Gathering Of The God-Touched (Book 4) Read online

  Darien sighed, then replied in low voice.

  “Sometimes I remember the way Thale would stomp around this place and demand everyone within earshot listen to him. You remember that, too, don’t you?”

  “He was always the emotional one,” Commander J’ravi replied.

  “Yes. And people loved him for it.”

  His father nodded.

  “I used to hate him, though,” Darien said.

  The commander’s face darkened.

  “I hated him because everyone else loved him, and I knew I could never match him. He was so perfect. Bigger than life, you know? And as he grew up I hated him because he put his beliefs before us—because he felt them so strongly he was willing to die for them. I thought that was terribly selfish, and I hated him even more for it.”

  “What is your point, Darien?”

  “I understand him now, and you do, too. There are times when risks must be taken. Thale had to do what he did or he would not have been Thale.”

  “No.” The old commander’s eyes grew vacant. “Thale died because I signed the battle order.”

  “Thale died because he believed in what he spoke of. It was his choice, and it was the right one. Just like mine is to fight against the orders.”

  The commander walked from the window and took his seat. Only then did Garrick notice his limp. Afarat J’ravi had been a soldier his whole life, but now he was a soldier grown old.

  “Has war ever accomplished anything?” he said.

  Darien gestured outside.

  “Look at this city for your answer, Father. Think of the dangers this city has faced, the evils you've fought. These people would not be living in peace without the decisions you’ve made, and this city is what that bloodshed has accomplished.”

  The commander stared at Darien for long enough that Garrick grew uncomfortable.

  “I have been a foolish old man,” he finally said, “holding so tightly to my dead son that I could not let loose of the one that lived. I am sorry, Darien.”

  Darien put his hand on his father’s forearm.

  Garrick sensed the sense of purpose that Darien stood for crashing against the pillar of strength Afarat J’ravi had built over the entirety of his life, and Garrick realized Darien had become a man in the eyes of his father today. The realization made him jealous.

  “We need Lord Ellesadil to throw his lot in with the Freeborn,” Darien said. “If we don’t stop the orders now, they will roll over the rest of Adruin before it is done.”

  Commander J’ravi sighed. “You feel this fully, then? There will be magewar?”

  “Magewar is already being fought, sir,” Garrick interrupted with more vitriol than he meant.

  “What Garrick means,” Darien said, “is that the Torean House has already been destroyed on the western half of the plane, and it’s likely that raids of the springtime have killed most of the powerful Toreans in the eastern regions, too.”

  Darien’s father sipped wine from his goblet, and seemed to find a new strength.

  “The orders have always skirmished without causing problems outside their ranks. Why should this be different?”

  “The orders have god-touched mages,” Darien said, glancing at Garrick. “All of the orders do.”

  Commander J’ravi turned to Garrick. “So that rumor is true, also.”

  Garrick nodded.

  “I need your help, Father. The armies of the orders are strong and dangerously unpredictable. We are going to confront their god-touched mages directly—or at least Garrick will. But we need your help to convince Lord Ellesadil to send an army of Dorfort’s guard to accompany us.”

  “It sounds like a suicide mission.”

  The commander looked at Garrick then, his eyes piercing with an unspoken question.

  How? He was asking. How will you deal with mages who are more powerful than you? Why should I think you can do this? The questions lay like acid in Garrick’s stomach. The answers boiled up through his life force, and he found he had to take a breath before he spoke.

  “We have a plan,” Garrick said.

  “A plan.” The commander chuckled. “There is always a plan.” He sat back in his chair and took another quick sip of his wine. “All right,” he said. “Let me hear of this plan.”

  Chapter 4

  Everything happened quickly.

  Commander J’ravi held a session with Lord Ellesadil.

  Then the commander met with advanced scouts, and gathered his sergeants and staff together to work on a plan. Ellesadil sought Torean council from the outside, but couldn’t find any beyond the Freeborn—a fact that Afarat J’ravi ensured Dorfort’s leader couldn’t miss seeing as proof of the orders’ intentions. Then, after a final flurry of review, Commander J'ravi brought the issue to a head by pressing Ellesadil for an answer.

  His timing was impeccable.

  Dorfort’s leader agreed not only to give them an entire division of the guard, but also to dispatch messengers to nearby towns to enlist as much aid as possible.

  Afarat J’ravi had been magnificent. It was unusual to find a man who spoke from the heart, and was still such a remarkable politician. And as Garrick watched the commander work, he realized exactly how much of the commander he saw in Darien.

  Chapter 5

  “It’s time to hail the orders,” Sunathri said as she laid out components for her spell. “Are you ready?”

  It was nearly evening, and a lazy rain pattered against the tent’s taut covering. The idea of speaking directly to the orders’ superior mages made Garrick’s stomach churn, but Sunathri was right. It was time.

  “I’m ready,” Garrick replied. “Talk me through the process, though. I want to learn.”

  Sunathri gave one of her coy smiles. “I would have expected your new superior to teach you these things,” she said.

  “Just teach me how to do this,” he said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She placed powdered chalk into a brazier and gave Garrick a stick of vermillion grease. “Draw a triangle around the brazier. Make it thick. Then pour the water.”

  He drew the diagram.

  Sunathri retrieved a bottle from her footlocker. “Each point in the triangle represents a member of the conversation. The chalk acts as the medium. The lines between each point ensure we’re each connected.”

  “It seems a powerful sorcery.”

  “It is, but the strongest spells often require the least amount of energy.”

  “Alistair often said that.”

  “People think sorcery is about power. But the strongest magics, the more sophisticated ones, depend on your pattern of thought more than they depend on the energy itself. Once you understand what you’re trying to accomplish, the complexities fade, and you can feel every detail of the spell—which makes your castings more efficient.”

  “It makes sense in a strange way.”

  “Yes, it’s a conundrum. Simple spells succeed without clarity of thought. So they can become so familiar that you cast them by rote rather than with any crispness or strength of thought.”

  “I see,” Garrick said.

  As he thought back, it did make sense.

  Ripping life force and casting bolts of magic were both simple works in the end, but they took up incredible energy, while the complex illusion he cast to evade Elman outside Caledena hadn’t cost him as dearly as he had expected.

  Sunathri unstopped a bottle and the aroma of strong mint filled the air. She placed three drops into the brazier, each blotting up green in the chalk.

  “What’s that for?” Garrick asked.

  “Just a little something to make the conversation pleasant.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “You can learn the basics of magic from anyone, but eventually you have to make it your own.”

  “Alistair used to say something like that, too.”

  “Maybe those are the things that make our orders so different. Lectodinians believe in control, and structure. They con
form to standards while the Koradictines’ work is based on raw consumption above all else. Once you understand that, you can see why the two of them don’t really get along. A Lectodinian sees magic as a limited resource and the act of casting to be almost a form of art in itself, while a Koradictine sees magic as if it flows from Talin in a boundless stream that is to be wallowed in.”

  “And, of course, a Torean would prefer to just ignore it all,” Garrick added.

  “Indeed. We stand on our own. Why should our magic be controlled by anyone else? Of course, that causes its own problems.”

  Garrick shrugged.

  “All right. We’re ready,” she said. “Go to the other side of the table and take my hands.”

  Her fingers were cold to the touch.

  “As the process moves, I want you to let your thoughts flow into mine. Listen to the conversation, and funnel your energy so it aids me. If you do it right, neither of the superiors will know you’re here with me.”

  “All right.”

  Suni closed her eyes, and Garrick did likewise.

  Sunathri spoke her magic in a melodious voice.

  Garrick set gates, opened a link to the plane of magic, and let his magestuff slip into her spell. A pattern formed in his head. He felt the power of her concentration, and sensed its order.

  “Hail, Koradictine, and hail, Lectodinian,” she said.

  The chalk flared with white light, and a face appeared in the liquid surface of the brazier.

  “Greetings, Torean.”

  The voice was unearthly, yet human. As a face appeared in one brazier, Garrick knew immediately that it belonged to Zutrian Esta, the mage superior of the Lectodinian order.

  “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “I’m sure,” a second voice chimed in—this one Ettril Dor-Entfar, leader of the Koradictines—”that I speak for my Lectodinian friend when I say we have better things to do.”

  Chapter 6

  “I am Sunathri Katella,” Sunathri said. “Lord Superior of the Torean House of the Freeborn.”

  Zutrian’s voice rose to a chuckle. “I had no idea such a collective existed.”

  “Please don’t feel the need to be so purposefully dull on my account,” Sunathri replied. “The entire plane knows you’re hunting Toreans because of the Freeborn.”

  “What is it you want?” Ettril gave a curt reply.

  “I have a proposal.”

  “Another first,” Zutrian said.

  “You have expended great effort to find and destroy our god-touched mage, yet Garrick still lives.”

  The Koradictine’s eyebrow rose with interest.

  “Tell us of your proposal, Mage Superior,” Zutrian snarled.

  Garrick felt Sunathri’s demeanor change, and he couldn’t help but feel pleasure at the superiors’ discomfort.

  “Choose the strongest of your god-touched wizards,” she said. “And pit him directly against ours. If Garrick wins, the orders leave us alone. If he loses, we disband the Freeborn.”

  “And why should we do that?” Ettril replied.

  “A very good question,” Zutrian added. “It’s just as easy to carve your territory up a bit at a time.”

  “All that accomplishes is to provide you each more time to plot against the other. If you both prefer to hide your heads in the sand until the other double-crosses you, I suppose it is none of my concern. But my proposal still stands.”

  “You speak brashly, Sunathri Katella, Lord Superior of the Toreans,” Zutrian said.

  “Perhaps. But the fact is that neither of you can be certain of controlling the plane while Garrick lives, and you both know that no collection of normal mages will be able to stop him.”

  The two superiors waited.

  “You lost dozens of mages at Arderveer alone, and more in both Caledena and Dorfort. Your approach may well cripple the Torean order, but we can fight like this for many years, taking a few mages here and a few there, hindering your progress at every turn. When Garrick aligns to our ranks, you will not be able to stop us. And as his legend grows, more mages will join us. You know this is true. And you know the game we offer is the best opportunity you’ll get to deal with the issue.”

  “And, pray tell, what might the Toreans get out of this proposal of yours?” Ettril said.

  “When Garrick defeats your champion, you will agree to leave us alone. We get a quiet place in the power structure of the plane, a place we can live as we wish.”

  Both the superiors smiled.

  Ettril ran his fingers through his beard. “What say you, Zutrian? Do we close out this business with the Toreans now, or do we opt for the drawn-out affair that the Torean predicts?”

  “If the Freeborn want to die quickly,” Zutrian said. “I see no reason not to accommodate them.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” the Koradictine replied.

  “Then the next step is for the two of you to select a champion,” Sunathri said.

  Ettril Dor-Entfar spoke first, “I will send Jormar to destroy the Torean god-touched.”

  “The Koradictine approach failed in Arderveer,” Zutrian replied. “I suggest the Lectodinian, Parathay, should be our representative this time.”

  “Arderveer has nothing to do with this.”

  “Arderveer has everything to do with it,” Zutrian snipped.

  “You say this,” Ettril replied sharply, “And, yet, from what I hear your Lectodinians could not stop Garrick in Caledena or Dorfort, either.”

  The conversation fell silent for the barest of moments. Garrick sensed Suni’s satisfaction rise. It had gone exactly as she anticipated, and he felt something strong stirring inside her. A sense of power come over him that was deeper than magic, deeper than the hunger that thrummed from Braxidane’s curse. It was connection to the moment, a sense of knowing exactly where he was and exactly why he was here.

  It was time to do his part.

  “Send them both,” Garrick said, enjoying the shocked expressions of both superiors.

  “Garrick,” Zutrian said, smiling sickly as he recovered from his surprise. “So we finally meet.”

  “Send them both,” Garrick repeated. “I care not.”

  “That would make it easier,” Ettril replied.

  “Excellent,” said Suni. “Then both it is. Garrick will be at the top of God’s Tower in two weeks’ time.”

  “I will not overstress my army merely to meet a Torean wizard,” Ettril replied. “I will need a month.”

  “Yes, a month sounds more proper,” Zutrian said.

  “A month it is, then,” Suni said. “We will see you there.”

  Then she broke the link. Thin wisps of steam rose from the brazier’s surface, chalk smoldered with a coarse reek, and the lines between the three points were now obliterated.

  Garrick still held Sunathri’s hands. The contact seemed suddenly intimate, and Garrick felt heat rise to his face. He pulled his hands away.

  “Well, that’s done,” Sunathri said as if she hadn’t noticed their closeness.

  “They seemed less than worried,” Garrick replied.

  “Which is exactly how we want them.”

  Chapter 7

  Lord Ellesadil and his family came to see the army off. They sat in the shade on a platform along the gathering field as soldiers, several thousand strong, mustered at the bank of Blue Lake. It was morning, still early enough that the grass was damp and the sun’s shadows still slanted at sharp angles across the glade.

  An air of anticipation clung to the field that Garrick had no need of life force to feel.

  He wore leather breeches, a shirt of green cloth, and a black bandana that looped around his neck. His hair blew in the wind. He had just finished rolling his travel kit together when a guard approached, clearly nervous about speaking with him.

  “The royal family would like a word,” the guard said.

  Garrick glanced at Sunathri, who shrugged.

  “Thank you,” he replied. “I’ll come to
the box immediately.”

  The man turned to leave, but Garrick placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and the man looked at him with unconcealed fear. This soldier was a simple man, doing his job. But he was afraid this might be the last day he saw his home and his family, and he was afraid of Garrick in ways he could not express.

  “Go well today, sir,” Garrick said.

  The man’s smile of relief was all Garrick needed to see.

  “Thank you, Lord Garrick.”

  “Just call me Garrick. We both know I am no lord.”

  “Indeed, sir. That I will.”

  Garrick grinned as the man left. News of this encounter would be passed around the ranks in rapid fashion. It was something Darien would have done.

  “We’ll make a leader of you yet,” Sunathri said with her most mischievous smile.

  Garrick grumbled, but he liked the idea that she had noticed.

  “Why would Lord Ellesadil want to speak with me?”

  “Are you being dense on purpose?”

  “No.”

  Sunathri smirked. “The lord wishes to see you because he knows you are the key to victory. And he wants to see you now because he wants the members of his army to see him with you. He will use your promise to enhance his own image. You need to learn to take advantage of that.”

  He glanced at Will—who was grooming Garrick’s horse with a sense of detachment.

  “Can you watch him?”

  “Of course.”

  Garrick weaved his way through the Dorfort guard as they bent to sharpen their swords and daggers, as they tested bows and prepared their travel kits, and attended to their animals. Families huddled by their husbands, fathers, wives, and daughters.

  Which ones would not make it back?

  Which of these families would lose loved ones because of his decision to face down the orders?

  The thought struck him like cold water to his face.

  He tried to ignore comments as he went, but the people of Dorfort were hard to ignore. He sensed both curiosity and fear. They didn’t understand him. They didn’t trust him. They thought this war of Darien’s was a simple skirmish between mages that would soon blow over. A few even felt this was all Garrick’s doing, that he had enspelled Darien to bring him to his sway. These people thought everyone would be safe so long as the politicians stayed out of it. Yet, these same people were preparing to fight, regardless.