“Anything necessary to find the truth!” they proclaimed in unison. More and more it seemed this was a practiced refrain.
“And if the truth is certain and the actions are unworthy of a Tresson subject, what is the price for such deeds?”
“Death by exile!” they answered.
“I, as a Tresson soldier of equal or greater rank, mean to have the truth. If I seek it, will any of you stop me?”
“No, Dragon Rider!”
Grustim turned to Myranda again. “You have your ways, Duchess, and we have our own. I do not ask you to embrace them, but I ask you to respect them.”
Myranda looked him in the eye. She saw much there. Intensity, hate, righteous fury, but more than anything, she saw resolve. He would see this through, not out of cruelty, but out of duty.
“Do what you must,” Myranda said quietly, lowering her head.
As Grustim continued to the infirmary, Myranda sat beside the fire and tried to steel herself for what would come next. Deacon sat beside her and tended to the flames and food.
“You placed Brustuum in a healing sleep, did you not?” he said.
“I did.”
“It will take considerable… force to awaken someone in such a state.”
“I believe Grustim is prepared to apply whatever force is required to get the job done,” she said.
Myranda tried not to think of what Grustim would do, or how he planned to do it. But the more she tried to push those thoughts away, the more she felt worse thoughts drift in to replace them. He’d spoken of a heart of stone, those willing to do the unthinkable in pursuit of a cause. In a way, the description fit Ether well, but the shapeshifter was not the person she’d thought of when he made such a suggestion. He may as well have been speaking specifically of Lain. Myranda held the fallen hero close to her heart, and held him in the highest regard, but he of all people would never have wanted her to forget what he was. By his own choice, Lain had been a killer. So much of their quest would never have been possible without the dark deeds he was willing to perform. Somehow she’d been able to set that aside.
A yelp of pain, followed by a muffled howl as it was forcibly silenced, heralded Grustim’s swift defeat of her nurturing sleep. The sound instantly forced to mind what sort of similar things might have been done in the name of peace in the past.
Perhaps sensing the dark directions her mind was headed, Deacon spoke up. “Myranda, the pad from my pack seems to be missing,” he said.
She turned to him, taking a moment to shake herself from her thoughts. Doing so instead reminded her of something equally unpleasant.
“Grustim had it… Deacon, the portal to the north? It was in Castle Verril. And there must have been a second one out of there. Damage was done to the castle. People are missing. People may have been killed.”
He took a breath and placed a hand on her arm. “We knew it was a possibility. Do you have the pad now? Was there anything more?”
“No. He took it with him. I have to assume it was taken when they stripped him of his weapons and armor. It may even have been destroyed.”
“They would have to work fairly hard to destroy one of my books, and if they’d done so, I would have known. I’ll have it in a moment.”
Deacon stood and paced to the rubble, gem in hand. He stood at the edge of where the door had once been and gazed over the shattered stone of the mighty stronghold. After working out roughly where he wished to focus his efforts, he raised the gem. The powerful light of the sun made the polished egg of crystal seem to glow brilliantly even when at rest, but as he focused his strength through it, it came alive with its own cooler glow.
“There… I see it.” he said quietly.
He spread his fingers, and the smallest of the stones began to shuffle obligingly aside. It took more effort, but not long after, the larger of the stones followed. Brick by broken brick he excavated a sloping path down into the rubble, ending in a mound of lacquered green armor battered on the floor of a former cell. Deacon let his focus lapse. A few of the smaller stones tumbled back down into his cleared passage, but it remained otherwise intact, allowing him to step down into the ruin and gingerly push aside the topmost plate of armor to find his pad. It was badly creased and partially torn, but otherwise quite whole.
Deacon fetched the bundle of pages. Another pulse of light within his gem suggested he’d worked an enchantment, and slowly the torn pages began to mend, the creases eased away, and the ground-in dust drifted off in the breeze. In seconds the book was perfectly repaired with no evidence of so much as having been dropped to the ground, let alone suffering through a building collapse.
He flicked through the pages, as usual quite unaware of how astounding it must have looked to the soldiers who witnessed the event.
“This is… very distressing,” Deacon commented, his eyes darting over the contents of the final page. “Have you read this?”
“I only saw a glimpse,” she said.
“Here. The woman has found her way to another of the D’Karon forts. There was a clash with Ivy. We know more about her now, but most worrying are her plans,” Deacon said.
Myranda squinted as the light of the setting sun glared off the page. Though her fair skin was ill-suited to it, she’d not taken refuge in the shelter of the wall. The soldiers sheltering there were enough on edge without having to share space with Myranda and Deacon. This was particularly true when considering Myn’s unwillingness to leave their sides for more than a few moments at a time. The thought of her faithful friend lumbering up and frightening off the troops she deemed to have settled too close to Myranda was enough to persuade her to endure the sun for a bit longer, even if it was already baking her.
Myn soon noticed the difficulty and settled down between Myranda and the sun, casting her friend in a cool shadow and setting her paws protectively on either side. She glanced at Deacon, who was still standing in the brunt of the sunlight but too distracted scribbling down his recent findings in a larger book to notice. Reaching out with a paw, she nudged him closer until he was beside Myranda, sharing the shade. Then she set her paw down again and craned her head in contentment, huffing a breath of satisfaction. Myranda placed a hand atop her paw in thanks.
“She wants to bring the D’Karon back? Is that even possible?” Myranda asked.
“They were brought here once… And if it is indeed the case that she was the one who brought them here the first time, then it isn’t a matter of possibility, it’s a matter of time. I admit, I’ve not studied the portal spells as closely as I might. They are precisely the spells those of Entwell resolved never to study. Even looking upon their workings makes me uncomfortable. But the spell is not a complicated one, merely a potent one. It would take monumental amounts of mystic strength. The combined might of the Entwell masters during a blue moon ceremony might just be enough. But given enough time and the proper focus, even a novice wizard could work the spell.”
“How much time?”
“For an individual gathering power on a scale subtle enough to have gone unnoticed until now? Not less than a century. Likely much more. Three hundred years wouldn’t be outside the realm of reason.”
“One hundred fifty years of war, plus however long it took the D’Karon to start the war… if she set her mind to the task immediately after the last one…”
“She could be quite nearly ready,” Deacon said. “As with the D’Karon, any new and potent supply of power could speed the process enormously.”
“And what would happen then? Would it be another portal, like the one we closed at Lain’s End?”
“No. This would be small,” he said. He held his hand out toward his pack and called a book to it, flipping through and revealing page after page of otherworldly writing. “It would allow spirits through, not even flesh. But that would be enough to allow beings like the D’Karon generals to pass back into our world and take form.”
“That looks like D’Karon writing…” Myranda said, eying the pages as he
scanned through them.
“It is. I’ve transcribed the D’Karon spell books we’ve found into my personal grimoire. We can’t hope to combat their workings if we don’t understand them.” He continued looking over the page, muttering to himself. “It was foolish of me to avoid studying their portal spells. They are forbidden precisely because they are the greatest threat. If they already exist, then there is no wisdom in avoiding the knowledge any longer…”
“We need to be certain of how much time we have, if any. We need to know the urgency of the situation,” Myranda said. “Is there any way we can detect that?”
“With the full portal, perhaps, but not with this initial one. It seems to have been designed to be virtually undetectable. It would certainly stand to reason, as it is doubtless the most fragile spell they have.”
“So if we find it, we could undo it?”
“Well, again, the D’Karon do not work their craft with the expectation of ever undoing it, but the keyhole, at least until it is finally cast, is in most ways just a very well hidden reservoir of energy. It can be sapped, drained, dissipated. Ideally the power would be relinquished slowly, or else we’d have a situation much as we faced in the Dagger Gale Mountains a few months ago.”
“That must be avoided. We lost a large portion of a mountain range. If that were to happen within Tresson borders as a result of something we or another Alliance subject has done, it could only be considered an attack on an unprecedented scale. We may already have passed the point that peace might be salvageable. If a swath of their land were to be consumed in a wave of chaotic energies, I doubt the resulting war would ever end.”
“We could condense the energy, I suppose. Gather it into some manner of artifact until it could safely be dealt with.”
“Wouldn’t that do little more than postpone the problem?”
“Sometimes postponing the problem is the best we can do at a given time. It will certainly be the swiftest and safest way to reclaim the stolen energy. With the energy gathered, the keyhole spell would collapse harmlessly and the solution of how best to return the energy that went into its creation could be addressed at our leisure.”
“Let us suppose we chose to do such a thing. Can it be done at a distance? If we were to learn the location of the keyhole, could we gather the energy from here?”
“No. The nature of the spell makes interaction from afar at best unstable, and at worst impossible. We would need to be able to physically touch the point in space that is being prepared to open. If the wording here is any indication… finding the keyhole might be very difficult. It cannot be seen with the eyes, steps have been taken to make it nearly undetectable through magic… It is a fairly simple spell, but much of what little complexity there is in casting it is tailored to make its presence known only to its creator.”
“What if Turiel is no longer able to fuel it? Does it matter if we leave the spell half-cast?”
“I would strongly advise against it. Like most D’Karon spells, it will drink up energies around it even without the hand of a wizard guiding it. That’s one way we might find it, but without knowing how it has been tended to thus far, we don’t know how strong or weak that draw might be. If it is very strong, it will be simple enough to find, as it will present itself as the same withering lifelessness that characterizes their gems. If the draw is weak, it might lay hidden, quietly sipping at the ambient magic for… perhaps thousands of years. But it will eventually drink its fill, and then the keyhole will open.”
“So if we do not deal with this now, there is the very real possibility that we will have guaranteed that at some point in the future a door will open again, and perhaps at a time when we won’t be there to defend against the D’Karon.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Our goal is crystal clear, then. As important is it is to find the woman who has been tending to it, it is more important that we find the keyhole,” Myranda said.
“Yes…” Deacon said distantly.
He continued to flip through the pages of his books while Myranda silently watched the meat cook and considered the path ahead. Every few moments another muffled howl of agony echoed out from the infirmary. Myranda began to wonder just how much this peace would ultimately cost. Rather than let the sounds of Grustim’s work bore into her mind, she plucked up the pad and stylus and began to compose a message to the others.
#
“How much longer before we have the materials to seal the hole?” Croyden asked, gazing up through the fault in the roof as a pair of workmen stood beside him.
“Three more days to have the stone cut,” said the first.
“Another day to bring it here,” said the other.
“Will there be sufficient time for the ceiling to be mended before the queen’s return? I do not want… Oh, lovely.”
He looked in annoyance at the familiar swirl of wind approaching.
Ether whisked in through the hole in the roof and touched down in front of Croyden, bringing with her a stream of stinging ice crystals that pelted those in attendance and sprinkled the floor. When her windy form was near enough to do so gracefully, she shifted to her human form again.
She began speaking to Croyden without regard for the conversation that had been going on. She didn’t even acknowledge the presence of the workers.
“All of this that happened here,” she said, with an encompassing wave of her arm, “does it stab at your soul? Does it feel as though something sacred has been desecrated, something precious taken from you?”
Croyden looked at her curiously. There was an edge, a fire to her words that had been absent before, and that same fire was reflected in her eyes.
“It spits in the face of all I’ve come to stand for. It is an affront to my kingdom and a personal insult that cuts me to the bone.”
“Then you and I have much to discuss…” she said. “Follow. I wish to speak to you in a place where others will not hear.”
She paced toward the throne room. Her crisp turn and quick pace made it clear she had no doubt whatsoever that he would follow. Croyden had never encountered someone so effortlessly presumptuous.
“I have duties to attend to, Guardian Ether. I cannot abandon them simply to humor you.”
She spoke without turning. “Your duty is to protect your kingdom and enact some measure of justice upon those responsible for sullying it. I mean to aid you in that. Now follow.”
Croyden tried to quell the surge of irritation that her curt attitude conjured so efficiently.
“See to it that all materials are prepared as soon as possible, and when the schedule is solidified, inform me. I want the castle whole again for the queen’s return,” he said.
The men moved quickly to their tasks, and Croyden set off after the infuriating shapeshifter. She pulled at the heavy door to the currently unoccupied throne room. The door was utterly massive, reaching from the floor nearly to the vaulted ceiling, and made from the thickest wood anywhere in the castle save the gates. The doors were meant to be large enough when opened to allow the throne room to serve as a continuation of the entry hall, yet sturdy enough to be barricaded and protect the king and queen from anything short of a siege weapon. The handles for the door were brass rings the size of serving trays, spaced regularly from bottom to top and meant to be attached to ropes to help a team of men open and close them quickly. Ether grasped the lowest ring and hauled the door open with little apparent effort and no concern for the colossal breach in protocol that such a thing represented. Once inside she looked about the room with disinterest, then turned to await him.
“Quickly,” she snapped, pointing her finger at the floor beside her.
His expression hardened further. The woman may as well have been addressing a disobedient dog. Nonetheless, he’d heard stories of Ether’s feats and seen firsthand the devastation she could produce and the ferocity with which she fought when she deemed such a thing necessary. The strength necessary to open the door was the least of her attribute
s. She had been and continued to be a strong ally and, in any case, was not the sort of person one should willfully irritate. He stepped beside her, and she pulled the door shut with a thunderous rumble.
“The woman responsible for this is dangerous for many reasons. First and foremost is her mastery and apparent fascination with D’Karon magic.”
“That much is clear.”
“Silence yourself until I am through,” Ether said. “The D’Karon seek power above all else. Not something so petty and impermanent as the sort of power bestowed by politics and wealth, but raw mana. They have devised means to harvest it that are grimly efficient, and if she hopes to work their spells with any regularity she will need them. To prevent things like this from happening again, you must do what I would have hoped had already been quite nearly completed. You must destroy any D’Karon influence left. Do you know what a thir gem is?”
“I imagine they are—”
“Do not imagine. Be certain. They are the stones so often found in the facilities the D’Karon had claimed or constructed. They drink away one’s strength and take on a brilliant violet light. They must be destroyed, turned to powder. Any fragment larger than a walnut may have some value to her.”
“We are quite aware of that and have been actively seeking and sequestering all such gems.”
Ether’s lips pulled into a grimace. “Do not sequester, destroy. There were gems in that chamber. She found them, she used them, and that hole in your palace was the result. Anything and everything that the D’Karon touched should be treated with distrust, and all that they created should be destroyed. Not collected, not studied. Destroyed. D’Karon works are an abomination and should be treated as such.”
“Understood.”
“Your second point of concern is the woman herself. She is what you would call a necromancer, and as such has the tremendous capacity to harvest strength on her own, quite likely enough to fuel some of the lesser D’Karon spells in the short term, and in the very long term she might match their greatest feats.”
“And you are certain she is a necromancer?”
The D'Karon Apprentice Page 33
