The Sorcerer's Oath - Books 1-2

Chapter 7-2

She must have known that Tarkyn would be wary of her mindpower but she did not offer any reassurance. He thought it unlikely that she would try to control his mind again and he felt reasonably sure that, if necessary, he could resist as he had before. So, after a slight hesitation, the prince agreed. Nevertheless, it took a leap of faith to look into her eyes.

“So, stand relaxed and focus deeply into my eyes,” instructed Tree Wind calmly. “Now let your mind drift and allow the images to form. You will not lose your own self-awareness. You will simply gain the awareness of my images and feelings.”

The night is bitterly cold. I can feel my legs stiffening up. We have been warned of their arrival at the forest edge half an hour ago and we have been waiting in readiness. I can hear the jangle of harnesses as they draw near: now the quiet thudding of horses’ hooves on the forest floor. Three riders emerge from the gloom. A large burly man with black hair and beard mounted on a strong black horse. He is wearing deep burnt orange robes and cloak, richly embroidered in silver thread. Behind him on a grey pony sits a much smaller, slighter, beardless replica of the first, white-faced and swaying with fatigue. There is a shimmering light around them, possibly a shield of some sort. The third rider is Falling Rain, one of our number, who has been missing for over a week. He is slumped over the neck of his pony with his wrists tied to the pommel of the saddle. Outrage ripples through those of us waiting. Many people notch arrows ready to attack as a fourth rider appears.

With a start, Tarkyn recognised Stormaway Treemaster, resplendent in his green court dress, stronger and more confident in the vision than the wizard he had met recently.

King Markazon’s hawk-like gaze sweeps across us. He dismounts and indicates that we should assist the little boy and our stricken companion down from their mounts. Although he sanctions releasing Falling Rain’s bonds, no one is clear whether the woodman has been bound in captivity or merely kept tied for his safety. Falling Rain collapses when he is set upon the ground and has to be supported to a comfortable spot against an old oak. No one has yet spoken and the air is filled with mistrust and foreboding. No one has ever before come into our woodland home. The wizard watches warily from horseback then, when all are settled, dismounts and joins the king and the rest of us seated around the firesite. Food and drink are brought forth for our guests. By previous agreement, it falls to me to greet our visitors.

“Welcome to our forest, Your Majesty. We are honoured by your presence among us. My name is Tree Wind.”

The king’s frown is forbidding. “I thank you for your welcome. However, you labour under a misapprehension. These are my forests and you live here at my discretion.” He glares around the circle at our ashen faces. “I have not been pleased to discover a whole community of people who have never sworn allegiance to the Crown.”

A stricken silence greets this pronouncement. Then one of our number breaks the silence.

“But Your Majesty, you cannot rule a people you cannot find. My name is Autumn Leaves.”

All eyes turn to glare at the speaker of such provocative words. We glance nervously at each other around the firesite, acutely aware that Autumn Leaves’ words are ill-chosen. Surprisingly, no explosion of wrath follows. Perhaps noting our reaction, the king merely waves an impatient hand and declares calmly, “All that is at an end. Now that the illness of Falling Rain has betrayed your presence, your unnatural, treasonous independence is at an end.”

We are filled with dread at what that may mean but before we can respond, Stormaway cuts in smoothly but respectfully, “However, we understand that many of your people are near death from this sickness and we have come bearing medicines that will heal them. Beyond the forest edge this malady is common enough and easily cured, but because you woodfolk have never been exposed to it, you have no resistance to it or knowledge of the cure.”

“I am concerned for Falling Rain. Should he not be put to bed?” I ask.

The wizard produces a small packet of herbs from an inner pocket and hands it to the nearest woodman.

“Here. Make a tisane from these. Hopefully, now he is back amongst you, this will revive him. The journey has tired him excessively as I feared it might. But for some reason, he did not respond to my treatment while he was within the palace. I believe he may need to be within the forest to recover.”

“So, you will help us, but the cost of this help is the loss of our independence? A high price indeed,” observed a scratchy voice. “I am Running Feet.”

“Without our intercession,” interjects the king, “You would all be dead within the month. Being independently dead seems quite pointless to me.”

“However, being independently alive does not,” I retort, but my sighing voice robs my words of rudeness. “You could choose to save us but leave us as we have always been, elusive and not answerable to anyone.”

The king glowers at me but speaks mildly, “My Lady, I cannot countenance having people within my realm who have not acknowledged me as their rightful ruler. And you cannot expect my support unless I, as your liege lord, accept responsibility for you.”

Tarkyn experienced a strange sensation of thoughts and impressions travelling back and forth between the woodfolk around the circle. Because the sensation was alien to him, he couldn’t grasp the content clearly but could only be aware, through Tree Wind’s vision, that it was happening.

After an appreciable pause in the proceedings, a burbling voice takes up the negotiations. “Sire, our need is dire and so we may be forced to accede to your conditions. However, two things concern us. Firstly, what would you demand from us as your subjects? I am Waterstone.”

The king glances impatiently at his wizard, but then draws a breath and answers with a stern calm. “My demands are not excessive. I require your loyalty and your obedience, should I need it. I wish you to continue to care for these vast forests. In time of conflict, which I hope will never arise, I will require your service either at arms or in gathering intelligence.”

Again Tarkyn experienced the sensation of thoughts racing between the minds around the fire.

“These conditions do not seem unreasonable,” states Waterstone on our behalf.

“I should think not. I have not even demanded a tithe from you.” The king’s amber eyes sweep around the circle. “And your other concern?” Before we can answer, Markazon notices his son seated next to him and smooths his tousled hair. He leans over and whispers sotto voce, “Not long now. Bear up.” In a quick change of role, the father becomes the king as he straightens up and raises his eyebrows. “Go on. I’m waiting.”

Waterstone clears his throat nervously. “Your Majesty, we have heard you are a just monarch, firm but fair.” The king inclines his head in acknowledgement. “If we swear an oath of fealty to you, does that bind us to all future kings?”

Our uncertainty and unhappiness with this is apparent without words. Before any of us can raise an objection, the king lifts his hand.

“Obviously, I will not be here at the crowning of the next king to make sure you transfer your oath. However…” The king breaks off and looks at the wizard who looks pointedly at the little boy who is now leaning against his father.

“Sire, you must.”

The king takes a deep breath and begins again. “However, much as it pains me, I can understand your reservations. There are some uncertain portents regarding the future King Kosar and his brother Jarand, particularly in relation to young Tarkyn here. Since I will not be here, I would protect Tarkyn’s future as best I can, from beyond the grave, so to speak.” After his momentary show of vulnerability, King Markazon draws himself up and sends his harsh glare across us all. “So, to ensure that two generations of my family have your fealty, I will require you to swear the oath of fealty to both my son Tarkyn and me. In return for this, I will apprise no-one else of your existence and I will save your people from this sickness.”

After another period of mental communion, Waterstone presents our view, “We have one more reservation. Prince Tarkyn is still very young and has not yet passed through the trials of childhood and adolescence. Although unlikely, Your Majesty, it is possible that by the time he reaches manhood, he may have become embittered or cruel or even unbalanced. Swearing a lifetime of service to an unformed child is too uncertain.”

The king stands up abruptly, sending the little boy falling sideways as the shoulder he has been leaning against disappears.

“Enough!” roars the king. “I have been patient and I have negotiated when I could simply have enforced my will. You will give me your oath and you will give Tarkyn your oath. I have placed my shield around this clearing so you cannot melt away into the forest and choose to die unaided. I have had enough of this charade. This is my kingdom and I will be obeyed.”

A horrified silence ensues. No one moves. Then Stormaway Treemaster speaks in a matter-of-fact voice as though the conversation were proceeding as before. “Perhaps a slight modification can satisfy all parties.”

“What?” snapped the king.

“When Prince Tarkyn first enters in these forests as a grown man, I will undertake to evaluate his worthiness to be their liege lord.”

Markazon barks, “He is worthy because he is my son.”

Stormaway holds the king’s gaze for a notable pause. “Just so, Your Majesty.” The wizard looks down at his hands, “And yet should the unthinkable happen, I know you would not wish any people of your realm to be bound to evil.”

The king looks at his tired son and gently strokes his hair. Tarkyn turns his head to look up at his father and smiles at him sleepily. The king raises his eyes and says, “Because I have faith in Tarkyn, I will concede this point. But be warned! The oaths you swear to me and my son will be bound in sorcery to the welfare of the forest.”

Despite his concession, the air sizzles with resentment. Running Feet’s scratchy voice speaks for us. “Since you have already removed our freedom and our right to choose our own fate, we must inform you that we will be making these oaths under duress.”

“Of course you will be. But that won’t make your oaths any less binding.” The king tosses off the contents of his goblet. “You are out of touch with the ways of the outside world. Although it does not generally arise in times of peace, the basic premise safeguarding the monarchy is “Submit or die.” Treason has always been punishable by death. In your case, I would not have to order your executions. You will simply die from sickness if you do not swear fealty. And in the future, if you betray your oath to my son, it will not be you but your forest that will die. Perhaps you may think that is too lenient,” he says dryly, “but unless I am much mistaken, the death of your forest would destroy your souls.”