The Blood of Kings

By C.B. Hoffman

Donan had no family, no home, no food. Until the Order of the Black Falcon takes him in, and trains him as a spy and assassin. Now his future, his duty, is to save the kingdom from the growing threat of a war over the throne. An attempt on his life by his own guild proves that no one can be trusted. Being branded a traitor proves that he is too close to the truth. Betrayed and bitter, Donan is determined to expose the real traitor, but, hunted and alone, it's a race against time. Until a surprise visit by the last wizard of the outlawed High Council gives Donan one last, desperate chance to outmaneuver those trying to kill him. But to do it, he must appear to become the traitor he's accused of being.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Weer Publishing
• Release date: Sep 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201755386

Book preview

PROLOGUE

12th of August, King’s Year 161-Sunset

The sharp wind blowing down from the mountains of Ehrengard brought the first twilight shadows with it as it swept along the course of the Appwyth River. King Elanthael turned his face into the wind for a moment, closing his eyes and wishing it would bring some healthy color into features that, for the last several weeks, had grown more and more grey and haggard and ill. He barely heard the jangle of the horses’ harnesses from where his men waited behind him as he clenched his teeth against the sudden swell of pain that burned through him from the inside out. The pains had been coming more and more frequently of late, and they left his drawn face with a film of sweat.

Urgent hoof beats jerked his attention away from the pain as two scouts pulled their mounts up abruptly in front of him. In a hurried gesture of respect, they brushed the center of their stiff, metal-studded leather breastplates with their fingers. With their voices lowered, the scouts made their report.

The king felt a wave of despair sweep the pain from his body, leaving him so weak that he swayed in the saddle. A look of sudden concern on the faces of his scouts reminded him of his men, of his responsibility to them and his infant son. With an effort, he donned his old confidence and stiffened his spine against the dire news his scouts had brought.

Only a few days before, they had said that the sorcerer, Bathlemar, had begun his march on Solium Castle. He was no longer willing to wait, it seemed, for the sorcery he had cast to end the king’s life. No doubt due to some trick of magic, Elanthael’s scouts and spies had never truly been able to determine the size of Bathlemar’s army, or even its exact location.

Elanthael had gathered his armies to move out this morning, wanting to intercept Bathlemar well below High Crossing, and now his scouts had come to report that the sorcerer was no more than a mile away across the river.

Elanthael’s lips thinned, for he could now see the first of his enemy’s ranks coming into view. They continued coming, Bathlemar’s Dar-Esai soldiers spreading like a dark stain across the emerald landscape. The army was mostly the Dar-Esai abominations created by the sorcerer, but also included men that had been made thralls.

The image of Bathlemar’s long, pale face rose before him. He could see again those features turning wooden with anger, and the dark eyes, always oddly intense, glittering with fury. The sorcerer’s fevered intensity had played a large part in Elanthael’s decision to choose the wizard Artellus as Lord High Council, rather than Bathlemar. There was something in the cunning of Bathlemar’s gaze that made his skin crawl.

The sudden, familiar pain splintered through him, and the image faded.  He ground his teeth together and forced his attention back to the battle he faced. The ground between them was a mix of woodland and meadow, mostly open, and gently rolling. He and his men had the river at their backs. There was no retreat, for they would be cut to pieces trying to re-cross it. If they were to have any room to fall back at all, they must march forward now. King Elanthael gave the order for the trumpeters to sound the advance as evening gilt edged the sky.

They moved forward. Ahead and to Elanthael’s right, no more than a quarter-mile distant, rose a hillock. He was separated from it by the ranks of the sorcerer’s army, and though he could not see him, the king knew he would find Bathlemar there, a battlefield throne from which he could watch his minions. The trumpets shot arrows of sound into the advancing dusk; the jangle of harness and the blowing and stamp of horses around him merged as Elanthael let his eyes rise to the horizon.

A few scattered wisps of clouds hung there, blood-tinted as the bottom of the reddening sun touched the horizon. He turned his gaze toward the hillock, his amber-gold eyes narrowing. He drew his sword, turned his horse sideways, and shouted to his men, You are the light of Valdaur. Let us defeat the darkness! And with his signal, the archers, now in range of the enemy, loosed their arrows. Three volleys, and the cavalry headed out at a gallop to close the gap.

Ahead of the king’s men, a roar went up from hundreds of non-human throats as the minions of Bathlemar—his Dar-Esai abominations and charmed men—leapt forward to meet the charge. Against such numbers, Elanthael knew he would be driven back, but for a few brief moments, it would be an even struggle. He swung his horse right, toward the hillock. If he could destroy Bathlemar himself, then no matter what happened to him or his army, the larger battle for Valdaur, for his son and the House of Marthalen, would be won.

He came to the right side of the line and went through a tiny gap, his heavy horse running down anything that impeded him. One of his knights peeled off to ride at his left flank, and Howard Selkirk, his faithful body-servant, rode to the king’s right. Together they drove through the lines of fierce, sub-human Dar-Esai.  The king wasted no time on them, cleaving through them with no more thought than his cook gave to butchering mutton.  Little more than fifty paces away now, the hillock rose like a tiny island above a dark sea.

Ahead of him, Elanthael could see Bathlemar himself mounted on another of his abominations, a large cat-like creature called a maruk. Just a few more seconds and he would be in the clear, with only a handful of the enemy between himself and the sorcerer. Suddenly, his horse flinched beneath him. Momentum carried them three or four more strides before the horse collapsed. Elanthael jumped clear, slashing indiscriminately as Bathlemar’s minions closed to meet him,

Fury and determination drove him forward toward the slight figure that now turned the beast he rode to meet Elanthael’s charge.  A burst of pain in his left shoulder shortened Elanthael’s stride, but he swiftly ran his sword through a tall, heavy man with a thrall’s flat-black eyes. Another two paces, and a stabbing, searing pain in his back drove the breath from Elanthael’s body, and he stumbled to his knees. He twisted around in time to face the Dar-Esai that had driven the blade of a war axe into his back, the beast’s impetus impaling it onto the king’s sword. Determination brought the king to his feet again and pushed him forward.

Half a dozen paces to go, and he watched the sorcerer’s gaunt face split in a taunting grin, Bathlemar’s emerald-green robes moving faintly in the evening breeze. Behind the sorcerer, a bloated red sun hung, split in half by the dark horizon. A shaft of fire tore through Elanthael’s body. He blinked several times and looked down. A sword had run him through, back to front, and blood flowed down the front of his blocked tabard of crimson and gold. He swayed unsteadily, then was oddly surprised to find he was on his knees, unable to turn and see who had struck him. Elanthael coughed, and there was a froth of blood. Supporting himself with his sword, the king wiped his lips with his sleeve and frowned at the broad smear of red that now stained it.

A shadow blotted out the light, and Elanthael looked up at Bathlemar, who had dismounted to stand before him. His dark eyes glistened almost feverishly as the sorcerer said, Fitting, is it not, that so great a King should be brought low by the man deemed unworthy of being named Lord High Council!  And more than a man now, Your Majesty, his voice poured like oil. For the secrets of God, one by one, are becoming mine!

Dying though he was, Elanthael felt the bile rise in his throat at the mix of vengeance, ambition, and madness in the sorcerer’s eyes. Elanthael, his voice ringing with unexpected strength, said, I die here, Sorcerer, but the blood you’ve spilled this day is a curse upon you. By all that’s holy, I vow that by this blood you shall be utterly destroyed, and...your abominations... with you.

The last came out in a hoarse whisper, and he felt himself sway, his strength suddenly gone. Color was fading from the world around him,

running out like paint and water. Still, despite the growing haziness of his vision, Elanthael could see the hatred and fury contorting the sorcerer’s face as he stepped forward.

Bathlemar threw back the sleeve of his robe, reaching out to coat his long, white fingers with the bright blood soaking Elanthael’s chest. The king heard the words of the sorcerer’s fervent chant as though from a distance; he saw without understanding as the sorcerer reached for the amulet adorning the belt that cinched his robe. As Bathlemar chanted, his blood-slick fingers stroked the amulet, and Elanthael tried to command his arms to lift his sword, to strike. But his arms were leaden, the sword suddenly too massive for even his large hands to grip. It fell away from him, and the king himself fell to the blood-soaked ground as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon.

12th of August, King’s Year 161-Nightfall

Artellus, Lord High Council for King Elanthael Marthalen, spun around as an injured and bloodied man burst into the narrow room. The wizard’s face grew tight, and a cold feeling gripped him. His Majesty has fallen! the man announced. His breaths were heavy and rasping as he handed Artellus a ring, then drooped back against the wall.

Artellus released a deep breath. What about his army?

"They’ll not hold out long, not against the sorcerer and his Dar-Esai.

Even nightfall will not save them now."

Tell me what happened.

His expression disconsolate, the man replied, "I tried to get between them, but was flung aside like a doll. I could do naught but watch while the fiend cackled over him. His Majesty died cursing him, and the sorcerer, his face grew all still, and he performed some sort of enchantment. He

smeared his fingers in the king’s blood and wrote some symbols on an amulet he wore at his belt, speaking strange words."

What did he say? Artellus asked sharply.

’Twas no tongue I’ve ever heard, Master Artellus.

Artellus went to stand in front of the king’s body-servant. Although the man was exhausted, injured, and grief-stricken, the wizard could not keep the harshness from his tone. His Majesty, then—what did he say?

The body-servant was barely able to keep himself upright against the wall. By this blood you’ve shed will you be destroyed.

Those were his exact words?

The man nodded. Aye. I lay there with his body, pretending I, too, was dead, until the battle had moved on. I brought his ring, that the prince may have it with the pendant. The man coughed painfully. His Majesty ordered us to protect the prince. What are we going to do?

Artellus said brusquely, We must get the prince away from the castle. He thought of Prince Simund, barely five months old, just down the hall.

Artellus stifled the impulse to go and face Bathlemar, despite the promise the king had wrung from him to watch over his infant son above all; despite the fact that Bathlemar had become more powerful than any of the wizards that formed the High Council. More powerful, suspected Artellus, than he himself, though they had been equals not so long ago.

Artellus thought furiously. Blood curses and enchantments were tricky things. Bathlemar had reason to believe that Elanthael’s curse could prove a threat. Though not possessed of enough wend, or spirit-focus, to be a wizard himself, Elanthael had possessed some. The stone in the ring the king wore was a fustrend, an object capable of magnifying such focus. Tied with the shedding of blood, Elanthael could possibly have enacted a curse. But what spell or enchantment had Bathlemar used to try to deflect it?

Artellus forced some of the anger from his face and smoothed out his tone. Are you able to hitch up a horse?

The man grimaced as he straightened from the wall. Aye.

Do so, while I get the prince ready to travel. A farmer’s cart, with like odds and ends. Nothing to reveal we’ve fled from the castle.

The body-servant nodded and limped from the room. Artellus followed him, heading quickly into the nursery next to the king’s own chamber. He chased out the girl attending the baby, and as she passed him, he put a hand on her shoulder and under his breath said, "Beslaep. Ofergiete."

The girl yawned, and he said to her, Go to your quarters and sleep. She left the room, and he wrapped the baby in a pair of blankets. With the baby in the crook of his arm, Artellus strode to his own chamber, not bothering to light a candle against the encroaching darkness. He hurriedly filled a large leather satchel with everything he thought he might need. He changed from his long brown robe into a plain tan tunic over brown breeches. He pulled on a brown chaperon, leaving the hood hanging down his back.

He had raided the pantry on his way out to the bailey of the castle, where the body-servant stood with a black cob hitched to an old two-wheeled cart. It appeared a simple farm cart, loaded with some sacks of grain and a few empty crates. Hurry, Master Artellus! The sentries have just now called out the enemy’s approach.

Very well. You’ve one last duty: Go into the nursery and destroy all evidence of the prince. If Bathlemar succeeds in taking the castle, he must find no evidence of a child. Only you, the nurse, and the Lord High Marshal know that the boy did not die with his mother.

What of the nurse? Will she be going with you?

Artellus shook his head, laying the baby in the bed of the cart and placing a crate over him. No, she sleeps, and she’ll recall nothing of the baby. Artellus’ lips tightened. Sorcery was a form of magic that subverted the natural order of nature. It was a terrible thing, a corruption, a magic to be avoided, but it was precisely what he had used on the babe’s nurse. He

was not skilled in such magic, and there was a chance she might not wake at all, or that her mind would be permanently addled, but it was a risk he had no choice but to take.

The wizard climbed up onto the cart, grasping the reins before he pulled his hood up to cover his black hair. He said, You’ve been a loyal servant to the king. Your last act of loyalty to him, mayhap your greatest, will be to keep the secret of his son from his enemy.

Never fear, milord. I will die with that secret.

Good luck and God keep you, Artellus replied, and he gave a cluck to set the horse in motion. What few of Elanthael’s men that had remained behind at the castle were heading out onto the hoarding to man the wall. The gatekeeper opened the gate, and Artellus coaxed the cob into a ground-eating trot down the road from the castle. As the gate and portcullis slammed shut behind him, he closed his eyes briefly against the desire to look back.

The castle would not hold, and the prince’s survival depended on them putting as much distance behind them as possible. Artellus’ lips firmed. He would have to lose them both in the anonymity of the countryside. For well over a century, the Marthalen bloodline had ruled Valdaur. Under them, particularly Elanthael, the kingdom had come to enjoy incredible peace and prosperity, but tomorrow was likely to dawn with a new ruler seated on Valdaur’s throne. Artellus could already feel a shadow falling across the kingdom’s future.

CHAPTER ONE

5th of March, King’s Year 354

Donan ran, tears of fear and hopelessness stinging his eyes, his chest hurting. He stumbled down the lane; away from the village where bodies lay, faces ash-blue, staring sightlessly into a sky where a bright sun shone oddly-grey light down upon the world. Away from the village reigned by silence, except for the church bell that tolled endlessly, even though there was no one left to ring it.

He ran along the verge and tripped over a rut, falling heavily. Donan rolled to his hands and knees, and felt his heart slam into his throat, choking him. Less than a foot away lay the body of a woman, her face shrunken, her eyes and her open mouth wide pits of darkness. Clutched to her was the body of her infant, the tiny face a macabre imitation of the mother’s.

Donan’s head jerked erect, and he realized he had dozed. He huddled more deeply into the shadow of a darkened doorway as he pulled his wet and muddy rags around his shaking body. He wondered if the footsteps growing louder on the wet, mud-streaked cobbles were those of a Watchman, or an opportunity. He hunched away from the rain, biting his lip as hunger clawed relentlessly in his stomach. If only magic had not been outlawed, he thought, for then he could hope the person approaching would prove a benevolent wizard that would whisk him away to a room of warmth and light, and a table laden with food.

Guilt settled in a lump in his throat. A selfish wish, when he should, instead, have wished to erase the last several months,

so that the flux had never ravaged his village and the nearby countryside. His wish should have been that he was back toiling with his father in the fields, and wrestling and arguing with his brother, and that he had not been left facing the winter with no family and no home. And now, weeks later, stumbling through the gates of Solium, starving. The footsteps were loud now, drawing him to the edge of the doorway.  Not a wizard, but not a member of the City Watch, either. Indeed, an opportunity. The man wore the plain tunic and breeches of a servant, topped by a worn and tattered cloak. He walked with his shoulders hunched against the damp and unseasonable cold of the spring night, carrying a basket in each hand with stiff arms. Donan guessed he had been to the markets earlier, and he tensed as the man drew nearer. 

The servant drew even with the doorway, and Donan stepped out as though he had not seen him coming. They collided, the man grunting, then muttering a curse as one of his baskets jarred loose from his grasp, despite his best efforts to keep it.  Summoning up a stammer, Donan said, Begging pardon, sir, I did not see—

Filthy scut! Back to the gutter wi’ ye! the man cut him off, uttering a stream of profanity as he eyed the several small apples that had rolled into the dirty street.

Curses mattered little if unaccompanied by blows, and Donan scrambled to pick up the apples, sneaking three of them into his shirt. He rubbed off the last apple with a grimy sleeve and proffered it reluctantly to the man. He snatched it away, shook a basket-laden fist, and said, Damned whorespawn! He then stepped around the boy like he would a pile of filth to stalk on down the street.

Donan shook the greasy ropes of dark hair from his eyes and quickly checked the street for on-lookers before scuttling back into his doorway. He crouched in the corner, took an apple from his shirt, and ate it so swiftly that he nearly choked. The second and third he ate with only slightly more care, and his tattered sleeve left a broad smear of dirt on his chin as he wiped away the juice. His stomach was still knotted with hunger, and he knew he would remain awake with the sharp cramps long into the night. In truth, he cared little whether he slept, for that was when the dreams came.

Usually, his dreams began in a disjointed jumble, with vague faces and echoes of voices. Sometimes he found himself in the warmth of the

kitchen at home, the smell of fresh bread and meat making his mouth water. Other times, the dreams began with his father’s smiling face, his eyes crinkled against the sun. But images of warmth and comfort always faded to become what had come after: silence and stillness and unseeing eyes wide open to the sky.

Donan remained crouched in the corner. He did not want the memories any more than he wanted the dreams. His hand went to the pendant hidden beneath his shirt, touching it briefly through the filthy fabric. Of a golden metal and incredibly detailed, it was a dragon twice the size of his thumb, suspended from a chain. His father had given it to him just a few months before. Other than the clothes on his back, the pendant and his mother’s small, silver cup were the only two things with which he had fled the village.

The impulse struck him again to take the pendant into the marketplace and see what he could get for it, as he had done with

his mother’s cup. The pendant would bring coin that would put food in his belly. The temptation faded, despite the pain in his stomach. His father, with barely the strength to clasp Donan’s hand in his, had given him the pendant. Take this, Donan, he had said. Never part with it, for you and this pendant are all that’s left of our family, now. The great Elanthael himself gave this, a symbol of integrity and wisdom, to our ancestors. You must, when the time comes, give it to your own son.

At least a dozen times since, Donan had considered selling it, but even yet, he could not bring himself to part with it. His eyes burned, and embarrassment that they did so burned even more as he scrubbed his face ferociously with a filthy hand. The rain, it was, dripping into his eyes from the eaves and making them sting. He tried to settle more comfortably, but then thought he heard someone else coming along the street. He shifted nearer the edge of the doorway, wanting to see without being seen.

A man strode up the street with long, determined strides. Dressed entirely in black, he was merely a faint silhouette until he came past the line of light spilling from behind a warped shutter from a building along

the street. A gust of wind swirled his cloak back, revealing both a purse and a glint of metal at his belt. Donan took a step back into the doorway, pressing against the rough wall as he chewed a knuckle. The man strode past and had gone several paces when the boy slid into the darkened street behind him.

A short distance ahead, an alley branched off from the main street, wound its dark and muddy way into lesser streets, and led, ultimately, to a warren of blighted buildings along a maze  of refuse-strewn alleys. The alley was unlit, leaving the intersection utterly dark, and he quickly drew nearer the man ahead.

As the figure turned the corner, Donan snaked past, his grimy hand reaching for the purse. He held his breath as his fingertips touched the leather, but then it shot out in a gasp when he suddenly found his wrist locked in a painful grip. Before he could draw a breath, he was jerked to a halt, and the edge of a dagger was pressed against his throat. Afraid to move, feeling the bite of the blade with every heartbeat, he stared blindly up into a face obscured by shadow.

The man made a sound, a growl that could have been impatience or disgust, and the dagger disappeared. The crushing grip did not. Donan ignored his tingling fingers, drawing himself up as he tried to pull his wrist free. The man spoke then. Not the expected curses, but a quiet, even tone that was as cold and hard in Donan’s ears as the blade of the dagger had been against his throat. ’Tis a fool that tries to pluck the hawk rather than the chicken, Boy.

Donan’s shoulders slumped. The man had caught him outright. Any hope that he would think Donan worthy of pity had died abruptly at his tone. His eyes were on level with the center of the man’s chest, and it was a struggle to get them up to his face, but Donan managed it. He said, Beg pardon, sir, but I hunger and have no coin for food.

Where is your family? the man asked, his tone unchanged. I have none. The flux struck our village last harvest.

Donan could feel the man’s eyes piercing him through the darkness, and he swallowed as the hold on his wrist relaxed slightly.

There are few who, untrained, show such skill in remaining unseen, Boy. Though, such a sliver of a scarecrow as you are would be difficult enough to see, even in the light. How old are you?

Donan doubted that any lie about his age would sway this man, but he said, Nine years, master. Defiantly, he thought that it was time that being small for his age proved a boon rather than a disadvantage. There was no reason to admit that, in a couple of months, twelve years would have passed since he had been recorded in the Appwyth parish register as Donan John, son of John the Younger, of Charing.

The man said nothing, holding Donan’s wrist as he stared off into the darkness.

Donan tried a second time to pull free, desperate to get away before the man sought out the Watch. The man’s eyes raked over him again, one corner of his mouth pulling downward in an expression Donan thought could be either distaste or disdain. A bolt of resentment stiffened his spine. His chin jerked up as he glared and demanded, Let me go! I’ve no need of your pity!

The man’s expression changed, smoothing out to a look of cool speculation. ’Tisn’t pity I offer, for I’ve little enough of that. I may know of a place for you, a guild that may have use for the likes of you. Or not. Mayhap they’ll drown you as runt of the litter.

Donan ignored the gibe. What sort of guild?

The Order of the Black Falcon.

Donan shrugged sullenly. A sense of familiarity tickled his memory, as though he might have heard of it somewhere before. Suddenly suspicious, he said, I’ve heard nothing of such a guild. What sort of trade is it?

Aye, you are but lately come from the countryside. No matter. Should they prove willing to take you as an apprentice, know only that they’ll demand much of you. He let go of Donan’s wrist. "Follow, if you

will, he said. If not, stay with plucking chickens." Without another word, he turned and started down the muddy alley.

Donan stood for a moment, unable to believe he was free. He glanced back in the direction of his sheltering doorway. Another gust of wind swirled down the street, pushing the misting rain, and he shivered at the chill of it. He had heard horror stories of apprenticeship. Slavery, more like. But there would be food, and a place to sleep that was warm and dry. He could tolerate slavery—for a while, at least. Just until his belly was no longer plastered to his backbone, when the weather was warmer, and he was not freezing in the streets.

He frowned at the man’s back. In a few more seconds, he would be out of sight. Mayhap this guild could teach him something that would provide him with some sort of living. The man seemed one of authority. Mayhap, one day, Donan could be one, too. Anything was better than scrabbling for scraps of bread and shivering beneath indifferent eyes. He ran to catch up and fall into place behind the dark-clad man.

Donan lost count of the alleys and lanes, stumbling along through the cold mud on nearly-numb feet. They came to a broader, cobbled street, turned into it, and followed it to abuilding at the end. A torch hissed against the damp, revealing a banner over a doorway. Depicted on it was a large black bird of prey with a wickedly-hooked beak and outstretched claws, its wings half-spread. Above the bird were the words I am the Sword.

Donan stared up at the banner and asked, Those words—what do they mean?

That is something for you to discover. Now, what’s your name?

Donan, he answered, his eyes still on the banner.

Aye then, Donan, you may call me Master Gavin. Hold your tongue and say naught, unless Guildmaster Barclay speaks to you directly.

They entered a small room with a long, low bench along one wall, and wooden pegs above it. A boy not much older than Donan stood in shadow near the door. A porter, apparently, who had replied to Gavin’s knock with, Hail, the door! though Gavin had opened the door himself as he replied,

One of the brethren. The porter, his eyes fastened curiously on Donan, subsided back into the shadows beside the door as Gavin unfastened his wet cloak and hung it on a peg.

Gavin led the way past a nearly-spent candle in a niche near the doorway into another room with three scarred tables and benches, and a sideboard along the wall. At the other end of the long, narrow room, Donan could just see an iron-banded door. Gavin made his way through the darkened room with easy familiarity. They neared the iron-banded door, and a narrow staircase appeared in the deep shadow next to it.

The stairs opened into a large room with a bare wooden floor. A pair of squat, thick candles burned in iron sconces on the wall at the opposite end of the room.  Closest to the stairs stood three poles wrapped in padded sacks, crude imitations of a man’s body. In the center, a rough circle of whitewash was splashed upon a floor scarred by scores of boots. At the other end, four targets stood near a weapon rack holding a variety of swords, and even a pair of crossbows.

Donan’s steps slowed as he stared curiously at the circle and the sparring dummies, until an impatient sound from the man he followed dragged his attention away. Gavin was across the room, waiting at another doorway near the candles, and another tapestry depicting the fierce black bird. Donan hurried to his side.

The room they entered seemed nearly filled by an old desk, and the man seated behind it with a booted foot resting on the edge. The sleeves of his linen shirt, exposed by the sleeveless leather jerkin he wore, were rolled to bare his wrists as he studied a piece of parchment.

The man looked up, as expressionless as a stone. The light from the single candle on his desk flickered over his bold, rectangular face. He had a prominent, hooked nose and a heavy jaw. Deep-set eyes, dark and cold beneath thick, arched brows, accentuated his hard expression. Such a face would set the unmarried village girls to chattering, but Donan felt himself shrinking back at the man’s expression. He stiffened his spine when the movement brought those eyes sharply to him. A derisive gleam flickered in

them as the black gaze cut past Donan’s muddy, frayed breeches and tunic that were both far too big. They saw beyond the matted dark hair and the gaunt, dirt-streaked face, leaving him feeling like he stood naked in the square.

The head of the Order of the Black Falcon set the parchment aside and leaned back slightly, his lips lifting in a faint sneer and his eyes shifting to the man called Gavin as he said, I expect you to bring me a report, and you bring me a stray. Is this your mongrel, Gavin? His voice was deep and had a rusty sound to it, as though it were seldom used.

The tone bordered on insulting, and Donan flashed a sideways glance at the man beside him, wondering if he would find himself caught in a fight between the two.

Gavin’s tone was neutral when he replied, You’ll have my report. As far as the boy, he shows a certain talent, Guildmaster.

The man’s face tightened slightly as he made a dismissive gesture. Do you confuse me with the Archbishop? ‘Tis the Church that has a love for foundlings and orphans. I’ve no interest in suckling babes. By the looks of him, if he’s not too young, then he’s too sickly. Or mayhap lack-witted. Guildmaster Barclay’s eyes were sharp, and Donan sensed tension in Gavin, though he outwardly appeared relaxed.

I’d not have brought the boy here without cause. If he’s too young to begin training, then send him to Old Will. It goes hard for him these days. Let him take the boy, and he shall have the help he needs, and you’ll have the benefit of the old man’s opinion of him.

Old Will is as tough as bull-leather. Barclay paused, then exhaled sharply through his nose and said, You are, in truth, your brother’s keeper, Gavin! Take the boy to Will, then; the old man can keep the whelp if it pleases him—I care not. He picked up the parchment again and, flicking a whiplash glance at Donan over the top of it, said, I make no promises that the boy will become an apprentice.

They were dismissed, but the guildmaster’s eyes returned to Gavin, and he said curtly, If Old Will has no use for the boy, get rid of him. And, don’t forget that I’m waiting on your report.

Though Gavin’s face betrayed nothing, something in Barclay’s tone made Donan shiver.

As they retraced their steps through the guildhall, Gavin said suddenly, You handled yourself well, Boy.

I was afraid of him, admitted Donan, annoyed with himself that it was true. In the past, not even Bertran, the village bully, had frightened him.

You’ve nothing to fear, but he is deserving of respect. He’s a master of our craft, else he would not be head of the Order. But he despises weakness, which for him takes many forms. Fear is one. Kindness is another.

Donan frowned as he thought about it. He had been taught kindness was a virtue. His father had been considered kind, strong, patient. Donan said suddenly, You don’t fear him. Does he consider you weak because of your kindness, then, and that is why he mislikes you?

Gavin halted his long strides to turn and cast a glinting look down at him. What?

Donan glanced down at his feet before repeating, Is that why he mislikes you—because he views your kindness as weakness?

Gavin’s laugh was low and harsh. Hasty judgments, Boy, keep the gravedigger busy! So certain, are you, that my bringing you here is an act of kindness? There’ll be times aplenty when you’ll curse me for it! Gavin turned abruptly, and they went out of the guildhall to cross the alley. They halted at the narrow door of a building housing an alchemist’s shop. Gavin gave the door a sharp rap with his knuckles.

Donan’s eyes widened when the door was opened by a rather bent old man. His hair and beard were grey, almost white, and his tanned face was as wrinkled as an old, dried apple. A broad, puckered scar twisted down his lined forehead. He bade them come in, sliding a quick glance at Donan

before giving Gavin a broad smile. Been a while since last I saw you.

Donan darted quick looks around the room, taking in the two workbenches scattered with numerous stands, pots, and bottles, and all manner of herbs hanging from the rafters. His study was interrupted when the old man led the way up a steep, narrow flight of stairs. The second floor consisted of a single room divided by a screen draped with an old, faded tapestry. In that space stood a small, worn table surrounded by three plain chairs, a sideboard, and a cupboard. The room smelled strange to Donan; an odd combination of old man, herbs, and food.

He had conjured up visions of knights and soldiers as he had followed Gavin through the guildhall, excited at the notion of joining their ranks. Just the name—The Order of the Black Falcon—had an exalted ring to it. The feeling had been replaced by fear and trepidation upon meeting Guildmaster Barclay; but now he swallowed against a lump of disappointment, for it appeared the old man was merely a shopkeeper. Gavin asked politely, How fare you, then, Master Will?

Well enough, m’boy, well enough. His shrewd gaze swept over Donan again before pausing to study Gavin. Few come by for aught besides my potions. Sit down, an’ it please you, Gavin, though I’ve naught stronger than tea to offer.

Gavin shook his head. Thank you, Master Will, but I cannot stay.

The old man chuckled. Off for something stronger, more like, and I’ll not blame you on such a night as this. So, what brings you to visit an old man in such miserable weather?

Donan was surprised when he saw Gavin’s sober features crease in a slight smile, for he had not thought the man capable of it.

Gavin replied, You may claim your age, Master Will, but I warrant I’d still feel the flat of your sword on my arse any time you chose, were we once again to step into the circle!

The old man chuckled again, a sound like dry leaves, and Gavin waved a hand toward Donan. I was on my way to the guildhall when this ruffian here tried to take my purse.

Did he take it, then? Old Will’s gaze had sharpened, but his tone reflected only mild curiosity.

Donan was not intimidated, as he had been before the guildmaster, but sudden guilt drove color into his face. Apprehension knotted in his throat. He waited for the old man to denounce him as a thief and insist that he be tossed back into the cold, dark streets; or even worse, that the Watch be summoned. His disappointment of a few moments ago was suddenly forgotten. Now he desperately wished to remain in the homely comfort of the old man’s care.

Gavin’s voice broke in on Donan’s thoughts. He got close enough to get his fingers on it.

One grey brow rose sharply. Getting lax, Gavin? Is it age or drink which dulls your senses?

Master Will must have been in jest, thought Donan, for Gavin grinned again.

The wrinkled face was severe when it turned back to Donan. The old man said coolly, Lucky you weren’t sent home howling and without your fingers, Boy. The brethren have little patience for impudent whelps.

Donan stiffened, stifling an instinctive impulse to cower away from the blow he expected to follow. But the old man remained still, and his face held no anger. There had been hard amusement in his tone. Donan met the old man’s look before dropping his eyes and answering in a stifled tone, It was a mistake, master.

Indeed, you have no notion! answered Old Will dryly. Gavin said, I took him to Guildmaster Barclay.

The old man’s lips tightened, but he asked blandly, How did Barclay receive him?

Gavin shrugged, and Old Will’s face was grim as he said, What did you expect? The boy looks more like a mangy pup whelped behind Litchfield Alley than an apprentice. He knows you thought to bring him here?

He said he was too young, Gavin explained. He said he’d consider the boy when he came of age—if you would take him in, meanwhile.

A sober look passed between them, then the old man wiped all expression from his wrinkled features. He rubbed the wiry hair on his chin with knobby fingers as his eyes went over Donan carefully. Donan held his breath, his pulse throbbing in his temples. He wanted to say that he would do anything the old man wished, if only he would allow him to stay, but the words were lodged in his throat.

Old Will finally replied, Aye, he can stay with me—as a favor to you, mind. Donan remained silent, finally able to draw a deep breath.

Gavin bowed, his lips quirking slightly, as though he suppressed a grin. I am ever mindful of your kindness, Master Will. He put a hand on Donan’s shoulder, his face returning to hard lines. Boy, you are apprenticed, as it were, to Old Will here. Do as he bids and you’ll be well. He held Donan’s eye. ’Twill be difficult at times; enough so that you’ll discover what manner of man you are. He nodded to Donan and turned for the stairs. Good even, then, he said, and his boots sounded on the wooden steps, then silence fell with the faint closing of the door downstairs.

Donan stood there, suddenly awkward and uncertain. Gavin’s banter seemed to indicate he and the old man were of a kind, though Donan had his doubts. There had been a handful of old men in the village, and for the most part, they sat near the hearth and spun endless stories about their youth. Gavin had said he was apprenticed, not to the Black Falcons, but to this man. Yet, what use could he have for an apprentice?

He appeared to be an alchemist, though Donan knew little about such things. He thought about the equipment downstairs. There had been several

time-glasses, from the standard three-pound glass, which marked the hour, to a tiny glass that could not have held more than a spoonful of pinkish-colored sand. There had been strings of drying plants, too. The thought of wizards again came to mind, but surely the old man could not be so obvious. The Watch or the Valdaur Guard would have taken him before the magistrate long ago, should he so openly practice magic.

Donan could feel Old Will’s eyes upon him, and he hunched a shoulder against the scrutiny. The silence became unbearable, and he said, You and Master Gavin do not seem at all alike.

True, his hair is not as grey as mine, the alchemist replied. Donan exhaled sharply. That is not what I meant!

Appearances can deceive. What do I seem like, then?

Donan’s lips thinned, and he made a faint gesture with his hand. I don’t know. He seemed like a sort of soldier, and the guildhall, it seemed...different than here, Donan ended helplessly.

The old man continued to regard him, waiting, and Donan tried again. This place seems more like that of a wizard than a soldier, even one—

As old as I? Old Will voiced the words that Donan had just managed to stop himself from saying. The old man laughed. Your head is full of tales of the High Council, is it? Idle thoughts there, Boy. Ridding Valdaur of Bathlemar all but destroyed The High Council, and, like his father and grandfather before him, Arpyn has no use for magic, and no love for those who would practice it. Soldiers? After a fashion, I suppose. Gavin and I are both Black Falcons, but I’m long past the days of being much use.

He pointed to an evil-looking weapon hanging above the mantle. See that? The thick handle, blackened with age, was the length of Donan’s arm. Set atop the handle was something like an axe head, but the blade was larger, its curve more sweeping. At the rear of the head was a heavy knob of metal, like a hammer, and in between was a thick metal spike a few inches long. I took that alspade from a Dar-Esai that very nearly killed me with it. You’ve heard of them, aye?

Donan nodded, wide-eyed. Monsters, he had heard. Half man, half beast; inhuman soldiers created by the evil magic of the rogue sorcerer. His army of Dar-Esai and his evil magic were what had defeated King Elanthael and ushered in the Dark Times two centuries before.

I had just come into manhood—barely a handful of years older than you are now—when I took it, but that was long ago. Old Will grinned, mockingly, at Donan’s start of surprise. I’ve no doubt you told Gavin that you were all but a babe, but you’ll be hard-pressed to fool me, Boy. He sighed. I was even Gavin’s teacher after that, but age dulls a man, and now I serve the Order by making my little potions.

Donan screwed up his courage and asked, What manner of guild is it, then?

The gray brows lifted. Gavin did not explain? When Donan shook his head, the old man quirked a considering brow. Remain through the summer and let us see how you go on. If I believe you well-suited to Black Falcon business, then I’ll explain. After all, you wouldn’t expect a weaver to lay a stone wall. If I think you’re not suited, or you feel your future lies along a different path, then you’ll be free to seek your fortune elsewhere.

Donan remained silent, and Old Will looked him in the eye and said, Gavin spoke truly: ‘twill be difficult at times. Should you remain, I cannot promise that you’ll become an apprentice of the Order, and many of those who do so never wear the ring. I’m giving you the time to be certain you wish to walk this path, Boy, for once you go but a short distance, there’s no turning back.

For the moment, Donan did not care. His stomach cramped, and he bit the inside of his lip. The old man said in a brusque tone, I can hear your belly rumbling from here. Sit down at the table.

Donan complied, and Old Will set out a large chunk of coarse bread, a slab of hard cheese, and a misshapen apple. A wooden mug of muddy-looking cider was set down at Donan’s elbow, but he hardly even noticed as he crammed more food into his mouth. Old Will sat down stiffly, wrinkling a bent and crooked nose.

Donan paid him no heed, not even when he muttered an oath and grumbled about finding something besides filthy rags to clothe him. At that moment, nothing mattered to him but the food. When he had finished eating, the old man handed him a tattered rug and a blanket. Get some sleep. I can live with the stench of you for one night, I warrant, but then it will be a bath and clean clothing.

Donan did not argue. His stomach hurt at the unaccustomed weight of food in it, and the warmth of the room made him sleepy. He felt as though he could sleep for days.

CHAPTER TWO

5th of March, Kings Year 354

Gavin’s thoughts were no longer on the boy, but on his report, as he once again stood before Guildmaster Barclay. The guildmaster leaned back in his chair as he said, So, what of this merchant?

The candle flickered impatiently. The rumors that he has ties to Ehrengard are quite true, though whether purely because of his mistress, who lives in Ardlein, is unclear. But her family is from Falgriff and has close ties to Ilforth.

And what did you discover about Tanris’ business?

"Since Midwinter Festival, he’s journeyed four times into Ehrengard.

The first three times, he took a shipment of mostly middling cloth, with a few tanned hides, both cow and horse. He returned with some bales of raw hyrex wool and some carved wooden goblets and bowls. His fourth was less than a fortnight ago. I’d a chance to examine his shipment, and hidden beneath bolts of cloth, I found several pieces of hardened leather and brigandine."

Guildmaster Barclay’s face always looked hard, making his expression difficult to read. He asked, There were no weapons?

Completed weapons? No. There were a handful of fine-sawn boards of a tight-grained wood, thornwood, mayhap, of the type prized for bows and hafts. They also were not on the trade bill.

No finished weapons, then; but the stuff for armor.

Gavin said, The makings for it, but not particularly high quality. But, it, too, was not on the merchant’s trade bill, which suggests that he didn’t want it known that it was part of the shipment.

Guildmaster Barclay leaned forward, tapping one finger soundlessly on his desk. Abruptly he said, I’ll report on this to His Majesty. Illforth does command the City Watch in Falgriff and must equip them; but the fact that such goods were concealed speaks to something nefarious. In the meanwhile, I’ve been granted leave to use my discretion. The merchant’s actions are suspicious.

What about the woman?

She’ll bear watching. Barclay’s lips lifted in, what for Barclay, was a smile. In fact, deal with this merchant. By doing so, we rid ourselves of A supplier to Ilforth, and, if nothing else, may expose other sympathizers of Ilforth’s within our borders, if she is seeking them or seducing them into being such. The removal of Tanris may prompt her to seek another benefactor willing to subvert himself for her cause.

Gavin bowed. As you say, Guildmaster. He went back downstairs, moving quietly through the darkened guildhall, for it was past torches-out and the apprentices were all abed. The young man serving as porter dropped his chin respectfully and opened the door for Gavin to exit.

Gavin paused after he stepped into the street, throwing up the hood of his damp chaperon. The merchant would be in Culane for at least another fortnight, and probably longer, so there was no need to hasten out of Solium. Feeling suddenly weary, Gavin turned toward an inn called, loftily, the King’s Rest, rather than toward the brothel in Litchfield Alley. He passed through the short, narrow door and entered the common-room. He ignored a dozen tables to take a seat at a small, unoccupied table toward the back of the room, near the wall. With the age-darkened ceiling beams sloping close above his head, he settled down with a tankard of ale.

There was no question about Guildmaster Barclay’s directive. Though he was surprised that Barclay was taking such pre-emptory action, the decision was, after all, Barclay’s to make. The task should not prove difficult. He looked across the room, not really seeing the dull red embers in the hearth.

King Arpyn should have attended to Ilforth, the Earl of Ehrengard, two years ago: just as soon as he had made an excuse not to travel to

Solium for the meeting intended to serve as a renewal of his oath of fealty.

Arpyn’s health, and—according to some, his wits—was clearly declining. Should he die now, the matter with Ilforth would, along with

several other problems, fall on Arpyn’s heir. Lochlan was intelligent, but he was undisciplined and self-absorbed, and just as arrogant as the rest of his kin. He found hunting and women far more interesting than affairs of state and would likely prove to be just as negligent and disaffected as Arpyn had become.

Gavin emptied his tankard and called for another. He had no say in such things. He was sworn to the Order of the Black Falcon, and through it, to whomever wore the crown, no matter his faults. Gavin took a deep draught of his ale, recalling the filthy face of the boy he had taken to Old Will. Despite what Barclay thought, he had no abundance of sentiment, but he knew what it  was like to live on Solium’s streets. As the eighth child of a poor tanner in the city’s west end, he had worked his father’s reeking trade from his earliest memories until his eleventh year, when he had turned his back on his home and the desperate poverty of it. After nearly two years in the streets, he had walked up to the door of the Black Falcon guildhall and asked to be taken in as an apprentice. Amused by his boldness, it was Master Will, the Weaponsmaster for the Order, that had made the case to Barclay, and Gavin had been allowed to stay.

The corner of Gavin’s mouth lifted as he recalled Donan’s assumption that Guildmaster Barclay misliked him because he was kind. His attention had been caught first by the boy’s stealth, but he was also unusually perceptive.  He was just too green to assign the right motives. One corner of Gavin’s mouth lifted slightly. There had always been little love between himself and Barclay. And though not old, Barclay’s youth was behind him. He knew well that the day was coming when age would outweigh cunning and experience, and Barclay could not help but view the younger among the brethren as a future rival for the role of Guildmaster.

Gavin raised his glass slightly in a mock toast. Your health, Barclay, for I’ve no wish to step into your boots. The serving-girl set down a fresh

tankard, and Gavin leaned back and stretched his legs out before him, intent on enjoying the rest of his ale before taking himself off to bed.

CHAPTER THREE

10th of June, King’s Year 358

Niall de Ventus paused a moment to study the busy market square.  Early summer sunshine and a light breeze made for a pleasant day. His distraction was not to savor the day, however; he was thinking about the old book he had just bought from the odds-and-ends man. He had come across the book quite by accident, and had recognized it immediately. The odds-and-ends man told Niall that the book had been found in the rubble of an old wizard’s house.

The merchant no doubt believed he was spinning a mere tale, intending to make the volume enticingly mysterious, but Niall knew the tale was true. I’ll give you five silver for it, he had told the odds-and-ends man.

Bah! The leatherwork alone is worth twice that.

Six silver, and not a copper more.

Fine, then, even though you’re taking all the mutton out of the broth, the man had responded.

Niall had happily paid him. The book had, in fact, belonged to Clare Tarray, the former Magemaster of the High Council. It had been her house, once the guild-house for the High Council, that had burned. Upon her death, he had gone in to retrieve as many of her personal belongings as he could. He had been able to retrieve the Chronicle of Valdaur, hidden by a ward from the Valdaur Guardsman who had already searched her house, but he had not found her personal journal. The house had been abandoned ever since, falling into ruin until the recent fire.

The Chronicle was of the greatest importance. Begun by the wizard Artellus, it was a detailed history of Valdaur, and the High Council’s interactions within the kingdom. Scattered and all but destroyed when Bathlemar gained power, the High Council had been secretly reformed.

Artellus had kept the Chronicle hidden after the murder of King Elanthael, adding to it, and passing it down to his protégé upon his own death.

Among other things, it contained the truth about Elanthael’s son. Either in the hope that Elanthael’s curse had substance, or out of the desire to keep as complete a history as possible, Artellus had kept records, deliberately cryptic, of Simund’s descendants. Upon his death, Artellus’ Chronicle had become the secret of the new High Council founded in opposition to Bathlemar. Each succeeding Magemaster became the custodian of the book, and added to it during their tenure.

The fire, in all its destruction, had apparently unearthed Clare’s personal journal, and Niall was glad to have finally acquired it. He glanced through it briefly, and then hid it beneath his over-tunic. As innocent as merely carrying a book would appear, he could not risk being discovered with it by the Valdaur Guard. He had, like Clare and Giselle, publicly forsworn magic to avoid being taken to King’s Prison. He clearly remembered the day they had taken his staff. They had pried his moonstone fustrend from it, smashed it to dust with a hammer, and then burned his staff.

Clare’s journal, from even his brief perusal, made it clear she had secretly pursued her studies and her knowledge after her renunciation of magic. Being found with it would be cited as proof that he was doing the same. These days, he would be as  likely to visit the Headsman as he would be to go to King’s Prison. Consequently, he was careful to maintain, to all appearances, the image of an unremarkable older man in a blue over-tunic over a yellow chemise.

As he made his way from the market square toward the house he kept in a back street of a rundown district in the south of the city, Niall felt a pang of sorrow. Practicing magic extended one’s natural life, but it did not prevent death. Giselle had died more than twenty years ago, and Clare barely a year later, leaving Niall as the last living member of the High Council. There were few who knew that, for it had been during the reign of

Arpyn’s father that they had been forced to eschew their practice of magic. There were few left with living memory of that day.

There were even fewer who knew that he had been there at that final battle, when the sorcerer Bathlemar had been defeated. The House Yarbrough had nearly succeeded in doing what Bathlemar had failed to do, which was to destroy the High Council utterly. Parents who discovered their children possessed magical ability took great pains to hide it, and all Niall could do now was struggle to pass on as much knowledge as possible to the lone apprentice who studied in secret beneath him.

Inwardly, Niall sighed. Havran tried; he studied hard, but Niall believed he just didn’t have the wend to become a master wizard. Niall patted the book. He had assumed the journal had been taken by the Valdaur Guard, for the house had been methodically and thoroughly ransacked by the time he had arrived. The Chronicle had been protected by a ward of invisibility, which was why it had been completely overlooked. Niall was sure the Valdaur Guard had been ordered to seize and destroy any books or items they believed were used to aid or perpetrate forbidden acts of magic, sorcery, and wizardry.

He sighed again. How dramatically things had changed from the days when the House Marthalen held the throne! Wizards had defended the realm during the reign of Elanthael’s grandfather, when an army of soldiers and mystics from beyond the Black Mountains and the Sea of Sogoth tried to invade Valdaur’s northern coast. A wizard had been one of King Elanthael’s top advisors, his abilities and knowledge treated and used as a boon to the people and the realm.

Mages, the proper term for any trained person with magical ability, had been prized, for they were very rare. Magical ability was an uncommon gift. Now the study and use of magic was outlawed, and anyone suspected of even having the ability was an object of suspicion, all because of Bathlemar.

Anyone caught practicing magic, or who possessed items used to practice it, was arrested.  Niall shook his head. Revard Yarbrough, though

only slightly less tyrannical than Bathlemar had been, had been nearly as cunning. He