by Dan Koboldt
“Recommendation?” Kiara asked.
They must want her to give an order. Logan might be in charge of mission security, but Kiara was the top dog for the gateway island. The tough calls always came to her, no matter where she was.
Logan weighed the options. They could ignore the drone, or track it without opening any gun ports. With a bird like that, though, it was better to hit first, and hit hard. “Show them our teeth,” he said.
Kiara tapped in a brief message. Logan recognized the code. Weapons free.
The island was equipped with a new generation of antiaircraft weaponry in the form of the Russian-made S-400 Triumf system. The launcher held thirty-two long-range surface-to-air missiles controlled by a mobile command center. The panoramic radar system was almost impossible to jam. Even by a next-gen military drone. The missiles were accurate enough to take out ICBMs, according to the Russians. Entire battalions of these systems ringed Moscow, so they had to put some stock into it. It helped that the crewmen who ran the S-400 had actually trained there.
“They’re locked on. Fifteen seconds,” Kiara said. Two contrails appeared, streaking toward the drone. The first closed within a hundred yards. Couldn’t miss . . .
Then the drone flipped over and dropped, like a swooping bird of prey.
“Son of a bitch!” Logan said. He’d never seen a drone move like that.
The missile shot past it and crashed into the cliffs behind. The second one, three seconds behind it, missed the cliffs and circled around. Good. It was hard to see what happened as it came back, but it ignored the drone entirely. Came right at the camera. Logan sucked in a breath. Then a flash and the video feed became a snowstorm.
They stared in silence for a long, uncomfortable minute.
“I’ll be damned,” Logan said. “Rerouted the damn missile.”
The communicator beeped, and Kiara exhaled. “They’re all right. Asking for suggestions.”
“They might try something low-tech. Anyone there have a deer rifle?”
“I’m sure they can drum that up.”
“It’d help if we had the specs on that bird.”
Kiara frowned. “We can reach out to our contacts on the Senate Arms Committee, but that’ll take time.”
“There are less official ways to try to get them,” Logan said.
“I wish we had you there.”
“Then we’d better get going.”
They pressed the horses farther; they were holding up well. Bravo Team sent an update. The infiltrators, whoever they were, had acquired horses. Certainly not the stock that Bravo Team had—more thoroughbreds from the island stables—but enough to make it a chase. They’d changed directions, too, and turned east toward Landor.
“It’s odd that they’d set a new heading,” Logan said. “How are they even getting their bearings here?”
“You can ask that when we intercept them.”
“We’ll need a new route to head them off,” he said.
“What do you think about cutting back over to New Kestani?” Kiara asked.
“The border could slow us down. Especially with Holt’s little warnings.”
Chaudri cleared her throat. “What about going through Caralis?”
Logan mulled it over, trying to ignore the darkness he felt when he heard that name. “Longer ride that way.”
“But the terrain is virtually flat. We’d make good time.”
“They have a local militia,” Kiara said. “We’ve had a few run-ins with them.” Which was putting it lightly.
Chaudri waved it off. She didn’t know about Logan’s failed mission there. “They’re in harvest season. They’ll be busy. If you want to get north fast, that’s the way to go.”
Kiara looked at Logan expectantly.
I swore I’d never go back there. But duty called. He took a breath and gave her the nod.
“Caralis it is,” Kiara said.
“Quick fingers get you only so far.”
—ART OF ILLUSION, DECEMBER 30
CHAPTER 15
THE PROVE
Moric woke Quinn up with bad news.
“You’ve been summoned to appear before the council.”
Quinn sat up and rubbed bleary eyes. He’d been here a week, and still not gotten the knack of sleeping in the Enclave. It was too dark at night, too quiet. All those late nights in Vegas had him trained to sleep in daytime, lulled by the sound of jumbo jets and the occasional sirens. “When?”
“Today.”
Shit. “Should I be worried about this?”
“Absolutely,” Moric said. “I’d hoped to buy some time, to keep working on you. But I caused some consternation by bringing you here in the first place.”
“I thought you were on the council.”
“They prefer to do things a certain way. My influence goes only so far.” Moric’s eyes narrowed just so. “I don’t remember telling you that I was a member.”
“Word gets around.”
“You’ve been checking up on me, eh? I suppose that’s only fair. We sent word to Wyndham Downs about Thomas More.”
His cover village. God, he hoped the company’s false identity would hold up. “I thought you said magicians left the past in the past.”
“Your case is different. You’ve been accused of a crime.”
The impersonation thing again. Damn it, he should have listened when Logan warned him. “I look forward to seeing the proof of that.”
“The council is not obligated to prove anything. We’ll base our decision primarily on our assessment of you.”
“Have they been wrong before?” Quinn asked.
“Not often.”
“Have you been wrong?”
Moric hesitated. “I personally have not. There were others who made mistakes. Most often, a parent with the gift can’t accept the idea that his or her child doesn’t have it. We humor them with a testing, and break the news as gently as possible.”
“Does the ability tend to run in families?” Quinn asked.
“Not as often as most of us would like. Perhaps one in six children of a magic user will have it.”
“I guess Jillaine beat the odds, then.”
That caught him off guard, because Moric missed a step. “How do you know about my daughter?”
Quinn smiled. “Like I said. Word gets around.”
“So it does. Yes, Jillaine is an exception.” He smiled. “In many respects.”
“I met her, actually. She’s nice.”
Moric put an arm around him and squeezed his neck—not hard, but enough. “You’re a grown man, and you’ve seen some of the world. I trust I don’t even have to voice what I’m thinking right now.”
Quinn didn’t want to press his luck. He needed Moric on his side. “You don’t have to say a thing,” he said with rapidly diminishing air.
“Good,” Moric said, letting go. “Now, there are some things about this testing that you should know. It’s an open meeting, so anyone on the island can come. But it’s the council you’ll need to worry about.”
“How do I know which ones they are?”
“It should be obvious. We’ll be the ones examining you, asking you questions. The first half of the hour is for us. The second half is yours.”
“To do what, exactly?” Quinn asked.
“Prove yourself.” He shrugged. ”Or beg for mercy.”
Moric came to get him just before midday. His room was in the base of the tower flying Landorian colors. He couldn’t think that was an accident. A worn staircase led to the levels above, but he hadn’t been permitted upstairs. A few of the tower’s other residents had passed him; they were friendly enough, but they never lingered. In his days here, the longest conversation he’d had with someone other than Moric had been with Jillaine.
And he hadn’t seen her since.
He followed Moric outside. They set out on foot toward the center of the city. Quinn still couldn’t get over the architecture. The structures hadn’t been built; they were carved from what must have been a huge block of the dark gray stone. The material seemed to shimmer when viewed from afar, as if some echoed image was hidden beneath. It had the effect of a hologram that never came into view. Not quite the show of wealth he’d seen in Valteron City, but still impressive. It made him think of Kiara, Logan, and Chaudri.
“I never heard who they picked for Valteroni Prime,” he said. “Was it the admiral?”
Moric looked at him, as if in disbelief. “You don’t know?”
Quinn glared at him. “You took me before they announced it.”
“Yes, but you said you were his friend.”
“Whose friend?”
“The new Prime.”
“I’m confused,” Quinn said. It was like Moric was talking in circles.
“When we met, you said you were looking for Richard Holt,” Moric said. He shrugged. “I assumed you’d know of his ascension.”
Quinn shook his head. “Wait a minute. Holt is the new Prime of Valteron?”
“Yes.”
God, Kiara must have had a fit.
“I take it you don’t know Richard well,” Moric said.
“He’s a friend of a friend,” Quinn said. He still couldn’t believe it.
“Ah,” Moric said. He looked disappointed.
“What does the Enclave think of all this?”
“The council has no official stance on Valteron’s choice of leadership.”
Quinn knew a deflection when he heard one. “Fine. What do you think of him?”
Moric seemed to mull this over. “I think he will be good for Valteron. Certainly better than some of his predecessors. Not everyone on the council agrees with me. Some believe that he poses a serious threat. That perhaps we should distance ourselves, rather than offering an olive branch.”
A worrisome thought came. “Has he been here?” Quinn asked.
“Gods, no. We’ve always met on neutral ground.”
They’ve always met. It took every fiber of Quinn’s will not to ask about that. He’d read every one of Richard Holt’s reports concerning magic, and the man had never mentioned Moric. Or the Enclave.
How much else had he hidden from CASE Global?
They joined the foot traffic on a rather crowded thoroughfare. People were out and about, visiting shops, sharing mugs of hot cider on the steps of their houses. The dress was a hodgepodge of styles from all over Alissia. It seemed as if everyone brought a piece of home with them, to live in apparent harmony among the unnatural buildings. Unified by their rare and wonderful talents for magic.
He saw little signs of it everywhere. A long train of baskets floating behind a baker making deliveries. An alley where children lobbed different-colored sparks through an iron hoop.
“Have you decided what to tell the council about me?” Quinn asked.
“I’ll tell them the truth. That I felt the resonance in you, and think you have a latent ability.”
Latent may not begin to describe it.
“Maybe that will be enough.”
“It may be for my friends on the council, but not all members fall into that category.”
Quinn didn’t like the sound of that. “You have enemies.”
“That’s too strong a word for it. I prefer to think of them as friendly rivals. They’ll be the hardest to convince, in any case. Sella is the one who matters most. If you win her over, you’ll be just fine.”
“What if I can’t prove myself?” Quinn asked.
Moric hesitated. “It would not go well for you. The Enclave must enforce its laws.”
There was a finality to his words that made Quinn feel cold inside. “I see.” So much for mercy.
“This trial is about character as much as it is ability,” Moric said. “You seem like a decent man who was in a tough spot. Convince the council as much, and you might win your life.”
“So generous of you,” Quinn said.
Moric gave him a sharp look. “We must protect ourselves first, and outsiders second. Not everyone in Alissia admires what we can do. Some consider magic abilities a curse.”
“You don’t say,” Quinn said.
“Magicians have been attacked, even killed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Quinn said. Alissia’s own version of the Salem witch trials, apparently. But hard to feel bad for people who were basically planning his execution.
“That was before we formed the guild. If anyone harms a magician, or even threatens one, the guild knows. Their response is swift and direct. Believe me, no one makes the mistake twice.”
“Good to know,” Quinn said. He wouldn’t mind having that kind of protection. But he doubted he could pull it off, even if he wanted to.
“We’re giving you a fair chance here,” Moric said. “The latter half of the hour is yours. During that time, no one else can use magic.”
“Why?”
“So there’s no question of interference.”
“Does this apply to the council, too?” Quinn asked. Not daring to hope.
“Of course.”
Now that was something he could work with.
Quinn’s trial had his biggest audience ever, and undoubtedly his most important one.
The council of Alissian magic met in a small amphitheater at the base of the central spire. This, too, was cut into the same gray stone as everything else in the city. Quinn had guessed there might be a few dozen interested citizens with nothing else to do. He couldn’t have been more wrong. There were hundreds of people filling the seats. Men, women, and children all were present. There seemed to be no age limit.
“Good crowd,” Quinn said, almost by instinct.
“They’re intrigued,” Moric said. “You’re older than the typical candidate.”
“Which one is Sella?”
“She’ll be the last to arrive.”
Right on cue, an old woman strode into the amphitheater. Her white hair floated in gentle orbit around her head, as if she was under water. She was dressed head to toe in purple, a color made even brighter by the cluster of dark-robed magicians following in her wake.
“She knows how to make an entrance, doesn’t she?” Quinn asked.
“She knows a great deal more than that.”
The delicate scent of roses touched his nose, and then the heady smell of the ocean. It was Jillaine’s way of saying hello; she smiled at him from the third row. Quinn waved at her.
Moric frowned at him.
“What? You said I was intriguing,” Quinn said.
“That wasn’t what I meant. Wait here.” Moric strode over to join a cluster of serious-looking magicians in the front row. A different set than the ones that came in with Sella. They all wore ankle-length robes in mundane colors. They conferred quietly, with Moric doing most of the talking. There seemed to be some argument going on there.
I hope those aren’t his friends.
Moric returned and stood facing the crowd; silence fell among them. Quinn felt the weight of their eyes on him. He heard the sound of an infant crying momentarily from somewhere up in the stands. The breeze, which had come steady out of the west, died. Oh no, he thought. He needed that breeze.
Moric muttered something and drew a small circle in the air; it solidified into an opaque disc. “Welcome,” he said. His voice boomed around the amphitheater; a number of people covered their ears. He grunted. “Too much.”
He waved a hand through the opaque image and repeated the spell; this time, he drew the circle a bit smaller. “Welcome,” he said again.
Still loud, but there weren’t any complaints this time.
“We’re here to evaluate Quinn, who comes to us from north Landor.” He put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder; it was surprisingly warm. The heat from it spread across Quinn’s torso. What was he up to?
He recounted the story of their meeting in the square for the announcement of the Valteroni Prime. How he’d recognized Quinn, tested him, and felt the resonance.
One of the council members stood. He was old but not elderly. Gaunt, with a queue of gray hair down his back. “He’s too old. The ability should have manifested by now.”
“Unless it’s a latent ability,” Moric said. “Friends, if I’m right about Quinn, it means that some of our assumptions about the manifestation are incorrect. There may be others like him, who appear far too old to be tested.”
A few of those in the front row shifted in their seats, muttering to one another. Obviously the council was not unanimous on this point.
“Others may disagree,” Moric said. “If I’m wrong, it must be said that he was pretending at it. He’s admitted as much.”
Quinn nodded. No point in denying it.
“But I’m confident that he belongs here,” Moric said. He gestured with both hands to the Enclave magicians. “I leave it to the council to decide.”
The robed magicians in the front rose and drew their hoods. Moric did the same. It was a rather ominous gesture, like that of a phalanx of headsmen. They glided forward to encircle him. They began chanting softly, rhythmically. He didn’t feel anything at first. Then the air grew heavy. It was hard to breathe. He tried to move and found that he couldn’t. They had him trussed up like a calf. The warm feeling in his chest dissipated, replaced with cold fear.
The pressure changed somehow. He still couldn’t move, but he could feel them poking around. Prodding at his head, trying to find out what was in it. He tried to clear his thoughts. He didn’t want to make his secrets any easier to find. It felt like trying to hold a box closed, with someone else trying to force it open. And they were strong. He fought them.
Then came the searing heat, all over his body. Freezing cold followed right on its heels. He went from sweating to shivering. Beneath it all was that pressure, the relentless push to open his mind. He tried to keep them out, but it was like fighting the wind. Their search went around him, through him. Pried at his thoughts. The sheer invasiveness of it started to piss him off. Anger turned to that familiar warmth, deep in his gut. He tried to snatch it and push at them, but they were too strong together. His warm resistance stayed deep in him. He found the edge of it. He brought it up slowly this time. Got a good grip, and heaved it at all of them.
