The Golden Griffin (Book 3) (19 page)

“I can’t ride any further,” Chantmer said. “The fever is returning.” He stopped his horse and slipped to the ground, where he let his legs buckle.

“I thought it would,” Roghan said.

Jark staggered up, gasping for air. Chantmer sank to the ground and lay on his back. He fought a wave of nausea and ignored the rocks that pressed into his back. It wasn’t difficult to show exhaustion.

“Are we heading for the Old Road?”

“That’s right,” Roghan said. “But I should warn you, the captain of the Brotherhood is lurking in the north country, searching for bandits.”

Chantmer remained on his back. “I most certainly do not want to see Knights Temperate in this condition. Give me two hours’ sleep, and I can ride again. We’ll travel as much as we can before dawn.”

Roghan dismounted. He nodded to Jark, who took the two horses and tied them to an oak tree. They’d climbed from the thinly wooded foothills surrounding the swamps into the hardwood forests at the base of the mountains.

Jark spread a bedroll and wrapped himself in a blanket. Chantmer was still hot from the fever, but grateful when Roghan brought him a bedroll. The mage sat with his back against a tree. Hard to tell if he slept or not; it was too dark to see Roghan’s eyes. Chantmer let his breath come in slow, even intervals.

He could still smell smoke and hear low voices, perhaps a mile distant. An owl hooted somewhere higher on the mountain, and closer, a porcupine snuffled through the brush. Bats circled overhead, clicking for insects.

He listened, not for Roghan’s breathing, but for the man’s heartbeat. It took several minutes to pick it out. It came as a low thump, a wizard’s slow, powerful rhythm, with a beat every ten seconds. Chantmer sat up slowly, still listening.

There was no change in Roghan’s heartbeat. The man was asleep.

But that would change the instant Chantmer stepped from his bedroll, if he didn’t deepen the man’s sleep. He whispered a spell underneath his breath.

The spell was a simple one, just enough to dull the wizard’s senses, to ensure that he slept longer than he’d intended. It should have cost Chantmer nothing.

But as soon as the spell drifted toward the two sleeping men, an invisible hand reached into his chest and squeezed his newly awakened heart, closed his windpipe, and made him swoon, lightheaded. He collapsed back to his bedroll where he lay gasping for several minutes.

It was the fault of the Order. Why had they done this to him? Couldn’t they see what he meant to accomplish?

At last he regained enough strength to rise to his feet. He walked barefoot from the camp, his feet adjusting to the leaves and rocks so as not to make noise. He crept through the brush toward the distant campfire. He hadn’t enough strength to walk there directly, but had to stop periodically to catch his breath and steady his muscles.

The voices grew louder as he drew closer, and he picked out words, mentions of the Brotherhood, of the Citadel, and Captain Roderick. No doubt the sentries thought themselves discrete as they conversed over the dying embers in hushed voices. But any fool could have walked up to them without notice.

“Chantmer the Betrayer,” a voice said to his left.

Chantmer spun in the direction of the sound. He drew back at the figure who watched him from the deep shadow of a tree.

“Who are you? Reveal yourself.”

A man stepped from the shadows. He pulled back his cowl.

“Narud,” Chantmer said. Relief touched his voice. “How did you know it was me? I smell like swamp water and rot.”

“Your knees,” Narud answered. “They have a distinctive creak to the joints.”

Chantmer shook his head at the man’s amazing senses. “Please, help me. A strange wizard revived me in Estmor. He is an enemy of the Order and doesn’t walk the crooked path.”

“Neither do you.”

“How dare you?”

“It is true,” Narud said with a sad shake of the head. “Your path is straight and evil.”

“Markal poisoned your ear. Let me speak to the Order.”

“So you can beg forgiveness?” Narud crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, eyes narrowed.

“No, to explain.”

“Ah, yes. To explain why you corrupted our magic and killed our own men, why you tried to murder King Daniel, a man who honored you like a father.”

“Mistakes were made,” Chantmer said. Even conceding that much left a sour taste in his mouth. “But I would like to beg readmittance to the Order. Will you take me to the Citadel and present my petition?”

Narud considered. “Yes, why not? If you are truly repentant, I will present you.”

“You are wise, my friend.”

“And the Order may forgive you if you are willing to purge yourself. Perhaps ten years penance among the poor would be sufficient.”

“Ten years? Surely you jest.”

“You’re right. Ten years is not long enough. Markal will know best.”

“Don’t be a fool. Toth will rise from the Dark Citadel by spring. If I’m not by your side, my powers restored, he will crush you.”

“Perhaps,” Narud said. “But let me ask you a question. If a bear attacked your tent, would you then let a viper into your bedding, even if the snake promised to help you fight the bear?”

“This is preposterous. I’m no snake.”

“No, Betrayer, you’re worse than the viper, for I know a poisonous snake when I see one. You, on the other hand, deceived me.”

“You are a fool.” Disgust and anger rose with every abuse Narud heaped on him. “Disagree with my methods if you must, but there can be no doubt that I fought the dark wizard, and the dark wizard alone. I would have shared my plans, but you didn’t understand the threat. You would have denied my methods.”

“We defeated Toth in spite of your help.”

“Did you? Did you really defeat him? No, I think not. I can feel him from here, slumbering in the Dark Citadel, rebuilding his power.”

Narud waved his hand. “I tire of this argument. Will you accept the judgment of the Order, or will you depart and never bother us again?”

Chantmer said, “I don’t accept your judgment. It is an outrage. And I won’t leave, either.”

“Do you plan to attack me, then? Try to kill me and force your way into the Citadel?”

“Even if I had that intention,” Chantmer said, “you’ve left me so crippled that Markal’s apprentice would best me. No, I will not fight.”

“Then begone,” Narud said. “If Captain Roderick wakes and finds you here, he will kill you. He hates traitors.”

“Please,” Chantmer said, ashamed and humiliated to be forced to beg. “Won’t you reconsider?”

Narud raised his hand and shoved his palm in Chantmer’s face. “By the Thorne, I command you to depart.”

The curse hit Chantmer like a blow. He staggered back, first from the clearing, then into the brush. And still the spell kept shoving him away. He was powerless to resist it.

It took him twenty minutes to reach the spot where he’d left Roghan and Jark sleeping. The Veyrian still lay on the ground, snoring, but Roghan sat with his legs crossed and his tattooed hands on his lap. The stone at the heart of his amulet caught the starlight and winked at Chantmer.

“Your friends will not have you?” Roghan asked.

“No,” Chantmer said bitterly. He lay on his back and stared at the sky.

“Then you see, you have no choice. Come, you’ve had your rest. Let’s go.”

“What about the Veyrian?”

“Your wizard friend is not very bright, but he’s powerful. He’ll search out others of your order to warn them of your passing. Some won’t be so forgiving. When they come, I need a distraction.”

It spoke to Chantmer’s weakness that he hadn’t detected the spell resting over Jark as he slept, or noticed that one of the curling tattoos had vanished from around Roghan’s neck.

“Jark carries the scent of our magic,” Chantmer said.

“Yes. When he wakes and sees that we’re gone, he’ll grab the horses and flee. I left the impression of Estmor in his mind. He’ll run to the swamps and hide. Your friends will track him there. By the time they realize they’ve been following a false trail, we’ll be over the road and through the mountains.”

Chantmer hesitated. For a moment he weighed Narud’s offer. Could he bow his head and accept whatever judgment Markal offered? The old wizard was weak and jealous; he would make Chantmer pay. If not the ten years of penance Narud suggested, maybe twenty. Maybe thirty.

No, Chantmer would never bow to those fools. His rightful place was at the head of the Order and until that time came, he would take his chances with these southern wizards.

And so Chantmer followed Roghan into the darkness. For the next few weeks they’d struggled north to the Old Road, stopping sometimes for a day or two while one fever after another wracked Chantmer’s slowly healing body. They hid from griffins in the air and knights and ravagers on the road.

It was slow progress, but steady, and nobody challenged them as they crossed the mountains. They had entered the Desolation protected by Roghan’s most powerful spells, and reached the Temple of the Sky Brother just as Chantmer reached the limits of his stamina.

Roghan’s warning that enemies waited on the Tothian Way did not come as a welcome surprise. But in his heart, Chantmer knew who he would find.

His old rivals from the Order of the Thorne. And he wasn’t yet strong enough to face them.

Chapter Fifteen

Darik and Kellum flew in complete silence through the night sky. They soared over the eastern foothills by the light of the waning moon.

The Desolation of Toth held a brooding, malignant vigil to their left. When the wind picked up, and the rugged landscape forced Kellum closer to the wasteland, Darik saw ghostly blue lights flicker across the plains. Soon they were soaring over ruined villages and gaunt, skeletal towers. Galsi began to struggle in the oppressive air. She sank closer and closer to the ground until her rider pulled her into higher elevations.

They reached the broad Tothian Way east of Montcrag on the edge of the Desolation. Galsi swooped over the road for another half hour, flying east, before her sharp eyes picked out the wizard. Then she coasted in for a landing, her wings beating up the fine sand that had drifted across the road. Darik climbed down and patted the tired griffin’s trembling haunches. Markal drew back his cowl as he approached from the shadows.

“Thank you,” Darik told the griffin. “And thank you, too, Kellum.”

“Yes, well.”

“If we see each other again—”

“With any luck, we won’t,” Kellum interrupted. “If we do, it means that misfortune continues to stalk my people.”

Darik closed his mouth. He’d met several griffin riders, but this man was by far the most dour. Since there was nothing he could say to soften Kellum, he stepped back and nodded.

“Fly safely.”

Kellum dug his heels into the griffin’s ribs. They disappeared into the darkness.

Markal put a hand on Darik’s shoulder. “Never mind him.”

“Are we in time?”

“Yes. I sent a seeker into the Desolation. You know what that is, right?”

“Like an invisible eye.”

“I can only send it so far. It leaves a trail, and it’s a costly spell. At least for me.”

“Your hands aren’t injured, so it couldn’t have been too costly,” Darik said.

“In fact, it would have blackened both of my hands to send the seeker.” Markal retrieved Memnet’s Orb from his robes. “I’ve been storing my excess power here. This single spell took half of it. But I needed to know.”

They picked their way along the side of the road as they talked. Whispering voices came in from the waste. Darik had passed this way in the summer when he’d fled Balsalom with Markal, Whelan, and Sofiana. They’d come across a party of Veyrian soldiers on the Tothian Way, and Darik had fallen from the road. He shuddered at the memory of a wall of bones and a flat, dead landscape covered with brackish puddles of water. It was out there, only a few feet away.

“I’m not sure why a seeker is so difficult to manage,” Markal said. “Nathaliey Liltige could do it with barely a tingle. Unfortunately, we don’t have her. Or Narud, for that matter. In any event, costly or no, there’s no way to hide a seeker from a powerful wizard. They know we’re here.”

“I take it you found Chantmer?”

“I did. He’s traveling with a powerful mage.”

“The tattooed wizard from the sultanates you detected earlier?”

“The same. He can conjure powerful spells—I watched him carve a safe passage through the Desolation. He’s following a line of ancient temples and shrines that eases the passage, but it’s still more magic than I could manage.” Markal rolled the glass orb on his palm, then put it away. “I need to master Memnet’s orb. The power is there, I know it, but it’s beyond my abilities. I’m like a child using his father’s battleax to chop firewood.”

Darik had more immediate concerns. “How long until they arrive?”

“One turn of the hourglass. Maybe less. If my guess is right, they’ll appear at this very spot.”

“And then what? You can’t face them alone.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not alone, then.”

“Am I supposed to run them through with this thing?” Darik patted the slender blade he’d lifted from the abandoned griffin tower.

“Chantmer is moving slowly. Whatever strength he regained since Narud first spotted him, the Desolation of Toth has sapped it. And this other wizard may be powerful, but he entered the wastelands covered in tattoos, and now his torso is mostly bare. His legs are still covered with runes, but these he must save to cross the Desolation to the south.”

Darik didn’t fully understand what Markal meant about the tattoos, but he supposed it was another form of storing magic, like Memnet’s orb. Instead of burning one’s hand to a cinder, it seemed the wizards of the sultanates could sculpt their incantations in advance.

“Then you think you can defeat this mystery wizard?” Darik asked.

“Defeat him, no. But I can fight him to a standstill. He’s far from home, and he cannot risk being caught on the road. There are armies on the march, and for all he knows, I can summon other wizards.”

“Hmm. You can’t even keep Narud from running off.”

“Ah, but our enemy doesn’t know that. He’ll be forced to flee, and into the Desolation. Which means he has to hold back some of his strength.”