The Sorcerer's Oath - Books 1-2 E-Book

Jennifer Ealey

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The first two books in 'The Sorcerer's Oath', a series of epic fantasy novels by Jennifer Ealey, now in one volume!
Bronze Magic: Exiled from his kingdom by power-hungry siblings, Prince Tarkyn stumbles upon a hidden enclave deep within the enchanting woodlands. There, he encounters the woodfolk, a reclusive community of telepaths with an ancient connection to the natural world. Embracing his newfound identity as the Guardian of the Forest, Tarkyn forms unbreakable bonds with his new allies, who recognize him as the chosen protector of their realm. Now, with the weight of destiny on his shoulders, Tarkyn must navigate the treacherous path of safeguarding the woodfolk's secrets and preserving the delicate balance of their mystical domain. The first book in the series, 'Bronze Magic' weaves is a spellbinding tale of courage, adventure and self-discovery.
The Wizard's Curse: In a realm ravaged by civil war, Sorcerer Prince Tarkyn must protect his newfound allies, the woodfolk, from unknown abductors while facing the wrath of his vengeful twin brothers. As a curse threatens to corrupt the woodfolk and loyalties waver, Tarkyn must wield his powers and navigate treacherous alliances to save his people from impending doom. The fate of the realm rests on his shoulders in 'The Wizard's Curse', a gripping tale of magic, betrayal, and redemption.

Leseprobe

THE SORCERER'S OATH

BOOKS 1-2

JENNIFER EALEY

CONTENTS

Bronze Magic

The Wizard's Curse

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Jenny Ealey

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

BRONZE MAGIC

THE SORCERER’S OATH – BOOK ONE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Paddy Mary Stentiford who, from the other side of the world, painstakingly edited my novel with me through all its myriad drafts. I would also like to thank my sister Wendy Ealey who produced the cover design and interior typesetting, and Burnham Arlidge who painted the marvellous tree filled with bronze magic that appears on the front cover and throughout the book.

CHARACTERS

Sorcerers

Tamadil Royal Family:

King Markazon (deceased)

Queen, Markazon’s wife

King Kosar, eldest son of King Markazon

Prince Jarand, second son of King Markazon

Prince Tarkyn, third son of King Markazon

Courtiers:

Danton Patronell, Lord of Sachmore, Tarkyn’s friend from childhood

Andoran and Sargon, friends of Tarkyn at court.

Stormaway Treemaster, wizard for Prince Tarkyn and King Markazon

Journeyman Cloudmaker, Prince Jarand’s wizard

Sergeant Torrigan

Thieving Family:

Old Ma

Gillis, Old Ma’s son

Tomas, Old Ma’s son

Morayne, daughter of Tomas

Charkon, son of Tomas

Woodfolk

Wanderers:

Waterstone

Sparrow, Waterstone’s daughter

Autumn Leaves

Thunder Storm

Creaking Bough, Thunder Storm’s wife

Rain on Water, Thunder Storm’s son

Rustling Leaves

Grass Wind

Lapping Water

Summer Rain, healer

Falling Rain, Summer Rain’s exiled brother

Forestals:

Raging Water

Falling Branch, his son

Sun Shower, Falling Branch’s wife

Rainstorm, Falling Branch’s son

Gatherers:

Ancient Oak

Tree Wind

North Wind

Running feet

Mountainfolk:

Dry Berry

Woodfolk near Tormadell

Ancient Elm

Captured Woodfolk:

Golden Toad

Rushwind

Ibis Wings

PARTI

INTO THE WOODS

1

Tarkyn threw himself to the ground and rolled beneath the red streak of light, coming up fast, close to his attacker. Before the other sorcerer could change the direction of his shaft, Tarkyn had surrounded himself in a translucent bronze shield. Gasping for breath, he stood within a foot of his opponent, hands on hips, giving what he hoped was an unnerving smile.

As soon as he had recovered, he spun himself behind Andoran, his long black hair fanning out behind him, then dropped his shield and threw a shaft of bronze power at his opponent’s back. Andoran ducked. Tarkyn’s bronze beam shot over his opponent’s head and slammed into a rickety spectator stand. A wooden upright gave way with a resounding crack.

Tarkyn watched in horror as, with ponderous grace, the makeshift stand sagged to one side. Dozens of panic-stricken spectators scrambled over each other, swarming onto the arena of the Harvest Tournament, desperate to get clear before the stand collapsed. Immediately Royal Guards surrounded the prince and his opponent to protect them from the rabble.

From within the ring of guards, Tarkyn glanced up at the strong, well-built grandstand where the nobility and the rest of the Royal Family sat, well out of reach of any stray tournament-strength shafts of power.

“I warned them that we should have stronger boundary shields,” he muttered. “It is not right to place people needlessly at risk.”

Gradually the exclamations and shouts died down as the stand stayed stoically, if drunkenly, upright.

With a show of bravura, a scruffy young lad with more courage than wisdom vaulted back onto the stand and seated himself in the front row. On hearing no creaking, a prim lady poked her beau in the ribs to push him up the steps before her. Then she gathered her skirts and calmly followed him to sit beside the scruffy youth in the best seats the stand had to offer.

Seeing that the stand still held firm, the rest of the crowd, first in dribs and drabs, then in a steady flow, remounted the structure to resume their seats. Once the last of them was re-seated, the guards returned to their positions around the stadium and the competitors squared off once more.

“Resume!” bellowed the referee.

The two sorcerers circled each other, each protected within his shield. Suddenly Tarkyn’s shield winked out and he stood exposed but safe, as long as Andoran was putting his energy into maintaining his own shield. Andoran was now a step behind in the attack. After feinting right, then left, the red-headed sorcerer threw himself to the left, winked out his shield and thrust a shaft of power at the prince. But Tarkyn anticipated him and as he sidestepped the red attack, he drove a shaft of power at Andoran that caught him cleanly in the chest.

Andoran yelped with pain, the referee blew his whistle and Tarkyn was declared the winner.

As the prince reached out to haul his opponent up and shake his hand, tumultuous applause erupted from thousands of watching sorcerers. They rushed onto the arena, young and old, rich and poor, eagerly clustering around their victorious prince, but were kept at bay by a ring of protective guards. Tarkyn grinned and waved in response, then placed his arm across his worthy opponent’s shoulder to draw him into the congratulations. Andoran mastered his disappointment enough to produce a rueful smile and wave his acknowledgement to the crowd.

Only the reaction of Tarkyn’s twin brothers marred the occasion. Even while responding to well-wishers, Tarkyn noticed the look of consternation that passed between Prince Jarand and the king. Concerned for my safety in the midst of this large milling crowd, he thought glumly. I hope Kosar is not so worried that he refuses me permission to compete again next year.

The trumpets sounded, summoning Tarkyn to stand before King Kosar to receive the Harvest Tournament trophy. Still grinning at his achievement Tarkyn strode across the arena, but as he approached the king, he sobered up and with due decorum, produced a respectful bow. When he straightened before his brother, he expected Kosar to be smiling with pride. Instead, he received only a curt nod and a smile that did not reach Kosar’s hard grey eyes.

“Congratulations, Tarkyn. Your power rivals our late father’s. Impressive.” The King’s voice was formal. As he handed his youngest brother the trophy, the crowd broke into renewed shouts of approbation. Kosar frowned. “You appear to have developed quite a following amongst the rabble.”

“Yes Sire. I believe all your subjects are enjoying the Harvest Festival. Thank you for granting me the opportunity to compete.”

Throughout the presentation, Tarkyn mulled over the significance of Kosar’s lack of enthusiasm. Kosar seemed distracted. Someone or something had upset him. Probably Jarand, thought Tarkyn. It usually is. At nineteen Tarkyn was seven years his brother’s junior and, whenever possible, avoided the constant tensions that surrounded the throne. Nevertheless, he passed his own actions under quick review, to assure himself that nothing he had done could be the cause of Kosar’s ill humour.

With the formalities over, Tarkyn withdrew to change into more formal attire; a deep blue surcoat embroidered with gold thread over a white shirt tucked into black leggings. As soon as he returned to the Royal Box to view the afternoon’s events, a blonde, purple-eyed sorcerer bounced up to him and gave a small bow.

“Ah, I am pleased to see that you managed to get away from your guard duties for a while, Lord Danton,” said Tarkyn, formal in a public forum.

“Yes, Your Highness. So am I. I didn’t want to miss your match. Well done, Sire. That was a great effort to beat Andoran. He has been practising for weeks, you know.”

Tarkyn smiled, “I wondered about that. I was sure he had improved.”

As the afternoon wore into evening, the Royal party retired to the great dining hall in the castle to preside over the Harvest Feast. The great dining hall was rarely used; only on Festival days and to entertain visiting heads of state. Its stone vaulted ceiling soared above three rows of long, heavy Oregon tables, lit by huge candelabras and three enormous chandeliers. Today, representatives of every guild, town and shire had been invited but only the highest nobility sat at the king’s table.

All evening, Kosar was unusually genial to his twin brother.

Tarkyn leaned over and murmured in Danton’s ear, “The king seems more at ease now. It is good to see my brothers getting on so well. They seem to be at loggerheads more often than not, these days.”

“Yes Sire, it is certainly more congenial when they are in harmony with each other,” said Danton carefully.

Tarkyn raised an eyebrow. “But…?”

Danton grimaced, “But someone else always suffers when they unite.”

“With justification, I presume?” A note of hauteur warned Danton to go no further.

Danton met the unwavering gaze of Tarkyn’s amber eyes and heaved a small sigh. “Just so, Sire.” A few minutes later, he stood and bowed, “If you will excuse me, Sire, I am on guard duty on the east gate of the city in two hours’ time. I will attend you tomorrow.”

Tarkyn nodded farewell and returned his attention to the steady but discreet stream of well-wishers who, throughout the evening, had been vying for a chance to offer their congratulations.

By midnight, the last guests had been finally ushered out. The rigours of the tournament, followed by an afternoon in the glare of the public eye, had taken its toll. Tarkyn took his leave of his family and fell into bed exhausted, his mind spinning with the events of the day. Gradually, the castle fell silent and Tarkyn fell asleep.

In the early hours of the morning, his quiet was shattered by someone thumping on his bedchamber door. When he dragged himself out of bed to answer the door, tousled and half asleep, Tarkyn found himself surrounded by embarrassed guardsmen who requested politely but firmly that he accompany them to the Great Hall.

The prince frowned, then nodded curtly, “Send for my man.”

When the guards hesitated, Tarkyn met the eyes of one man he had known since childhood and raised an eyebrow, “Is it so urgent? Surely you do not expect me to present myself in my night garments?”

Despite his orders, the guard bowed, “Your Highness, the king is even now awaiting your presence. But I will assist you to dress, if you will allow me.”

As the prince inclined his head graciously, no one could have known the disquiet he felt at being isolated from his servants. The guards waited awkwardly while the prince dressed, unhurriedly but not gratuitously wasting time until, with a final nod at his reflection, Tarkyn indicated that he was ready.

Under normal circumstances no guard would dare to lay hands on him, and Tarkyn was not sufficiently concerned at this point to put it to the test; instead allowing himself to be escorted to the Great Hall. For their part, the guards made no move to restrain him.

Their footsteps echoed in the quiet of the night as they strode down the polished stone corridor of the palace, past closed bedchamber doors behind which palace advisors, courtiers and their families lay sleeping. For the guardsmen, the statues and portraits that they passed represented the history of Eskuzor and the bedrock of its society, while the quiet prince they escorted was a living embodiment of that heritage. But for Tarkyn, it was more than that; he walked between ranks of his own family, stretching back over forty-eight generations of monarchs: some frowning down at him, some regarding him benignly, many of them great rulers, and others whose lives were mentioned only in hushed whispers. Their heritage demanded high expectations of him but also provided a foundation of strength and dominion stretching back over a thousand years.

They reached the top of the sweeping stone staircase. Except for the guards standing on either side of the great, carved wooden doors at the front of the palace, the entrance hall was deserted. Without a word, the soldiers marched with their charge down the stairs and out into the night.

The shuttered shops of Tormadell’s main street presented blind eyes to the procession that passed before them. If anyone watched, they did so without betraying their presence. As they passed an alley, an orange cat streaked out into the road and seeing the soldiers stopped dead, arching its back and hissing its displeasure at them. In an upstairs room, a baby started crying and a dim light was kindled but no one came to the window to witness the passage of the prince.

When they entered the Great Hall, Tarkyn saw that it had been set up as a court. At the far end, the king sat behind a huge raised wooden table with Prince Jarand by his side. Tarkyn’s stomach turned over as he wondered wildly what he had done. He realised his knees had begun to tremble and he hoped desperately that they would hold him as he walked down the length of the hall. When finally he stood before his brother, Tarkyn gave a low bow. His heart thumped slowly within his chest, beating time with a vein in his temple, as he straightened and stared up at his brother, “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”

Suddenly Tarkyn found himself plunged from lauded victor to accused felon, standing trial on a charge of damaging public property and endangering life. In a daze, he listened as his own brother passed sentence on him; that he must foreswear his magic for four years or face imprisonment. With rising panic, he knew he could not allow them to take his magic. Nor could he face imprisonment. Once he was away from public sight, he knew he would never see the light of day again. Faced with the horror of such a future, Tarkyn threw up his shield.

Kosar leaned forward and glared down at him. “Tarkyn, how dare you defy me? You will accept the judgement of this court.”

“My liege, please, I cannot.” Tarkyn went down on one knee. “Sire, I have always been your loyal subject. The public stand should have had shields to protect it from off-target shafts of power. I raised this with the organisers before the tournament, but they dismissed my concerns. Other shafts went wide. The only difference is that mine hit a stand. Please reconsider.”

But justice played no part in Tarkyn’s trial and so his plea was irrelevant.

“Even if I may have reconsidered before, the fact that you raise your shield against me shows us all too clearly the limits of your loyalty and the reason that your magic must be forfeited.” Kosar glared at him, “My judgement stands. Release your shield!”

Tarkyn’s heart hardened within him. Never again would he bend his knee in submission. He stood slowly and straightened to his full height. He glanced around the room at the closed faces of the guards. No one met his eyes. He brought his gaze back to bear on his brother and said with quiet dignity, “I am truly sorry, Your Majesty…but I will not.”

A charged silence followed. At the king’s nod, the guards closed in.

“Bring him to me when he succumbs,” ordered Kosar. With that, Jarand and he rose and passed through a private exit, leaving their younger brother to his fate.

Tarkyn stood motionless within his bronze dome, head held high, masking his desperation. For a moment, no one moved.

Then one guard, more jittery than the rest, threw a bolt of blue power at him. Tarkyn flinched. But instead of blocking the power, Tarkyn’s shield reflected it, dropping the guard like a stone.

Pandemonium broke out. Tarkyn held his focus, knowing nothing could touch him if he held firm. But now, every guard in the room attacked. Swords, arrows and beams of magic drove at the beleaguered prince from all sides. Every arrow or shaft of power that struck the bronze dome around him reflected back at a different angle, ricocheting around the Great Hall, injuring and killing guards randomly.

The air fizzed with a maze of dazzling colours as shafts of magic zig-zagged crazily around the Great Hall. All around him guards died, either killed by reflected power or arrows. The constant assault of ricocheting power pockmarked the vast cream walls of the Hall, sending chunks of plaster spraying down on the unshielded guardsmen. But still the guards kept up their attack. In the midst of it all, Tarkyn simply stood there, stunned into immobility but rigidly holding his focus as arrows, beams of magic and masonry assailed him from every side before careening off his shield to add to the bedlam.

Then cracks began to appear in the ceiling and pillars. Within moments, aggression turned to fear. Anyone left standing turned tail and ran. With the imminent collapse of the Great Hall, the guards’ desperate efforts to save themselves thrust all other considerations aside.

Dimly, Tarkyn realised that while the guards were preoccupied, he had to find a way out. Unnoticed, he crawled beneath the huge wooden table and finally released his shield. He strained his mind to remember the words of the re-summoning spell he had read, desperately hoping that he could make it work. He drew a deep breath and, focusing his will on his surcoat, muttered, “Maya Mureva Araya…” Between one breath and the next, he felt himself disintegrate into oblivion before landing nauseated but safe, at the origin of his clothing in a tailor’s shop near the edge of town.

2

For some little while he lay there, wrestling with the shock of the ‘disintegration’ that he had endured in the course of his translocation. He nearly vomited at the thought of it. But as he recovered, he felt a certain satisfaction that his spell had worked. The events in the Great Hall crowded at the edges of his mind, but he could not yet allow himself to think about the scene of devastation he had left behind.

Once the feeling of sickness had passed, Tarkyn realised he was lying on a long wooden workbench. He rolled off the bench to land cat-like on his feet, then stood up slowly, grasping the edge of the bench for support while he regained his sense of balance. A strange combination of dull orange light from a street lamp a little way down the road and moonlight from outside picked out vague shapes in the darkened workroom. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he realised that the mounds in the corner were in fact neatly stacked piles of cloth. Completed shirts, surcoats, cloaks and leggings hung in racks along the rear wall. It was the middle of the night and the workmen were all at home in their beds. It seemed no apprentices slept on the premises. He let out a sigh, thinking that luck was with him.

“Oh, very lucky!” he said sourly to himself. For a moment the enormity of his situation threatened to overwhelm him, but he resolutely kept his mind in the present, knowing he could not afford the luxury of reflection until he was well away from Tormadell.

Although his own surcoat had been made here, he had never been to this workshop himself. All fittings were done at the palace. So he had no idea where he was. As he sat on a pile of cut cloth wondering what to do next, he gradually became aware of distant shouting. Several times, he heard running footsteps on the cobbles outside the factory. When the shouting drew nearer, for horrified moments he thought that the guards had worked out his location. But no. It was merely townsfolk regaling each other with the drama of the Great Hall’s collapse and urging each other to venture forth to see the spectacle.

Tarkyn considered his situation. He knew how to fight, but other than that, he had had no training in looking after himself. He had been pandered to from the moment he was born. Now, the obstacles facing him even to procure breakfast in a few hours’ time seemed insurmountable. He had never had to deal with money and did not have any on him now. And even if he did have money, he could not risk being seen to buy anything. Not only was he a well-known public figure, but any circulated description of his long black hair, his height and his unusual amber eye colour would make him eminently recognisable.

After some careful thought he decided that, with an uncertain future ahead of him, he would need resources. He would not turn to his friends and jeopardise their safety but somehow he had to get back into the palace and retrieve at least some of his personal jewellery. Now seemed as good a time as any; in fact it was probably better than most. All eyes would be on the demise of the Great Hall.

With a wry smile, he focused carefully on himself, better prepared this time for the feeling of disintegration and murmured, “Maya Mureva Araya…”

He expected to land in his mother’s bed where he had been born but in fact, he landed in the king’s huge four-poster bed. As he fought against the nausea, he shook his head. This spell is dangerously unpredictable. Returning to the place of one’s creation is open to more than one interpretation. He shuddered as a thought struck him, Oh lord. At least it didn’t try to put me back inside my mother.

A sound in the corridor brought his attention back to his surroundings. Even if the present king were elsewhere, he realised, there would always be a guard at his door. A fire glowed in the stone hearth, keeping the room warm ready for the king’s return. Bright moonlight streamed in through the window, bathing the padded armchairs and the fine, ornate writing desk in soft, silvery light. In the distance Tarkyn could still hear the sounds of turmoil but within the palace, everything seemed quiet.

Tarkyn considered his options. He could take some of the king’s jewellery in exchange for his own, leaving a note to that effect, but he suspected that Kosar would publicise the loss of his jewellery and suppress the explanation. Tarkyn did not want grand larceny added to the other accusations against his name.

He could not hope to beguile the guard by passing himself off as his brother. The king and Jarand were noticeably shorter than he, had grey eyes and wore their auburn hair at shoulder length. Only the set of their features showed their relationship.

Tarkyn crossed to the window and opened it. Two hundred yards away, crowds of people clustered around the remains of the Great Hall. Only one corner of the monumental old building was left standing. The rest lay in piles of tumbled stone. Even as he watched, the last section gave way and crashed to the ground, sending up a billow of white dust. The sounds of shouting redoubled as spectators and workmen scrabbled away from the falling masonry. A knot of activity centred around one particular group, and when the crowds parted he could see his mother, the dowager queen, talking intently with guards, workmen and townspeople. Tarkyn felt sick at the thought of the guardsmen who must have been trapped inside the building as it fell.

He shook his head to clear it. There was nothing he could do to help them. He had to find a way out of the king’s room, retrieve what he had come for and leave. He took a moment to peer down two storeys to the lawns below. Too exposed. No way of escape there. After a bit of thought, he moved quickly to the king’s writing desk and rummaged around until he found some parchment. He tore it quietly into strips and placed it along the inside of the door. Then he lit a taper from the coals of the fire, set the parchment alight and waited.

As the smoke seeped out into the corridor, he heard a muttered exclamation, followed by the precipitous entry of the guard. Tarkyn stepped behind him and closed the door. At the sound the guard swung round, his eyes widening at the sight of the prince.

As the guard’s hand went to his sword, Tarkyn sent a thin blast of power into the man’s forearm. The guardsman reeled back, clutching his arm in pain. Tarkyn said quietly, “I do not want to hurt you further. But if you make any move to attack me, I will retaliate.”

The guard lurched towards Tarkyn, “I cannot allow you to threaten our king. I must protect him, even if it means my life.”

Tarkyn waved his hand languidly and muttered, “Shturrum”, freezing the man in his tracks. The prince raised his eyebrows. “I would expect no less. That is, after all, your duty. However, you have my assurance that I intend the king no harm. I am merely passing through.” He considered the guard dispassionately, “I am afraid I will have to tie you up so that I can make good my escape. I will not gag you if you hold your peace.” He shrugged, “Besides, I doubt that there is anyone near enough to hear you at the moment.” Saying that, he dragged the tasselled rope from the king’s dressing gown and used it to tie the guard’s hands behind him, before waving his hand to release the spell. Then he frogmarched the guard over to the huge four-poster bed, sat him down unceremoniously on the eiderdown and tied him to an upright.

The guard watched warily as Tarkyn stepped back to survey his handiwork. After a moment, Tarkyn met his eyes, “And now, guardsman, if I leave you like this, you will avoid excessive punishment, I think.”

“I do not wish to avoid punishment. I have failed in my duty,” replied the guard stiffly.

“Don’t be such a martyr. I have already told you; the king is safe. And I do not wish my actions to be the cause of your suffering, any more than they already are.”

“Huh! From what I hear, your actions tonight have caused a great deal more suffering than this. I can’t imagine why you would concern yourself with me.”

The prince’s mouth set in a thin line. “You forget yourself.”

Under Tarkyn’s unbending stare, the guardsman lowered his head. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Tonight’s events have confused us all.”

“That may be so,” Tarkyn conceded, “But whatever else I may be held to be, I am still a prince of Eskuzor…and you and anyone else who crosses my path would do well to remember that.”

At that, the guardsman raised his head and subjected Tarkyn to a long considering stare. But before he could voice his thoughts, Tarkyn crossed quickly to the door, listening intently. With a brief nod at the guardsman, he opened the door and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. It was deserted. He headed to his right, his nerves jangling, expecting at any moment that one of the doors he passed would open. The sound of his footsteps, despite his best efforts at stealth, echoed around the stone walls. With a grimace at the delay, he risked a few moments to take off his boots. Holding them in one hand, he crept on stockinged feet to the top of the staircase.

Suddenly he heard the voices of his brothers coming towards him from somewhere below in the central hallway. He stepped back and pressed himself into an alcove, finding shelter behind a large statue of his great grandmother. As he listened, a messenger ran to catch up with the king and reported, “Your Majesty, there is still no news. The entire building has collapsed in on itself. Workmen are even now trying to reach those trapped beneath the rubble. The streets are filled with anxious relatives and onlookers. There have been no sightings of your brother the prince, Sire, and until what is left of the interior is breached, it is too early to say whether he still lives.”

“Thank you,” said Kosar gravely. As Tarkyn heard the messenger’s footsteps gradually fade into the distance, the king spoke again. “Jarand, I think we must go out into the street and show our concern for our people.” He sighed heavily. “Blast Tarkyn! How did he have the power to destroy the Great Hall? It will cost a literal fortune to rebuild.”

Relieved, Tarkyn realised that Kosar had no immediate plans to climb the stairs and return to his bedchamber.

“Unfortunate, I agree,” Jarand’s voice echoed up the stairs, “But at least we have achieved what we set out to do. We have removed the risk of Tarkyn’s pretensions to your throne.”

Above them, Tarkyn listened in stunned disbelief.

“Just as well. Clearly his power is – was - excessive…and far too many people applauded his victory. But look at that mess out there! I was hoping to remove him with a minimum of fuss.” Kosar came into sight, heading towards the front door, his twin brother beside him. “I don’t know what happened after we left, but somehow he held off my entire Royal Guard and then destroyed the building around him.”

“Pointless. Juvenile theatrics; petty revenge at the cost of self-sacrifice. He must have known he could not win. And now he has been crushed with all the others.” Jarand sounded spine-chillingly unconcerned. “Even if Tarkyn has somehow survived, his popularity won’t have. He will be the most reviled man in Eskuzor.”

“I will make sure of that,” said the king grimly.

Tarkyn gave a little frown, knowing these words should upset him. And yet his brothers’ betrayal, followed by the horror of his trial and its wake of destruction, had so numbed his mind that his popularity seemed of little significance. In fact, when he thought about it, his unpopularity would be merely one more obstacle in his already impossible future.

As their voices faded away, Tarkyn found he had no energy left to care that the cost of the Great Hall mattered more to them than he did. He waited for a few minutes before easing himself out from behind his great grandmother’s statue to resume his journey across the top of the staircase. He followed the corridor for another fifty yards until he came to the door of his room.

He listened briefly before slipping into the haven of his own bedchamber. He glanced at his mahogany four-poster bed, noting that someone had already pulled the embroidered eiderdowns straight and plumped up the pillows. All around him were the objects of his life that he would have to leave behind: his trophy, books that he treasured, a small painting of his father, and various gifts and mementoes that he had kept despite carefully worded protests from his servants about the clutter. Almost he wished that he had not returned. Seeing what he must leave behind highlighted the extent of his loss.

Thrusting his regrets aside, Tarkyn walked to his dressing table where his jewellery box stood in full view. He searched through his drawers until he found a drawstring leather bag and, with no regard for the beauty or delicacy of the finely wrought, gem-encrusted pieces, shovelled his jewellery wholesale into it. He glanced at the door of his dressing room, considering the wisdom of taking some clothes with him, but he had limited time and no idea what clothing he should pack for himself. He had to return to the tailor’s well before the start of the working day. In the end, he stuffed a couple of shirts into a bag and grabbed only his travelling cloak and hunting knife. Then he spent precious minutes penning a note to say that he had taken his own jewellery, to protect his servants from accusations of theft.

As he blotted his note, he took one last look around. He attached the sheath of his knife to his belt, and slipped the leather purse into a deep pocket in his leggings. Then he placed the cloak around his shoulders and took a firm hold on his bag, before focusing on his surcoat one more time.

3

As soon as he had re-oriented himself in the quiet of the tailor’s shop, Tarkyn crossed to the door and turned the handle. The handle turned, but the door did not give when he pulled or pushed it.

“Blast. It’s locked, of course. And no doubt the tailor has the key on his person.” Tarkyn threw his hands up, “Now what?”

After a few moments of frustration, it occurred to him that there might be another exit. Sure enough, a sturdy wooden door, bolted on the inside, led into a back alley. Tarkyn cautiously drew back the bolt, opened the door and peered out into the darkness. This established little more than the fact that no one was standing beside the door waiting to pounce on him. Taking his chances he slipped out into the alleyway, pulled the door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust. The alley was in deep shadow; the buildings too high to admit the moonlight and no streetlamp nearby to cast away the darkness. He stood with his back to the door, listening. Off to his left, he could faintly hear the noise of the crowd gathered at the remains of the Great Hall. With his hand trailing against the alley wall for guidance, he headed to his right.

He crept along until the alley intersected a small road. Here he took a left and then a right hand turn into another alley that led him all the time further from the sounds of the crowds and away from the centre of the city. This was, in fact, the sum total of his plan at this stage; to reach the edge of the city and from there, to get well away from houses and people. Without having thought it through, Tarkyn had a vague idea that the further from Tormadell he went, the less likely people would be to recognise him or to have heard what had happened tonight.

He moved quickly and quietly through the dark streets, pulling back into the shadows to wait each time he heard a noise or saw any signs of movement. But very few people were out and about in the depth of the night so he was able to make good time. Twice a small band of soldiers marched past down a cobbled street, but the alleys provided plenty of cover at night and Tarkyn was able to draw back into doorways and remain unobserved until they passed.

At times, his nose screwed up at the smells of urine and refuse that wafted at him through the darkness. Once, he tripped over a pile of rubbish and his foot clanged loudly against a metal drum. An upstairs window opened abruptly and the tousled head of a middle aged woman popped out, “Who’s down there making all that noise?”

Another window opened and a raucous voice demanded, “What’s going on? Who’s sneaking around my back gate?”

Tarkyn stood still in the shadows, scarcely breathing. Suddenly a cat broke cover and, with a bloodcurdling yowl, tore off down the alleyway.

“Oh! Bloody cats! I might have known,” The owner of the first voice slammed the window down in disgust and retreated. The second window banged shut in answer.

Tarkyn waited, hunkered down beside the metal drum, until he was sure that all was quiet again. A lot of cats in Tormadell, he thought, before feeling his way carefully past the offending metal drum and resuming his journey.

By the time he had neared the edge of town, he found he was moving more surely and realised that the first faint touch of dawn was showing him the details of the buildings around him and the cobbles beneath his feet. He noticed with distaste the grime ground into the walls of three storey dwellings, gates hanging askew and rotting food scraps strewn carelessly into the alley. Everywhere around him were signs of poverty and decay. Anyone who lived there would have seen that, in fact, some of the buildings were well kept; clean and recently painted. But Tarkyn, overwhelmed by his first sight of the poorer quarters of town, was horrified.

His next disquieting discovery was that many people rose a lot earlier than he did. Even on mornings when he made an extraordinary effort to rise early to go hunting, he still left his bed well after sunrise. He was aware that his servants had to be up before him but he had somehow assumed that their early rising was peculiar to their profession. Yet out here in the town, many people were appearing on the streets well before the sun had risen.

And with the brightening light, Tarkyn was in real danger. The safety of his dark back alleys was being stripped from him minute by minute. At any time, someone could give him a second look and recognise him. And his travelling cloak, beautifully tailored from fine russet-dyed wool and embroidered with silver thread, although workaday by his standards, stood out like a beacon of excellence among the clothes of tradesmen.

For the time being, he could think of nothing to do but keep his hood up, his head down and walk on, looking for somewhere to lie low as he went. As a strategy, this was destined for failure.

He had not gone two blocks before he became aware that someone was quietly following him. As he passed a side alley he caught a glimpse of a slight, ragged figure running parallel with his course in the next alley along and another creeping up through the shadows towards him. When a larger figure appeared in the mouth of the alley ahead of him, Tarkyn gave up all hope of passing undetected, backed himself up against the side wall and waited.

In all, there were five of them; two tough-looking men, an even tougher-looking old woman and two scrawny teenagers; a boy of about fourteen and a girl of thirteen. They closed in on him slowly until they stood just beyond arm’s length in a semi-circle around him.

The silence lengthened but none of them made a move towards him. Eventually Tarkyn, never good at waiting, cleared his throat and asked, “May I help you?”

The taller man guffawed, “Oh, that’s a good one. Can he help us?” He turned to his companions, “What do you think? Can he help us?” Suddenly he turned back to the prince and snarled, revealing yellowed, jagged teeth, “Of course you can bloody help us. You’re rich. We’re poor. We want your money.”

It dawned on Tarkyn that they would not believe him if he told them that he had none. So instead he said, “I can imagine you might. You certainly look to be in need of a good meal and decent clothes. Perhaps we could come to some arrangement.”

“Perhaps we could.” The old woman’s mouth stretched into a sneer as she drew a long knife from within her skirts. “We can agree to let you live, if you agree to give us your money.”

His would-be attackers saw a slight smile appear within the hood’s shadow. “That was not quite the arrangement I had in mind.”

The smile unnerved them. Suddenly the boy asked, “Where’s your sword? Someone like you usually has a sword.”

The smile broadened. “I only use my sword for show. I find it a clumsy weapon and have no need of it to defend myself.”

“Hmp. Dad uses magic to fight too, you know. So don’t think you’re safe.”

Although the thieves were unaware of it, Tarkyn did not want to use his shield or his attacking power. His magic’s colour was unique and would give away his identity as surely as his physical appearance would. He inclined his head, “Thank you for warning me, young man. And what about the rest of you?”

“Shut yer face, you stupid lad!” The shorter man cuffed the boy across the back of the head before snarling at Tarkyn, “Don’t think we’re going to tell you what magic we each have. We’re not. You don’t need to know about us. All you need to know is that we all carry knives and know how to use them.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. This looks to be a rough area. I can imagine you might need to defend yourselves.”

The two men looked baffled as their attempts to intimidate Tarkyn were met with frustration. The old woman sighed in irritation, and snapped, “Idiots! Don’t stand there talking. Get his purse.”

As the thieves surged forward, Tarkyn waved his hand and incanted, “Shturrum.”

They froze where they stood. Tarkyn then bodily lifted the girl to hold her against him, facing outwards. With a flourish he produced his hunting knife and, with the eyes of his victims following his every move, placed the knife carefully against her throat. He could feel the coarse material of her dress, stiffened with dirt, beneath his hand as he waved his fingers to release his spell. He had not mistaken the thieves’ closeness. With the girl in his power, the rest of the family backed off.

“Now, about that arrangement we were discussing…”

Half an hour later found them in a disused, partly demolished warehouse, down near the river. Tarkyn noted the pitiful rags and scrounged implements of their belongings piled against a wall. Threadbare blankets were strewn in cleared patches in the rubble. They were not very clever thieves, he decided.

Tarkyn still held the girl in front of him. With his face in the shadow of his hood and the knife at the girl’s throat, his tall, cloaked figure exuded menace. The other four thieves stood around him, taut and wary, waiting for the slightest opportunity to recover their kin.

“And now that we are safely out of view, we can talk.” Tarkyn studied their thin, sullen faces. “You seem to have a lean, hungry look about you. Perhaps you need to eat first.”

“We was just off to pinch something from the baker’s when we spotted you, prime for the picking…at least that’s what we thought.” The boy scuffed his foot in the dust. His shoe was coming apart at the seams and the sole was hanging off at the front.

“I see. Perhaps I can do something about that.” Tarkyn glanced at the old woman. “Now, I wish to make you a proposition. Although at the moment, I hold the balance of power, I do not hold all the knowledge and so I will listen if you raise objections. Do you understand?”

“Some of us are not as stupid as others,” said the old woman acerbically. “State your terms.”

“I need something sold for me. In return, I will give you one half of its value. Unless I am much mistaken, even that will set you up for life.”

The old woman folded her arms, “And why would you pay us when you don’t need to?”

He looked around at their squalid living conditions. “Because I am not a thief and will pay you for your services. Besides, you are right. You are poor and need the money.”

“And if we agree to do this, will you let my granddaughter go unharmed?”

Tarkyn shook his head regretfully. “Not until you have delivered all of the money to me with a receipt from the buyer. And in addition, I will need to be safely out of town before I let her go. I don’t want you sneaking up on me again as soon as my back is turned.”

The old woman glanced a query at the two men and received brief nods in return. “Yeah, we agree.” She spat on the ground, “Don’t have much choice, do we? What do you want sold?”

“Just a minute,” Tarkyn stood up, transferred his knife to his right hand, and held the tip of it against the girl’s ribs so that he could free up his left hand to feel in his pocket and rummage through the leather purse. After considerable fumbling through larger pieces, his hand finally closed on a small diamond pin that he used to hold his necktie in place.

As he withdrew his hand from his pocket, the girl took her chance on his divided attention. She yanked herself to her left and around, driving her right arm back towards him. A small knife flashed in her hand. All Tarkyn could do in time to avoid the knife was to let her go and jump backwards out of range. At the same time the two men came at him from either side, the grandmother closed in beside the girl and the boy circled around to come at him from the back. With the thieves so spread around him, Tarkyn could not use his freezing spell on all of them. The girl swivelled into a crouch, her eyes filled with hatred, ready to slash up at him. No use now, thought Tarkyn, to tell her that I would not have harmed her.

Then, as Tarkyn stood balanced on the balls of his feet, preparing for the inevitable attack, the fire died in her eyes and she sank to kneel on one knee. Slowly, she turned her knife and presented the hilt.

“Your Highness, forgive me,” she whispered. “I would never have attacked, if I’d known it was you.”

The grandmother put her hands to her mouth and gasped before she too sank to her knees. The two men, a little slower on the uptake, sent puzzled glances at the two women before turning to stare at him. Then they too knelt before him.

Belatedly, Tarkyn realised that his hood had fallen down as he had jumped backwards. “Oh blast,” he murmured to himself, unmoved by their obeisance, “This was not my intention at all.”

Neither the prince nor the thieves found it at all strange that they who defied the law on one hand, could still revere the royal family on the other. But now Tarkyn was in a real dilemma. Obviously the family knew nothing about the events at the Great Hall, but as soon as they ventured forth into the market place, they would hear. While he pondered what to do, a slight sound from behind made him spin around just as the boy’s arm whipped forward. Tarkyn ducked, even as the men shouted, “No. Stop!” and a knife whistled over his head to lodge in a wooden upright, only inches to one side of the women.

“No. You stupid boy!” yelled his father, desperation in his voice. “Don’t you know your own prince? Get down on your knees and beg his forgiveness.”

Dawning understanding of what he had just done brought horror to the son’s eyes as his gaze swung wildly from father to prince. Knowing he had just committed a hanging offence, he turned on his heel and bolted.

Tarkyn was not sure that a clear command would penetrate the boy’s panic so he murmured “Shturrum,” and dropped the boy in his tracks. “Bring him to me,” he said quietly.

“Please, Your Highness,” pleaded the father, “He was behind you. He didn’t realise who you were.”

“I said, ‘Bring him to me,’” repeated Tarkyn evenly.

It occurred to none of them that, at five to one, the odds were still stacked well in the thieves’ favour. Centuries of rule by the Tamadil family had elevated its members to almost omnipotent status in the minds of the common people. Tarkyn removed his spell and waited until the man and his son were knelt before him. Tears rolled down the boy’s face, leaving pale streaks on his dirty face while beside him, the father’s face was a mask of misery. For the longest minute of their lives, the prince looked down on them silently.

Then he said, “You did well to do as I asked.” The father looked, if anything, more stricken, until Tarkyn added gently, “I would not be so cruel as to force a man to bring his son to his own execution.”

Relief washed over the father. “Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you.”

Tarkyn considered them, kneeling before him, “It is not just your son who has transgressed against me. You know, don’t you, that all your lives should be forfeit. But because you did not know who I was, I will not exact that punishment. Equally, for reasons I will explain later, I will not turn you over to the city watch.”

“See? He’s a fine young prince, he is,” cackled the grandmother, a hysterical edge of relief in her laughter. “He’s kind, this one. That’s why he’s the best loved of the royal brothers.”

Tarkyn was startled, but after a moment’s reflection, smiled wryly to himself. Even if that were true yesterday, it won’t be today.

“Here, grandmother. Let me help you up.” As he put out his hand and drew the old woman to her feet, he could see that, much as she tried to hide it, it was a struggle for her to get herself up off her stiff knees.

“Thank you, Sire.” She cocked a sharp eye at her sons, “You two could learn some manners from His Highness here.”

The taller man grunted, still on his knees, “You don’t have to kneel for us in the first place.”

Tarkyn raised his eyebrows and the man muttered an apology and subsided into silence. “The rest of you may also rise.” He turned to the girl and offered her his hand, “And I am sorry that I treated you so poorly. It is not my usual practice to intimidate young ladies. I hope you were not too afraid. I would never have hurt you.”

The teenager blushed at being called a young lady then nodded casually, “Yeah, I didn’t think you would, Your Highness.” In response to Tarkyn’s evident surprise, she explained, “You were not very rough, you know. And half the time you forgot to hold the knife against my throat. Your hand kept dropping. And even when you did, you did it gently.”

“Hmm. Well, I must say it is not a skill I wish to develop.” Tarkyn shuddered inwardly at the experience of violence that lay behind her casually uttered words. He sat down on the large block of stone and crossed his ankles, “So now that you know who I am, we may need to renegotiate our terms.”

The grandmother bowed, “Of course, Your Highness. You have only to request it, and it shall be done.”

“Blast!” muttered the shorter man to his brother, “I thought we was onto a bit of a winner here.”

Tarkyn raised his eyebrows, “I beg your pardon?”

The shorter man pulled his forelock, “Beg pardon, Your Highness.” He glanced sideways and murmured, “Sharp ears.”

“Very sharp,” said Tarkyn, “And I would appreciate it if you would refrain from making little asides in my presence.” He waited for them to absorb this. Several glances passed between them but when they refrained from speaking, he nodded, “Good. And now, to return to our negotiation. I will not renege on our previous agreement. You will still receive one half of the value of this,” here he held up the diamond pin, “on delivery to me of the money and receipt.” He gave a faint smile, “So you may still make your profit.”

“You are a true man of honour, Your Highness,” said the taller man, still grateful for his son’s life.

“Of course I am. And despite your profession, I expect you to be men and women of honour also, in your dealings with me.”

The taller man’s chest swelled with pride, but the grandmother glanced contemptuously at her son. She had heard token words like these before.

Tarkyn crossed his arms. “And now there is something I need to tell you before you venture forth on my behalf. You may be seated while you listen.” He waited until they settled themselves on various tumbled chunks of masonry. Now that the time had come to tell them, Tarkyn was almost unable to continue. After a moment, he drew a deep breath and began, “Yesterday, during the Harvest Tournament, a shaft of my power went wide and hit a spectator stand. The stand was knocked awry but no one was hurt. In fact, after the initial panic, everyone climbed back onto it to watch the rest of our match. But…” He took another deep breath, “But the king brought me up on charges, because of it.”

Tarkyn stood up and began to pace back and forth, ignoring the little intakes of breath that he had heard. After a few moments he turned to his small audience and said, “And I did not accept his judgement. I threw up my shield and after that…well… after that, everything went a bit haywire and most of the Royal Guardsmen were killed and the Great Hall opposite the Palace was completely destroyed,” he finished in a rush, grimacing.

Five pairs of round eyes stared at him from slack faces.

“You defied the king?” the taller man breathed. “In public?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“So that was why you were alone and kept your hood up,” said the boy, pleased that a puzzle had been explained for him.

Tarkyn nodded.

“And the Great Hall has been destroyed?” asked the shorter man, eyes wide with astonishment. “What? You mean, gone? Completely gone?”

Unconsciously, Tarkyn wrapped his cloak around himself against the onslaught of their reactions. “Pretty much. There is only a big pile of rubble left.”

“You must have put up one almighty struggle,” said the shorter man, in some awe. “And killing all the king’s guards too. Wow! That is some feat.”

Tarkyn frowned. “No. It wasn’t like that.” He hunched deeper into his cloak “All I did was raise my shield. But something went wrong with it, and instead of blocking, it reflected back their own weapons at them… and at the walls. I didn’t intentionally kill anyone.”

“I’d hate to see you try, then,” quipped the shorter man, who did not count sensitivity among his virtues.

“Yes, you would,” said Tarkyn coldly.

“Now, stop it, Gillis. I beg your pardon for my son’s behaviour, Your Highness. He never has known when to stop.” The old woman sent a scalding glance at her errant son before beginning to talk to the prince in a soothing voice, almost as though she were calming a wild animal. “Hmm. I expect those guards’ deaths must have been quite shocking for you. You probably knew some of them personally. And you know, I had you down as a pretty harmless sort of a character.”

Tarkyn’s eyes gleamed in appreciation of her tactics as he replied, “You can never know what a man might do when he is desperate. But you are right. I am a pretty harmless sort of a character. It saddens me that those guardsmen lost their lives.” He gave a rueful smile, “And I could not have hurt your granddaughter.”

With a conscious effort Tarkyn pushed his cloak back and sat down, spreading his hands wide. “So there you have it.” It went against all his instincts and upbringing to present himself for comment to anyone but the king. But he had never been in such an invidious position before and could think of nothing else to do, if he wanted their help.

The taller man gave a small chuckle, “You’re in one bloody great pickle then, aren’t you, my lord?”

The shorter one whistled, “And you thought we were bad. We’re just petty thieves. But you, Your Highness! You’ve committed high treason, and destroyed a whole public building… Well, they’ll say you did, whether you did or not. You’re in a league of your own.”

“And you’re no master criminal, that’s for sure,” cackled the old grandmother. “You’ve cut the ground from under your feet, good and proper. Now we know you won’t hurt Morayne and probably not any of the rest of us either. You’re too much of a gentleman, Your Highness. Not wise to have told us that.”

The prince considered her, unsure whether she spoke a warning or a threat. After a moment he shrugged and gave her a faint smile, “I have placed my fate in your hands and my faith in your honour. Was that so unwise?”

She stared at him, stunned. And as she thought about it, she realised that what he said was true. He was no longer using force. And hard upon that came the realization that no one outside the family, let alone a prince, had ever even conceived that she might be honourable, let alone staked his or her life on it.

“You really have, haven’t you?” A slow smile appeared on her sharp, wrinkled face. The grandmother put hand on her heart and bowed. “No, Your Highness, that was not unwise. You do us great honour and we will live up to your faith in us.”

A short time later, Tarkyn heard her berating her tribe as they left, “Now, not a word to anyone. Do you understand? I know this is the biggest news we’ve ever had but we can’t tell people. Not anyone. Got it?”

There then followed a long, tedious wait. Tarkyn prowled the inside perimeter of the warehouse, then paced back and forth across the floor until he felt he knew every stone and scrap of rubbish intimately. He tested the rear doors and found that they were all locked. The only way out was through the gaping front door at the front of the building. If his thieving family brought back the city guard, he was trapped.

He considered using a blast of magic to destroy a lock in a back door but he hesitated to betray his uncertainty in their honour. Sooner or later they, and in particular the old grandmother, would notice what he had done.

After two hours, his nerves were worn thin with apprehension. He crossed to the front door for the umpteenth time and peered out from within the shadows. Always there were people within his line of sight, carrying goods down to the river docks or hurrying about their business. And everywhere he could see animated knots of people standing and talking in the morning sunshine, arms waving in graphic description. Even from a distance, it was clear that last night’s events were dominating the town.

Tarkyn sighed and retired into the gloom of the derelict warehouse to sit dispiritedly against a wall. He pulled his hood up and tried to doze, knowing he had slept little last night and would have to travel again tonight. But he was too much on edge and every slight sound from outside jerked him back to wakefulness. After a while, he gave up and renewed his prowling.

Finally, when the sun was near its zenith, the taller man slipped quietly into the warehouse. He gestured for Tarkyn to be quiet and to follow him to a dark recess at the rear of the building. He shrugged a heavy bag off his shoulder before bowing briefly to the prince.

“Where have you been?” hissed Tarkyn. “And where are the others?”

“Your Highness, soldiers are everywhere. We had to travel far across town in case someone wondered where we got your pin. Then we split up and are all coming back by different routes, making sure we’re not followed. Your life wouldn’t be worth a small tasty sausage out there at the moment.” He glanced sympathetically at the prince. “You’re worth just as much dead as alive to the king, and most people want you dead.”

Although he had known this would happen, still Tarkyn’s stomach knotted. “And how much is the reward?” he managed to ask casually.

The taller man’s mouth quirked in a half smile, “I don’t rightly know, Sire. Town criers came through earlier this morning and they’ll be posting up notices this afternoon. But rumours are flying so hard and fast that it’s difficult to tell what the town criers actually said.”