by Lakshman, V.
Even as the canister exploded, the team yanked the doors back open, dart weapons ready. They quickly identified a man with a staff reeling forward from the blast and did not hesitate. Four darts hit their target, poison surging and locking muscles. The leader looked in and saw that the old man fit the description he had been given of the lore father. He moved into the room cautiously.
The figure of the lore father lay prone on the floor, choking. The leader moved up and stood where the lore father could see him. He waited until their eyes met.
“Themun Dreys, Sovereign commits you to stone and earth.” The leader pulled a sharp stiletto from his belt and kneeled next to the dying man.
In a quick motion, the leader stabbed the stiletto through the lore father’s eye and into his brain. The body convulsed once, a wet moan emanating from deep within. Then it went limp, except for a small tremor that ran down one leg.
The leader watched this impassively, then motioned to another man who came up and punched the cross shaped dagger into the older man’s chest. They had taken great risk to this point and had to be sure their target was dead. He then double-checked the leader’s work and nodded.
“Not as dangerous as we were led to believe,” whispered the leader to his team. “Bear witness.”
The team moved in, staring at the corpse through glowing blue eyes, memorizing and inscribing the details. As each was satisfied the target was dead, they whispered, “Witnessed.” The leader watched until all had spoken, then made his way for the door. An Archmage of the Way was dead, he mentally added with satisfaction. Now it was time to get out of here.
The pieces of the destroyed canister could not stay. No evidence could be left behind that could lead anyone back to Sovereign. He motioned to his men and they stowed their weapons and retrieved any detritus. Their expertise showed in the thoroughness with which they quickly accomplished their tasks. Then, they made their way out of the chamber and to the edge of the banister that looked down into the spiral well created by the tower’s stairs.
Looking down over the edge they again did not hesitate, leaping over the banister and down the hole of the central stairwell. They jumped headfirst like swimmers for water. Halfway down, they tucked and flipped so their feet pointed at the ground.
All four landed in a crouch, their light exhalation at impact belying the distance from which they had just fallen. The door to the outside stood slightly ajar, just as they had left it. All four moved silently through it and into the night.
* * * * *
Dragor took a deep breath of the night air, trying to sense anything that might be wrong. He sensed someone tapping into the Way not far from him, and by its feel, he knew it was Kisan. Would it make sense for him to mindspeak her now, or wait until he knew the nature of their attackers?
The fact that no other adept had broken mental silence demanded he remain cautious. Furthermore, he couldn’t afford to expend the energy right now. Mindspeak, though efficient, could deplete him before he knew what they faced. Waiting would be most prudent, he decided, especially in light of losing contact with Thera. Anyone who could silence her could potentially tap the Way.
He moved quickly from the training hall to the main courtyard. They gathered here for the seasons’ festivals, and to relax between classes and training. Tables and lamps adorned the circular forum, creating a natural theater for the island inhabitants. He stayed away from the brightly lit central area, instead flitting from shadow to shadow. Regardless of his cloak of invisibility, Dragor was taking no chances.
As he neared the Hall of Adepts, he stopped, motionless. Ahead was the point where he had sensed Kisan. Though the flash of power was gone, the residue lingered like a scent. She was still about and Dragor felt the need to be even more cautious. He moved quickly up to the wall, taking advantage of the terrain and shadows.
That they were under attack was a certainty in his bones. He did not remember when he came to believe this true, only that every sense told him a mistake now would be deadly. He moved around the wall until he could see the front entrance, then he crouched and waited.
At first, nothing happened. His skin crawled in the cool night air as if at any moment lightning would strike and the battle would be joined. The tension grew and Dragor knew something was about to snap.
Then a single black streak came from the woods to one side of the Hall of Adepts, joining up with another crouching on the stairs, motionless as he was. Those two were soon joined by four more emerging from inside the hall like living shadows. That made six against one. As that thought flitted through his mind he felt a sudden change, like a shifting breeze that brought a sudden chill. Dragor knew his cloak of invisibility did not hide him any longer, and he had been seen.
He didn’t hesitate, dropping it to conserve energy. Then he stepped out from the wall, his form lined in power, his flameskin flashing purple as it flared into existence at his command.
He could see all six fan out to take positions around him and nodded in satisfaction. This would be no training kata. This was real and his life would balance on the keen, deadly edge of his Talent against theirs. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He knew he was ready.
The breeze shifted, bringing with it the scent of jasmine, and they attacked.
HOPE
Focus on killing your opponent now.
Tomorrow, it will make today
A good memory.
Today, it will make tomorrow,
A promise of glory.
—Kensei Tsao, The Lens of Blades
I think it will work.” Ash stood facing his commander and the King of Bara’cor in a small room high atop one of the castle towers. Behind him were Niall and Yetteje. “It may be the key to ending this conflict quickly.”
“It’s a death sentence,” answered the king, looking at his young commander. Still, he had to admit the plan was daring: A small team of handpicked men steal into the nomad camp and assassinate their leader. It would throw the nomads into confusion. If Bara’cor attacked at that time, it would cause significant losses to the nomad army, perhaps even break the siege. Though he doubted being reinforced by Haven, any plan that disrupted the nomad command bought them time, and with time came life. Yes, thought Bernal, impressive.
“According to Sergeant Stemmer the honor goes to the Princess of EvenSea, my lord. She had the inspiration,” Ash said while motioning to Yetteje, who stood slumped against the back wall.
“Don’t call me that,” she stated.
“Princess?” asked Ash.
Yetteje looked up, her eyes angry. “Do you intend to mock me, sir?” she snapped. “I am nothing. I have no people, my home lies in ruins. My name is Tej, at least until I have set things right.”
An uncomfortable silence would have followed, but the firstmark stepped in. “Aye, you have the right of it. Maybe you’re not heir to anything, but if you snap at my armsmark again you’ll be over my knee like the child you’re acting.”
Dead silence. Then Yetteje’s face broke into a hesitant grin. “I guess I deserved that.”
The firstmark smiled too, coming over to clap the girl’s back lightly. “Yes, you did. Insolence is never a virtue, and sometimes even mules need to kick each other in the head. Still, I’ll be taking your advice. ‘Tej’ it is, until you say different.”
He gave her another clap, this one almost knocking Tej off her feet, then turned to take his place by his king’s side. He threw a sidelong glance at Yetteje and said, “But it’s still ‘Firstmark’ to you, Tej.”
Tej sketched a hasty bow and said, “Of course, Firstmark.”
The king smiled, shaking his head. Leave it to Jebida to talk sense into a stubborn girl thirty summers his junior. He then motioned to Ash and said, “Regardless of the plan’s origin, it still means death to those who volunteer.”
Ash nodded, “I know, but a small number of dead men instead of... what is our alternative?”
“Hmm.” The king looked at his firstmark, the que
stion plain on his face. Who would go?
“You’ll ask for volunteers?” Niall asked, to no one in particular. The question hung in the air without answer.
Finally, the firstmark said, “And risk word getting back to the nomads? Spies may be about, or worse.” Jebida moved his large frame over to a water bowl and rinsed his hands. “I’d rather not risk that.”
“We don’t need to make a general announcement,” Ash suggested. “We know who could be useful, less than ten I’d trust. We call them together and ask if they wish to volunteer for something that may mean death, but may also win the lives of those behind these walls. And we pick from there.”
The king sighed. It always seemed to come down to choosing who should die and who should live. It didn’t matter that these men were “volunteering.” Sending his own men to their deaths was not Bernal’s desire, but the king understood his duty lay with the greater good. He looked at the armsmark and asked, “Who would you choose?”
Before Ash could answer, Yetteje spoke up. “I’m going.”
For a second time, there was silence caused by the princess. Bernal recovered first and said, “No, you are not.”
“This nomad had my father impaled,” Tej said, stepping forward. “He may have murdered my whole family. I am going.”
The entire room paused, thinking the princess mad, but the expression on her face showed her mind was set and nothing further was going to be said. Bernal had to remind himself it had only been two days since Yetteje had seen her father killed. The king knew it was unfair to expect the girl to act more mature. Still, he had to temper his advice in a way so Tej would listen. The king tried again in a mollified voice, “You will not endanger yourself. Part of being a ruler is caring for your people. How will you do that if you are dead?”
It took a moment for Yetteje to respond, but once she did, she spat out, “I have no people. The nomads took care of that. Who am I caring for, sir?”
The king was ready to throw something at the girl, but instead clamped down his frustration and said, “Tej, I grieve with you. We have both lost family, but you are all that is left of your noble house. How will I face my sister or your father in the afterlife if I don’t protect you now?”
Yetteje looked down, her father’s face in her thoughts, perhaps. When she looked up, there was determination in her gaze. She looked at the king and said, “If I am all that’s left, then the Tir name is dead and you protect nothing. Let me go, or I will find a way to go on my own.” A sudden silence filled the room as the young princess sought to match her will against the king.
The contest of wills was over before it began as the king snapped his fingers and Alyx came in with a guard. He kept his eyes on Yetteje but said, “Sergeant, you will find two more guards. Then you are to take Yetteje Tir to her room. You will place her inside and lock the door. Two of you will stay inside the room, the other two will stay outside. I will be there momentarily to speak with our... guest.”
He then addressed the young princess, “I will not allow you, in your grief, to end the Tir line. You can choose to be insolent, but you are still my ward. And within these walls, my decisions are final, for I am king.”
Yetteje looked ready to disagree, but then her shoulders slumped and she broke into sobs, barely stifled. She went to a knee with her hands over her face. The gentle hands of Alyx picked her up and began to guide her from the room.
“May I go with her?” Niall quickly asked. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
The king’s eyes were on Tej’s back, sorrow for his niece’s loss plain on his face. He nodded to his son without looking, not trusting himself to speak.
Niall fell into step with the sergeant, relieving her of her burden. His arm went around his cousin as they made their way from the tower down to Tej’s room. They couldn’t know that in just a few moments, everything they knew would be tested, and their lives from that point forward would never be the same.
CONFLICT
Do not negotiate from a weakened position.
Fear never grants reprieve unless threatened.
Be overly aggressive,
Dominate to within an inch of their life,
Then offer a morsel of hope.
—Tir Combat Academy, The Tactics of Victory
Arek! Get up!” Silbane’s urgent voice broke through the light sleep that had stolen over the young apprentice.
He cracked an eye open and then asked, “Master? What...?”
“Quiet. Get up, we don’t have much time.”
Something in his master’s tone brought Arek to full alertness. He scrambled awake, scattering the last remnants of whatever dream he had been enjoying into the cold night air.
Snatching up Tempest, he quickly scanned the area. Master Silbane stood looking over his shoulder, as if expecting pursuit. When he looked back at Arek, the boy saw something he had never seen before: fear in his master’s eyes.
“What is it?”
Silbane looked at his apprentice as though not sure where to begin. “We are no longer safe here.”
“Why, because of the nomads?” Arek could see his master was upset, which worried him more than anything else did. “What happened?”
“I need your full attention. You will follow my instructions. Understood?”
Arek nodded, his eyes wide. A cold knot coiled in his belly and his palms became clammy. Something told him this was not going to be good.
Then, as he heard his master begin to speak, his vision tunneled and the scene froze in front of him. He looked around, but everything had stopped, even the wind was silent. His master stood in front of him mid-word, like a statue. The air was cloudy and Arek realized it was all the fine particles of sand, their motion frozen in place, which now made them visible.
“You’ll want to hear what your master has to say.”
Arek turned to see Piter casually walk out of thin air. Along with him came that feeling of malevolence, a barely contained hatred directed at him. “Piter! What’s happening?”
“The same thing as when we first spoke.” Piter looked at him with an expression that Arek could only interpret as pity. “Our conversation is between heartbeats.” Piter looked at Arek and added, “You know, he means to kill you.”
Arek closed his eyes, willing this nightfright to end. When he opened them, however, Piter was still there and nothing had changed. Arek stammered out the first thing that came to his mind. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“The dragon. This is no mission of information gathering, not after he comes back. Your life ends here, unless you escape.”
Arek found his inherent fear and unnerve fading faster than it had during the first encounter with the shade. It was as if he’d grown more accustomed to Piter’s presence. His voice came out stronger as he answered the shade’s accusation. “I don’t believe you. My master is here about a rift near Bara’cor.”
“You believe that?” the shade looked out over the moonlit night. He seemed to be listening for something, something Arek couldn’t hear. His gaze turned back upon his former classmate and in that moment, Arek felt his soul bared. “Yes! You must go to Bara’cor.” The statement surprised Arek, who had not yet seen the shade be anything but insulting to him.
“Bara’cor?” he asked.
“Do not believe what he says,” Piter said, pointing at the frozen Silbane.
Arek hesitated. How much of what he felt and saw had been challenged by the actions of the lore father, this “new” power, or the dragon’s scrutiny? Nothing seemed to fit.
Still, a part of him felt better as they neared the land and Bara’cor. He could feel something pulling at him, like a harmonious note that echoed just below his hearing. It spoke of power, of strength, of destiny.
At first he thought it linked to the blade, Tempest. That hope had been quickly dashed as his failed experiment touching the blade could attest. However, the feeling of destiny, of his importance hadn’t gone away, instead growing deeper and more intrinsic to this p
lace, perhaps to Bara’cor.
He wanted to believe it but his master felt danger here, and he trusted that, too. Master Silbane was the closest thing he had to a father, yet the doubt continued to gnaw at him.
Arek shook his head. “I won’t listen to you.” But it came out with less conviction than he wanted. He knew the masters were not telling him the whole truth, and he had seen it in the lore father’s eyes. Now this shade was picking apart the fragile peace he had created within his mind.
“He will sacrifice you for the good of this world,” Piter said, “if he believes it.”
Arek grew exasperated and shouted, “What do you want?”
Piter arched an eyebrow. “Mercy... but you’re too late to grant that. I’m cursed as a lackey to a dimwitted fool.”
What could Arek do? He felt guilt, even remorse for Piter’s death. He knew he was to blame. Now it seemed that either Piter’s soul was trapped in some horrible servitude, or he was slowly going mad. Perhaps that was it. Was he losing his mind?
Then another part of him, the part that strove to be best, the part that fought to gain respect despite his inability with the Way, remembered something he almost missed... lackey.
It made sense now. Piter had made a mistake, tiny, but still a mistake. A small smile escaped Arek’s lips, his confidence returning as he unraveled the specter’s web of lies. His thoughts sharpened and as they did, he noticed a change, a hesitancy. It was almost missed but a caution, a trepidation on the ghost’s part became obvious, as if Piter were facing his own... master.
Arek looked at Piter and said, “You belong to me.” His voice brooked no argument. It was strong, for he knew it was true. This shade, for all its malevolence, had no power over him. Instead, it was quite the opposite. His dreams of power suddenly came back to him, the feeling of twisting the blade and killing his opponent. This was the same. This creature’s mockery and anger were designed to make Arek frightened. No longer! He would cower to this pathetic creature no more.
