries before, in the years prior to the Cataclysm, a powerful wizard named Aniirin had ruled a city in the Plains of Dust. This city, Qindaras, was situated at a fork in the river Torath, the main artery of commerce and travel through that desolate region. Somehow Aniirin and the Council of Three came into conflict, though the texts available to Lyim did not specify the nature of the dispute. Through an accident of good timing, Aniirin was able to hold the Council, distracted by events elsewhere, at bay.