by AC Cobble
“I still suspect it is some intrigue of yours,” snapped Rew.
Grinning, Alsayer admitted, “Fair enough.”
“If Prince Valchon is gathering the wraiths, then which of the princes is working with the Dark Kind—Heindaw or Calb?”
“I don’t know,” said Alsayer, glancing over Rew’s shoulder as a soldier clanked by in heavy chainmail. “One of them or their minions attached a rather clever beacon to me, and until I can figure out how to slip it, the Dark Kind will be relentlessly drawn to me. Not much of a problem when I’m in the capital, but out here on the frontiers, it’s going to be rather inconvenient. If I knew which prince had attached it to me, I’d have a better chance to counteract their magic. Unfortunately, I have no idea.”
“An arcanist cannot detect the beacon?” wondered Rew.
“None of the untrained fools who reside out in the hinterlands,” complained Alsayer. He tugged at his goatee and admitted, “There’s no one back in Mordenhold I can trust.”
“While you’re here, you’ll draw the Dark Kind to the town,” warned Rew.
“Falvar is well defended,” replied Alsayer with a wave of his hand. He studied Rew. “What do you think of the baron not telling his children of his plans? This entire time, they’ve been risking their lives, rushing to warn him of a false conspiracy that he himself dreamt up. Does that ill treatment bother you?”
Frowning, Rew admitted, “Of course it does. Everything about the Investiture bothers me.”
“Rather rough on them, don’t you think?” pressed Alsayer. “Can’t trust their own father, don’t even know what’s about to happen to them, eh? Nobles with no clue the Investiture is breathing down their necks. Makes you feel for them.”
“What do you want?” growled Rew.
“Nothing. I’m just saying it’s an awful situation those children are in,” claimed Alsayer. “They’re good kids, don’t you think?”
“They’re not children,” muttered Rew.
Alsayer laughed.
Changing the subject, Rew asked, “Do you really mean to assist in gathering the wraiths? You know what kind of destruction they could cause. The baron’s family may be a talented line of necromancers, but a wraith is a two-edged knife, Alsayer. It’s foolish to attempt to use the things, no matter how desperate Prince Valchon is.”
“I will assist, and I do know what kind of destruction they will cause,” agreed Alsayer. “I told you, cousin, this cycle is going to be different. It’s going to be bloody, and before it ends, it’s going to draw us all in. My advice to you, cousin? Pick a side.”
“Pick a side as you’ve done?” questioned Rew. “Are you even working for Prince Valchon, or is that another deception?”
Grinning, Alsayer replied, “You know me, cousin. I always leave my options open.”
“Your options open and your hands bloody,” accused Rew.
Alsayer raised his hands, turning them as if to inspect them for blood, and replied, “Everyone is going to be drawn in, cousin. Everyone. Before it’s over, your hands will be just as dirty as mine. Don’t you think it best if you’re the one who decides whose blood they’re covered in?”
“I will have nothing to do with the Investiture and the king’s games,” snapped Rew.
“And you don’t mind the children dying because of that?” questioned Alsayer.
Rew glared at him. “What do you mean?”
Alsayer merely looked back, his smile gone, his eyes dead serious.
“What do you mean?” repeated Rew.
“High magic passes through the bloodline, cousin,” reminded Alsayer. “If the baron is capable of commanding a wraith, don’t you think… Ah, but you’ve no desire to get involved, do you? That information means nothing to you. The children are here with their father who loves them deeply. Why should Rew worry about their fate? Why should the senior ranger of the eastern territory worry about whether Prince Valchon needs another necromancer on leash in case Baron Fedgley fails? And it’s not your concern if one of the other princes sees an opportunity to recruit a powerful necromancer of their own. If the wraiths are put on the board, a necromancer strong enough to manage them will be a valuable target for any of the princes, but I’m sure the children will be just fine.”
Alsayer offered a mock bow, slipped around Rew, and walked away.
Scowling at his cousin’s back, Rew turned and strode deeper into the keep, looking for Arcanist Ralcrist’s chambers.
Chapter Sixteen
Rew rapped on the door and listened to the muffled reply. He thought it may have been unwelcoming, but he wasn’t sure, so he tried the door. It was unlocked, and he swung it open.
“King’s Sake!” screeched a voice. “I said I was busy.”
“My apologies,” offered Rew, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
A man dressed in sleek silk robes the color of new grass was standing opposite a polished mahogany table. On it was a complex contraption of twisted, gleaming silver wires. Suspended above that framework was a large, scintillating, cerulean crystal.
The man, his stomach-length, white beard trembling in outrage, was clutching a large pair of tweezers in his gnarled fingers. Spitting curses at Rew, he tugged on the silver framework beneath the floating crystal, moving a strand of wire slightly toward him. He then adjusted the tweezers, pinched another piece of the wire, and pushed it deeper into the structure of the framework.
“Ralcrist?” Rew asked him.
“We’re being tested,” growled the man, not acknowledging the question. “People prodding at my ward, searching for gaps, and all the while, the baron is asking for gaps, giving me this foolish map, telling me to uncover this barrow, cover the other back up. I have work to do, real research! These interruptions are maddening.”
Rew stepped close to the table, crouching down to see what the man was working on. “Yes, I’m sure they are.”
The arcanist leaned to the side to glare at Rew around his device. One eye was made huge by a large, gold-rimmed, oval piece of glass that he stared through. The other was startlingly blue with a prescience that belied the man’s advanced age. The arcanist blinked and caught the glass monocle in his hand as it fell from his eye. “Who are you?”
“I’m the King’s Ranger,” replied Rew. “I have a few questions for you.”
The arcanist grunted then turned on his heel, stalking deeper into his rooms, calling over his shoulder, “I have no time for questions.”
Rew followed.
“I said, I’ve no time for you, Ranger,” shouted the arcanist. He moved through sitting rooms, through a library, and into a workshop. “Why are you following me? I’ve no time, no time at all. Does the baron know you are here? I told him I could suffer no more distractions if he means for me to keep this ward working properly. Leave me be!”
“That crystal, it is what is dampening the use of high magic in the region?” inquired Rew.
“You’re a spellcaster!” accused the arcanist.
Rew shook his head. “Who is testing the ward?”
Mumbling to himself, Arcanist Ralcrist began collecting empty beakers, vials of powders, an old leg bone of what may have been either a rather large chicken or a particularly small child, and an acid-stained notebook. He licked his finger and began thumbing through the crisp pages of the notebook.
Rew craned his neck and saw the small pages were cramped with writing. He asked again, “Who is testing your ward against high magic?”
“Spellcasters!” snapped Arcanist Ralcrist. “Who else?”
Rew leaned against one of the man’s worktables and then quickly stood as glass beakers rattled at the disturbance and one filled with a noxious looking green-brown liquid nearly tipped over. “You should have the leg of that table looked at, Arcanist. What spellcasters are trying to breach your ward? Where are they coming from?”
Glaring at him, the arcanist spluttered.
“I just came from meeting with the baron, and he didn’t say a word
about not bothering you,” said Rew, electing not to mention that it was because the baron didn’t know he was going to see the arcanist, “so bothering you is what I intend to do until you’ve answered all of my questions.”
“What do you want?” growled the arcanist. “What are you doing here?”
“As I said, I’m the King’s Ranger, and I’ve come to ask you about recent phenomena that are outside of my experience. It’s my duty to protect the territory, you know, and I need your advice.”
“You’re a long way from the eastern territory, Ranger,” responded Ralcrist.
“Yes, and I’m ready to get back as soon as I can,” said Rew. He walked over and closed the book that the arcanist had been thumbing through. “I can’t stand being within these walls, but I have questions that must be answered before I go.”
“How long will this take?” muttered Ralcrist.
“Quite long, if you keep dodging my questions,” threatened Rew. “If you answer, though, less than a quarter hour.”
Grumbling to himself, Arcanist Ralcrist waved Rew after him and led him back into the library. He pointed to a decanter of wine. “Care for a glass?”
“Do you have ale?”
“No,” replied the arcanist.
“Then wine will do,” allowed Rew.
“Good. Pour me a glass as well,” instructed Ralcrist.
The arcanist stalked to one of his stuffed couches and plopped down, folding his arms over his chest and scowling at Rew as the ranger poured the two of them wine. Rew handed the man a glass and shook a table laden with manuscripts and ancient-looking tomes. Incongruously, it felt sturdier than the rickety bit of furniture holding up the potions in the workshop, so Rew leaned against it.
“Senior Ranger Rew,” spat the arcanist. “I know who you are.”
Rew nodded, sipping the wine and finding it surprisingly good.
“What do you want of me?” asked Arcanist Ralcrist.
“The crystal out in your foyer,” said Rew. “Why?”
The arcanist snorted and looked away.
“I’ve no interest in the baron’s plots,” said the ranger, “but it may have something to do with what we’ve been finding in the territory.”
“No interest in the baron’s plots? If that was true, you wouldn’t be here,” stated the arcanist.
Rew frowned then shook his head. “No, I came here to ask you about odd happenings out in the territory. There was a portal that opened, and it appeared narjags were waiting for whoever came through. We followed the tracks of narjags for two weeks, and they were always headed in the same direction, as if following someone. I was told it was a beacon, affixed to a spellcaster.”
The arcanist shifted on his couch, trying to look annoyed, but he couldn’t hide his interest in the problem. It was the sort of thing men joined the profession for, to untangle esoteric clues, to get to the bottom of a mystery.
He told Rew, “Narjags have no way of sniffing out high magic, Ranger. As they are anathema to our world, high magic is invisible to those of their world. It’s why high magic is so effective when combatting the Dark Kind. They can see, hear, and feel the flame of a fireball thrown into their face, but the casting of it doesn’t raise their hackles like it would us.”
Rew frowned. “There’s no way they could follow a magical beacon?”
“It’s not likely,” claimed the arcanist. “A beacon like that would surely be formed of high magic, and with no affinity for it, I cannot imagine the narjags detecting it, though there are many strange things in this world. Do you have a particular spellcaster in mind who is supposed to have opened this portal and attracted the narjags?”
“I do,” confirmed Rew.
“And where is this person?” asked Ralcrist.
“Here,” said Rew. “In Falvar, in the keep.”
The arcanist swallowed and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “I see.”
“These probes against your ward, can you see where they are coming from?” wondered Rew.
“From elsewhere,” said the arcanist with a wave of his hand. “They’re coming from elsewhere. Spellcasters are trying to open portals into our city. They could be in the vicinity of Mordenhold, Carff, even Jabaan. Nowhere in the barony, and that I am sure of.”
Rew stood off the table and began to pace. “Many of them?”
“Dozens every day,” said Ralcrist.
“Is that normal?” asked Rew. “From what I recall last I was in Falvar, there were no practitioners of high magic outside of the baron’s family. Is there a reason so many are now trying to portal here?”
“The Investiture, of course,” said the arcanist. He held up a hand. “No, do not ask me what sorts of plots and maneuverings they’re attempting. I do not know, but it’s the only reason there’d be such a spike in activity. They mean to either join the baron or to thwart him.”
Rew stalked back and forth.
“What is your involvement, Senior Ranger?”
Rew turned to Ralcrist. “None.”
“I said I know who you are,” reminded the arcanist.
Shaking his head, Rew began walking again. “I have no interest in the Investiture, and I mean to do everything I can to avoid it. It’s the reason I came east, the reason I assumed responsibility for the territory. That is my place, Ralcrist, and I will stay there as soon as I can finish in Falvar.”
“I’m afraid the baron has gotten himself deeper than he realizes,” said the arcanist. He picked up his wine and leaned back on the couch, tugging on his beard with his other hand, looking tired. “I was the arcanist in Falvar twenty-five years ago, you know. Baron Fedgley’s father kept the family out of it, and Falvar escaped unharmed. Some may have been worried the king would retaliate, as we did not support him, but the truth was he couldn’t have cared less what happened out here. We’re on the outskirts of the realm, and we’ve little to offer the plotters and the backstabbers in Mordenhold. Little other than the baron’s own skill, that is. Oh, that Fedgley had followed in the footsteps of his father.”
“Your ward that prevents the spellcasters from opening portals here?” asked Rew. “How does it work?”
The arcanist smirked. “It’s complicated, Senior Ranger.”
“The broad brushstrokes,” said Rew.
“High magic is drawn from the spellcaster,” said the arcanist. “Not their blood, exactly, but it’s a good enough way to think of these things. I found a way to interrupt that flow of power. Years ago, I fashioned physical restraints using my theories, thinking it was a practical way to safely capture lawbreakers who can cast high magic. Simple manacles, clamped on the wrist, and the spell caster’s abilities are blanketed. Unfortunately, it seems those who can cast high magic are rarely given forgiveness, and my devices were never used as part of enforcing the law. Instead, I found they were exclusively used by those with political designs. They locked their opponents in the manacles and held them until some condition or payment was met. I found it abhorrent, so I stopped making the things.”
Rew sipped his wine, slowing his pacing and letting the man talk.
“I expanded on my research, though, and created the crystal you saw in my foyer. It is the only one of its kind,” said the arcanist, sitting up and raising his head. “Like the manacles, it interferes with the ability to cast high magic, and I’ve found I can extend it for dozens of leagues. This way, practitioners cannot use their magic as a weapon against each other. When Fedgley demanded my assistance, it was the only way I would agree to do it. No spellcasters can come against him while my device is in use, but he cannot use his necromancy within the bounds of my ward. Currently, I’ve blanketed the entire region from the Spine, across the barrows, and two dozen leagues on the other side of the river. No high magic can be cast within two days’ journey of Falvar.”
“I’m surprised he was amendable to that,” remarked Rew. “One thing I know about spellcasters is that they become addicted to the power their magic provides. I cannot imagine
any of them voluntarily giving that power up.”
Ralcrist’s lips twisted, and he let go of his beard. “Fedgley threw quite the fit, but he needed me. Without my wards, he can’t achieve what he’s trying. He and those working with him would be under constant attack, and the man has little experience with combat, despite the family history. No, the only way he can maintain the focus he needs to, ah, to do what he’s attempting, is without the distraction of hostile spellcasters arriving in Falvar or stalking the barrows, hunting his minions. He’s promised his patron results, and you know the danger of that as well as anyone, don’t you, Ranger?”
“His patron, Prince Valchon?” asked Rew.
Arcanist Ralcrist’s eyes flashed, and he nodded. “Prince Valchon has heard of my research. I understand he even possesses a pair of the manacles I crafted years ago. Fedgley told me Valchon wanted more of them, but I refused. A risk to refuse a prince, but evidently Valchon believes my expanded ward will be quite handy.”
“What do you know of their plans?” prodded Rew.
“Senior Ranger,” declared the arcanist, “my role in this is to dampen high magic. As far as I’m concerned, when it comes to the plotting around the Investiture, that is the single most helpful thing I can do for the baron and for the common people who will be harmed by this bloody process. You know what havoc high magic can wreak. If I can prevent that from happening to Falvar, even if it allows the baron and the prince to conduct their mischievousness, then I have done a good thing. I don’t like what it is they do, but I have done what I can. Falvar is safer if high magic cannot be cast here.”
“And what if your ward was laid over another city, and then the baron released the wraiths he’s collecting?” wondered Rew. “Without high magic, the only way to defeat the shades is with prayer, and we all know how the Mordens view true fealty to the Blessed Mother. Against your device and the baron’s wraiths, a city may be entirely helpless.”
Ralcrist looked away, his face pale.
“You have thought of it, then,” said Rew.
“Falvar is my responsibility,” murmured the arcanist. “My charge is to support the baron and to protect the people who live here.”
