A Stolen Crown (8 page)

“You’ll be safe here for the time being,” Stavros told Calthas. “There are a few other places where other mages have gathered, away from the prying eyes of the priesthood, but I need your help with something.”

Calthas was impressed at the library the grey-cloaked mage had amassed. He saw hundreds of books that he would love to read. Even before the mage priests had removed the magic books from the Academy library, there had not been that many from which to choose since the most important books on matters of magic were housed at the mages' retreat at Blue Island, which was now unfortunately overrun by the priesthood.

Calthas still could not believe that the elder mage had invited him to stay at his home, which was hidden away deep in the forests far to the south of Elvanar. A mage’s home was his private sanctuary, and usually unknown to all but a few, if anyone. It was a place where he conducted his own private work and also a place to retreat and hide if he was injured or had suffered some kind of horrible misfortune. It was a matter of great trust for one mage to even know where another made his home.

“Thank you Stavros, for bringing me here, but what could I possibly help you with?”

The elder mage led him into another room. In it sat another mage who was quietly sitting in a large chair and reading a book. The mage wore a grey cloak like the one that Stavros did and looked to be about Calthas’ age, though it was always hard to tell the age of one who routinely worked with magic, for it could give one the appearance of great years or seeming youth, a curiosity that seemed to be dependent upon the individual personality of each mage. The other mage turned when they entered the room and Calthas saw that the man wore a patch over his eye and had several scars running down his face that were still an ugly color, which meant he had received them fairly recently and had gone a long time without healing them.

“Calthas, meet Willem.” He turned to the one-eyed mage. “Willem, this is Calthas. He will be staying for a time and assisting you with your work.”

“Greetings Calthas. I am glad that you are here,” Willem said, rising from his chair. Stavros turned back to Calthas as the two younger mages shook hands.

“Calthas. Have you ever studied divine magic?” Stavros asked. Calthas felt his stomach tighten. Stavros chuckled, sensing the younger mage’s discomfort. “Don’t worry, we’ve no interest in converting you to the one faith. We need your help in understanding how it is that the priesthood is getting mages to join their ranks so readily, and we think the answer lies in their infernal book.”

“The Book of One,” Calthas said, reaching into the sack he still carried over his shoulder. “I have a copy of it here. Not a real copy, but a copy of a copy.” He pulled it out and handed it to Stavros who eyed it cautiously then handed it to Willem who opened it, surprisingly without any hesitation.

“This is it,” Willem pronounced. “But he’s right, it doesn’t have the power of the real one.”

“You’ve seen the book? A real copy?” Calthas was astonished.

“Yes, I have," Willem told him. "It nearly killed me too. The book does not like to be denied.”

"Perhaps you should tell Calthas about what happened, Willem," Stavros said. Willem closed the copy with a snap and handed it to Stavros.

“I was at Blue Island, studying with the master mages when a group of those who had joined the Priesthood convinced me to come out to a reading of their book. Curious, I went along and discovered that it was more powerful a thing than I imagined. The reading took place far away from the Island, out in a forest. When I arrived, I discovered that nearly every mage I had seen on the island was there and they were all robed in black. There were only two of us wearing grey that evening.

"The other mage, who like me was not a member of the black robes, was asked to read the book first and I watched as he walked up to a kind of stone altar the others had set up and upon which the book was kept. The book was open and the other fellow stared at it for what seemed to be a very long time. I was starting to wonder whether he was going to read from it when he turned around and started yelling at the top of his lungs. He praised the book, the beauty of its truth, the simple righteousness of it, how he was now sure of the way. He spoke of how he had felt its power and was proud to be joined as one through the book. The mages all seemed pleased with this and they gave the fellow a black cloak to wear, welcoming him to the priesthood. Next, it was my turn."

Calthas felt a growing sense of unease as the mage continued his story.

"One thing that very few people know is that I was once a priest of Stroma. Though I am a mage, I still follow Stroma as would a priest. As a priest, I was curious to see what the so-called Book of One of this supposed supposed one god had to say. Suffice it to say, I did as had the other mage and approached the book. What I saw in the book was similar to what is in that copy you carry, except the images were not still, they were alive in a way, with a powerful magic to them. It was a wondrous thing to behold, infinite and mysterious, sublime. I remember feeling the pull of the book as it drew me closer to it, but there was something about it that bothered me so I decided that I had seen enough.

"Of course, when I tried to pull away from the book, I found that I could not. My eyes, my sight itsefl was held, transfixed by the book and its power, so I tried harder to look away. I used every bit of power at my disposal to fight the power of that book, but I feared I was going to lose that battle when then there was a brightness that blinded me for a moment and I found myself released. I don’t remember much of what happened next but I do remember at some point being attacked by the other mages. The next thing I remember was of something smashing into my face. I believe it was a tree, and as you can see, it made quite a mess of my face.”

Stavros nodded. He had found the tree that been magically uprooted and flung, likely by one of the mage-priests, lying nearby with the remains of Willem’s right eye hanging from one of the sharp twigs. From what he could gather after having surveyed the area, he guessed that once Willem had been subdued, the mage-priests had then tortured the younger mage for some time and then crucified him. He and Willem both suspected it was the divine intervention of Stroma that had saved Willem from the power of the book, which suggested that the Book of One was not to the liking of the old gods.

“I am sorry this happened to you," Calthas told him. "From what I have heard in my own travels and from the research I have done on the book, it may be possible to resist its power, but extremely difficult. In this case, it sounds as though Stroma himself protected you." Stavros nodded.

“That he probably did, but there are many for whom such protection does not extend. There are few signs of Stroma left in the land and I think Willem might be the last remaining priest of Stroma unless, of course, you might know of another, who might perhaps follow in a family tradition?” Stavros said, hinting that he might.

Calthas caught the older mage's suggestion. The worship of the old gods had gone out of fashion over the past few years and their popularity had been waning for even longer. His own father had been a priest of Stroma, not one with strong magical power like the mage Willem, but a caretaker of Stroma’s temple, an herbalist, a healer and a teacher. Calthas himself had not followed directly in his father’s footsteps but these two mages were right about him. While he had chosen to concern himself with the study of magic, he still kept a personal commitment to the ways of the god of light.

“I am not a priest,” he told them. “But I do follow Stroma. I wonder if you knew my father?” he asked Stavros who nodded.

“A good man. He would have made a good mage too, but he was a wonderful priest,” Stavros said.

Calthas’ father had died while healing a town of people who had fallen mysteriously ill from some kind of plague or poisoning. The problem with the powers of a healer was that they typically involved either absorbing or giving. In the case of Calthas’ father, he absorbed so much of the poison that it killed him. While he saved many of the townsfolk, he also died in the process.

What had angered Calthas is that the townspeople, though grateful for the help, did not even raise a shrine to Stroma in honor of the priest he had sent them. Instead, they sent a donation to the temple at Maramyr as a kind of payment for services rendered. Calthas had received the money along with his father’s remains. He had been angry at Stroma for letting such a thing happen to his father and angry with his father for taking on such a task to the point that he was unable to heal himself.

Still, Calthas did not hate the god, nor could he stay angry. The old man had been very kind to him and though he had been very keen on Calthas following in his footsteps, he had never pushed it on him. He had also chosen to be a priest and Calthas had seen many times first hand how Stroma worked through his father. As the son of a priest, he had been present to witness the divine power of the god as it coursed through the hands of his priest when he healed the sick or blessed those who sought his aid.

The fact that he followed Stroma still did not explain how he could help these mages. He had studied the one book, or at least the copy he had managed to obtain, and had learned very little about it. He was interested in knowing if the rumors about the power of the book were true, but he made up his mind to steer as far clear of the real copies as possible. Calthas was neither interested in becoming a black-robe nor being bludgeoned half blind like what had happend to Willem. Still, Stavros was technically the head of the Council of Mages, if the counsel still truly existed, and he was one of the most powerful mages in Maramyr, or anywhere else for that matter.

“What is it you would like me to help you with?” Calthas asked.

Stavros smiled beneath his grey beard. His plan was risky, but certainly worth a try, and he hoped the young mage would agree.

*****

The odds were against them, but Jax was optimistic. Brian could sense Kaleb’s unease at the plan but it was too late now. They were well inside Baron Manfred’s territory and if they did not succeed, it would be a hungry winter for the lot of them. Jax gave a low whistle, alerting the rest of the men hidden in the trees that the convoy was approaching.

Manfred’s men had been out roving through the countryside purloining gold and jewels from people who had any kind of wealth, while also confiscating livestock and taking most of the stores of produce from the fall harvest from the people who had little to spare. Many of the minor country lords and in the outlying lands had sent letters to the crown in protest, but all had been ignored. Even those who did not care much about the local peasantry still understood that if the common people had nothing to eat, they would neither be able to pay their rents nor have goods to sell. And that meant that the local lords would have little to eat as well. It was a situation that benefitted few, and Manfred did not suffer at all since he was one of the ones making the collections.

One of Kaleb’s men had found out that Manfred's soldiers, along with the wagons filled with what they had collected, usually met at the village of Brandybrook and traveled in a caravan to Manfred’s castle. From there, once Manfred had selectively lightened the load, taking the percentage Cerric had granted him, the confiscated goods would then be sent on to Maramyr, and guarded by a contingent of the royal army. Kaleb and Jax had thought up a plan to liberate the caravan from Manfred and return to the people what had been taken from them.

Brian looked down the slope through the frozen trees to the ice-covered road below. He could see the procession of Manfred’s soldiers riding ahead of the long train of wagons toward the heavy wooden bridge that crossed the deep waters of Brandyriver. Kaleb whistled a call to the men who hid below the bridge. A short chirping noise that sounded like a squirrel signalled that they were ready. Brian watched as the soldiers began to cross the bridge, the hooves of their horses creating a rhythm of steps that echoed back from the smooth dark river. He tightened his fingers on the arrow already knocked in his bow and prepared to pull. When the first team of horses were only a few lengths away from the bridge, Kaleb blew his horn, giving the signal to begin.

Brian aimed for the rump of the horse of the soldier just ahead of the wagons and let his arrow fly. He disliked injuring the poor beast, but it was a necessary to the plan. The arrow flew straight and stuck into the horse’s backside. It shrilled its panic and bolted forward across into the line of horses on the bridge. Hearing its distress, the other soldiers’ horses bolted forward, their instincts telling them to run from danger. While the horses were trained to obey their riders in battle, they sensed the fear from one of their own, who had been attacked. The riders panicked as well and spurred their horses forward, anxious to be off of the bridge. Next, Brian took aim on the driver of the first wagon and let fly again, taking the man down.

Below the bridge, teams of men had worked to weaken the supports and now they pulled on ropes that were attached to the weakened sections. As the heavy wood beams fell away, the wooden bridge groaned from its own weight and that of the horses still atop it. The stress caused some of the other supports to snap, unable to bear the weight themselves. As Brian reached for another arrow, he saw the bridge begin to buckle and watched as the bulk of Manfred’s soldiers rode onto safe ground on the other side. There was a loud snap and lots of shouting as the bridge gave way. Kaleb’s men rushed clear of the falling timber and the bridge fell into the deep, unfrozen waters of the Brandy river, leaving only the caravan’s rear-guard to deal with.