Pawn Of The Planewalker (Book 5)

by Ron Collins

  “How is your father, Darien?”

  “Sir?”

  Ellesadil put the quill down.

  “Your father. I asked how he’s doing.”

  Darien paused. “He won’t eat. I fear we’re seeing his last, Lord. The physician is with him daily, though.”

  “I’ll stop by to see him.”

  “I’m sure he would honored, sir.”

  Ellesadil nodded.

  “Again, though, Lord. You can’t think that the appearance of the Koradictine request coming at this most inopportune of moments is pure coincidence.”

  “You suspect they are linked?”

  Darien knit his brow and leaned forward, both palms on Ellesadil’s desk. “Ettril Dor-Entfar is our enemy. Certainly the timing of this smells of deceit. I can’t believe the two are mere coincidence.”

  “And, yet, I see no reason to believe they are linked. Garrick is not known for his stability, after all,” Ellesadil said in an even voice. “I have every reason to believe he left of his own accord. And, let’s be clear of one more thing. The Koradictine order is an enemy of the Torean Freeborn, not the people of Dorfort. We fought alongside you because it was the right thing to do, but now that your skirmish has been settled, I have no specific qualm with Ettril, nor do I consider what’s left of the Koradictine order to be a threat.”

  “I understand your position, Lord,” Darien said. “But I think you’re being too simplistic. Many of our families lost members during the mage war. Meeting with Ettril will provide them the wrong message.”

  “That depends on what is said.”

  Darien straightened with a bit too much flash. Papers flew from the desk in his wake as he turned toward the window.

  “What are you trying to accomplish?” he said.

  “Before I answer that, Darien, I suggest you take a moment to calm yourself.”

  Darien flushed, glancing out the window and down to the city. He remembered when the manor was built—a time when he was just a boy. Ellesadil had ordered the designers to change the direction of the window away from a view of the bay, as they had originally designed, and into a view of the city.

  “Better to understand the people than the lake,” the lord had said at the time.

  Darien had admired that about Ellesadil.

  Even Ellesadil’s simplistic naming of his manor as the government center spoke of his role as a manager rather than a king, or other maker of absolute law. Ellesadil’s rule had always been one of even-handedness.

  Darien took one of the padded seats beside the desk.

  “I apologize for my rashness, sir.”

  “It is all right. I’ve had several such conversations with your father over the years. Good men are often overzealous at times.”

  “Thank you. It’s just … I’m worried about this.”

  “How so?”

  “Garrick’s been gone for more than a week, sir.”

  “Yes,” Ellesadil said. “I know that. And I also know the Freeborn are finding it difficult to come to agreements. Now, Ettril shows up at our doorstep, wanting to beg forgiveness. I can see why everyone involved with the Torean House would be anxious.”

  Darien sighed.

  “I’m glad you understand,” he said. “I just can’t bring myself to trust the Koradictines. The whole thing smells strange, doesn’t it?”

  “Times today are always strange.”

  “May I ask what you’re trying to accomplish by agreeing to this meeting?”

  “Certainly,” Ellesadil said. “That would be a natural question for the leader of the Freeborn to ask.”

  “And your answer?”

  “I want to understand what Ettril is thinking. I want to know what his goals are.”

  “As well as to assess whether this man is trustworthy, I hope?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what will such action say to the people of this land?”

  “It will say we’re willing to move forward,” Ellesadil replied. “If the conversation goes well, it will say forgiveness is possible.”

  Darien chewed his lip. “I understand.”

  “That’s good.” Ellesadil intertwined his fingers and put them together before him. “Now, maybe you can tell me more about Garrick.”

  “I don’t know anything new. He disappeared before our eyes with no sign of a scuffle. Didn’t take anything with him. Didn’t leave a warning or a message. Our mages have searched and scried. We’ve scoured his room. Nothing. No remnants of magic beyond that in the hall itself.”

  Ellesadil sighed. “I have to admit that Garrick scares me in ways I can’t begin to explain.”

  “I can’t say as I really understand him that well, myself, Lord” Darien replied. “But I know he’s a good man.”

  “You miss him.”

  Darien nodded. “It’s especially hard with the boy.”

  “They are close, aren’t they?”

  “They are quite similar—so quiet. Will thinks Garrick left him, and that hurts him to his core.”

  “Do your best, Darien. It will work out. Your father raised you well.”

  “Thank you, Lord.”

  “Now, if you would, I have things to attend to before the day is out. If I’m forced to stay here too late, I’ll miss the lady of state’s dinner table.”

  Darien grinned. “Never a wise mistake to make.”

  “But one I fear has become too much of a habit.”

  Darien went to the door.

  “Darien?” Ellesadil said before Darien could leave.

  “Yes.”

  “I will want you to attend my discussion with the Koradictine leadership if you would.”

  Darien nodded. “Reynard should be there, also.”

  “Yes,” Ellesadil said. “Well played.”

  “And Garrick. If he returns in time.”

  “Of course. If he returns in time.”

  Chapter 13

  Neuma flicked a bit of dead leaf from her sleeve as she prepared for their ride into Dorfort. Deciding to remain as nondescript as possible, she chose no jewelry and wore the brown tunic and heavy shirt of thick weave that Kathery had given her before the mage war. Her pants were black wool. It was nearing winter, and already the heavy smell of thick undergrowth had left the forest. She cut the chill by slipping a riding cloak over her shoulders.

  Outside her tent came the sounds of gathering. Horses nickered and their hooves clopped randomly as the boys made them ready.

  The trip from de’Mayer island had been difficult. The weather crossing the ocean had been bad to start with, and hadn’t gotten much better until they managed the entirety of Badwall Pass, the long road that was the surest way of traversing the northwestern portion of the plane. Ettril had chosen to travel south from there, closer to the Wizardpeak ranges, rather than taking the eastern route along the Vapor Peaks. The Superior said he liked the southern pass due to its more plentiful game and the ease of its passage. But it was the longer way, and it required crossing a large river, so Neuma knew the choice had as much to do with the fact that the Lectodinian stronghold was somewhere in the Vapor Peaks as for any other reason.

  It was, likely, a wise choice, though. The Koradictine order could probably not survive a conflict with the Lectodinians now.

  To add to the hardship, Ettril was no longer a young man. The superior did not travel well. He was cranky and short-tempered on the best of days, downright spiteful the rest.

  Hirl-enat was not much better.

  A boy’s voice came through the tent.

  “Commanderess Neuma?”

  “Yes,” she replied, feeling a smirk cross her lips.

  Hirl-enat had demanded titles for their trip, so Ettril had given them all the rank of Commander. That, she thought, would be the first thing to go.

  “Lord Superior Ettril would like a word.”

  “On my way,” she said.

  She slipped a stiletto into a sheath at her wrist, then rolled the sleeve of her shirt over it.
Pulling her cloak tighter around her, Neuma stepped out of the tent.

  Quin Sar was just emerging from his own shelter.

  Hirl-enat had left camp yesterday to prepare for his role.

  Fil joined them, running his hands over his finest robes as they waited by the covered shelter Ettril demanded for himself.

  Neuma smiled at them.

  Her plan was coming to fruition.

  Chapter 14

  Ettril Dor-Entfar, High Superior of the Koradictine order, entered Dorfort via the central road, riding in a carriage Lord Ellesadil had sent. He peered through its shuttered windows to find the street lined with on-lookers eager to get a glimpse. The ride came to a halt outside the government center. The press of people fell away under the Dorfort guard, then the carriage door swung open.

  He motioned to Fil, and the younger mage made his exit first.

  Then Ettril emerged from the carriage, resplendent in a bright robe of crimson, and carrying a staff made from a crooked span of gnarled driftwood from the ocean outside de’Mayer island. He wore enough jewelry to dazzle the most active socialite, and he had combed his busy beard so that it flared with silver fire in the afternoon sun.

  Darien and Reynard waited for Ettril and Fil to reach the top of the stairs, then made formal introductions.

  “Can we get you anything, High Superior?” said a member of the wait staff.

  “Nothing for me, please. But my aide might be interested in a tour, or maybe even lunch.”

  “Lunch, sir?”

  Fil gave a warm grin.

  “That would be nice. It was a very early breakfast.”

  “I imagine it was.”

  Darien stepped in. “Please do have Daventry arrange something. I’ll ask Harol to meet him at the kitchen to escort Fil through the grounds after he’s eaten.”

  “Thank you, Commander J’ravi.”

  With that, Fil was taken by the elbow and led away, and Darien and Reynard escorted Ettril to the central hall. Darien purposefully slowed his gait to match the Koradictine’s. The walk was cool and awkward.

  “I hope your carriage was satisfactory, High Superior,” Darien said.

  “It was marvelous.”

  Reynard remained silent as their footsteps echoed down the hallway. Eventually they came to the meeting chamber where Ellesadil sat waiting.

  “Lord Ellesadil,” Darien said, “please meet Ettril Dor-Entfar, High Superior of the Koradictine Order of mages. High Superior, please meet Kandor Ellesadil, Lord Governor of Dorfort.”

  The two clasped hands.

  Ellesadil was dressed in green and blue, wearing a thin shirt of polished chain mail under an overcoat marked with the insignia of the Dorfort guard. He greeted the High Superior with a cordial calm.

  “So,” Ellesadil said once each member of the party had been seated. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  Now, all eyes were on Ettril.

  “I expected the Torean god-touched mage would participate in our discussion,” the Koradictine said.

  “Garrick is unable to join us,” Darien replied. “But I’ve asked Reynard of the Freeborn to sit with us so he is conversant with whatever issues we discuss.”

  Ettril nodded. This was interesting. The Torean god-touched mage was unavailable. Ettril wasn’t sure what to make of it, but one thing was certain—something was amiss with the Torean House. Garrick would not miss this if he could have attended. This could bode well.

  Ettril began.

  “I’ve come,” he said. “To see what can be done about mending the damage my order has done throughout this plane.”

  Hirl-enat stood in the dining area of the inn across from Ellesadil’s government center, and watched the parade. When Ettril left the carriage, he stepped with unhurried gait back to the room he had taken the day before—a small compartment on the inn’s second floor.

  He shut the door behind him and closed the latch. Then he went to the window and pulled a pair of frayed curtains more fully shut. Thin light penetrated their linen sheen, but nothing else.

  Hirl-enat was alone and ready to cast his spell.

  He lit a candle and put it on a ceramic plate on the floor at the center of the room, then he pushed the bed and a nondescript secretary to one corner. From the secretary, he removed two containers of paint he had prepared the night before. In short order the floor was covered with runes.

  He left the jars by the water pot.

  The chambermaid would be upset when she came tomorrow, but by then it would be too late.

  Hirl-enat placed smaller candles at key points of his pattern, then used the central candle to light them. He stepped carefully to avoid smudging his work. It would be disaster to rub out a rune with a poorly placed foot. The diagram was a half circle that filled most of the floor, open toward the manor. Looping sigils twined along the outer edge, representing the chaos that would exist outside the shell. Straight lines radiated from the focus of the half circle to denote stability within.

  If he cast this spell correctly, it would hide all sorcery made within his range. And the range he had set out last night would cover the government center, enough that Fil’s casting could be made unobserved by those outside the area, giving them time to extract themselves if the plan worked.

  And Hirl-enat saw no reason it shouldn’t work.

  His casting was old magic, filled with structure and componentry, and an elegance that made his mind settle. It was magic taught to him back in his days of youth by his superior, a crotchety old man named Kass with a similar passion for structure and a love of tradition. Hirl-enat was Kass’s last apprentice, and the old mage had demanded nothing but the best of him.

  He laid the spell out in methodical perfection.

  Today’s magic relied more often than not on short bursts of power rather than controlled processes like these. It was a change that scared him. Of course, he had—throughout his life—found some in his order considered his thoughts to be Lectodinian in nature. When he was younger such accusations caused him to blanch, and he would sometimes prepare intricate revenge. But he was older now. He understood certain truths he hadn’t understood then. Nothing about Lectodinian politics made any sense, but that didn’t preclude them from being right in one fashion. Sorcery should be an art rather than a convenience.

  He licked his lips then. They were dry and chapped, an old man’s lips, he thought. When did he get old man’s lips?

  Hirl-enat shook his mind of these ruminations and began instead to prepare himself.

  Not everyone could hold the encapsulation for long enough to complete the kidnapping. Ettril would understand this fact. If the exercise succeeded he would be in the High Superior’s favor for a very long time.

  He took his place in the diagram and spoke his words of old magic, stepping across the floor in a dance-like pattern. The room filled with the gloriously bloody smell of Koradictine magic. And Hirl-enat threw his head back to enjoy the rapture of magestuff as it burned through his body.

  Across the manor yard, an invisible shell formed over Dorfort’s government center.

  Chapter 15

  The guard leading Fil to the kitchen was young, and trying perhaps too hard to impress him. He went out of his way to talk about each of the tapestries that hung on the walls, giving the full history of both the artist and the stories behind the artwork’s origin. Fil thought them merely over-wrought.

  A wave of heat that smelled of baking bread hit before they arrived at the kitchen. The smell of fresh diced celery and stewing onions came next, a combination that did tricks inside his stomach. For the briefest of moments, he forgot he was nervous.

  “Good afternoon, Daventry,” the guard said. “This is Fil, mage of the Koradictine order. He is in need of a quick lunch.”

  The cook stood over an open grill and wiped his hands on a clean rag. Three others chopped vegetables and cleaned cook pots. Lunch would be served in the royal hall, and dinner would come soon enough, so this request was additional w
ork in a room full of people who had plenty to do.

  “It was a very early breakfast,” Fil explained, in hopes his apology came through.

  “All right, then,” Daventry said. “Let’s see what we can rustle up.”

  He was a cheerful man with ruddy redness in his cheeks and a bare wisp of hair that was damp with sweat. His cheeks were made for a man bigger than himself. They spilled over his jawline like those of a bulldog, but a grin seemed to be perpetually pasted to his face.

  The kitchen was laid out in the shape of a letter L.

  The central nook consisted of a long grill and an open pit with a kettle and a roasting stand. A large hood opened to a chimney, its stone and mortared surface blackened by years of greasy smoke. A row of working ovens belched heat from the shortest wall. A longer counter was cluttered with rows of pots, pans, graters and other utensils that looked like implements of torture.

  Fil’s eyes strayed to the bay windows that opened to view the manor.

  “Those are Lord Ellesadil’s stables,” the guard explained.

  “How many horses does he keep?” Fil asked. He wanted to keep the guard talking.

  “It varies with the time of year. Ellesadil’s policy is that any man who needs a horse can have one. But he must give his word for its return. So, early in the summer season, we’re often left with a bare few. This time of year, though, the stables are nearly full.”

  The building across the manor was large. There were four others of similar size. Two guards per building. Ten people. Each would need to be unconscious for as much as half an hour.

  “I had heard of your lord’s generosity before,” Fil said, “but was never sure if the stories were true or not.”

  “Oh, they’re true, all right. I would follow Lord Ellesadil anywhere.”

  “That speaks volumes all to itself.”

  The guard smiled.

  Fil lowered his voice. “Before your cook finishes gathering my meal, would you be able to show me to a privy?”

  The guard’s smile widened.

  “This way,” he said, leading him out the doorway and to a small room adjacent to the stables.