Son of a Dark Wizard (10 page)

The woman’s voice was warm, smooth, peaceful
as a summer sunrise over calm waters. “I am Maewyn,” she said.
“Welcome to Owl’s Grave.”

Sorren tried to respond, but could not find
the strength. A darkness rose over him like a blanket, a warm
welcoming darkness, and he let it swallow him.

“Sorren,” a voice whispered. It was faint and
hard to hear, like something echoing from deep inside a cavern.

“Mordock,” Sorren whispered into the
shadows.

“Sorren,” the voice repeated.

No
, Sorren thought,
it’s
Kovola
. He struggled to find his way back to reality. “Kovola,”
he said, his voice weak.

“Sorren, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Sorren? Are you awake?”

Sorren opened his eyes. A low ceiling made of
sticks hovered above, lit by the flickering glow of a torch’s
flame. Sorren turned his head, relieved to have some ability to
move again. Sage was kneeling beside him, squinting at him through
his narrow spectacles like a scholar studying a rare book.

“Sage?” Sorren said.

“Awake now?” Sage asked. “Can you move yet?
They gave you some powerful medicines. Ankridge root and mirkglen
powder. Rare ingredients. Even I don’t work with those.”

Sorren brought his mechanical hand before his
face and tested the movement of his fingers. All seemed to function
normally. Then he tested his flesh-and-blood hand, breathing warmth
into his palm, making sure he could feel it. His flesh-and-blood
hand trembled slightly, but it was hardly noticeable. A thin smell
of incense was on the air.

Sorren noticed his coat draped over the
footboard. Quove stood perched on it, staring back at him like a
curious child. He tried to sit up, but his right leg was numb.

“You broke it,” Sage said. “You should’ve
seen it. It was twisted in a shape I didn’t know was possible. It
should heal though.”

“Where’s Thale?” Sorren asked.

“In another hut,” Sage said. “He didn’t fare
so well. Broken arm, fractured ribs, internal injuries. Nasty. But
he should heal too. At least, I hope so.”

“Hope so?” Sorren pushed himself up with his
arms and studied his leg. Part of his pants had been torn off below
the knee and his lower leg had been wrapped in thick brown bandages
that looked like some sort of animal skin.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Sage said. “I think they
know how to treat him.”

“They?” Sorren said. “Where are we? What
happened?” All he knew was that he was sitting on a small cot on a
small bed in a small wooden hut. Other than the bed, there was not
much in the room. A torch, a few smoking incense sticks, and some
small plants growing in wooden bowls. The place was clearly not
meant to be lived in.

“We crashed into Owl’s Fortress last night,
several miles from here,” Sage said. “I tried to treat you and
Thale myself, but there wasn’t much I could do. No supplies. A
group of people showed up and brought you and Thale here where they
could treat you. They call this place Owl’s Grave. I’ve never heard
of it. Have you?”

Sorren shook his head, slowly sliding his
legs off the bed. “Where’s my staff?”

“I hid it,” Sage said. “Back on the airship.
I wasn’t sure if these people would help us if they knew who you
really were. Well,
are
.”

“Who are these people?” Sorren asked.

“I haven’t asked many questions,” Sage said.
“I told them we were merchants making deliveries to the Chosen One
when our engine exploded. I think they believe it. Anyway, they
told me to try waking you and inviting you to dinner. And I have
something for you.” Sage held up a stick, long and knotty, thinner
than his staff.

“A stick,” Sorren said, taking it.

“To walk with,” Sage said.

“I would never have guessed. How’s the
airship?” Sorren asked, pulling himself up and leaning on the
stick, careful to put no weight on his right leg.

“Damaged,” Sage said. “Of course.”

“Damaged,” Sorren repeated quietly. He
hobbled over to a window. Outside, the night sky was hidden by the
thick branches of the forest’s coniferous trees. No Nyrish moon.
Not even a speck of its blue moonlight. Only thin strands of stars
broke through the canopy.

Sorren imagined the world swirling into that
black void in the sky. He could still feel it pulling at him,
trying to suck him in, trying to swallow him whole. So that was how
his father had been defeated. That was why Kovola hadn’t been able
find his body. He’d been sucked into the void.

Sorren wondered what it would be like to die
in the void. Would you freeze to death? Would you suffocate,
choking in agony on the nothingness? Would you disintegrate, your
body torn apart by the vacuum? Would you simply cease to exist? How
did the world work beyond that portal to the void?

Quove flew to Sorren’s shoulder, closer to
his neck than she usually landed.

“How badly is the airship damaged?” Sorren
asked, pulling on his long black coat. “Can you repair it? How long
will it take?”

Sage scoffed. “Does it matter?”

Sorren turned and looked at the man.

“You tried,” Sage said. “And we almost died.
You know you’re no match for him.”

Sorren was not about to just give up. He felt
he was getting closer to something, like he was uncovering some
secret. And now the Chosen One had once again seen him face to
face. The Chosen One would know that one last Candlewood wizard
lived. It was far too late for turning back.

Still, Sorren didn’t feel like arguing.
“We’re going to have to repair the airship anyway,” he said,
flipping up the collar of his coat. “I don’t intend to live
here.”

“The damage isn’t bad,” Sage said. “Just
smashed up compressors and an overheated pressure chamber. Should
only take a day to repair, but I don’t have the tools.”

“Do they have any tools here?” Sorren
asked.

Sage shrugged. “I haven’t asked many
questions.”

“I’m invited to dinner, you said?”

Sage nodded.

Sorren limped toward the door, grateful that
his energy was returning, both to his body and his mind. He was
looking forward to getting some food in his system. He couldn’t
remember the last time he’d had a decent meal. As he walked out of
the hut and into the dark of the forest outside, he remembered the
face of the woman with the dark colorful hair. Her voice echoed in
his mind like something from a half-remembered dream.
Welcome to
Owl’s Grave
.

It felt strange to hold such a thin short
stick in his hand. He had already grown used to the cool lines of
iron curling under his palm. Without his staff, he felt like he was
incomplete. Still, there were plenty of spells he could cast
without his staff. It was not as if he
needed
his staff.

Sorren followed a narrow trail between the
trees and thick underbrush, the path lined with torches that lit
the way. A rich scent of pine filled the air.

After walking for half a minute, a
bluish-green light appeared in the distance, the flickering light
of some large bonfire. Men were talking, children were laughing and
shouting. People were playing lively tunes on mountain whistles and
singing lighthearted songs that Sorren had never heard before.

Sorren approached the clearing. The
bluish-green fire seemed like something from a witch’s spell. There
must’ve been forty or fifty people surrounding the fire, standing
in huddled groups or sitting on wide logs like people in old
paintings, casting long shadows on the trees behind them. Some had
turtle shell bowls in their hands, eating some sort of soup or
stew. They were dressed in wild assortments of animal skins, dark
leathers and furs and feathers. Animal body parts like large paws,
long tails, sharp teeth, and black eyes remained intact on some of
their robes, as if the people were in fact half human and half
beast.

The songs faded and a silence fell over them
as Sorren stepped toward the bluish-green fire. They turned and
stared at him. They were not vicious or accusing stares, as if he
were a dangerous or unwelcome guest. They were eager stares, as if
they’d been waiting for him and hoped he would say something.

But Sorren said nothing as he slowly limped
closer the fire. He wasn’t sure what to do with so much attention.
He wasn’t the son of a dark wizard to these people. He didn’t know
how to act.

A woman stepped toward him. Maewyn. Her name
came to his mind without thinking. Her colorful hair almost seemed
to glow in the firelight. She was just as tall as Sorren, and their
eyes were level with each other.

“We’re glad you were well enough to come,”
she said, smiling, holding out her arms and offering him
assistance. Long wooden bracelets swung from her wrists. Sorren let
her help him to a vacant space on a nearby log, where they sat next
to each other. “Shadowvin, yes?”

“Shadowvin?” Sorren repeated.

“I told them your name,” Sage said from
behind. Sorren hadn’t heard him following. “I didn’t think you’d
care.”

“I’m still a bit tired,” Sorren said.

“You have mirkglen powder flowing through
your blood,” Maewyn said. She was sitting too close. Sorren could
almost feel her breath on his face. He wanted to lean away, but
resisted. As if reading his thoughts, Maewyn shifted away, putting
some space between them. “Is this your raven? She would not leave
your side.”

Quove still sat on his shoulder. The raven
watched Maewyn cautiously and curiously. Perhaps the bird didn’t
like something about the strange brown fur hanging over Maewyn’s
shoulders.

Sorren put a silver-copper finger in front of
the bird, Quove hopped onto it, and Sorren held her out in front.
“She came to me when I was child.”

A small boy, three or four years old and
dressed in the black fur of some sort of mountain tiger, walked
over to his side, glaring at his mechanical arm. Sorren considered
smiling at the child, but wondered if that would only frighten
him.

Sage sat on Sorren’s left side and tapped the
mechanical arm with his knuckles. “See?” he said. “I told you he
had a silver arm.”

The boy laughed, as if this were some sly
joke.

Maewyn smiled at the child, then turned back
to Sorren. “We were waiting for you to wake,” Maewyn said. “What’s
your story?”

His story? Sorren could feel the eyes on him.
He half expected someone to point and shout his real name, to
reveal who he really was. Maybe part of him was hoping for it. He
stared into the fire ahead, trying to dream up a new person he
could be for the night.

“I grew up in the north,” he said. “In
Vonlock’s castle, actually. My father was one of his guards. I was
training to become one too, but . . . I lost my arm
in an accident. My father was furious. I ran away by hiding on one
of Sage’s airships. As it turned out, he was looking for help on
his ship and hired me.”

“A runaway from Vonlock’s castle,” a man
covered in wolf fur said with a hint of laughter. “Funny he should
fall into Owl’s Grave!”

The crowd chuckled.

“It
is
interesting that fate brought
you here,” Maewyn said. “They are all from the north too. They all
worked for Vonlock at one time or another.”

Sorren glanced around the fire, meeting the
eyes of the faces staring at him, wondering if he’d recognize
anyone. He didn’t.

“It was years and years ago,” the man in wolf
fur said. The wolf’s head hung down over his chest as if it were
trying to bite through the man’s skin and devour his heart. “We
were sentenced to death.” His smile had faded.

“It was the prophecy,” Maewyn said. “The
Candlewood Prophecy. The Wizard King was terrified of it. He began
killing boys born in the eleventh month.” Maewyn looked into the
fire. “Every family here has lost a son at Vonlock’s hand.”

“Every boy in the kingdom born in the
eleventh month?” Sorren asked. Why had he never heard of such a
slaughter?

“Not the entire kingdom,” Maewyn said. “The
prophecy said the boy would be born under the king’s own shadow. He
only looked through the families that worked and lived in his
castle.”

“We were sentenced to death ourselves,” the
man in wolf fur said, “but we managed to escape. We fled south.
Soldiers chased us, but by some miracle we survived.”

“It was the prophecy,” another man said, an
old man with a short gray beard, dressed in dark bear skin, the
bear’s mighty paws sitting on his shoulders. “We had to survive so
that the prophecy could be fulfilled.”

The Chosen One’s face seemed to appear in the
bluish-green flames ahead, staring out at Sorren with a fire’s
eyes. Sorren glanced down at the forest floor, trying to forget the
image.

“Yes,” Maewyn said, “you are thinking the
right thing. A pregnant woman fled with them. She gave birth on the
eleventh day of the eleventh month. Atlorus was born and raised
here, in my home, Owl’s Grave.”

“Atlorus is from Owl’s Grave?” Sorren
said.

Maewyn nodded. “You were just sleeping in his
bed.”

A young woman dressed in deer skin approached
Sorren, a turtle shell bowl in her hands, the handle of a spoon
pointing out over its edge. “Here,” she said, holding out the bowl.
“You should eat something.”

Sorren let Quove hop back onto his shoulder,
and he took the bowl with both hands. Steam rose from it and Sorren
inhaled its warm exotic scent, a citrus perhaps, like some sort of
strange fruit.

When he peered into the bowl, he almost
dropped it. It seemed to be some sort of soup made of dead mangled
caterpillars, seaweed, and mushrooms, all floating in a thick green
syrup sprinkled with dirt and dead ants.

“Mmmm,” Sage said, leaning toward the bowl.
“I must say, that smells so goo— . . .
Oh . . . Oh.”

“Oh, yes, Bovadir is our best cook,” Maewyn
said. The young woman smiled and bowed. “This is a very difficult
soup to make.”