The Source Chronicles - Seeker
© 2006 M.J. Blehart
Chapter 4
Varlock-Sharron sat upon his throne, lost in thought. He wore a well-practiced look of patient understanding as a pair of nobles, Barons, bickered with one another before him. It was all he could do to not grind his teeth.
His Seneschal stood somberly to his right. Lord Tulock Oran was a handsome man barely thirty, with close-cropped red hair and green eyes. He was a tough, strong man, quite nearly as intelligent as he was handsome. And a marvelous archer as well.
It was quite a while ago they had met, during a border skirmish where the King had led his troops into battle personally. Lord Tulock, then Captain Oran, had argued extensively with Varlock-Sharron about his proposed plan. As the other officers and nobles watched, Captain Oran had piece by piece torn apart the King’s plan, summarily showing him its flaws. The young man, then only twenty, had proceeded to create a stronger plan of attack right before the King’s eyes.
The others present had waited for the King’s temper to explode, and for the inevitable call for the Captain’s removal. But it would never come. Varlock-Sharron did not appreciate being told he was wrong. But when the proof was irrefutable, how could he believe otherwise? And to find a man willing to put himself at stake, by expressing an opinion contrary to his liege - well, that was what made a man honorable. So the King rewarded the brash young officer, and together they led the forces of Sharron to an easy victory.
Varlock-Sharron almost broke into a grin at the thought. All those years, all those men constantly stroking his ego and saying yes to his every whim, and the second most powerful man in the Kingdom was one who willfully would tell his King no.
As Seneschal, Lord Tulock ran many of the day-to-day necessities of the Kingdom. He oversaw the various public works, payroll, paperwork, and all other humdrum jobs a King should not be burdened with. Thus, he was Chief Magistrate as well.
The King kept him by his side for the tedious but necessary affairs of state such as these small disputes, and any other items that were brought before the him, but were not necessarily his concern.
The shouting went up an octave, and though it would have amused the King to let the men draw the knives they should not have in his presence, he raised a hand. “Enough! Your Excellencies, cease this bickering and make ready to hear my judgment.”
They stopped, and bowed in concert before him, but did not yet rise up.
He gestured to Lord Tulock, who knelt by his side.
“What is this wearisome mess about, Tulock?”
Lord Tulock’s response held a note of exasperation. “I did apologize for this, my liege, but they would not take my decision as final.”
Varlock-Sharron growled low in his throat. “The ruling I read about with your other reports this morning?”
“The very same, your Majesty.”
The King gestured, and Lord Tulock stood up, clearing his throat audibly as he did so. Both Barons arose as well.
“Hear my judgment,” stated the King formally. This part he did enjoy. Every now and then his nobles needed a stern reminder about who they were beneath. “It shall be thus. Baron Dovan, you will withdraw your shepherds from Baron Kall’s fields. Baron Kall, you will withdraw your shepherds from Baron Dovan’s land. You will then divide the cost for the workers who will be sent forthwith to build a wall between your properties. You will subsequently proceed to pay the royal treasury an equal fine of one-thousand gold crowns. Furthermore, if this nonsense should ever arise again, you will have lands and titles stripped, and you will become shepherds of your own territories. Have I made myself clear? Are you both satisfied my lord Barons?”
Each man bowed deeply, but neither could hide the scowls on their faces. “As my liege commands.” they said dispassionately at practically the same time.
The King slightly inclined his head. “So be it. My ruling is complete. And that is the end of this audience.”
Lord Tulock banged his staff upon the dais twice. “King Varlock-Sharron Anduin, glorious sovereign of Sharron, bids all take leave of this place forthwith, a blessing upon your heads. The next Royal Audience will be convened at his Majesties’ leisure. Thank you.”
They slowly filed out of the hall, joined by the other nobles, servants and entourage, muttering to themselves. When the last had gone, a pair of guards stepped out of the room, shutting the large double doors with an echoing metallic clang.
The King groaned slightly as he stood, removing his state robes and crown, placing them in the arms of a waiting servant. Another took the robes and staff of the Seneschal. The King stretched his arms over his head a moment, then relaxed, turning to Lord Tulock.
“I do so often wish we could dispense with these audiences all together, Tulock. At least, it would be nice if the nobility would cease to be spineless louts.”
Lord Tulock chuckled. “Agreed, my liege. But then, if the curs had a spine, they’d only find bolder ways to annoy and distract you, while lining their pouches better.”
Varlock-Sharron chuckled without humor. Tulock Oran was perhaps the only man in the world who could address him with such brevity. It was to his mind the ultimate luxury, to have an honest companion. “You speak true, my friend. Come, all this useless talk has made me restive. A bit of exercise is called for here.”
Lord Tulock respectfully followed as the King led him from the audience chamber.
“How go preparations for the execution?” Varlock-Sharron questioned.
“On schedule, your Majesty. We can expect an immense turn out for this one. It’s not every day a Sorcerer is terminated in public. The crowds like a good hanging.”
The King nodded his head. “It is sad that a hanging draws the largest crowds. No Solstice or Harvest celebration is nearly so festive. I wish it were not a necessity. But I learned long ago that Sorcerers cannot be trusted.”
“Sorcery nearly destroyed us in your father’s day. It has had a direct impact upon your life, too. It’s fortunate you’ve taken action.”
“I never got anything out of the poor bastard, Tulock. He only cried out but once, and I learned nothing of what brought him here.” Varlock-Sharron changed tone. “Yet another attempt on the part of one of my brother and sister monarchs to discredit or destroy me, I must believe. Our stability has never sat well with any of our neighbors. How can it be anything else?”
Lord Tulock only shrugged his shoulders.
Attempts to destabilize Sharron were a constant nuisance. This had been a constant state of affairs for hundreds of years.
Sharron was the largest Kingdom in the world. It bordered three other nations, all of which were far smaller. Its’ stability denied them any opportunity to annex new lands. Incursions of military forces were the most obvious of their machinations against Sharron, but this occurred alongside attempted subversion of the nobles. By sending sorcerers, they had hoped to disorganize and destabilize the Kingdom enough to begin breaking off pieces of the nation for themselves.
Varlock-Sharron’s father had allowed the practice of sorcery within the Kingdom. He had considered it good luck to have users of such wondrous powers about. And so they came from all over the world, seeking sanctuary and study. But several came as spies and lurkers, perverting and bribing nobles and others against the Crown.
So it was that over thirty years ago, a pair of conjurers had entered the castle at night, and taken the King’s life before destroying each other.
Varlock-Sharron had been only twelve years old, but he took up the sword, and quickly took action to prevent his Kingdom from being invaded and torn apart.
Thus it was that only a few months after he’d been crowned, a small group of sorcerers had attempted to take him unawares in his bed. Long ago he had buried the memories of that night, how he escaped, and captured or destroyed them all.
Though the other enchanters within the Kingdom surely knew of where these assassins had originated, they protected their own. For fear of his life and the well-being of his lands, young Varlock-Sharron ordered the practitioners of Sorcery and all related arts to leave his country. When many refused, he charged his army to chase them out. When they continued to resist, he ordered them hunted down, and taken into custody or slain.
It had been bloody, and it had taken almost five years, but when it was over, not a sorcerer freely practicing remained within his lands. In the more than three decades of his rule, other then a few minor skirmishes along his borders, he would be able to maintain peace, and to keep the Kingdom of Sharron whole.
Thus a decree had been written, forbidding the practice of Sorcery and all related arts within the Kingdom of Sharron. And that decree stood to the present day.
“I never even learned his name, Tulock,” the King stated quietly, returning to the present.
Lord Tulock grunted his indifference. “So be it. Our laws are not so harsh. He had to know he could not practice legally. He had to know the fate he would suffer for such a thing. Everyone across the world knows our most stringent law. He ignored your will. The price he must pay is fair.”
The King said nothing.
The heavy door at the end of the dark passageway was pulled open, and dim light chased away the shadows cast by the torches.
Varlock-Sharron and Lord Tulock stepped out into the practice yard, the steadily falling rain quickly drenching them. The King pulled his dripping hair away from his face, tying it off behind him with a leather cord taken from his belt.
“A pass at swords, your Majesty?” questioned Lord Tulock, looking to the sky.
The King beamed as the rain poured over him. “I think so. A practice sword!” he called.
As a guard brought out a pair of bamboo swords, the King stripped off his soaked tunic. Lord Tulock did the same. Each man took his weapon, and stood bare-chested, facing each other.
“Best two of three, Tulock?”
Lord Tulock snickered with a false glee. “Of course, your Majesty. Maybe I’ll even win one this time.”
Ignoring the heavy deluge, the two most powerful men in Sharron came together for a friendly pass at arms, an all-too-brief respite from their seemingly ceaseless duties.
******
The Sorcerer glanced upwards through the thin, barred opening. At least he was no longer chained in a dark cell. Rain spattered against the base, splashing his face and making him feel marginally more refreshed than he’d felt since the start of his incarceration.
He could hear a light clicking in the distance. He listened intently, then heard occasional grunts of exertion as well. He knew a practice yard for the soldiers lay beyond the crude window. Someone was crazy enough to be making a pass at arms in the rain.
He exhaled noisily, despairing, and sat back onto the crude bunk. A few days ago, they brought him here. Healers had appeared, working to mend his wounds. He was given food again, and clean wool garb.
He knew they were preparing to execute him. And he realized it simply would not do for the people to see him so grievously injured.
The last thing the Sorcerer wanted to do was put on a show for the subjects of the King.
He had resisted it all. He was certain his torture would eventually kill him...but it didn’t. He endured...he survived. Long enough to be hanged.
He shifted upon the uncomfortable mattress, bringing his knees up, wrapping his arms around them.
He had only lived for twenty-seven years. While he had traveled much of the continent, there was still more he had hoped to see. Far more he had hoped to do. Even here, at the end, he still held onto his belief in his destiny.
He knew what he wanted to do. Thinking back, he recalled his only successful attempt, just before the King had personally tortured him. He had not done so since.
Just like before, he closed his eyes. Before he attempted this again, he replayed that previous success from start to conclusion before his mind’s eye.
He concentrated, began to slow his heart, and sank into a meditative trance. He sought out the energies he perceived as an orb of pure light, the center of his being, the center of his existence. His ultimate power for almost fifteen years, though now untouchable.
It remained visible, but he could only sense and watch, unable to reach it. He had battered at it and tried all he knew to force his way in, but to no avail. Before he could try to batter at it again, try to pry his way inside once more, he paused, studying the luminous sphere before him. It was not the same as it had been before his mistake...but he could not be sure how or why he knew that.
It was like an intense bonfire within him, burning brightly. It throbbed, in a rhythm he thought familiar, but that he could not yet discern. Only when he sank this deeply into his mind could he see it like this. Only here, in the farthest reaches of his consciousness, could he get this close to the power he could no longer touch, and only barely feel.
A thought occurred to him, like a light breath of air at the back of his neck. He’d been here before, every time he reached for his power. He’d always glimpsed this briefly, a momentary flash before he released his spell. But never had he settled down and contemplated his innermost being.
His curiosity piqued, he studied it. It appeared to be a ball of light, like the sun up close, but yet like nothing at all, almost indescribable. It was nearly too bright to look upon, a sunburst of red and gold and orange, but with traces of all other colors known flashing within. And that pulsing. It was so familiar, the rhythm, the timing. And then it dawned on him.
Of course he should know it. It matched the beat of his heart.
He examined the incredible orb more closely. A sort of webbing, like that of a spider, though nearly translucent, seemed to be about the globe of light, holding it in. Had that always been there? He reached out to it. It gave beneath his touch. He pushed more. He could feel his power, he could sense it more clearly than he had in a long time, and yet he could not penetrate it. The webbing shifted, rearranging itself. Was that supposed to happen? He could not remember. He had never examined it this intensely before.
He looked closer now. No, it was definitely wrong. He watched as the translucent web shifted and changed, keeping the power within, just out of reach. Why? He tried to think it through. He reached out, felt around it, this time gently, exploring, probing.
If he could access this before, why not now? Was there a way inside?
He suddenly came to an edge. Yes, the webbing had a small edge. He felt about it, tried to reach around it. Not quite. He concentrated harder, and slowly reached around the edge. There it was! He could make contact with it at last!
He trembled from the intensity it brought on, emotionally, physically, psychologically. It was only a very light touch, barely a fraction of a fraction of what he could take in before. But he could touch it. The sweetness and power trickled through to him, giving him renewed strength, hope, and insight, for the first time since his error upon the field.
It was in that moment that the door to his cell had been slammed open, preventing him from going any further. But he had managed to access enough of his power to endure the King’s torture.
Since then, he had yet to be successful in connecting any further to his sorcerous strength, even after countless attempts.
Returning to the now, he began the process once again. He took several deep breaths, cleansed his thoughts, then slowed his breathing. He sand within himself, seeking the inner power that had been the core of his life until just a short time ago.
There it was. He’d reached it more quickly this time. The webbing was still there, he knew. But he’d again found the center of his power. A small hole, little more than a pinprick, allowed a trickle of the vast energies to come to him. It would be completely undetectable to any other sorcerer, and for the most part completely useless, but there none-the-less. He shivered as he let it flow more freely into himself, accelerating up his healing some, awakening the greatest depths of his being.
Every time he arrived in this place, he tried to rip the opening wider. He tugged, he pulled, he thrashed at it, but had never managed to widen it. So for the last few days he’d only studied it, contemplated the power within.
It was far easier to examine when he slowed his heart, for everything shifted slightly with the pulsing beat.
He let his mind drift, giving thought to the day he’d lost his powers. The last action he had taken was to roll the earth. It had required almost everything he had, the most powerful act he had ever committed with his skill in Sorcery. He’d unhorsed an entire company of charging soldiers, rocked the earth for miles, calling upon everything he’d known.
He had felt the joy and excruciating bliss that came with the use of his power. But he’d been exerting himself for too lengthy a time, and had been using the energies passively, allowing them to flow into his limbs and chest and heart, which in turn let him run far longer and faster than he should have been able to naturally.
He’d exhausted himself beyond the limits of his endurance. Use of the power within for Sorcery was always slightly draining, and the body needed some time, however short it may be, to rejuvenate itself.
That had been his great mistake. He had counted on his full power, to commit an act that required absolutely everything he had to spare. Too late, he realized his error. The Sorcerer had sunk to his knees, shaking, trying to fight the waves of exhaustion, nausea, and dizziness. But after all he had expended, it was a fight he could not hope to win, and he’d collapsed.
Hours later, he’d regained consciousness. He could barely move, muscles cramped and knotted, but almost immediately realized he remained on the field, and it was night. He presumed he had wounded, killed, or frightened his pursuers enough that they had not seen him lying there as they limped off the razed meadow. He’d escaped, but very nearly destroyed himself.
Taking a deep breath, he coughed on the dust in his throat from the tumbled earth.
He remembered clearly that the ground was cold and hard beneath him, a musty odor emanating from the newly upturned soil.
He had tried to tap into the power inside himself, to relieve his aches, and his exhaustion. He could not, for a time, find the center of it. And when he finally did, he slowly realized he could not touch it.
He had tried again, growing frantic. It was a gift, not to be wasted, not to be lost. But he could not feel it, though it was there before him, the vital center of his being, out of reach. No matter what action he took, he could not touch it, could not release it. It hovered before him, taunting him, mocking him, but it could not be used by him any longer.
Eventually, he gave up, and limped off the decimated field. When he had reached the road, he simply followed alongside it, unaware of his surroundings, or the passage of time. If any passed him along the way, he did not notice them, nor they, him.
Captured at a roadside tavern following another unfortunate incident, he had considered all lost, and the prospect of death a welcome comfort, especially after his torture. But the moment he discovered that he may be able to recover his powers, his hope returned, as did his will to live.
Coming out of his reverie, he studied the webbing more closely. It was almost as if it was protecting the power within, not really preventing him access. Why? What did it mean? Why would the energy sphere need protection? How could he penetrate it?
He examined the small hole he had opened. It had been created with unusually meticulous concentration. It was coming back to him now. When he’d taken his time, and worked slowly, he’d made an opening. Then he proceeded to tear and tug at that.
But when he’d worked bit by bit, methodically, he’d started to get within. When he fought it, it resisted him. When he was patient, careful, thorough, he could gain entry. That was the answer. That was the key.
Patience, unfortunately, had never been his strong suit.
But he had to try. If he did not, he would never regain his powers. If he regained his powers, he might just find his way out of this situation, and continue along the path to his destiny.
Doing his best to slow his heart down as much as possible, he made a very careful examination of the small breach within the webbing. It took all self control to prevent himself from trying to rip at it. Slowly, gently, he began to probe at the fissure. He could feel the tremendous power being held in, begging to be touched, caressed, released. He wanted so much to become one with that power again.
Before he could stop himself, he began trying to shred it once more. His heart sped up, complicating matters. It took him multiple attempts, and several minutes before he was able to stop, able to slow his racing heart, and examine the orb passively again.
There was, in fact, a larger hole now. No longer a simple pinprick, it had become the size of a very small stone. Less than half a centimeter, he estimated. But it was larger.
It had not increased in size when he tore at it. As he’d suspected, it had done so when he’d probed lightly, gently.
He tried again, this time, however, he only felt around at the opening, not allowing the minuscule flow to penetrate him. He could see the power this way, but it would not affect him. It was almost painful, but after a few minutes, he had clearly increased the size of the gap. Now it was more like a whole centimeter in diameter.
He took a shuddering breath, the deepest since he’d begun the meditation, and opened his eyes. He was shocked to find a platter of obviously cold food near the door, and darkness.
He had worked for hours, and had only slightly increased the power flowing free of the webbing. Still not enough to do anything useful, beyond letting him concentrate more deeply, and speed up the healing of his wounds. He let out a sigh of disappointment and frustration.
It would take time. And patience. And unfortunately for the Sorcerer, he had neither.
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