War of Wizards (30 page)

“Please, do not be afraid,” Kallia said. “Chantmer said I am out of danger.”

Male voices sounded in the hallway. The midwife must have called additional guards to stand watch while Kallia delivered.

“I don’t know how to . . . ” Samira began. She swallowed. “If it comes out, and it’s . . . you understand?”

“No.”

“If it is not a . . . a person.”

“That won’t happen. It is a stillbirth,” Kallia said sadly. “That is all. Treat it as a child that didn’t make it. We will place its body on a tower of silence as if it had been alive, and we will try to forget its origins.”

“But will it
look
like a child?” The midwife seemed ready to add something else, but hastily shook her head. “I beg your forgiveness, Khalifa, may you live forever. I will not be afraid, and we will both do as you command.”

The voices raised outside the room.

“Please send the guards away,” Kallia said. “I feel more pangs coming, and I don’t want to hear men arguing in the corridor.”

Samira sent Rima to the door, while the older woman stayed with Kallia as the birthing pangs came on. They were harder this time, a gradual tightening sensation that soon grew uncomfortable to the point of pain. But there was none of the unnatural burning, tearing agony that she’d suffered before, and she endured until they’d passed.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor. A man, speaking to Rima near the door. He was in the room? Why didn’t the girl send him away?

Kallia opened her eyes. She drew in her breath in shock. Her husband, Whelan, was kneeling next to her, smiling. His clothes were clean, his beard recently shaven, but he smelled of animal—bird and beast alike.

“You flew a griffin,” she said.

It was a foolish thing to say. Her heart was bursting with joy to see him alive and healthy and by her side so soon. But she was mid-childbirth and had sipped tea with poppy, which was dulling her senses.

“Daria’s uncle flew me. I needed to see you.” Whelan squeezed her hand. “I needed to know that you were safe.”

Kallia squeezed back, and when she saw the tears in his eyes, her own eyes welled.

Samira lifted Kallia’s robe to see the progress, and Whelan glanced down.

“Is it—” he began. “Is there hope?”

Kallia shook her head. “No, my love.” Her voice caught. “I am sorry. There is none. It doesn’t move, it cannot be felt except as a lump.”

“I see.” His voice was tight. “I had hoped that once the dark wizard was defeated . . . ”

She squeezed his hand again. “So did I.”

The great wheel of Mithyl was always turning. Children were born, grew into men and women, and then died. The Harvester gathered their souls, ground them together, and sowed them onto the fertile world to be rebirthed. But this thing had been put inside her to serve as a vessel for the dark wizard’s own soul. It did not have that seed of life, it never had.

The birthing grew harder and harder until Kallia felt a great pressure in her lower abdomen, a need to strain and push the thing out. The midwife hesitated, told her to resist a few minutes longer, and then to push when she could no longer hold back. Kallia did as she was told. Something was coming out—she could feel it emerging—and she doubled her effort. A few minutes later, it emerged. There was no sound. Kallia didn’t look.

Whelan was down with the midwife by her spread legs. She felt him lifting something. He swallowed hard.

“Tell me,” Kallia said. There was a tight band around her chest, and she wanted to sob.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked.

“Yes. What is . . . what does it look like?”

“It is a real child,” Whelan said. “A boy. He is beautiful. He has long eyelashes and dark, curly hair. He looks like a Balsalomian.” His voice changed. “But he doesn’t move. There is no breath, and he is cold. Not warm, like your body, just cold. You were right. He was never alive. Flesh without soul.”

Kallia still couldn’t bring herself to look. Her heart was aching. To look was more than she could bear.

Samira called for her daughter to bring the warm, wet, cotton cloths, and when Rima moved to obey, the girl screamed in terror.

Whelan lied to me,
Kallia thought.
It isn’t a child at all, it is something monstrous. He doesn’t want me to know.
 

But Whelan gasped, and Samira made a sound of fear deep in her throat, and Kallia looked at them. They were staring at the far side of the room. A tall figure stood cloaked in shadow, a hood over his face that the lamplight couldn’t penetrate. Kallia’s heart hammered in her chest, and she was sure suddenly that the dark wizard’s wight had returned. Somehow, he had escaped the Harvester’s bag and come back to claim his new body.

“Mortals,” the newcomer said. The lights flickered when he spoke, and Kallia recognized the dark, chilling voice.

“The Harvester take me!” Samira wailed.

“Not tonight, I won’t,” he said. “Not if you listen and obey. Step back, all of you. If you touch me, your souls will be torn from your bodies.”

The midwife and her daughter scrambled into the corner. Whelan reached one hand to help Kallia up. She took his wrist.

“No, leave the mother and her child on the floor. They will not be affected.”

Mother and child. Kallia could scarcely dare to hope. Mother and
child
. Could it possibly mean . . . ?

Whelan laid it gently on Kallia’s chest, and now she did look down. Her heart nearly broke at what she saw. He was so beautiful and perfect looking. But so dead at the same time. No, not dead, never alive in the first place, like a perfectly carved statue, only soft and of flesh. But cold, so cold, in her arms.

The Harvester waited until Whelan had stepped away, and then moved to her side. He took his bag, no longer writhing with souls, but heavy. He eased open the drawstring and brought out a pinch of something.

“From every sowing, a harvest, and from every harvest, fresh seed to sow.” The Harvester rubbed his fingers together, and Kallia felt, more than saw, something sifting down, like the finest gold dust. “Patience,” he said, as he withdrew. “It will take a moment.”

Kallia waited, scarcely breathing. The child didn’t move, lay perfectly still. And then, the first stirring. The baby opened his mouth and took in a ragged breath. Warmth flooded through his tiny body. He squirmed.

Kallia’s own first breath came in a sob. She held the child to her face, weeping, as the baby whimpered and then let out a lusty cry. Kallia sobbed, and Whelan approached and held them both tight.

“Thank you,” Whelan said, voice husky, as he looked up at the Harvester, still standing in the corner of the room.

“Yes. Now, I must go. My bag is full with the freshly gathered, and the land west of here has lain fallow for too many generations.”

The Harvester vanished. Kallia’s breasts were heavy and swollen (when had that happened?), and almost without thinking she slipped her robe from her shoulder and held the baby to her breast. After a moment, he found the nipple. Whelan kept holding her, and the two of them wept with joy.

Chapter Thirty

“Then you still mean to marry her?” Markal asked.

Darik couldn’t keep the scowl from his face. “I heard what you said, and I know it won’t be as bad as you say. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. I love Daria, and she loves me. Nothing will change that. You understand, you know that already, so why are you trying to talk me out of it?”

The wizard and the young man were walking the upper balconies of the palace. Balsalom stretched below, lights glittering in windows, the last smoldering fires near the Grand Bazaar nearly put out, but still glowing red and ominous, a reminder of how close the city had come to utter destruction. Darik knew Daria was up here on one of the roofs; she wouldn’t have landed lower in the palace by all the people. But Markal had insisted on talking to him first.

“I’m only telling you because I want you to be sure,” Markal said. “A wise decision is an informed decision. And I would choose a different path for you, as you know.”

“Is it so important to you?”

“Of course it is important to me. Chantmer has vanished, but for how long? He’s still lurking out there, up to who knows what. The wizards of the cloud kingdoms have their own schemes. There are powerful mages in Marrabat. All of them are a danger. My order is broken, it needs more wizards. It needs
you
, your energy and will. You have natural ability and could become a great wielder of magic. You’re on the cusp already—it’s mostly knowledge you’re lacking, not focus, not devotion.”

Darik sighed. It was a seductive opportunity. A year ago, he’d have dreamed of commanding such power.

“Whelan has his own offer to make,” Markal said. “I shouldn’t tempt you with it, but again, I want you to know everything before you decide.”

“To rejoin the Knights Temperate?” Darik shook his head. “No, Markal.”

He’d seen so much death, he never wanted to see war or battle again. Never wanted to see the death of another friend or companion. Like Captain Rouhani, his broken body collected from the palace courtyard and carried by Darik and Ethan and a company of Desert Lions to a tower of silence outside the city walls.

“I know what that means,” Darik added. “The land is in turmoil, there will be famine, and brigands on the roads, and failing crops for years to come. I’ve done enough killing, I’ve spent too many weeks in the saddle, walked too many miles on foot.”

“Do you know Meadow Down?” Markal asked.

“The small kingdom near Mount Rachis? Yes, I remember it.”

“The king of Meadow Down was killed, and his two sons fell as well, one at Arvada, the other at Veyre. Whelan has offered you the throne.”

“Me?” Darik blinked, momentarily breathless. “I would be a king?”

“It is a very small kingdom. A single fertile valley and the surrounding hill country. A few small villages. Many of the men died in the war, and there are bandits in the hills.”

Darik could picture the place now, hear the drone of bees, see the meadows and the small farms. But there would be work to do. He had seen lands ravaged by war, and it was easier to destroy than to rebuild.

A king. Only a year ago, he had been a slave.

“It wouldn’t be easy,” Markal said. “But you could do a great deal of good. A thoughtful man like you, tempered by war—you could bring stability, and then rule gently and with wisdom when you have enforced the peace. With Whelan as the high king at Arvada, you would have all the support you needed.”

“Markal, please don’t ask me to do this. Daria could never live in a castle, have servants and petitioners. She would retreat to the highest tower and stare toward the mountains.”

“You could ask her.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Then taking the crown would mean not marrying Daria.”

“There must be somebody else.”

“There is always somebody else. But perhaps not somebody better.”

Darik fell silent. They’d climbed a staircase of old, broken flagstones to another garden balcony, and now Markal stopped. They must be near Daria, Darik decided. A chill breeze blew from the west, and for the first time in days, he smelled nothing but the clean desert air.

Markal rested a hand on Darik’s shoulder. “Go with her,” he said slowly. “If that’s what your heart desires, follow it, follow her into the mountains. If it’s what you truly desire—”

“It is.”

“Then go. I will find you in a few years. A wizard’s life is long, and so can yours be. There is no hurry—we will resume your studies later.”

Darik nodded. “I would like that.”

“But practice! If you forget what you’ve already learned, I’ll give you a pair of goat legs and make you dance for me as penance.”

Darik laughed. A smile passed over Markal’s face, and then he said something that the young man didn’t quite catch. Darik glanced away, and when he looked back, the wizard was gone. Darik smiled. It was a final bit of trickery for his amusement.

He reached out and felt for Markal’s magic. It was there, faint but steady, leading back down the stairs. He could follow it if he wanted. Tell Markal he’d changed his mind.

Darik turned toward the far side of the garden, searching in the opposite direction. Movement caught his eye near a copse of peach trees, a few withered pieces of fruit still hanging from their branches.

“Is that you?” a shy woman’s voice asked. She took a step forward.

His heart leaped, but he approached cautiously. A large, stirring shape was also tucked back there in the darkness, and he’d rather not have his head plucked off by an angry griffin.

“No, not you,” Daria said in a sharp voice as the griffin tried to push past her. “He didn’t bring anything to eat.”

“Except myself,” Darik said. “Has he had his supper?”

She laughed, and some of the shyness left her voice. “Stay there, I’ll come to you.” Daria stepped out of the shadows, but she kept her head down, not looking at him. “I hope you’re not . . . that is, I mean . . .”

“Markal told me what happened. You know it doesn’t make any difference.” He took her hands and pulled her in. Her body was cool against his. A girl of the high mountains.

Daria looked up, and it took all his willpower not to turn away from the sharp, penetrating gaze. Eagle eyes—that hadn’t seemed so bad when Markal told him. A bird of prey had a striking look to it, and while he would miss Daria’s dark, beautiful eyes, surely that was the least important thing about her. But he hadn’t been prepared for that penetrating stare that made him feel as though he were a rabbit about to be devoured.

“You’re too close,” she said, her voice nervous. “I can’t read your face. Are you upset, does it bother you?”

“It is different,” he admitted. “It will take some getting used to.”

“Be kind, I need you to be honest. Don’t leave me wondering. I can’t read your voice, either. We are simple people in the mountains, we don’t understand lying or deception. Do you think me ugly?”

“Daria, you are beautiful, and it wouldn’t matter if you’d been left blind, I’d have still thought the same thing. My only worry was your mother convincing you to leave me.”