by Kim Wedlock
Petra stiffened for a moment and failed to conceal the curl of her lip at the mention of the cultist's name. "Well, I'm not...unfeeling..."
"But his faith disturbs you."
"Of course it disturbs me! I can't fathom why it doesn't disturb you!"
"Because," Eyila smiled softly, "I can see his heart. He is Craitic, like you - immensely so. He believes so very strongly and fully in your goddess, he makes no lie of that. And I believe it's that devotion to Vastal, and for all the good She represents, that has driven him to take upon himself the duty of protecting us all from the fate your Craitic scrolls dictate."
"By killing people? Taking them as sacrifice to a supposed demigod and 'saviour' because their souls are considered 'valuable'?!"
"In a sense," she continued to smile, "yes. Because he could take the life of anyone with a free spirit, but he chooses instead those who bring only pain and misery. People whose actions, if allowed to continue, would perhaps throw into question for some the love your goddess has for them."
"But he thinks his 'god' uses them to...build a...a dead-soul-shield, or something!"
"Life doesn't cease to be, only our bodies die. Our energy continues - in your culture, without purpose. But he believes that his demigod, Vokaad, can put that energy to use to protect your people from any future wrath of the gods, be that Zikhon's victory over Vastal, or something...more complex."
"His demigod does not exist."
Eyila's expression twisted softly into something Petra couldn't read, and she remembered far too late that she was speaking to someone with a faith very different to her own. Her cheeks turned a deep crimson, but whatever Eyila may have said - in defence of her own wind goddess, or a similar observation towards Vastal - was replaced instead by a pitying smile.
"If that is true, then he is still doing your people a service by destroying the wretched among you. But need I remind you that you recently uncovered information that could upturn your own entire belief system? That the elves, from whom Craitism grew, originally held five gods in regard, not merely two, and that both Vastal and Zikhon were not the icons of good and evil your people today believe Them to be?"
Petra gritted her teeth behind her lips, trapping any heated retort or argument born of the blinding insult that burned away her shame. "It's not true."
Eyila smiled softly. "Well, I can't attest to either side. I mean only that faith is also perception. The elves regarded five faces of gods equally, for Their good and Their bad. You have regarded only two, one for good and the other for bad. My people and those of the other tribes hold love and devotion to other gods still, gods that have no place in your culture, while yours have no place in mine. And what bad has befallen any of us for it?"
"Yes but, apparently, those five gods destroyed the elves!"
"If what Anthis has learned is correct, the elves were destroyed for challenging their gods' power and being in a position to act upon it. They had already turned their faith away from the gods by then, and nothing bad had befallen them before."
Petra growled and snapped her head away, her hand absently clutching at the chain about her neck.
"I mean simply," the girl continued with only a flicker more tact, "that the truth bears little consequence. Day will always flow into night, which will always flow into day; the moon will always fade and be reborn and the sun will always tan the sands. The wind will always blow. As long as we stay true to who we are, are grateful for all we have, and take time to consider what is beyond us, to trust in what we cannot always see, to have faith, what does it matter who we choose to worship? As long as their teachings are noble and harmonic, and their followers uphold the true essence of good, what need is there in knowing whose god is real, or whose beliefs are right? If they are good, they are all 'right'."
"You speak of other faiths and truths so easily," Petra sighed tediously, but looked around in surprise as Eyila's musical voice rose in a lilting chuckle.
"Because I know that my goddess is real."
She stared at her in confusion for a moment, but found she could only breathe a bewildered laugh.
Eyila's eyes dropped to the chain she continued to run absently through her fingers, at the circular talisman of Vastal and at the solid oval locket strung beside it. She watched as she traced them both with equal care, and a frown of understanding slowly crossed her brow. "It's...about your father, isn't it?"
Petra's hazel eyes widened in another wash of surprise.
"It's not the idea that Anthis believes something different to you, nor even really that he kills for it. You've known him far longer than I - you know who he is, you know his convictions, and you understand that he chooses his sacrifices carefully. What troubles you is that he kills at all."
Petra stared at the tribal girl. A warm breeze picked up, shifting the leaves and dislodging settled raindrops, shaking them down upon their boots as they poked out from the root-woven cave. She scoffed and turned away. Eyila didn't try to regain her attention.
"They will be back," she said instead, returning to her rummaging. "Both of them, with the Zi'veyn."
"We should still consider an alternative."
Both spun in fright as Garon returned from his patrol, but Eyila quickly straightened, her eyes flaring with even greater conviction. "Rathen is a great mage--"
"And the destruction of that place was far greater."
"Kienza will get them out if Rathen can't."
His hard, grey eyes flicked only briefly onto Petra before turning to the trees beyond them. "Don't you remember how alarmed she was by the fact that he was still in there? There may well be nothing even she can do. It's been three weeks. They would be out by now, and we'd have heard something."
"Rathen is smarter than to go around shouting about his return," Petra snapped. "They'd lie low. Kienza told us to go to Fendale--"
"And in the mean time? She never told us why we had to go there, it could have nothing at all to do with them. No, we can't afford to waste time waiting, we need to do something. We need...information..."
Petra's eyes narrowed as she watched him fold his arms in thought. "And?"
His eyes flicked back to her, briefly once again. "With or without the Zi'veyn, whatever happens, we will need a mage."
Her eyes flashed incredulously and she leapt suddenly to her feet. "Do not tell me you're thinking about the Order. Not after what we saw in Stonbridge."
"What about Kienza?" Eyila offered.
"And just how are we supposed to find her?"
Petra stepped up to him, her jaw tight in frustration despite her steadying breath, and ignored the fact that he still barely looked at her. "You're right, Garon: we need information. But we are not giving up on Rathen. If, like he says, Salus has elven magic, then how could anyone with anything less than that stand up to him? And as you pointed out, we could never find Kienza ourselves. I get the feeling that even Rathen wouldn't be able to find her." She watched the inquisitor's jaw clench, and his eyes finally rested upon her for more than a heartbeat.
"Your suggestion?" He asked coolly.
"We go to Fendale, like Kienza told us to, and we see what happens. We're only five or six days away."
"And then--"
"And then, if there's nothing there to suggest they're out, or safe, or at the very least alive...we consider an alternative. Because, as you keep reminding us, there are far bigger things at stake than anything Eyila and I might worry our little heads about."
"I never said that."
"You don't need to." She turned away, ignoring the pinprick of injury in his eyes which he was very quick to hide, and began strapping her weapons back about her torso. "Let's be off. I want to find somewhere dry before nightfall."
Chapter 2
"I am warning you," Riken rumbled, his deep voice harsh as he leaned over the organised desk and fixed the patient old man with even plainer threat, "if you don't get your people under control, the Crown will place all of you under house arrest and pin yo
u, Arator, under investigation. All licences, orders and privileges will be revoked - and I dare say the unrest in the cities would be quelled. A solution to all problems."
"Mm." Arator leaned calmly back in his chair and clasped his hands neatly upon his lap, staring past the liaison in consideration. "I dare say you would be correct. Of course such a solution would present new problems - such as our part in Turunda's defence - which could, unfortunately, only be overcome by a reversal, which would revive the original problems. It's a tricky circle. Of course," his eyes fell onto him, "there is another option: you could trust my word that every step is being taken to put an end to the matter."
"And just what results are there to be seen for it?"
"Unfortunately nothing yet so absolute, but progress is certainly being made."
Riken held him in the grips of a venomously mistrustful stare and suppressed a snarl at the easy calm the grand magister met it with. He pushed himself back from the desk and turned away to spare his patience. Arator continued to watch him. "Doana," he said after a long moment, his voice tight. "Has anything been detected?"
"Nothing."
"You're sure your mages aren't withholding anything? Plotting something?"
Arator managed to keep the flash of rage from his old eyes. "Quite sure."
"But you cannot guarantee there won't be a repeat of Rosh."
With a deep breath, he eased his hidden yet fraying temper and straightened. "Rosh's actions were his alone. They do not represent the intentions of the Order. What he has done has shamed himself and his family; his commission of sivaan has been revoked posthumously and his family have lost the adjoining privileges. None more will follow his lead."
"For fear of what happens after they're dead? What use is that? What of those who have no family to bear their punishment? What's to stop them?" Riken slammed his hands upon the desk and revived his penetrating stare, but again the mage was not moved. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And what of Koraaz? He was one of yours, once. A sahrot - a colonel. Another high rank. What about him? He returned from the dead, attacked Carenna and then vanished again like a wisp of smoke."
Arator was already shaking his head. "That was not Rathen Koraaz."
"So you've claimed. But then just who was it?"
"I assure you, my lord, it was no mage. It was nothing more than a malformed opiac addict in the contemptible district of a contemptible city who lost control of what faculties he retained from his drug-dictated existence. Most of the witnesses themselves were quite likely intoxicated. No one died - no one was even injured. Someone had a fit, thrashed around, frightened everyone and was chased away in a frenzy."
"There were guards as witnesses."
A small, regretful smile passed over Arator's face. "Guards in a contemptible district of a contemptible city. They are not beyond temptation, nor corruption, my lord." He maintained an assuring softness in his eyes while Riken continued to stare at him in silence, and the middle aged liaison's nostrils soon flared with the release of a long and tightly controlled breath. He pushed himself back from the table and straightened his regal, stately robes.
"Repair this matter, Grand Magister, and fast. Doana are hidden all around us, and they surely have many more underhand tricks to throw our way. Turunda is in no position to withstand an insurrection, especially not by mages. The Crown has given you the space to deal with your subordinates, but if it goes on for much longer, we will have no choice but to revoke that right and your jurisdiction and turn the matter over to another body."
"I understand, of course."
"I know you do. And I hope it doesn't come to that." He inclined his head, a gesture returned by the old mage as he rose from his desk. "Good afternoon, Grand Magister."
"Good afternoon, Lord Riken."
The liaison left, the door closed, and Arator dropped heavily back into his seat. Ten seconds later, as expected, another knock came, and he wearily called his permission to enter. The two high magisters did so swiftly.
"I understand the need for it," the elder of the pair began brusquely as the door closed behind them, "but it blisters every time we have to dishonour Sivaan Rosh. Whatever truly happened to him wasn't his own doing!"
Arator sighed and ran his hand over his neatly combed and tied grey hair. "You don't need to remind me, Delas, but dishonouring him is the only way to maintain the Crown's trust. We don't truly know what happened, after all."
"Yes, well, the king and his council are fools."
He gave her a flat, disapproving look as she settled serenely into the chair before his desk, while the second mage, mid-thirties and far younger than either, remained standing in respect. "How many times have I told you not to eavesdrop?"
"I've lost count, but if you raised auditory barriers it wouldn't be an issue. Now," she leaned forwards, the flame of intent in her dark eyes made more vivid by the breaking of the clouds outside, "what are we to do?"
"For now, nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Delas, there's nothing we can, not right now. Not with the Arana watching us so closely. You can deflect their eyes from this room for a while but we can't keep them from the entire Order House, and especially not for good. They're everywhere. Like spiders. They get into every little hole, make themselves comfortable and watch the world with eight attentive eyes. We can misdirect them, at best, but they will notice if we move."
Delas, the head of the spell-preservation department, curled her lip in distaste. "Why has the Crown allowed this?" Her eyes narrowed as he hesitated. "You don't think they did."
"I don't, but I also have no proof. You heard Riken, if we can't do something about these rebels, someone else is going to step in to do it. It's not impossible that the Arana has already been posed with the task and are presently moving into position for the swiftest of results when they're finally given the nod."
"It's not just the rebels, though, is it?"
Both pairs of eyes turned up onto the third. The younger man, rigid in bearing, looked back at them with the same cautious pause of someone far inferior, and yet with a spark of innate confidence. That well-earned self-assurance was one of the factors that had brought him up to the level of high magister and stand-in for the head of the Order's military, but it would take time before he became comfortable with his new equals - and far, far longer still before he displayed the same casual familiarity with the grand magister, the head of the Order, that Delas did.
He straightened beneath their gazes, but the conviction in his eyes remained steady. "As Lady Delas pointed out, Sivaan Rosh wasn't responsible for the calamity among the soldiers, and neither were any of the other mages who died with him. Nor, from identical reports, has been any mage to have...taken his life. We all know this."
"Lord Roane is correct, of course," Delas agreed. "It's the fault of all these strange arcane goings on out in the wilds - but how? Arator, we need more information!"
"We can't get close to any such site, especially with--"
"With the Arana watching us, yes yes yes, but if the Crown wants the matter resolved, is this not also relevant?"
"It is. But we're thought to be to blame. Every mage within the Order is being watched, dogged as soon as they leave the gates. There's no hiding from them. The only mages capable of spells of concealment are the diz'al in the military wing, and despite the Crown's mistrust of us, they're all on standby for war. And they're not trained to decipher such issues."
"Then we teach the spell to those who are!"
"So you've said many times, Lord Roane, but if it were to get out that such a hard-nailed regulation had been breached, we would be under even greater suspicion. Now, more than ever, we must play by the rules."
"We've always played by the rules, Arator, and look where it's gotten us." Delas shook her elaborately coiffured head and hammered her sharp fingernails into the chair's arm rest. "Every mage in the Order..." She pursed her lips, and her eyes slighted again in thought. "Rathen--"
"We've h
ad neither sight nor sound of him since Carenna."
"But young Owan says--"
"That he is out there in an inquisitor's custody studying these places with a historian. Yes, I am aware, I was present when he delivered me the report. But Rathen Koraaz does not answer to us any longer."
"No, apparently he answers to the Hall of the White Hammer instead."
"I doubt he answers even to them. But I have been in contact with the Hall regarding the matter and they will not confirm a thing."
"They like their secrets almost as much as the Arana. But at least they're open about their existence." Delas sighed wearily. "And yet, he is our only option."
"Absolutely not."
"Oh, Roane, do be quiet," she grumbled. "Rathen Koraaz is not a monster. Don't succumb to the rumours your classmates fell to so easily. You're too young to have served beneath him but surely you know of his deeds in service."
"Yes, Lady Delas, I do - just as I know that we have no explanation at all for the actions that brought that service to an end." Roane's burning eyes crashed onto his superior, who watched him with calculation. "We cannot turn to him."
"Then you will be glad to hear, Lord Roane, that I fear this is a pointless conversation anyway. As I have said: we don't know where he is, nor what he's doing. We couldn't reach out to him if we wanted to. And...as much as it pains me to admit this, for I knew him well, we don't have an explanation for his turns. We have no way of knowing what could come of them, for those around him or for the Order itself. And our position is precarious enough." He looked to Delas, who sat with tight lips and confliction clear in her eyes. He knew she agreed, and that she did so with the same reluctance as he. But Sahrakh Roane Forlin, having graduated from the Order's schooling two years before the sahrot's disgrace, knew nothing of the man's nature to soothe his frets, as neither did his classmates nor those of the years that followed. And, above all else, his position in the military wing meant that he prioritised the safety of the people above all else. And quite rightly, for it was his job.
