by AC Cobble
Rew snorted. “Protect your own, eh, and forget the thousands of others that may die because of your actions?”
“Look to yourself, Ranger,” snapped Ralcrist. “High magic is a scourge on this realm, and as long as it’s the chief tool the nobility use to keep their seats and squabble amongst themselves, it will remain so. I’m trying to put an end to it, Ranger. What are you doing to help?”
“An end to high magic. A curious position for an arcanist to take,” muttered Rew.
Ralcrist drank deeply of his wine and then said, “I know the evil that men hold in their hearts, and I’ve learned what power magic gives them to make it reality. I study the forces, as any scholar does, but it does not mean I like what those forces can do. High magic is dangerous, Senior Ranger. It’s dangerous, and much of my study has been figuring out how to stop it. What would you have me do instead? Run from what I know?”
Rew didn’t respond. Instead, he walked around the man’s library, glancing at the titles of the books on the shelves, battling with whether he should ask the man what he was wondering or whether he should leave. Leave Ralcrist’s chambers, leave Falvar.
Finally, Rew turned back to the arcanist. “If a beacon was attached to a man, and that beacon was drawing the Dark Kind, would that beacon work within the area of your ward?”
“‘You haven’t been listening, Senior Ranger,” chided the arcanist. “The Dark Kind cannot sense the presence of high magic. With or without my ward, a beacon like you speak would not draw them. Whatever that spellcaster told you, it was a lie.”
Rew winced. “What about an enchantment? A device or symbol that—“
Arcanist Ralcrist shook his head. “The Dark Kind are anathema, Senior Ranger. They are not of this world, and their senses are not the same as ours. They cannot detect high magic. Whatever call magic sends would be meaningless to them. It is like us waving a flag to a blind man or wafting a fresh baked roll beneath the nose of one who cannot smell. Feeding a berry to a man with no tongue. Clapping our hands beside—“
“I understand,” grumbled Rew. “I understand, but how then, can one manipulate the Dark Kind?”
“Simple instruction, of course,” declared the arcanist. “The same way that the Dark Kind have always been controlled. Make them more afraid of you than of what you’re telling them to do. Narjags are vicious creatures, but they are sentient. They understand fear and have the instinct for self-preservation. It’s how the valaan control them. It’s how the spellcasters of old controlled them. Even amongst the packs, the biggest and strongest of the group may fight or kill their rivals to cement their command. They rule through fear, Ranger, and fear alone. Kill enough of them, and the rest will fall in line.”
Rew cringed, thinking of the clusters of dead narjags they’d stumbled across in the wilderness and on the slopes of the Spine.
“The Dark Kind were summoned through high magic, of course,” continued Ralcrist, not seeing Rew’s expression, “but even then, when they first poured through the portals, the conjurers controlled them through fear. They’d find the most aggressive of the new arrivals and make examples of them. They displayed their power, and the narjags trembled before it. Valaans are trickier, of course, but it’s the same—”
Rew closed his eyes, pausing in the center of the arcanist’s room.
“Why are you asking these questions, Senior Ranger?” demanded Ralcrist, suddenly noticing Rew’s reaction. “Does this have to do with the gathering of Dark Kind that was discovered by our patrol?” He shook his head. “The spellcaster you mentioned, is it the same one who arrived with the baron’s children?”
Rew did not respond, but he did not need to. Ralcrist could see confirmation in his face.
“You thought the man had a beacon affixed to him, that he was drawing the Dark Kind to him,” guessed Ralcrist. “The man is in the employ of Prince Valchon, is he not? The Dark Kind we’ve seen in the barrowlands have been thwarting Baron Fedgley’s plan. If this spellcaster is allied with Valchon, then he cannot be behind the attacks from the narjags. No one would be foolish enough to betray Prince Valchon in such a manner. Betraying a prince? That would be suicide. There must be another spellcaster in the vicinity, one who is supporting Prince Heindaw or Prince Calb.”
Rew ran his hand over his hair, thinking he needed a shave—and to leave Falvar as soon as he could.
Arcanist Ralcrist pointed toward his foyer. “You see, Ranger, why I’ve invested my life’s study in fashioning this ward? We are safe here from the machinations of these spellcasters because of me. This man who arrived with you and the baron’s children, whoever else is out there plotting against him and the baron, they are helpless in Falvar because of my ward.”
“Do you know the old border fort adjacent to the Spine?” asked Rew. “The one converted to an ore-mining operation?”
Ralcrist nodded.
“Does your ward reach that far?”
Ralcrist frowned, appeared to do some calculations, and then answered, “No, I don’t believe it would. My ward extends twenty-five, thirty leagues from here. That tower is a four-day journey, is it not? You came that way, didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Rew. “It was four days walking, outside of your range.”
“Do not fear, Ranger. Whatever these spellcasters are up to, they are impotent in Falvar. I’ve made sure of it,” cackled the arcanist.
“Impotent only while your crystal is operating,” warned Rew.
Ralcrist winked at him. “No spellcaster can stop it. The reverberation to their magic if they came within my rooms would be too much for them to bear. It’d be like their blood was boiling. It’d drive them to their knees, and if they struggled close enough to touch it, the crystal would shred them to pieces. Have no fear, Ranger. Not even Baron Fedgley can enter these rooms.”
Rew grunted.
“What worries you, Ranger?” wondered Ralcrist.
“I don’t know,” replied Rew. “I don’t know, and I don’t—I don’t want to know what these scoundrels are plotting. It’s time for me to leave, Ralcrist. I need to tell my companions to prepare, and we’ll start our journey home as soon as we can.”
“Best of luck to you, Ranger,” offered the arcanist. “I’m told the pull of the Investiture is impossible to resist, but best of luck to you.”
Rew headed for the door without responding, but then he paused. Over his shoulder, he suggested, “Ralcrist, perhaps some guards outside of your chamber? A spellcaster may not be able to enter, but you’re not immune from a mundane attack. Don’t let a man with a knife be the end of your life’s work.”
“No hammer or sword can destroy that crystal, Ranger, only a staff designed by my own hand, which is the key to making it operate,” said Ralcrist, “but I’ll consider your advice. We’ll all be pulled into this, and a wise man takes precautions.”
Rew grunted and opened the door.
“For what it’s worth,” called Ralcrist, “I think you’re doing the right thing. The Investiture is a terrible ritual, and I’m glad to see you want nothing to do with it. Their blood gives the nobles the powers to practice high magic, but it does not give them wisdom. They waste the gift their blood grants them by using it to try and spill the blood of others. Magic and noble blood, Ranger, they’re helplessly intertwined. Us commoners would be best off without either of them.” The arcanist cackled then hastily added, “Don’t tell the baron I said that. He needs me, and despite how much I loathe it, I need him.”
Rew walked out of the man’s rooms, closing the door on the arcanist and his floating crystal. He needed to find Anne and Jon. They needed to leave Falvar.
Chapter Seventeen
“It was Baron Fedgley, not Worgon,” said Anne, shaking her head, leaning close so that no one else in the tavern could hear what she said, “and his children never suspected?”
“Evidently not,” said Rew. “Perhaps they never will. Not until all of this is over, at least. The baron hasn’t told them he’s behind t
he conspiracy, and I certainly don’t plan to get involved.”
Anne frowned, looking unsure.
“What are you going to do, Anne, march up to the palace and tell them their father is behind it? That he is the one who planted the false story about Worgon’s betrayal and sent them on this quest?” questioned Rew. “Even if they believe you, and the baron doesn’t find out and toss you in a cell, what would that accomplish? With the Investiture starting, the duchy is going to be embroiled in conflict no matter what we do. The children are safest in the baron’s keep, under his protection.”
“There has to be another way, Rew,” responded Anne.
“Not while the king is on the throne in Mordenhold,” said Rew. He reached over and put a hand on hers. “The Investiture has been going on for two hundred years, and each cycle brings tragedy and devastation, but it’s the way of things. We don’t have to like it, but there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”
She shook her head in disagreement, but she had no answer. He was right. The Investiture had been the way of things for two hundred years, and until someone overthrew the king, it’s the way it would be.
Neither of them spoke, letting the noise of the busy common room fill the silence between them.
Jon returned from the bar, sitting down at their table and placing an ale in front of himself and Rew and a mug of wine in front of Anne. “They told me it’d be half an hour on the food. Seems the inn is quite crowded with the soldiers in town. We were lucky to get rooms, I gather.”
“We came down from the keep,” said Rew. “That didn’t hurt.”
Anne, looking over the place with a professional’s eye, remarked, “They’d do well to hire more staff and do a bit of cleaning. Doesn’t look like they’ve properly swept the floors in a week. The rooms upstairs, well, I’m glad it’s only a night we’re staying. I’m choosing not to think about what’s taking place behind that kitchen door.”
Grinning, Rew winked at Jon over the rim of his ale mug. “It’s the cleanest inn we could find, Anne. If you don’t like this place, you should see some of the sinks we’ve had to stay in when we visit Spinesend.”
Anne cringed, feigning terror, and the two men laughed.
“It’s decided, then?” asked Jon. “Just one night in Falvar, then we return home?”
Rew sat down his tankard and stretched. “Aye, it’s decided. Eat supper, get some rest, stop by the post tomorrow with a letter for Commandant Grund, pick up supplies for the journey, and then back to Eastwatch.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Anne. He knew she’d originally thought to stay and help the commoners, as they were drawn into the Investiture, but the Dark Kind and the gathering of the wraiths had given her second thoughts. Baron Fedgley planned to march with his army against Duke Eeron and Baron Worgon. His men might need healing after, but they were the aggressors. If Anne announced herself and stayed, it would not be the common people she would be forced to heal. It wouldn’t be the victims she would be helping.
The truth was, the best thing the commoners could do was to flee, but Rew admitted, there may not be anywhere to go. If what Alsayer claimed was true about each of the princes’ strength, then the entire kingdom was going to be drawn into the conflict. Eastwatch, though, Eastwatch could still benefit from the help of a good ranger and an empath. Rew would keep the territory out of it, as much as he could, and keep the people free from the whirlpool that was forming around Mordenhold. He and Anne couldn’t help everyone, but they could help some, and that was worth doing.
He hoped so, at least.
They sat and drank for a moment, savoring the chance to enjoy a decent cup in comfortable seating for the first time in weeks, even if the cleanliness of the floor wasn’t up to Anne’s standards.
“That man, the spellcaster, he called you his cousin,” said Jon. “What did he mean?”
Rew twitched, nearly spilling his ale. “History. He was talking about history.”
“You are related, though, aren’t you?” pressed Jon. “You didn’t act surprised.”
“We’re related,” admitted Rew, “and that’s all I want to say about it.”
The younger ranger eyed him curiously, but Rew did not comment.
Changing the subject, Jon mentioned, “I’m surprised the baron did not invite us to stay in the keep tonight. We did just bring his youngest two children through the wilderness safely. That, and helping to spread word of the plot by Baron Worgon against Duke Eeron. A little thanks should be in order…”
Jon glanced between Rew and Anne, but both looked away, pretending to study the room.
“You’re like my parents, never wanting to admit there’s a problem when it couldn’t be any plainer that there was one,” grumbled Jon. “Senior Ranger, I know I’m the least experienced man on your staff, but I am a ranger. If there’s a threat to the territory, you should share it with me. I can help.”
“Investiture isn’t just a threat to the territory, Jon,” replied Rew. “It’s a threat to everything.”
“That’ll be one gold, three silver, sir,” said the postman.
Rew winced. “Take it from the king’s account, authority of the senior ranger for the eastern territory.”
The postman, a thin-faced grouch whose skin looked as if it hadn’t seen the sun in years, eyed the ranger up and down. “I’ll need your name and signature.”
“Of course,” said Rew.
The man turned his logbook and pushed it across the simple wooden counter. Rew scrawled the necessary information on the book, noting that the majority of the entries were in the same hand. The postman’s own, presumably. Rew wondered if the man was testing whether he could read the columns and make his marks in the appropriate places. Suspicion was growing everywhere, and it was only going to get worse.
“How many days to Mordenhold, do you think?” asked Rew, handing back the man’s quill.
The postman scratched his head, the ink from the quill scrawling across his temple. “There’s a number of stops along the way where the parcel will be transferred. Delays are always possible, but the roads should be in good shape going into winter. A month if all goes reasonably well and a month back once the recipient has sent their reply. Shall I be expecting a return letter?”
Rew shook his head. “No, the answer will arrive in Eastwatch.”
The postman nodded, made a few final marks in his logbook, and stuck Rew’s envelope containing the letter to Commandant Grund below the counter. The ranger nodded his thanks and left.
He glanced up and down the stone streets of Falvar, feeling like he was trapped in a prison. The city’s walls rose in a box. They were visible between the roofs of the shops and down each open street. Those tall walls were like a pen, caging him inside. The streets themselves were fashioned like the buildings, from the pale rock of the Spine. It gave Falvar a washed-out feel in sharp contrast to the verdant grasslands that surrounded it.
Rew yearned for the freedom of those grasslands and the forests he could reach beyond them, but he had a bit more to attend to in Falvar, so he steeled himself, content knowing that in the afternoon, he, Anne, and Jon would be leaving, and he would yet again feel the comfort of the open road, the wind across his face, and dirt beneath his feet.
All around him, burghers jostled, moving about on their errands. Housewives picked up packages from the grocers. Workmen made deliveries to the shops. Vendors called out their wares from kiosks, and the more successful merchants who owned their own storefronts stood outside, prepared to welcome in prospective customers. Down the center of the street, groups of armored men walked slowly, their gazes roving over the citizens, the shops, and the walls of Falvar.
“Where is he getting them?” muttered Rew under his breath as a group of five liveried soldiers strolled past.
One of the soldiers turned to study Rew, his gaze resting briefly on the ranger’s longsword then moving up to his eyes.
Rew met the look, seeing the man’s thick black beard and
swarthy complexion, and guessing the soldier hailed from the Southern Province. What was such a man doing at the far fringes of the kingdom’s eastern border? The soldier, glaring at Rew, appeared miffed his look didn’t intimidate the ranger, but he kept moving.
No authority over the citizenry, guessed Rew as he watched the soldiers walk away, another group appearing at the far end of the street shortly after the first vanished. But if they had no authority over the people, what were they doing on patrol?
Grunting, trying to forget his questions, Rew started toward the market where Jon and Anne were supposed to be collecting supplies for the journey back to Eastwatch. He moved down Falvar’s main avenue, glancing up at the dark sky. High above hung steel gray clouds that did not look promising for an evening on the road, but Rew was eager to leave, to get out of the town, to avoid the draw of the Investiture. Still looking up, purposefully ignoring the crowd around him, he nearly stumbled into another squad of azure-clad soldiers. He stopped several paces in front of them, but the men kept marching without pause.
“Clear the way,” barked the squad leader.
Rew eyed the man then stepped aside.
The squad leader stopped and jabbed a finger at him. “I suggest next time you move faster unless you fancy a night in the baron’s jail.”
“For what crime? Walking down the street?” asked Rew.
The soldier drew himself up and clamped a hand around the hilt of the broadsword hanging at his side. “Trying to make trouble, are we?”
“No, not at all,” said Rew, studying the big man. “Just walking down the street, as I said. Are you trying to make trouble?”
The soldier blinked at him, confused.
“Where are you from, soldier?” Rew asked the man. “What brought you to Falvar?”
“That’s none of your business,” growled the uniformed man.
“A mercenary, then,” responded Rew.
The man stepped forward. “You are trying to make trouble, aren’t you? Come with us, and maybe that night in the cell will sort you out.”
