Lyndon Hardy - Master of the five Magics

"Alodar, journeyman, and Morwin, apprentice, to master thaumaturge Periac, in the service of fair queen Vendora," Alodar quickly responded as half a dozen more poured into the room.

"Then you serve me in most unusual ways, journeyman," a woman's voice answered him in turn, soft and distinctive amid the growing din.

Alodar turned from the approaching men to the new speaker, and his eyes widened in surprise.

"Caution, my fair lady," growled the tall, white-haired man who now entered and stood beside her. "I remember this name, Alodar, and I doubt his interests would truly serve your crown."

Vendora the queen smiled at Alodar and then turned to her advisor, "And what great threat does this journeyman harbor, lord Festil?" she asked. She brushed back the tumble of her golden blond hair with deliberate casualness. Her blue eyes, that mirrored the morning sea, sparkled above a small upturned nose and lips of apple red. Her smile radiated the promise of delight, and Alodar felt his pulse suddenly quicken. She wore men's clothing, leggings, tunic, and cape, but they did not hide the thrust of her ample figure. With a dramatic sweep, she thrust back the cape and stood arms akimbo, left fist above a small dagger, awaiting Festil's reply.

"You were too young a princess to take notice, my fair lady," Festil said. "But many were the council meetings in which your father pounded the table with rage, the blood bloating the veins of his neck, his face flushed red. And all because one headstrong vassal dared to stand fast to his opinions when unanimity with royal persuasion was obviously what discretion demanded."

Festil stopped and then pointed his red-gloved fist at Alodar. His lips downturned with displeasure, pulling tight age-blotched skin across high-thrust cheeks on his narrow face. "No, my fair lady, this man's father put his interests before those of the crown. In the end, he refused to yield one time too often and received his just due. It was a matter of no lasting importance, but your sire demonstrated that he was indeed king. His lands confiscated and title revoked by royal decree, Alodun ended his days in common squalor, trying to enlist others in his effort to regain what was no longer rightfully his. I judge his son tracks you here seeking restitution, hoping the years would dim the memories of your father's faithful advisors. But I served your sire well, as I serve you now, and on his deathbed promised that I would ensure nothing be forgotten in matters of state."

Vendora dropped her arms to her sides and laughed. Her voice floated lightly like a wind-blown leaf, with no hint of the weight of the crown. "But if I were but a young princess, lord Festil," she said, "then the journeyman here could have been but a lad. How deep could such passion burn in a heart so young?"

She turned to Alodar, eyes widening, and he felt the royal demand for a reply. For an instant he paused. Festil's words stung, and the memories boiled out of their hiding places, fresh as when they were new. He had been young, yes. Too young to aid, but old enough to feel the helplessness when he saw the faces of cruel laughter and the sneers over shoulders of hastily turned backs. He remembered the image of his father, eyes finally dim and spirit broken. Not a single vassal had pledged to convince a stubborn monarch to return what he had so capriciously taken away. The impulse to lash out with words of his own welled up within him, but he clenched his fist into a tight ball and swallowed painfully.

It was so futile a struggle then, he thought. Could it be any different now? Was not the decision to cease resistance to the forces which overwhelmed him a good one? Renounce the claim to be a noble of Procolon and follow instead wherever fate might lead him. Ignore the feeling of incompleteness, of nagging dissatisfaction with each niche in life that he might try. Travel on to the next and the next, sampling and testing until he found the one that he could embrace with relaxing acceptance.

He looked into Vendora's eyes and spoke slowly. "As I have said, my fair lady, I am a journeyman thaumaturge. Not that my craft should matter. Since my father's death, I have been many things, goatherd, woodcutter, tavernhand. And it is true that I seek, but my presence here is not by plan of supplication. Rather I had hoped that these dungeons might finally yield something to aid us all."

"And what have you found?"

"Nothing, my lady, nothing yet," Alodar said turning his gaze from Vendora to answer the smaller woman similarly clad standing at her side. She too had her cowl thrown back revealing short auburn hair and eyes that danced darkly in the firelight. If she were by herself, men would turn to look, but next to Vendora her beauty would go unnoticed.

"Sweetbalm, of course nothing. Nothing as one with any sanity would expect," Festil exploded, brushing aside Alodar's presence with a wave of his hand. "May I state the case bluntly again, my fair lady? We will not extricate ourselves from this siege by following the whims of lady Aeriel here, no matter how good her intentions. This is a matter that can be settled only by arms, arms striking in unison to achieve the same objective. You must choose, and choose now before it is too late."

"My choice for life, merely to help us better fight a border skirmish. A weighty choice indeed, lord Festil," Vendora responded.

"It may well be your life, my fair lady. We are too undermanned to defend the walls properly. We must use every man and weapon we have with utmost efficiency. Yet we squander our time and resources in as many ways as we have lords within these walls. Andac launches a sally with no cover; Fendel crams all of his archers into the southwest tower, leaving the whole southwall unprotected; old Cranston detaches his men to the bidding of a mere craftsman with some mad gondola scheme. And why is this chaos so? Because each man strives to outdo the next in some feat of valor, some deed for the sagas, to make you swoon and choose him for your champion. Your beauty inspires great desire. Vendora, as perhaps no queen of Procolon did before, but thus far it has also created great turmoil in the realm as well."

Alodar watched as Vendora received Festil's words with a slight smile, again brushing back her hair. She glanced about the room, testing what was being said, her smile broadening as she caught the reaction of each man in turn.

"My fair lady," Festil continued, pounding one fist down upon the other, "we need your choice now, not after each brave man here has gone singly to his fate in a vain attempt to impress you. Name the man and the petty bickering among our young scions will cease. Name the man and all here will follow him as we are sworn to do. Name the man so that we may fight as an army, rather than a horde of errant lords, each intent upon his own private quest."

"And so, rather than many small uncoordinated thrusts," Aeriel cut in, "we will unite and make one large one that will prove equally ineffective. You deprecate the sagas, Festil, but in your heart you cling to them still. One last hurrah and men of stout heart and unity of purpose rout the enemy against overwhelming odds and secure the Iron Fist once again. A noble tale, but one that we cannot make so. Our salvation, I think, lies outside the traditions of our forefathers."

"Had we the wisdom of our forefathers, we would not face the difficulties we have here now," Festil boomed, his voice echoing off the walls. "Had our queen chosen the hero of the realm last solstice, he would have the kingdom in good order by now. The states to the south would not risk his displeasure, and all of the border fortresses would be fully manned. Had we the champion now, he would have persuaded her to remain where she belongs in the safety of the palaces of Ambrosia. He certainly would have had the sense not to send her venturing unto the very borders with only a small party of retainers, more for show than for protection, no matter what the babbling of some court sorcerer. The mines in the Fumus Mountains may indeed be surrendering the last of their wealth, and the royal revenues thereby decreased. But to risk seeking alchemical formulas hidden here, merely on the word of enfeebled Kelric, is the height of imprudence. Why, Bandor merely had to wait until the portcullis clanged down and he nigh had Procolon handed to him on a platter."