Spellshift Page 3

  Garen peered out across the dry landscape and tried to imagine how much of the ground under him was hollow. This was too perfectly hidden to be natural. He knew Sarkos carved it, and he knew Sarkos was working with Aethis to grow the Apatten. He still didn’t know to what end. Drake shifted them around into a smoother “V” arrangement, and they shot into the sky toward Vikar-Tola.

  Chapter 3

  The air had a crisp chill, even in the afternoon. Thousands of shoulders pressed together throughout Tivin Square and deeper into the market, but not for warmth. Today was King Micah’s mid-fall address to the public. Three days had passed since the Spellswords returned from the Western Kingdom. Micah had an abundance of questions about the Apatten, and an equal amount of displeasure at Garen’s failed attempt at stealth. Micah hadn’t shared what he planned to do with the information yet, but Garen was hopeful that the tone of his public address would clue him in.

  The Spellswords sat along a raised garden terrace in the center of Tivin Square. Everyone but Argus’ feet dangled above the ground. Behind them in the garden was a statue of the first emperor, Tivin Jundux. Garen could look straight up and feel the domineering stance of the emperor over him. He hoped the real man never stood like that, rigid and uncomfortable. Just glancing at him made Garen slouch forward and sigh.

  “You check on that fellow today?” Argus leaned up against Garen close enough to be heard over the crowd. As ever, the unkempt man had far too little awareness of personal space.

  “He’s still unconscious,” Garen answered. “I bothered the head physician about it. He said the cuts along his head were troubling, and he told me not to get my hopes up.”

  “Poor guy. I just wanna know why it is he looks so much like em.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Garen said thoughtlessly.

  Argus noticed Garen’s distant stare and physically shook him out of it. “Tell you what, real soon we’ll see that Micah’s got it all figgured out. We’re best taking our minds off the mess for now. Tonight, you’re meeting my herd at the Thirsty Soul for a round of copper hawk.”

  Garen wasn’t sure if the invitation was to a game or a drink, but he smiled at his friend’s frequent attempts to invite him out. “It’s a shame I’m on patrol with Naia tonight. One of these days for sure, though.”

  On the other side of Argus, Naia stood up on the terrace to see over the crowd. On days around the city, she wore her hair down. The jet-black strands hung past her shoulders with the slightest wave to them. She was barely a year younger than him, but she seemed tiny standing on the tips of her toes. Even without an assignment for the day, she kept to her default mentality of agitation and worry. “This is weird, right?”

  “It does seem more than usual,” Drake said. His stare was locked on the balcony rather than people-watching. Even in the center of an anxious crowd, Drake kept his composure and didn’t shout more than he needed to be heard. His noble upbringing and eight-years-seniority over Garen showed to anyone watching.

  “So what?” Garen shrugged. “They set out enough echoers to reach the next five blocks and all of Grand Market.” He’d seen them setting up earlier and marveled at the amount. Hundreds of these fist-sized stones were imbued with the ability to convey sound. They were all linked to a geonode on the balcony for the king to speak into, allowing Micah’s words to be heard over the city simultaneously.

  Garen knew the echoers were expensive for a couple of reasons. Geonode ore was valuable since only three mines in the Eastern Kingdom produced it. It was still a mystery why this porous, dark stone could contain a spell’s depth at all, but there was no other suitable material. Second, it took someone of considerable skill to imbue them. Deep magic like relaying sound or tracking locations required more finesse than sheer elemental force. Paying for the expertise of the Geonode Guild was bound to cost at least as much as the material itself.

  “So, why is everyone trying to push closer?” Naia asked.

  Garen stood on the terrace wall to see what she meant. The people nearby seemed content. Parents hoisted kids onto their shoulders. An elderly couple warmed their hands with a gentle heating spell. The signs of unrest came from further away. People were shoving their way forward. It wasn’t enough for them to hear the address. They wanted to see for themselves. Some of them looked scared. Garen knew that word of Pyralis’ death had spread to the ends of the kingdom by now, but thankfully not word of who killed him. No one knew how the Western Kingdom would respond. Garen worried the rumors were worse than he’d heard.

  He noticed a familiar face among the restless crowd. The Earth Rogue’s daughter Elise stood next to her mother, both trying to hold their spot while the masses pushed closer. Garen stood and waved to her. Elise smiled timidly and waved back. They hadn’t crossed paths much since Garen brought them to Vikar-Tola. She seemed far healthier than when they’d first met in the holding cell. Her freckled skin and auburn hair had a sunlit shimmer. It was an encouraging sight to see her doing well, and a reminder of the debt he’d been able to repay. He saw the unspoken gratitude in her eyes, too.

  “Your attention, please,” an attendant’s voice rang out from the echoers. “By the spirits’ blessing, I present your sovereign king, Lord Micah Jundux.”

  The crowd cheered, but after a short applause the city fell uncomfortably silent. A man in his late twenties stepped forward on the balcony. His long black hair was pulled tightly up for the occasion. The closely tailored regalia of white and gold looked strange on him. Garen would always see Micah a little differently. To the crowd, this was their figurehead. He was the distant, noble-blooded leader. To Garen, he was a conflicted shadow.

  Micah, or at first under the guise of Kiron, had been the shrouded voice of command. Too committed to hand his burdens to anyone else. Too afraid to look them in the eyes. Today, propriety demanded a public appearance. Garen’s use of light could let him see close enough to know how Micah really felt. He saw the brief tremor in his eye, the tense grip of his hands. Micah took a gritted swallow and spoke.

  “Today, we gather to celebrate another season of prosperity. The 124th year since the Dawn of Magic has been a favorable one for the harvest and for the trade within our kingdom. Yet in the midst of our peace, some of you have heard violent lies that there is tension to our west. Had I known, I would have addressed it sooner.

  “Yes, my brother fell ill this past season. The passing of King Pyralis was a great loss, both for my family and for his subjects in the Western Kingdom. But you have nothing to fear of those who once shared an empire with us. The Advising Council is working diligently to find a suitable steward for the Western throne. You may have heard the name Sarkos Avethi in regard to this. The Jundux family and the Council does not recognize his right to rule. He is a tyrant who has attempted to seize influence after the death of my brother. We will not accept him. Neither will we use might to rule over their land. Our differences make us stronger. We will find a peaceful king, and where unity is beyond us, we will still thrive in partnership.”

  “He sounds fake,” Garen whispered to Argus. “That’s not how he talks.”

  “Might be how a king talks, though. He knows what these folk need,” Argus replied.

  Morgan leaned forward on the terrace wall and raised an eyebrow at the two of them. Her piercing blue eyes conveyed her request for silent respect. Morgan had been a fearsome member of the Spellswords even before she acquired the Fire Spirit. Her sleeveless tunic showed how dedicated she was to her training. She had a similar youthfulness to her sister, but the short dark hair and toned muscles gave no illusion of frailty.

  Garen snapped his attention back to Micah’s address. “—and despite that success, we are left with more and more cities and townships to oversee and defend. Bandit incursions are increasingly common to the north. As the world grows more capable with magic, some would use it for destruction rather than aid. Our era will be remembered as a time of wonder and excitement. But for the longevity of that era, it should not be one o
f unpreparedness. As a Jundux, I have sworn to protect you with every faculty I have. The uncertainties ahead of us call for a more prepared force to guard our kingdom.”

  “Where is this going?” Drake asked, his expression unreadable.

  “Dunno,” Argus picked at a scab on his arm. “But as long as it protects our lands and doesn’t press up the borders, you know I’m in favor.”

  Morgan’s glare came swifter and sharper this time.

  “We will recruit and train several expansions of our military between harvests this year. Please rest assured. I do this out of regard for each and every one of our lives, not to throw those lives away. I have asked General Tragus to speak of our plans.” A scattered few cheers rang out and some hands clapped, but most continued to stand in silent anticipation.

  A second man, this one in his forties, stepped forward beside Micah. He stood tall and commanding, even next to a king. Despite his stance, the man had a welcoming smile that seemed contagious. Garen hadn’t interacted with him closely. By default, the needs of the militia and the Spellswords didn’t overlap. He imagined that he’d get along great with the man if he ever had the chance. But he knew it was for the best of the kingdom if that chance never came.

  General Tragus’ deep, warm voice resonated over the crowds. Every person’s eyes opened the tiniest bit wider at the sound of it.

  “Good afternoon, brothers and sisters. I assume you are here to listen today because you know how important the next few seasons will be for us. No matter how prosperous our time, it is a fool’s response to leave his future to chance. As our king wisely acknowledges, that requires greater preparation. It will require more brave souls to stand prepared with us. I will train any man or woman, with or without depth, who will stand by me in that belief.

  “I assure you, King Micah will do all that he can to keep your families out of conflict. I, on the other hand, will do all that I can to make us strong, to ensure that our sacrifices will never be in vain. You have my oath. As of today, we are no longer a mere militia and outposts. Construction on an expanded barracks is underway outside the walls. The Vikar-Tola Guard will still protect you within the capital. But today, we announce that the Central Military is recruiting to ensure the safety of its cities and villages across the kingdom, from Tiben to Timnar.”

  Murmurs spread through the crowd, followed by a few quick cheers.

  “And lastly, by your king’s wisdom, we have opened a new type of recruitment to serve us. I need soldiers of extraordinary skill and depth. We sleep soundly at night trusting our treasured Spellswords to handle the magic we cannot comprehend. But five warriors cannot engage an army, nor is it wise to place all our burdens on their shoulders. And so, I welcome anyone brave enough for the challenge to try testing into his lordship’s newest and most elite service, the Centralians.”

  Tragus read the crowd and didn’t hesitate to seize their excitement or pride. “No matter what challenges are in our future, I believe we can stand against them and provide you a safe and prosperous future. I am proud to defend the Central Kingdom and protect the people of Vikar-Tola, the most honorable souls in all the three kingdoms!”

  For the first time, the people truly applauded, cheering at the top of their lungs. They roared with approval, all except for the five Spellswords tucked in the center of the crowd. Their expressions were mortified. They knew exactly what kind of army their kingdom was preparing to stand against, and they knew the bloodbath the Apatten would create. The people cheered for the idea of bravery. The Spellswords shuddered at the cost of it.

  General Tragus made eye contact with their group and gave a friendly nod. He seemed confident that he was doing the world a favor, that more soldiers meant more safety. To Garen, it only meant more lives for trade.

  * * * * *

  Garen woke to the sound of his name coming from his bedside. He saw the blue light from the relay and lazily swatted it to the floor. There were only five people who could reach him using it: the other four Spellswords and Micah. All of them should know he’d been on patrol last night. It was Micah’s insistence that the Spellswords serve as common guards between missions as a means to stay humble, never above the law. It kept him busy, but rarely provided any excitement—unless carrying a drunkard home was anyone’s idea of excitement.

  “Garen, I think you’ll want to come down for this,” Morgan’s muffled voice came from the relay lying on the floor.

  “Not right now,” Garen shouted back, rolling to bury his face in the enormous feather bed.

  “Okay. You should know, the physicians aren’t sure how long he’ll be awake.”

  Garen was startled awake as he remembered the man they brought back from the cave. Garen was dressed and running through the halls before he could finish waking up. A large mirror in the hallway confirmed he looked like a mess. His wavy brown hair was matted to one side of his head and disheveled on the other. But he didn’t want to miss his chance to get answers on the Apatten.

  Garen stepped outside of the main hall. He sprinted through the beautiful courtyard connecting the physician’s wing to the rest of the palace grounds. It was a small structure near the outskirts, much less fanciful in etchings than the towering main hall. Garen threw open the door. The inside was equally plain. Half the space was dedicated to the physicians themselves. They had tables and shelves full of scrolls, tools, and bottled remedies. The other half had cots along the floor for patients requiring closer supervision. A pair of guards stood near their person of interest. They recognized Garen and motioned him closer. He saw Drake and Morgan already sitting by the man’s cot on the floor.

  “Is he still up?” Garen asked, catching his breath.

  Drake nodded and slid over on the floor to make space. Garen took a seat and watched the man’s slow movements. He was in his twenties and had dark stubble in patches along his face. He breathed heavily and kept his eyes shut.

  “Do you have a name?” Morgan asked.

  “Of course,” he said with a cough. “Who doesn’t have a name?” Garen liked him already.

  “Would you please share it with us?” Morgan continued, unperturbed. Garen recognized how much patience she’d gained from having Naia as a sister.

  “Tarn,” he said slowly and opened his eyes. “And you? You don’t look like you’re one of them.”

  “No, we took you from those people.” Morgan replied.

  “I figured,” he said. “Your beds are softer.”

  Garen smiled. He was watching someone go through all the first impressions of the Spellswords he once had. He loved it.

  Morgan tried to keep him talking. “Can you tell us anything about the people who did this to you?”

  He opened his mouth to speak but rattled into a coughing fit instead. Drake stood and called for the physician.

  Morgan and Drake stepped outside the room. Garen tried to stay seated, but Drake motioned for him to leave, too.

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “He needs more time,” Drake said. “You remember how much space we gave you at first?”

  “That was a little different,” Garen protested. “We weren’t on the verge of war back then.”

  Drake glanced around to see who was in earshot of the outburst and frowned at Garen. “Nor are we, now. Give him rest. He’ll help us.”

  Garen stared in disbelief. “Fine,” he said and wandered out of the palace.

  He knew there was kindness in Drake’s patience, but it seemed painfully unwise. Sarkos was building an army in the West. Aethis insisted the Spellswords were blind to the East. General Tragus was signing people up to throw their lives away in one of those directions. This was the worst time possible to give their only source of information rest.

  Chapter 4

  Garen decided fresh air and a good jog would clear his frustrations. The Riverside District and the cluster of craft houses were all buzzing with gossip today. Garen didn’t pause long enough to hear any of their foolishness, but he knew what spaw
ned it. The decision to expand their defenses and put more lives in service of the king could be taken any number of ways. But for the most part, the people seemed happy. Micah was right that their trade was booming. Mining and smelting from the Western Kingdom met geonode and artisan creations from the East. The textiles and farms of the Central Kingdom made for excellent bartering both ways. With an abundant harvest, it was a profitable time to be caught in the middle.

  When Garen reached the Market District, he realized Riverside had been quiet in comparison. Carts and stalls were shoved into every available stretch of street-edge for a dozen blocks, and all of it three streets wide. The center street, Grand Market, was packed tightly enough that he could barely walk without bumping shoulders, let alone run. It was worth slowing down to smell the roasting meats and grains in the breeze.

  From the next street over, Garen heard shouting and decided to slip toward it. The street parallel to Grand Market had enough space that a horse-drawn cart could pass through. But that was only if people stepped aside, and also if the cart-driver was reasonably patient. Garen saw the problem was with the latter.

  The driver sat at the head of his cart and whipped the reins repeatedly, trying to rush his horse through a street it knew better than to hurry through. Behind them, a boy not more than eleven years old was chasing the cart down.

  “Give her back!” the boy shouted, trying to climb onto the back of the cart.

  “Get lost, little brat.” A well-dressed man in formal robes cracked the reins on the horse. A second rode in the back, shoving the child off. The boy fell back, and Garen thought he was about to witness the kid’s head bust open. Instead, he finished the tumble backward and landed on his feet. Without missing a beat, the boy was back in full sprint.

  The cart driver shouted for people to clear his path. The boy, on the other hand, was adept at slipping through the crowd, sliding between bodies and produce stands without slowing down. As the boy caught up to them, Garen watched him vault onto an awning and sprint across it. The boy cut a path too instinctively for this to be his first time. Judging by the look of him, these streets were his home.