David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

The letter was dated three months ago. There was no personal mark on the bottom of the page, but Vulfram didn’t need to see one to know who had written the letter. His eyes had scanned many a decree from Clovis Crestwell over the last eight years. There was no mistaking that loose, frantic scrawl.

He let the letter dangle in his hand, dread clamping down on his stomach.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

“You tell me,” Bracken replied.

He couldn’t. His head began to feel dizzy with the possibilities, and his knees grew weak. Amazingly, it was Bracken Renson, who had just admitted to wanting him dead, who now stopped him from falling. Vulfram accepted his help, leaning on the man as he stumbled across the room. Bracken guided him into the chair behind the library desk and handed him a jug.

“Drink some wine,” he said. “You will feel better.”

Vulfram tipped back the jug and felt the fruity liquid pour down his throat. It didn’t do the trick.

“Stronger,” he gasped. “Do you have any rum?”

Bracken shook his head.

Sighing, Vulfram eyed the jug once more, then downed the rest. Liquid seeped out the corners of his mouth and ran down his bare chest, red as blood. When he was finished, he tossed the jug aside, its rounded wooden shape bouncing on the stone floor before rolling beneath a table in the corner.

“Better?” asked Bracken.

“Not in the slightest,” he replied.

“Now do you understand my madness?”

“I do, Bracken. I do indeed.”

For whatever reason, he had been entrapped by the very people he served. If the letter were to be believed-and he saw no reason why it should not be-Clovis had been in communication with Broward. The vague pieces grouped themselves together in Vulfram’s mind. Broward had been instructed to lure Lyana and Kristof into a clandestine relationship, giving them ample opportunity to fornicate. When Lyana was with child, Broward passed along the crim oil, neglecting to mention the side effects, thereby ensuring they would be caught. And all of this had been ordered with the promise that it was the will of Karak himself.

It was nothing but a guess on his part, but it made perfect sense. Why else would his old friend have so fearlessly admitted to his crime? Why else would he have looked on with anything but horror as his own grandson was executed? And why would he have protested so much at the moment of his own death if not because he had thought himself exempt?

This wasn’t supposed to happen! I was pro-

Promised was to be that last word. Vulfram clenched his fist, crinkling the parchment as he did so. He almost tossed it into the hearth but thought better of it-instead, he flattened it, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his satchel. By itself the letter proved nothing. The words were carefully crafted and studiously vague, just as Vulfram would have expected from a weasel such as Clovis. But it was something-a weapon to be used. He needed answers, needed to get back to Veldaren as quickly as he could to confront the Highest about his role in this mess, to pry out-by force if necessary-the reason why such torment had been heaped on him. What, in all his life, had Vulfram done to deserve such a punishment?

Broward came over and knelt down beside him.

“Do you see now how you have been used?” he said.

The wine was finally beginning to work its magic, flowing through Vulfram’s bloodstream.

“I see betrayal,” he growled. “I see innocence lost. And I see blasphemy in the Highest.”

Bracken’s eyes widened.

“I am heading back to the castle,” Vulfram said. “With Karak back in our fold, it will be easy to discern who performed this treachery. However, if this is a trick, Master Renson , if this is your way to force me to sign my own death warrant, let me assure you I won’t die so easily. And if I find out you are lying, I will storm back here so that you may join your beloved son and father in the afterlife.”

Bracken didn’t seem at all taken aback by his tone.

“I understand,” the man said, and that was all.

“And you’re wrong, Renson. Our god is not to blame for this. Our god is perfect in every way. It is humankind that is flawed…one man in particular.”

Without another word, Vulfram rose from the chair. He swayed on his feet for a moment, but the woozy feeling passed soon enough. He left the Renson manse a moment later and hurried home. The sky was brightening and the roosters were cawing. He needed to get back to the Manor and must depart quickly if he were to avoid any dangerous questions from his family. There’d be no good-byes, no promises or false hopes. Nothing to delay him further. If there were any way to save Lyana from a life in the Sisters of the Cloth, he would seek it out, even if it killed him.

The least he could do, as a husband and a father, was to try.

When they rode into Drake, the northernmost village in all of Ashhur’s Paradise, Roland couldn’t help but let out a low whistle. The place was so different from anywhere else he’d ever been. The village butted up against the river on one side; a small mountain range bordered its other side, the space between filled with complex structures. Coming from Safeway as he did, he was used to people living in tiny, one-room hovels and tents, or camped out beneath the wide southern sky. Even in Mordeina, the only building of substance was the Manor of House DuTaureau; otherwise, everyone slept in simple shelters of wood, stone, or canvas.

But here…here there were great dwellings of crisscrossing logs and edifices of squared and stacked granite blocks. Complex geometry, beautiful despite the unnatural look of the constructions. Everything appeared solid and enduring, with an aura of grandness that rivaled the Sanctuary itself. Adding to his sense of wonder, at least forty poles lined the road that passed through the village center, each topped with a reflective substance that magnified the sun’s rays.

“Yes, it’s impressive,” said Jacob, nudging him. “Those quartz reflectors atop the poles catch the moonlight at night. If the sky is clear enough, the road is as bright as it is right now. A remarkable feat, really. I’m sure Turock is the one who came up with that idea.”

“Who’s Turock?” Roland asked.

Jacob chuckled.

“What magic do you know of, Roland?” he asked.

“Same as everyone else,” he replied. “How to spur a seed into a plant, how to channel Ashhur’s healing magic. Is there a need to know anything more?”

“Well,” said Jacob with a laugh, “Turock Escheton is a peculiar man who asked himself that question at a very young age and found the answer to be yes . He grew up in Mordeina, but when he was eight, he journeyed east to Dezerea to find the legendary elven mage and teacher Errdroth Plentos. The elf was very old when Turock found him, supposedly close to six hundred. As the story goes, Master Plentos was so intrigued by the boy’s idiosyncrasies that he took him on as his last pupil. Turock trained for ten years before the elf passed on, but he learned much during that time and grew to be quite powerful…or as powerful as any human could be in this day of waning magics. Powerful enough to sway the heart of one of Isabel’s DuTaureau’s children, anyway.” He patted his rucksack. “In fact, many of the transcriptions in here were told to me by Turock. He is the only man in the west who has studied the mystical arts-other than myself, of course-which makes him the oddity he desires to be.”

Impressive as it was and as much awe as he felt, what made Roland happiest about arriving in Drake was the knowledge that he would be sleeping in a warm bed that night. He hugged himself tight, even though the sun still shone above them. The trip from Durham, a journey that should have lasted a day at most, had ended up taking ten. They’d spent ten long days trying to keep warm with their meager clothing and blankets, the temperature plummeting each time the sun fell. Eight of those days had been spent waiting for Jacob to return from an unexpected distraction. A bird had arrived from Mordeina, beckoning Ashhur’s most trusted to a meeting with Isabel DuTaureau. No one in the group knew the nature of the meeting, for Isabel had demanded total secrecy. Roland didn’t understand what sort of circumstances could warrant such concealment, but he knew it wasn’t his place to question. Jacob was the First Man, and Isabel the matriarch of a First Family. He was but a steward. If there were something they needed to discuss, it would be part of their divine duties to meet and do just that.