eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Princess Athaya of Caithe paid dearly for revealing her magical gifts: the loss of loved ones, excommunication from the Church, and a death warrant on her head. She barely escaped the kingdom of Caithe with her life, and yet she is already plotting her return.
Despite months of grueling instruction, Athaya is only beginning to grasp the full extent of her talents. Her battle-magic is still unpredictable and her spell path-maps are incomplete. But Athaya is running out of time. While she’s been away training, the Lorngeld continue to suffer under the reign of her brother Durek.
Athaya swore she’d abolish the Church’s murderous rite of absolution and legalize the teaching of magic to the Lorngeld. But fulfilling those promises won’t be easy. Though Athaya is aided by a powerful group of wizards, her brother will not rest until she is defeated.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781625670182 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2019 |
| Series: | The Caithan Crusades , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 343 |
| Sales rank: | 975,627 |
| File size: | 790 KB |
| Age Range: | 13 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
"Blasphemy," the archbishop muttered indignantly, twisting his face up into a meaty scowl. He set aside the chicken leg he had been chewing on and turned the page of an ancient book, leaving a greasy, coin-sized thumbprint on the yellowed parchment. "Proud, self-glorifying heresy, that's what it is."
"So you keep saying," the man across from him grumbled, his concentration once again shattered by the prelate's incessant babble. Durek Trelane, king of Caithe and lord of the Isle of Sare, shifted his weight in the hard-backed chair and let out a grunt of pain as he tried to work the stiffness from the muscles in his neck. He had never been fond of bookish pursuits and despised nothing more than being confined in a small, airless chamber thick with the smell of old leather and ink. Even the roaring fire nearby could not entirely chase away the icy bitterness of a late January evening.
But today his studies had a purpose far beyond mere edification, so he was willing to tolerate some discomfort for their sake — even though his archbishop's company was proving far more tiresome than either the uncomfortable chair or the chill. Pulling the heavy black mantle closer around his shoulders, he took a gulp of mulled wine from his silver goblet, closing his eyes briefly while the cinnamon warmth flowed through him, and then turned his face away to discourage the clergyman from any further attempts at unwanted conversation.
Archbishop Ventan, however, was not quite so easily daunted. Not a minute later, he made an impatient huffing sound and clicked his tongue noisily. "Just listen to this: 'The Lord sheds blessings of magic on a chosen few, and they are called upon in turn to bless others and use their gift to the betterment of the world.' Can you believe that? What rubbish! How does one better the world, might I inquire, by unleashing all matter of madness and destruction upon it? Ludicrous."
"I didn't ask you to criticize it. Just read it, will you?" A vague hint of warning had crept into his voice, but the archbishop didn't seem to notice.
"With respect, my Lord, I must protest," Ventan declared, closing the volume hard so that a thick cloud of dust rose from its pages. "Those books of magic contain nothing but wickedness. They —"
"They may be of help to us in the future, Daniel, and that's the last complaint I intend to hear from you on the subject." The king threw the archbishop a damning glare and thrust his own book aside, knowing he would never finish the essay he was reading unless he was left alone. He rubbed his eyes wearily, forcing stinging tears to soothe away the dryness.
"But wizardry ..." Ventan murmured, unable to suppress a shudder. He nervously scanned the chamber as if afraid some random magic might yet linger there. Yet if anything lingered in that chamber, it was nothing more than three months of dust — left untouched because few dared enter that private set of rooms for fear that the one who once lived there might still haunt them. The king, however, did not believe in ghosts or other foolish fancies — those who dared might claim he believed in nothing requiring half so much imagination — and spent many of his winter hours here, diligently searching through the musty records for any scrap of knowledge that might help him learn more about magic and those who practiced its hellish arts.
Evidence of his work was clear; the sparsely furnished room displayed a wild disorder that would have appalled its former occupant had the wizard Rhodri been alive to see it. Open books lay scattered across the shelves, and loose sheets of parchment filled with crabbed scribbles littered the floor around the center table where Durek and the archbishop sat. The windows were slick with smoky grime, and cobwebs hung limply from the ceiling beams like tattered lace. But the king quietly tolerated these signs of neglect and knew that when his studies here were done, he would have the room closed off permanently, its history and existence locked away like a corpse in a sealed tomb.
Seeing Ventan drawing breath to fuel another speech, Durek cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I don't condone magic any more than you do, Daniel. You know that. But a man doesn't wait to study the arts of war until after he's fallen under attack. The more we can learn about these wizards, the better prepared we'll be to deal with them if we have to."
Durek got up from his chair and stretched, tendons snapping like footsteps on dry twigs. "I never thought of Rhodri as much of a scholar, but there are enough books here to fill a library. I've already found some notes on corbal crystals — like that one you used to have — and several pages about something called a 'vision sphere.' But some of his other notes ..." Durek frowned and shook his head. "It's almost as if he were tracking some sort of experiment. I gather that my father was involved somehow, but Rhodri's writing is so full of cryptic remarks — not to mention being illegible to begin with — that I can't make any sense of it."
"All wizards are mad, my lord," the archbishop stated resolutely. "And Rhodri was probably worse than most." Ventan reclaimed his chicken leg from the silver tray in the center of the table and took another bite, chewing angrily as he spoke. "Kelwyn would have done better to rid himself of that wizard straight away rather than let him work mischief for twenty years. Why, toward the end your father was actually serious about wanting to abolish the sacrament of absolution! That never would have happened if he'd not been given magic. The power seduced him, just as it seduces all who encounter it." The archbishop swallowed noisily. "And look what came of it."
Durek lapsed into moody silence, thinking back with bitter regret on the many arguments he'd had with Kelwyn, futilely trying to make him see reason. Durek had always deeply respected his father — even if he could not quite bring himself to love him — and could not comprehend how a man so universally acknowledged to be one of Caithe's most extraordinary kings could have made such a grievous error in judgment. Throughout his life, Kelwyn had consistently proved his skills as a shrewd tactician and an excellent warrior, earning even the grudging respect of those rebellious nobles he had been forced to subdue in order to bring the long-needed peace that Caithe now enjoyed. In retrospect, it was easy to think that he could have brought his kingdom under a single rule with his inborn gifts alone, without risking his soul by dabbling in magic.
Durek felt his muscles tense up at the mere thought of magic. Yes, that's what it all came down to. If only his father hadn't been so stubborn about those wizards. Those damned, mind-plagued wizards! Kelwyn had been determined to revoke the sacred rite of absolution — a preposterous idea! — and worse, he wanted to legalize the teaching of magic to the Lorngeld. All this in spite of constant appeals by his eldest son and the Curia that such a course of action was useless — that all wizards were children of the Devil and could not be saved except by renouncing their gift and offering up their lives to God. And Kelwyn's refusal to believe that one simple fact had been his downfall, for he had been brutally murdered by one of the very wizards he sought to protect.
And worst of all, that wizard had been his only daughter, Athaya.
Durek's reverie was broken by a muffled groan as Ventan got up from his chair and padded across the carpet toward the fire. The hem of his black cassock hovered several inches above the floor due to an overly abundant stomach, revealing two mutton-like ankles and a pair of costly velvet slippers embroidered with gold. He turned to warm his back against the flames, and when the light was right, Durek could see small spots of grease rimming the archbishop's sleeves where he had furtively wiped his mouth.
"It's late, Majesty," he said with a sigh. "Shouldn't you get some rest?"
"I appreciate your concern," Durek replied graciously, knowing full well that Ventan was merely grasping for an excuse to leave, "but I want to finish that essay I was reading before I retire. And you can start sifting through that stack of papers over there." The king motioned to a disconcertingly large bundle of creamy pages loosely banded together with a purple cord. "The ink on them hasn't started to fade yet — they must be fairly recent."
Swallowing another sigh, the prelate gathered up the papers from the shelf and grudgingly began to sort through them. He handled them carefully, touching only their outermost edges as if afraid the paper itself might carry some sort of contagion other than mere knowledge.
Having finally obtained an atmosphere of quiet, Durek promptly found it impossible to concentrate. As the minutes passed, the fire began to crackle much too loudly, and he heard the clatter of each tiny hailstone that the winds flung against the chamber's leaded-glass windows. Even the crisp sound that came each time he turned a page of his book began to distract him. Briefly, he considered giving up and going to bed, yet despised the notion of doing exactly what Ventan was hoping he would do.
Then he realized the source of his problem. A room containing Archbishop Ventan should never be so quiet.
Durek looked up curiously. He half expected to find the archbishop dozing, although that should have produced at least a muffled snore or two. But Ventan was very much awake. Bushy gray brows were furrowed deeply inward, his face frozen with the startled look of a man who has just read a public notice of his own death. Whatever the archbishop was reading, it had him utterly absorbed.
"What have you got there? Anything I should see?"
Durek's unexpected inquiry made the prelate start. Quickly regaining his composure, Ventan set the paper aside and made a placating rumble in the back of his throat. "Oh, I don't think it merits your attention."
"I'll be the judge of — oh, what is it now?" he snapped in response to the tentative rapping on the chamber door.
A nervous-looking sentry took one step inside the wizard's chamber, visibly reluctant to venture from the safety of the doorway. "I regret the intrusion —"
"I thought I gave orders not to be disturbed."
"You did, Majesty," the young man replied, dropping an apologetic bow, "but I checked with Lord Gessinger, and he thought —"
"Mosel Gessinger had a thought?" Ventan put in under his breath. "God has wrought yet another miracle."
"— thought you'd want to hear about this right away," the sentry finished, clearly trying not to smile at the archbishop's barb. "Captain Parr and his squadron have just returned from the border."
The king's eyes flashed with sudden animation. He sat bolt upright and winced as a sharp twinge of pain from a protesting muscle shot through him. "For once, Gessinger was right. I'll see the captain immediately. Send him in."
The sentry quickly ushered in a brisk young man dressed in the bloodred livery of the King's Guard. The only decoration on his uniform was his brass-linked collar of office declaring him the captain of Durek's corps of personal guards — a post he had held just over three months. Razor-fine hair was combed neatly back from sharp-boned cheeks, and he looked at his king with intense, unblinking brown eyes, like those of an owl who is most alert in the deepest part of the night.
Durek rose to his feet. "You have a report to make, Captain?"
"We traced them to Beysdon, sire," he began in a cold, unemotional voice, getting straight to the point instead of bothering with a florid preamble as Ventan would have done. "It's a small fishing village about a day's ride from the border wall. They purchased horses in Feckham and took the seacoast road north. One of the dockhands said that a man and woman answering to their description boarded a Sarian trading ship sometime during the last week of November." The captain paused to give his next pronouncement the proper effect. "The ship was scheduled to dock in Torvik a few days later."
"Torvik," Durek muttered darkly. "The closest Reykan port to Ath Luaine."
Archbishop Ventan laced his pudgy, sausagelike fingers together and set them atop his belly. "Your sister is most certainly seeking refuge in Osfonin's court."
"No doubt, although he's an utter fool for taking her in. But I think he'll listen to reason," Durek added with an icy glitter in his eye.
"Most certainly," Ventan agreed. "I doubt Osfonin will consider Athaya's safety worth the price of a Caithan invasion."
Captain Parr cleared his throat, subtly reminding the others that he was still present. "If I may, Majesty," he continued. "There was someone else with them. From the information I was able to pick up, I'm certain it was Kale Eavon — one of the two men who disappeared the same night as the princess' escape."
"And one of Graylen's favorites," Durek observed, scowling as he thought back to Parr's predecessor. Tyler Graylen — Athaya's erstwhile lover — whose treasonous head had been displayed on an iron pike atop the gatehouse, and then taken down a month later to rejoin the rest of his body in an unmarked grave. Graylen had been known to inspire a great deal of loyalty in his men. That much could be said for him, at any rate. No doubt one of them had been misguided enough to place his loyalties with Athaya even after his captain was executed, thinking to do him one final service.
Durek gave the owl-eyed guardsman a brief nod of dismissal. "Thank you, Captain. You've done well. I'll send for you in the morning to give you further orders."
As the captain bowed crisply and departed, Durek rummaged among Rhodri's things until he located a clean sheet of honey-colored parchment and a fresh pot of ink. He dipped a slender white quill into the ink pot and eagerly scribbled down a few words in his blocky, childlike hand. He had waited far too long to compose this particular letter, and even though he knew that a strongly worded missive to the Reykan king would take more time than he was willing to spend on it tonight, he felt compelled to at least put down the first few lines.
It had been over three months since his sister's flight from Caithe. Three months since she had murdered their father with magic and propelled her oldest brother to the throne. And tracing her had taken longer than Durek ever thought possible. His best guardsmen had been searching under every rock and clod of dirt for Athaya and her Reykan cohort, Jaren McLaud, ever since October, asking in every village for news of them, and praying for God's protection from their evil spells and magics — magics that had left the last wizard at Delfar Castle nothing more than a smattering of flesh on a dungeon wall, although Durek, allowing himself a malicious smile, regarded Rhodri's demise as no great loss to his court.
"She will have to be tried, of course," Ventan remarked, craning his fleshy neck in an attempt to read what the king was scribbling. "Even if it is only a formality."
"Never fear, my friend," Durek said with dangerous calm. His lifted his hand, and beads of ink slid from the end of the quill like drops of black blood. "She'll answer to me for what she's done. And if I ever get my hands on that damned Reykan wizard who taught her these things, I swear I'll —" He broke off, his face suddenly crimson with rage. Biting back a curse, he flung the quill aside, sending it skittering across the polished cherrywood table.
"They are both already doomed, your Majesty," the archbishop pointed out, shaking his head in an unconvincing display of remorse. "They must be punished, of course, but the fact remains that whatever you do to them in this life will amount to nothing compared to what awaits them in the next. God shall condemn them to the lowest reaches of hell for dabbling in the Devil's magic. And despite your sister's royal blood, I fear not even the Church can save her now."
"Somehow I don't think Athaya will mind in the least when she finds out you've excommunicated her," Durek said without bothering to look up. Then he emitted a short, mirthless laugh. "In fact, if I know my sister, she'll probably take it as a compliment."
Ventan thrust out his lower lip, his dignity ruffled by the very idea. "Yes, the queen dowager said as much herself." The archbishop paused for a moment and then added, "Dagara will want to know what the captain has learned."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Mission of Magic"
by .
Copyright © 1991 Julie Dean Smith.
Excerpted by permission of Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.