Dave Smeds - The Sorcery Within

Pranter lightly stroked his scepter. Perhaps the most famous of the devices the great wizard had left behind, it could, with a thought from its owner, create a ward that would defy both physical and sorcerous threat. It was Pranter's badge of office, his proof above all else that he was a true son of the Dragonslayer. Only those of the wizard's lineage were closely enough attuned to stimulate the talismans. No one since the wizard's time had been able to use all of them.

"My heart is troubled," the king told Keron. "Gloroc has become more aggressive lately."

"There have always been lulls and swells," Keron said.

"True, but the Dragon has usually been cautious. Old age will not claim him for five thousand years. He can afford to wait until a fool comes to the throne, or until we make a military mistake. His strategy is shifting."

"My lord knows best," Keron said. He knew by then that this meeting had not been by accident.

"How long have you been admiral of my navy?"

"Over fifteen years, Your Highness."

"About twenty, then, since you ferreted out that eel Warnyre."

"Yes."

"There are more like him now within the court. Some, I'm sure, quite close to the throne. Who knows whom Gloroc has swayed to his ends? He corrupted my own grandfather with his powers."

Keron did not dispute his liege. The fact was that, since those times, the Dragon had remained sequestered within his palace, seen only by his high commanders, and none of the royal family of the present generation had been physically close enough to him to have come under his mental spell. Still, the lesson of Pranter's grandfather, King Othwind, was hard to ignore. That incident had caused half the kingdom to fall to Gloroc.

"I jump at my own shadow," Pranter continued. "If it were not so draining, I would use the scepter and sleep inside a ward every night." He held up the device, which he would soon hand to the chief wizard to be used in the tests. "But as a matter of fact, I haven't been able to use it for years."

"My lord?"

"Oh, I know. I shouldn't tell anyone, not even you. You might be an agent of the Dragon." Pranter cleared his throat. "But I would like to trust someone."

"I'll try to be worthy of it," Keron said firmly, though the king's gesture made him uneasy. Pranter had not lived so long by being naive. Was the king baiting him? Was the scepter genuinely useless?

"Look at them," Pranter said sourly. A pair of his grandnephews were testing the amulets, a pair of gold necklaces adorned by single emeralds. Reportedly, they had been used by Alemar Dragonslayer to communicate telepathically with his sister, Miranda. They would also warn the wearers if spells were being cast nearby, and it was rumored that the wearers could transfer their speed and agility back and forth between themselves, squaring it in the process. "No one's been able to use those for a thousand years. I wonder why we bother to test them. How many talismans are active today? The scepter? No longer. That leaves your belt and the globe. A few toys against the strength of Gloroc."

"We are still a mighty kingdom," Keron said.

The king shook his head sadly. "Gloroc will find the chink in our armor. I fear he may have his chance, come the succession."

Keron pursed his lips. The king had uttered a treason that, coming from the lips of any other citizen of Elandris, could have earned execution.

"What do you think of my son, Admiral?"

Keron felt sweat pop out of his pores. The truth? If he were suspect, his life could depend on how he responded.

"No," Pranter said presently. "I won't force your answer. I'll say it myself: My son is a good man, cultured and obedient, but he is not made to rule an empire. He would crumble under the burden."

"The people are loyal to him," Keron said without emotion.

"That is the problem. Imagine the unpopularity of a decision to deny him the throne, in place of, say, a member of a lesser house who has distinguished himself militarily, and who, unlike the prince, can control one of the talismans?"

"Are you serious?" Keron whispered. "It would be cause for civil war!"

"That is true…unless the crown prince were already dead. Let us say that an assassin of the Dragon managed to reach him."

Keron felt a cold snake crawl up his spine. He couldn't believe the king was serious. "Could you bring yourself to do such a thing?" Keron asked.

"The answer, I'm afraid, is no. I love my son, Admiral, does that surprise you? But curse me for a sentimental fool. As long as I retained my vigor, I had hoped that time would solve the problem. Now it is too late. I am on my last legs. Even if the prince should die, and I should name you my heir, all would say that it was the act of a senile, grief-stricken man. No, the only safe succession is the expected one.

"But I carry a heavy conscience. My son is safe, but is the kingdom? Will my weakness open the breach through which the Dragon inserts his power? If only some of my younger sons were of the right mettle. Why did you have to be such a distant relative?"

A shout rang through the hall. Down on the floor, Keron's son had put on his father's belt and was holding the barbells far above his head, with one hand. The wizards converged around him.

"You see," Pranter said. "The Blood of Alemar is strong in your line. My loins have betrayed me."

It was late. Keron had paid his respects to the king and departed with his son to celebrate activation of the belt. The talisman had always been the easiest of the devices to use, but to have two living individuals able to make it function had not happened for generations. Unable to publicly proclaim the event, Keron and Nanth staged a hearty supper which their other children and representatives of royal houses attended. Val was so taken with himself he didn't even notice his father leave the feast early.

The Chamber of the Oracle echoed the breathing of the ocean. The room, a windowless hemisphere accessed only by a single corridor, lay deep within the palace of Firsthold, many fathoms under the surface. Keron squatted on the polished floor and set down his small burden. It fluttered in its deep bowl, expanding its jellylike parachute membrane. Keron hesitated a moment, then thrust his hand into the bowl.

The ospris wrapped its tendrils around his fingers. He withdrew his hand instantly. Streaks of fire penetrated his skin wherever the ctenophore's appendages had touched him. Drops of salt water fell from the tips of his spasmed fingers, dribbling onto the slick marble.

He sat down, cross-legged, facing the dais, and allowed the poison to take effect. His body quickly became leaden. He heard the blood of his carotid arteries flowing behind his ears, listened to the humming of his brain, and noticed the slight swaying of his torso with each pulse. His head felt like it was floating away.

He waited.

The stinging of the ospris faded. His meditation deepened. Somewhere within, a nagging voice reminded him that the oracle had not replied to a question in four years.

He waited twelve hours. His legs slept, but he did not. And then the Oracle of Miranda stood before him, her complexion preternaturally vivid, her figure firm and young. She was dressed in plain white, a contrast to her night-black hair. Her expression, as if she had living eyes with which to observe him, contained a compassion he had never associated with her.

"I have come, nephew," she said. The voice, clear, feminine, and youthful, originated at no specific point. "What is your question?"

He could see her, he could hear her, he could even smell traces of perfume, but he knew that if he were to stride forward to touch her, she wouldn't be there.

"What may I do to defeat the Dragon?"

She chuckled. "Do you know how many have asked that question of me in the last century?"