FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
Meeting Cawdour as a cadet became a turning point in my life. At first I considered myself merely fortunate. But now I have to admit that I did not in the least suspect how radically my life would change because the master spellcaster had cast a favorable eye on me.
As was the custom, young candidates -- squires -- were taken into fosterage by some noble patron, typically a courtier of good standing. We anticipated that one of my father's friends would volunteer to fulfill the role for me, but, as it turned out, it was to be Cawdour Gaedael, a magician and counselor close to the king who stepped forward. He had been paying careful attention to the new boys in guard training for the past several years, but had not as yet interviewed one that suited him.
Cawdour didn't question the candidates about their families' standing or their personal ambitions, but instead probed the odd details of their lives, such as the time and place of birth. These were facts that would allow him to ascertain which stars governed each youth's destiny. Apparently, it was for no reason better than the chance configurations of my natal signs that he selected me from amongst all those others, scores of whom had had better connections than the Oc'Raighnes.
Although the usual court fosterage is often an aloof and formal affair, Cawdour became like another father to me. I wondered at my good fortune at having such a prominent and genial master. I would put many questions to him and he would obligingly answer them as fully as he could. For instance, I had asked him what he had seen in the configuration of my birth planets that caused him to sponsor me. On that occasion, though, he was determined to be ambiguous. He would only say, "Men who depend on destiny often grow complacent. Study hard and learn all you are taught. Portents are but one part of each man's destiny. Without hard work, a trust in fate may lead to careless choices. A man who depends upon the capricious rolls of Fortune's dice tends to choose the wrong path and attains much less than he might have done by logical application."
But I was young and self-assured; I did not consult with my patron on half of the things that I should have. With the ascendency of Harouck much changed and I should have taken more frequent counsel with my patron in regard as to how a wise man navigates such treacherous shoals.
Alas, when I became troubled, I tended to speak with the wise counselor less instead of more. On my own, I tried to stir up discontent against the chancellor among my friends and fellow soldiers. I should have instead learned to practice the arts of intrigue. When a suspicious eye was cast on me, when I seemed blocked at every turn and saw no decent future in the Royal Guard, I acted with speed, but without insufficient reflection. That was why, with profound regret, I turned my back upon what had been a promising career and rode away into the wild country as an anonymous rebel in arms.
My foster father must have been surprised when he learned that I had left the barracks and failed to return.
*****
Chapter 2
The River of No Return
The reverberations of a deep voice brought me out of blackness: "My lad, can you feel this?"
"Who --?"
The speaker was kneeling beside me; I recognized the sandy bearded speaker, Cawdour, the spellcaster. He was holding a sewing needle. "See this, Rodin?" he asked. "Tell me if you feel the slightest pain."
He pushed the sharp point into my upper arm. It might as well have been the limb of another man.
"I had pain between my shoulders --" I volunteered.
"So your lady told me. We have to take the bolt out before it poisons you. Sleep a little, my son, because the pain will be very great."
He touched my brow and I dropped off. When I later awoke I heard Cawdour talking on the other side of the room.
"The wound is becoming morbid," I heard him say. "I can overcome that, I think, but his spine is severed. Such a wound can never knit correctly. From the paralysis there can be no real improvement."
"If I were him, I'd let the poison take me," suggested Scaith.
Cawdour shook his head.
"We can't lose Rodin," pleaded Ceann. "This cannot be what the gods have writ!"
The conversation became a low mutter. Cawdour suddenly returned to my bedside.
"Rodin..." he began haltingly.
"It's…bad, isn't it?" I asked.
The wizard nodded. "You'll die unless I treat the source of the exudation. But if you live, you'll probably remain as you are. I'm sorry, boy. There are better healers than me, but I don't believe that anyone alive could make you the man that you were."
A lump came to my throat and my mouth felt parched.
"I won't beg for death," I whispered finally, "but…I think as Scaith thinks. Let the gods take me, or spare me. I care not."
"I'm so sorry, my young friend."
"Let my parents know that I died well."
"Yes, I shall."
It was strange to be thinking that the next time I slept I might awaken to a life not upon this earth. And at that moment, I think, I preferred that I would not.
"Fate is a strange thing," whispered Cawdour, but whether he spoke to himself or to me wasn't clear.
"My lord?"
"I mean, if you had possessed the Blood, as you possess the rich and vibrant Spirit, you would have been a formidable sorcerer, and not need to risk your fragile life against edged weapons."
"What do you mean?"
"Your stars have told me that you have the most important element you need for channeling magical forces. But, alas, Spirit is not enough."
"I'm glad that I was a soldier," I told him, swallowing hard. "I hope to be remembered as a good one."
Cawdour nodded; his was the face was that of a parent waiting for his child to die.
Suddenly, Cawdour's old steward burst into the room.
"Lord!" he cried. "You are betrayed!"
