Mordeth

By Michael Staudinger

Mordeth, Book One of the Keshian Trilogy, is the story of the boy Mincha and his rise to power as the despotic ruler of the land of Kesh, a land deeply rooted in the three magics - earth, air, and fire - and a fourth, more sinister one: Darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Staudinger
• Release date: Jan 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452420660

Michael Staudinger

Michael is a native of Washington State, where he currently resides, surrounded by vineyards and sagebrush.

Book preview

Mordeth

Book One of the Keshian Trilogy

Michael C. Staudinger

Copyright 1987, 2011 by Michael C. Staudinger

Smashwords Edition

For Christopher

Prologue. An Old Nursery Tale.

Tralaina's eyes were fogged by cataracts; her voice, a claw scraping against the air. But the children gathered in the warmth of the telling-room fire didn't seem to care. Elbows, knees and hands competed for the right to be closest to her. Tralaina was ancient -- many of the children claimed as old as Elvathain itself -- and if her craggy features seemed to hint of that mythic mountain, it only made her more magical. She sat rigid in her high-backed rocker, both slippered feet flat on the ground, her gnarled and age-blotched hands folded neatly in her lap. She wore a simple white blouse and ankle-length skirt, soft in spite of their coarse weave, so clean they seemed to radiate as much light as the fire crackling on the hearth. On her collar just below her left ear was embroidered a single blue flower, the mountain ciandith, the badge of the storyteller.

Will you tell us about Mithra again? a tall, dark-eyed girl asked. A small boy behind her tugged at her arm, and she turned and swatted him..

No! Tell us about Ratha! the boy shouted. Tell us about how he called the hawks down from the sky!

No! No! another cried. Tell us about the dragons! Tell us that!"

Yet a fourth child called out to her: Tell us about how bad Mordeth was, and how he deserved his death!

Tralaina's warm smile faded as a cloud of ancient memory suddenly covered her face. "None deserve death, Little One, she said, her voice cracking like old leather. Not even the Dark Mage."

Even the little boy pulling at his sister's sleeve grew still when Tralaina spoke. Those who had been standing sunk down onto the rag-weave rug that covered the oak floor. Clear eyes -- blue and brown and green -- widened as the spell began. Tralaina was using the power of her Voice, the gift of the storyteller.

None deserve death, she repeated, but some still choose it. And even those, sometimes, cannot help but take that road. It is a thing you must each learn.

Tralaina reached out a hand and stroked the fine blond hair of the girl sitting at her feet. A child's not born good or evil. We choose our road, to the right or to the left. But if a dragon stood in the left, what one of us would not choose to take the right? We make our choices, some for good and some for ill. We may judge those who have chosen before us, but who among us might not have done the same?

Her chair was rocking now, and her hands moved slowly on her lap, as if she were kneading some invisible ball. The mother of the girl at the story-teller’s feet entered the room with a steaming mug and placed it in the empty space between Tralaina's palms. The old woman nodded her thanks and touched the cup to her lips.

Who among us? she asked as she brought the cup down to her lap. Who among us all?

PART I: TWO ROADS

Chapter 1. Birthings.

Gemayal looked out over the waters of the bay, trying to distinguish where the gray of ocean became the gray of morning sky. Not far off, a gull's voice raked across the air, disturbing the small harbor of quiet he had managed to find on the beach. Gemayal picked up a stone and threw it angrily at the bird.

Must you fight everything, Gemayal? chastised a voice from behind him.

Gemayal snapped around to face the old man, then just as suddenly dropped his eyes. "I didn't know you were there, Mor Teneth," he mumbled. He used the title due a wizard, but his tone held no respect.

Would it have mattered if you had? Teneth frowned through his billowing gray beard and began to lecture his former pupil. "The gull is Rahlah's creature, Gemayal. The Wind God is a jealous god."

Gemayal shook his head in false penitence. I'm sorry, Mor Teneth. His voice brimmed with bitterness. "You know best. You always know best." Gemayal raised his face toward the mage and narrowed his eyes, a gesture of defiance.

Must we always fight this way, Gemayal? the mage asked, although he knew he would get no answer. The young man, tall and thin as a sycyrath tree, dark as its pitch, once had been considered a candidate for the Rites, even over Teneth's protests. Teneth remembered those days. He had warned all who would listen that the young man was too impetuous, too quick to anger -- and too frightening in his demand for power. Even though Teneth had won out in the end, barring Gemayal from service to Quintah, the Holy Fire, an oppressive spirit of confrontation hung damp and cold around them. Beneath his thick robe, the old mage shivered, and willed himself to put the memory aside. Today, there were more important matters to concern them.

Come, he said, his rich, warm baritone gliding through the coolness between them. You've much on your mind today. All is forgotten.

Gemayal smiled weakly at the mage, unwilling to accept the lie, but said mockingly,Thank you, Mor Teneth. Again, you know best. The scribe scrambled up the rocks toward the old man, the shifting gravel a nervous chittering about his feet.

Teneth tried to laugh, too, hoping to hide his discomfort. Come, Gemayal, let's you and I call truce. Today our thoughts should be with Lepah. The Four know it's not every day a man's wife has a child! The old mage grunted as Gemayal accepted his hand up the last bit of the embankment.

Gemayal's brows arched above his dark brown eyes. Lepah's delivered? he asked. I have a child?

No, not yet. But soon. Very soon. Teneth clapped a hand on Gemayal's back. And in the meantime, let's you and I find something to do besides toss stones at Rahlah's kin. The Wind's too powerful an ally to treat her creatures will ill-humor.

For an instant Gemayal slipped back into a moment of his childhood, for there stood Teneth, clad in the rusty red robes that marked him apart from other men, the sign of his mastery, his graying hair a tangled mass hovering like smoke around his face. And here he stood, again a student of magic he once had been, listening to his master chastise him for some flaw in his character. Gemayal shuddered at the sudden paramnesia.

A gull's harsh scream penetrated his thoughts, and Gemayal shook loose of the spell. Teneth had the Voice, the Power of the storyteller; even now, twelve years since he had been forced from his apprenticeship, Gemayal found himself servant to that greater Power. His innards turned to stone at the memory. If only he had been more adept, he thought, then he, too, could have been Mage, could have mastered the Power of Quintah, the Flame that Burns, could have worn the red of respect, instead of being forced to use his knowledge and skill in whatever way he could. Then suddenly, he remembered that his loss of power had nothing to do with his own skill. He looked up at the true cause.

Mor Teneth already had trudged across the packed sand and was now beneath the spreading palms that lined the westward beach. The smells of salt and sand mingled in the air, swirling around them like teasing, taunting children. Reluctantly, Gemayal raced to catch the mage, but when he did, he stopped a step behind the older man. Gemayal would not press his belligerence too far this day. Yet as he stared at the mage's back, he wished all the more that he could have mastered Quintah, the Fire of Life. The scribe angrily kicked a stone from the path, sending it skittering and clattering from rock to rock.

And still you fight it? Teneth asked, turning to frown at his former student. "Can't you see how your anger devours you, like Quintah eats the dry and rotting wood? Let it go, Gemayal. Release it to the Wind. Let Rahlah carry your burden, if it's so heavy to you."

Yes, Mor Teneth, Gemayal muttered, and even as he did, he felt the swelling of rage within him. The past twelve years had rotted him, perhaps, but it was never his own fault. Around him the mages grew in power, using the Four That Bind as personal servants, choosing for themselves the best parts and leaving the rest. He had seen the mages wearing the blue of Roshah, the Sea, instructing men where to throw their nets, standing on the shore as the others did the work, then demanding payment for their paltry labor. And the brown-robed mages of Keshia, the Land, mumbling over the farmer's field for a tenth of the crop. Yes, Gemayal had witnessed the mages around him as they scoured the people like crows on a garbage heap.

And he had been refused. Teneth, his own tutor, using his Word of Power to summon the pictures and the stories, had but pretended to teach him the use of the Power of Quintah. In the end, the old mage had forsaken him, casting him out to fend for himself.

Gemayal stiffened at the memory. Before him Teneth walked, his long shadow a dagger spearing the western beach, the early morning sun igniting the red of the mage's robes. Gemayal took notice of the fine material of Teneth's robes -- smooth, unknotted material, unlike the coarse peasant's cloth that he himself wore. Gemayal's jaw clenched against the pain of injustice.

Teneth suddenly straightened and turned his head, as if catching a distant scent. Come, Gemayal, it's time, the mage said, abruptly turning back toward the village. Lepah quickens. Teneth brushed past him the way they had come, leaving the scribe to hurry behind him.

But when the hut came into view, Gemayal faltered, overwhelmed by a shame that was intensified by his anger. The wood of the outer walls was weather-beaten and gray, large strips peeling away from the planks. The windows, though clean, were so small that a jar set upon the sill would block what little light they offered to the single room inside. The roof was a tattered mass of weeds and thatch, the poorly threshed stalks having sprouted with the spring rains. Around the yard four old hens cackled and pecked at the ground, scratching for their meager breakfasts.

The anger flared again, and Gemayal turned his enraged eyes upon the cause. Teneth stood framed in the doorway of Gemayal's hut, peering through to the scene hidden within. This hovel should have been a wizard's home, Gemayal thought. He should have been able to offer Lepah more than pain and poverty. Teneth had no right to turn him away from wizardry, to deny him the red of Quintah.

Inside the hut a woman's voice called out. Don't be a fool. Close the door, mage. Lepah must concentrate.

The fire wizard pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Gemayal alone outside. The scribe scraped his foot across the ground, preparing to kick another stone across the yard. He caught himself before he struck, remembering Teneth's warning, and stood poised with one foot cocked, hovering over the stone, until with a sudden release of frustration, he let loose, sending the stone skittering into the shed with a dull thwack that scattered startled chickens and filled Gemayal with a sudden pang of remorse.

But no one came out to chastise him. Hours passed. The sun continued its steady climb in the eastern sky, and still no one came from the hut. Occasionally, Gemayal could hear the muffled groans of a woman; he thought it must be Lepah, but the voice was so full of pain that he couldn't be sure. Maybe it was Relah, the herb-mage of the village, chanting some Word of Power. Angrily, Gemayal plucked a leaf from a cocantha tree and nervously chewed it to a pulp.

The soothing power of the leaf relaxed his mind and allowed him to think, and his thoughts coalesced around the one thing that brought him joy. At least he had Lepah. Throughout his life's ordeal, there had always been that one solid anchor keeping him from casting himself upon the rocks. Even her name reassured him -- Lepah, the Pinnacle, the high point in his life. When Gemayal had been forced to leave the wizard's tutelage, Lepah had comforted him, soothing his bruised ego. She had encouraged him to use his skills in writing and computation to become a scribe. The village, knowing that he had been rejected by a wizard, had been reluctant to give him work. But Lepah's own faith and confidence washed over onto those around her like a high tide cleansing the beach. And now, the woman who had saved him from total disgrace, who had loved him when no others would, was having their child. He only wished the customs would allow him to enter and be with her.

The thought brought him back to his own rage, and he spat the cocantha leaf onto the ground. The Four Which Bind were to blame for this injustice, too, that he could not be with his wife now, when for the first time in his life, she needed him as much as he needed her. Even that small victory was denied him by the inequitable forces of the world -- those forces which Teneth drew upon and mastered, and which were forever stripped from Gemayal by the power of a single wizard. Gemayal stretched his long body out against the ground, digging his heels deep into the flesh of Keshia, hoping somehow to wound It for what It had done to him.

*****

A triangular swath of sunshine lay across the forest floor and pointed to the small house, around which giant pine and fir trees swaggered proudly in the light morning breeze. K'lena heaved the shutters wide and breathed deep the heavily scented air of the Shaleth. She stood with her palms pressed into the frame of the window, letting the sunlight spray the loose flesh of her underarms. The white cotton blouse she wore, coarse but clean and decorated with finely sewn blue mountain ciandith, cast the light fiercely back into the forest. It was the proudest day of her sixty-eight years, and she meant to savor it.

A fine day, she said. A magnificent day.

Behind her came a soft, laughing reply. You act as if you just had the baby.

K'lena turned and looked hard at the man who had spoken. He was barely more than thirty-five, with black, shoulder-length hair pulled back into a tail. His features were fine and tanned by the many hours he'd spent in the fields. He wore the symbol of his trade:a simple but heavy leather jerkin, scarred on the shoulders and left forearm, with a single thick, brown gauntlet folded neatly over his belt. Everyone in Yelu knew well Protetha, the tall, handsome hawk-master. And soon, everyone would know his son.

Well, he's as good as mine, K'lena said defensively, her mountain accent thickening with her passion. And who but myself, I'd be knowin', will be takin' care o' the lad, with you with your hawks all the day, and your lady, his mother, with her medicines? Who, I'd like to be knowin', if not for poor old K'lena? The old woman punched her fists into her hips and thrust out her ample but sagging chest.

None but you, Protetha admitted with mock humility, smiling deeply at his old friend. She had been his nurse in his own youth, and now she would be his son's.

Protetha turned and looked back into the crib. His son lay sleeping, motionless except for the soft, shallow breathing of the newborn. The child's face was red and wrinkled, and his ebon hair was sparse, but Protetha already imagined how his son would look like him. He's a beautiful one, he is, K'lena cooed, straying away from her perch at the window. She moved to the crib and smiled down into the little nest of blankets where the child slept. Then softly she said, A little one belongs in this house. Some things are meant to be.

Protetha nodded solemnly, inspecting an imaginary piece of dirt on the heavily oiled white ash crib frame. He flicked it away with his forefinger, then reached down and touched the child's forehead with his fingertips.

Blessed be the Four Which Bind, Who rule our heart and hearth and home. Fifteen years we await this child, and when our hope was all but gone, he comes into our lives. This is a blessed day.

The child stirred, found his thumb, and sucked himself back to sleep.

Blessed be this day, K'lena whispered. Blessed be this moment.

*****

The shadows around the hovel were growing short with midday when the door finally opened and Teneth stepped out into the afternoon. Gemayal picked himself off the ground, hastily dusting the seat of his pants as he approached the wizard. In the harsh light, Teneth's face appeared drawn and sallow, like a demon from the bowels of Keshia. Gemayal mouthed a Word of Power at the thought, remembering too late that it would no longer do him any good.

Have I a child? Gemayal asked, barely able to make his voice audible.

You have a child, Teneth replied, nodding slowly. A boy.

Gemayal could scarcely contain himself, his joy flowing. Lepah always has been a good wife, he cried out, slapping a hand on the mage's arm.

Gemayal. Teneth's voice was as drawn as his face, thin and brittle.

Lepah? Gemayal asked, the thrill in his voice disappearing. My wife . . . .

Is very weak. She was delirious. She could not call upon the Four to sustain her.

But she'll be all right, Gemayal begged. She'll be all right.

Teneth shook his head. No, Gemayal, I think she cannot live, he whispered. May the Four That Bind collect her to them.

No! Gemayal shouted. It can't be! You're lying to me! He pushed the old wizard aside and rushed toward the hut, throwing the door open and entering. A motionless woman lay upon a small cot in the center of the room, blankets drawn up to her slender neck. Her face was colorless as the moon, pale hair plastered to her sweating brow, and her chest rose and fell in short waves. The room smelled of blood and mortality, and the truth struck Gemayal like dragon's fire. He fell to his knees beside the pallet, taking his wife's hand.

Let her rest, came a woman's voice from behind him.

Gemayal turned to face Relah. The old woman sat in a shadowed chair beside the small hearth, a bundle of cloth clutched to her sagging bosom. Gemayal thought he could see the bundle moving, but he couldn't be sure it wasn't more than a trick of the firelight.

Is that my son? he whispered.

Yes. Relah rose from the chair and came toward him, holding out the swaddled child like an offering. Gemayal took the child from her, carrying him like one of the fragile jars the potters make. He moved beside the pallet, bending near Lepah's ear.

Our son, he said softly. Gemayal placed the baby on his wife's chest, but she made no move hold him. Relah quickly moved to the far side of the pallet, steadying the quiet child so he wouldn't roll off onto the floor.

Lepah cannot hold him, she told him. She has no strength.

Gemayal looked into the herb-mage's eyes, his brows furrowed in worry. Then you must give her something to make her stronger. Use your magic. His voice was monotone, purposefully modulated to be devoid of emotion. Gemayal concentrated as he spoke, desperately trying to master the mage's Voice, to force this woman to do his bidding. But the Power had long ago been stripped from him, and he sounded only like a man, brittle and angry.

You cannot order me to obey, Relah said hotly, realizing at once what he attempted. I will not obey your puny efforts. Your Voice is gone, no more an offense to the Holy Four. The herb-mage glared at him, anger pinking her puffy face. Behind her, the fire hissed and popped, its light casting an aura around the frenzy of silver hair surrounding the old woman's head.

But you must do something for her, Gemayal begged, ashamed and afraid for his actions.

There is nothing I can do, Relah replied, her tone softening as she looked at the woman asleep on the pallet. My magic is not strong enough to keep her from the Four That Bind.

Gemayal stared down at his wife, her face a parody of the color he knew and remembered. The Four That Bind, he spat. Earth, Wind, Water, Fire. What good are they now? Powerless and weak! Murderous thieves!

Don't speak such things, Relah scolded, quickly making a sign to ward off evil and whispering her Word of Power. Lepah's death is as her life; it is in service to the Four That Bind. Do not blaspheme. It will surely bring no good to this house.

Good? Gemayal laughed. Lepah was the only good here in this accursed village. And now you tell me you haven't power to keep her here? Weakling and coward! Gemayal began to shriek, the sound of a madman.

Relah? Teneth's voice came from the doorway, and Gemayal spun around to face it. Relah? Is something wrong? Teneth repeated.

Wrong? Gemayal shouted. Curse you both! Lepah's dying, and you ask if something's wrong? May darkness devour your souls! How can two mages be so ignorant?

Gemayal, you mustn't speak so, Teneth urged. It's dangerous speech when one is dying.

Then save her! Gemayal ordered. Use your power over Quintah to bring her fever down! Put back the spark of life into her breast! Use your power!

I . . . cannot do that, Teneth replied.

Cannot? Or will not? Lepah dies. Beauty dies. In all of Keshia there is not another like her. And you tell me you cannot help to save her? Cowards! Rotting stench! Gemayal spat furiously on the floor.

Silence! Teneth commanded, his Voice overpowering Gemayal. The scribe cowered at the incredible force, physically pushed away by it. You will seal your mouth to such blasphemy. I will hear no more of it. To use magic to interfere is forbidden. Lepah will live or die as is the will of the Four that Bind. No one may alter that.

Gemayal cowered near his wife, wanting to lash out at the old wizard, to shout defiantly at him; but the wizard’s Voice was too powerful for him to overcome. Please, he begged with barely more than a whimper. Save her.

Teneth raised his hand, holding it out to Gemayal. I cannot, he said, then let his arm fall limp to his side. I cannot.

*****

The steady wail of the child shattered the morning calm and forced Meta out of her bed. Protetha was out hunting with his hawks, and K'lena had gone to Yelu for the morning, leaving mother and child alone. Meta didn't begrudge her newborn son the meal, but she wished he could last a bit longer between them. With a deep sigh, Meta brushed her graying brown hair from her face, wrapped the old robe around her, and shuffled into the child's room.

And stopped dead in her tracks. Although the child continued to cry, Meta's eyes did not move to look at him. Instead, her entire attention was focused on the open window, where a great falcon, certainly twice the size of any that Protetha kept, perched upon the sill, watching the babe. The keen eyes of the falcon flared wide as it cocked its head to one side and considered the intruder, so that the light filtering through the forest roof and into the room caught the gold of the bird's irises and lit them afire. The great bird hunched its shoulders and spread its wings until it touched the edges of the window with its long, finger-like feathers. Meta swallowed hard and tried not to shake, for if the bird decided to attack the child, she knew there would be little she could do to stop it.

After a few moments, the giant raptor folded its wings and turned its head back to the baby. As if aware of the change in focus, the child's wail swelled into a scream. Meta allowed herself a quick glance his direction. The child's face was red with anger at being ignored, and his tiny fists were clenched and raised, but he seemed unharmed. Meta took a careful step toward the crib, watching the bird from the corner of her eye. The falcon rocked from side to side, raising first one yellow talon, then the other, in a dance of agitation. Meta held still, afraid almost to breathe. The bird swiveled its head back toward the baby and visibly relaxed.

A sudden shout from outside the cabin came like an answer to prayer. Meta? I'm home! Is everything alright? Protetha's warm baritone surrounded her with hope. But when she opened her mouth to answer, the falcon stretched out its wings in warning, so that Meta held her silence.

The door of the cabin burst open and Protetha stepped in, his left hand clutching two large hares by their ears. He let them drop to the floor when he saw the open door to his son's room. His wife stood motionless less than a step inside the doorway, and over her narrow shoulders he could see the largest peregrine he had ever seen. He stared breathlessly for a few moments before the child's scream finally pierced the fog of amazement.

Is the boy alright?

Meta nodded with as much motion as she dared.

By the Four, her husband swore, that's the biggest bird I've ever seen. No wonder my hunting pair were acting so strange. Protetha took a step nearer the bedroom door. He's beautiful.

The great bird raised its wings in protest and Protetha stopped a half step behind his wife. For the first time since he laid eyes on the falcon, Protetha felt a twinge of fear. He had seen his own hawks deftly snap the neck of a rabbit with one razor sharp talon; this creature was nearly twice the size of his largest accipitrine bird and cold just as easily slice through the flesh of his only son. Slowly, Protetha withdrew his thick gauntlet from his belt and slid it onto his left hand. He placed his free hand on his wife's shoulder and pulled her gently behind him.

Leave the room, he whispered.

His wife ignored him, but he was beyond noticing. Now Protetha was focused only on coming between the child and the hawk. He took a tentative step toward the crib.

The peregrine's curved beak parted, showing a small, pink tongue. It took in a sharp breath and let it out as a piercing note that froze Protetha where he stood. Before the sound of it had died from the forest, the child abruptly quit his wailing, which until then had been a constant siren. The immediate silence hung like a confusing haze in the room. Meta took a quick