“And you know what? I’ve heard everyone say that Hawkins had to be sacrificed because if everyone had heard that Chytrine was coming back, they’d have been scared and nations would fall and stuff. Now, you have no trouble putting these same people in your armies and send them out to die without knowing why. So, how come they’re frightened sheep when some nighthaunt says she’ll be back, but brave and stalwart and courageous when you give them a spear and point them at something that will kill them dead?”
Will pointed a finger at King Augustus. “I know you are brave and everything. I know you’re a good king. And you’re my king, no matter what Scrainwood says. Nobody pokes your eyes out on coins, but you turned a blind eye to Crow. Through him, Chytrine warned everyone she was coming, but you all decided that to save your own heads, you would not let anyone know what she said, and so no one was prepared for her to come back. And did it ever occur to anyone that if you had gotten ready for her to come back, maybe she wouldn’t have?”
“Will! That’s enough.” Crow stood and opened his hands to the king. “Highness, I apologize.”
“No, no, that’s all right.” Augustus raised his hands and waved Crow back down on the cot. As Crow resumed his place, Augustus turned and looked up at Will. “Do you really want me to reply, or do you just wish to scourge me with your indignation?”
Will bit back a harsh reply and shivered. “I’ll listen.”
“Good. I’ll answer you, then, but not because you’re a noble or the Norrington or even because you are a citizen of my nation. I’ll answer you because you are the first person to ask me questions that have plagued me through the years.”
Augustus’ voice retained its deep tone, but sank in volume to something just shy of a whisper. “You may well be right, Will, that the common folk would not quake in fear at the threat of invasion from the north. Perhaps that is true of most of them, but even you have seen how panic or worry in one can infect others. There are ways to counter that, but at the time Hawkins was sacrificed, worry had infected the crowned heads. Reason did not prevail, and while they accepted a solution that allayed their initial fears, they all knew they had treated a symptom, and not the disease.
“Until I came to the throne—until Queen Carus replaced her father, until others who could think clearly took their places at the heads of their nations—that whole question could not be reexamined. To try to raise the issue of Hawkins would have caused kings to admit they were wrong, or caused their heirs to cast doubt on the legends of their predecessors. Hawkins and his fate became a minor sidelight to the whole problem of preparing for Chytrine’s return.”
Will frowned. “That’s easy to say.”
“But it is true, and Hawkins knew it, too.” The king glanced at Crow. “He set out to continue the fight against Chytrine, leading by example. Others might have protested, launched petitions to get their name cleared, but he put his old persona to rest and focused on the important problem: defeating Chytrine.
“Now, I will admit to being a coward. I knew what he was doing, and I knew his actions would prove he was not what he had been accused of being. I took refuge in his actions, telling myself that there would come a day when that injustice could be corrected, but that day would have to come after Chytrine was defeated. In that way, Hawkins, I did fail you and failed you terribly. Will is right, I really was no friend to you.”
Crow smiled. “No, Highness, you were. You were looking to my mission, which is far more important than I am. Had you asked, that is what I would have told you. Better an hour fighting Chytrine than a thousand hours in my defense.”
Will shook his head adamantly. “There you go, there you both go. Evil is evil. Hurting Hawkins helped Chytrine. Chytrine is evil, so hurting Hawkins was evil. All this being polite doesn’t change that.”
Augustus’ voice took on an edge. “So I was evil in that moment, and can be judged harshly for it? Yes, Will, you have so judged me, but you have judged me no more harshly than I have judged myself. My only solace has come in knowing that my efforts against Chytrine are the best I can muster. I have not compromised in that, and never shall.
“Hawkins may forgive me, or may not. I may be able to set things to rights for him, and I may not. I will, however, accept no compromise in fighting Chytrine. It is by no means a perfect solution, but it is the best solution circumstances permit.”
The thief hesitated for a moment. He wanted to let his outrage at the king’s treatment of his friend override the practicality of the man’s words. If I do that, though, it will be as bad as the kings who let fear destroy Hawkins. That realization twisted his guts around and soured his mouth.
Will sighed. “You’re right about fighting Chytrine. Doesn’t mean that what was done to Crow was right.”
“No, it doesn’t, and we will find a way to resolve it. If I have to bankrupt Alcida paying for bards to sing of how Hawkins’ shame was a trap that caught Chytrine, I will.” The king smiled ruefully. “That’s provided we defeat her. If we don’t, those left alive won’t care, and the only songs they will sing will be of misery.”
CHAPTER 17
K errigan Reese shivered, and it was not from walking through the cold, snowy streets of Meredo. He found the temperature rather bracing. It helped him clear his head, and clear thinking was what he needed.
He had encountered Magister Syrett Kar almost two weeks earlier, and that morning he’d gotten a summons to the Vilwanese consulate. The document had been politely worded, and the wards sealing it had been carefully worked. More important, they had been cunningly cast by a Magister who clearly had studied for decades at Vilwan. Though Kerrigan could not recognize the spells as having been cast by any of his former tutors, he was pretty certain that he would recognize the person waiting for him.
He’d tried to talk to Will about the message when his friend returned to the Rampant Panther after a visit to see Crow, but the thief had been irascible. Will had asked why the person who sent the note hadn’t just signed it and left off with all sorts of subtle things that didn’t amount to anything but masks to cover evil anyway.
Kerrigan wasn’t certain what Will was talking about, but tried to explain that names have power in the realms of magick. For a wizard to sign his name to something was dangerous. If a wizard told you his true name, it was a sign of great trust since another spellcaster could use his name to craft spells of devastating power against him.
But Will wanted no part of explanations and wandered off to his room. Kerrigan couldn’t find Resolute or Dranae, and Lombo and Qwc would likely listen to him, but he wasn’t certain any insights they provided would be worth much. Lombo, having been deprived of a chance to kill a mage, had taken to hunting through the city for other prey and was off on an expedition and the Spritha just seemed, well, flighty.
Kerrigan found himself trapped between two conflicting notions. Orla had told him to stay away from Vilwan, and he took her request very seriously. She said there were people there who would want to destroy him because they feared his power. He was slowly coming to realize that he did have a lot of power. On Vilwan, while he was being trained, he had been so isolated that he really had no perspective on what he could do. But Magister Syrett’s surprise at his abilities, and the man’s admission that he couldn’t have compelled Kerrigan to do anything, provided Kerrigan with a glimmer of what others might see in him.
While on Vilwan he had been sheltered from a lot of things. Since leaving, however, the litany of events he’d mentioned to Syrett had abraded the aura of security. He’d seen people die and he’d even killed some, though indirectly. He’d lost his mentor and friends and felt pains he’d never had before, both physical and emotional.
Just as important, there had been a shift in how he was treated. While Will still regarded him as a kid sometimes, others had begun to deal with him mostly as an adult. The Draconis Baron had charged him with a secret duty to carry a fragment of the DragonCrown from Fortress Draconis. General Adrogans had given him grea
t responsibilities. Regardless of how he saw himself, they saw him as an adult, and gave him adult tasks to perform.
Though Kerrigan didn’t see himself as an adult, he knew he was fast becoming one. He wasn’t sure if those on Vilwan who feared him did so because he was a child with incredible power or not, but that did seem a distinct possibility. And, if that were so, wouldn’t it be the responsible and adult thing to go to the consulate and let them see he was not the thing they feared?
It would have been, and he knew that. He also knew, however, that course of action was predicated on their being afraid of his immaturity. But what if there was another problem? Could they be afraid that his training had warped him to the point where he would become another Yrulph Kirûn? If so, no amount of protestation, no demonstrations, would be sufficient to convince them otherwise. If they were thinking he was insane, or was going to go insane, their fears would force them to lock him away or otherwise neutralize him.
And that is exactly the reason Orla would have warned me away. He shook his head as he wandered along the winding North River Road. The way he’d dealt with Tetther had really been an inventive, mature, and nonlethal manner of employing magick to solve a problem. He was proud of that solution, but could see how others might read it as contemptuous of her and her efforts. Instead of engaging her in a straightforward duel, he’d employed a trick. Since he’d never really been allowed to duel anyone else, he had no idea what the rules were for that sort of thing. But if there were rules, he was pretty sure dumping a load of snow on your enemy wasn’t covered by them.
In acting innocently to preserve a life, he might have proved to his enemies how dangerous he was.
Kerrigan sighed out a plume of vapor. Had Orla not warned him off, he’d not have been having any of those thoughts. He’d have assumed the summons was benign. It very well could be. It might even contain a congratulations from the Grand Magister himself for all he had done so far. In fact, had she not warned him off, he’d probably have brought the DragonCrown fragment with him and given it over to his superiors.
The various motives for the summons swirled and danced through his head like the snow whirling on the wind as he walked. From his right, in the shadow of a building, a child’s voice called for help and he turned to look just in time for a thrown snowball to loom larger in his sight. There was no time for ducking. The surprise was complete, and accompanied by a child’s malicious laughter.
The snowball hit, but Kerrigan felt no shock, no cold, no sting nor pain. A bony plate rose through his flesh, armoring his face with an ivory mask any Oriosan would have envied. The plate’s thick ridges channeled the snow away from his eyes so effectively that he never even blinked.
Which allowed him to see the expression of horror on the child’s face as the snowball exploded against the armor. The boy’s eyes grew wide and the laughter choked off. A second snowball fell from his hands as he turned to run. The boy slipped once, falling facefirst into a snowbank, then scrambled up and ran away.
As the plate sank back into his skin, Kerrigan wiped away the lees of snow with his left mitten. The spell that armored him had been worked at the behest of Vilwan to protect him. It had previously been mastered by only one other human mage: Yrulph Kirûn. Could it be that they have twisted the protection they gave into a threatening sign?
Kerrigan was determined to make a mature decision concerning the summons, but competing scenarios kept him on the north bank of the Reydo River. Crossing the river would take him to the consulate, and he’d resolved that once he crossed the river, he would not turn back. The decision to cross it, however, had not yet been made.
If Orla was right, then every step he made toward the consulate brought him into greater danger. If she was wrong, staying away denied him more education and support, and the support of Vilwan would be very useful in the fight against Chytrine. In heeding Orla’s words, he wasn’t sure if he was giving in to a child’s fears or being prudent.
Staying away from Vilwan would cut him off from more than just support. His whole life had been spent in training, but he knew not for what. He was pretty certain it had been to help defeat Chytrine, but he had been provided with no direction concerning how he might do that. That he was meant to oppose her was suggested by Vilwan’s allowing Orla and him to accompany General Adrogans’ expedition to Okrannel; but he also had to allow for the possibility that minds might have been changed on Vilwan.
Once again it came down to having too many questions and no clear source for answers. He didn’t want to give in to fears, but where a child’s fears ended and an adult’s prudent caution began was not a clear line. Moreover, his questions all revolved around Vilwan; what had been intended for him and what would be required of him. Only by visiting the consulate would he have a chance of learning the answers to those questions.
He had to go.
Kerrigan nodded once and turned to the left, marching onto a narrow footbridge over the slowly moving river. The unseasonable cold had not yet frozen a crust over the dark water, but ice was growing out from the shores and already encrusted some of the pylons that supported the bridge’s shallow arch.
As he glanced down at them, he saw something glint gold in the water. He shivered and peered closely, then came around the end of the bridge’s railing and scrambled awkwardly down the steep shoreline. He squatted in a most ungainly manner at the base of the bridge, and in its dark reflection he could see clearly into the shallows.
There, half-covered by silt, lay the ruby fragment of the DragonCrown!
He had no idea how it had gotten there, but there was no way he could possibly allow it to remain. He moved forward, snow crunching beneath his booted left foot, then dragged his right knee behind him. He inched out onto a little ledge of ice, then stripped off his mittens and prepared to cast the levitation spell he knew so well.
He stared hard into the water, trying to fix the shifting image in his mind so he could grasp the fragment. As he focused, he felt magick and suddenly realized the fragment didn’t exist at all, but was part of a spell. Part of a spell that is using my mind and memories to project that image.
Something moved in the bridge’s reflection, something lurking beneath the span. Kerrigan started to turn and look up, but a heavy weight slammed hard into his back. The armor rose and intercepted the attack, but what hit him carried considerably more force than a snowball. The impact shook him and pitched him forward, sliding him out on the thin ice which, with a rippling thundercrack, disintegrated.
Kerrigan plunged into the frigid water. The shock of it made him gasp. He sucked in water, then coughed out bubbles of valuable air. The mage started to panic and struck for the surface, but his heavy winter clothes dragged him down. He fought to shuck his coat, but even as he tore at the buttons, the light from above began to dim.
He heard something else splash into the water. Kerrigan turned his face upward, hoping for succor. An odd dark shape descended, flashing past his back, then something grabbed him, taking firm hold of his coat and his waist. He felt power in the limbs and for a moment his spirits soared.
Then, whatever had him just took him deeper.
CHAPTER 18
I saura arrived at the Conservatory and made her way to the Grand Thaumatorium as bidden—less because she wanted to be there than because she felt it her duty to attend. Her mother, again away fighting for the life of her nation, had impressed upon her the necessity for Isaura to act in her stead. Neskartu, the headmaster of the Conservatory and the most magickally adept of the sullanciri, had sent a message saying he required her help with a project. Because his summons had indicated she should join him in the Thaumatorium, she assumed it would be another display of magick for his students, and she did enjoy teaching them.
She found herself surprised, then, when she reached the chamber deep in the school’s heart. She entered through the tall archway at the head of a long, steep stairway that led down onto the arena floor. Stone terraces set with long wooden table
s and chairs provided both seating and work spaces for students, but the room’s key feature was the round dais upon which great magicks were wrought for the edification of the audience. Most students looked forward to the time when they would be called upon to perform there, because success could result in their being sent forth to serve the empress in the war.
But this time, no eager faces greeted her, for all the seats were empty. In the arena waited three people, only one of whom she knew. He took the shape of a smallish man, clean-limbed but indistinctly formed. While he had depth, height, and breadth, discerning these dimensions was not easy since his entire body shifted in hue, akin to the reflections from coal oil spread over black water. He remained largely dark, save where lines of iridescent blue or green, red or gold flowed through him or shot like lightning along a limb.
Only Neskartu’s eyes remained constant. Witchlight purple orbs, they burned with a feral intensity that completely belied the sullanciri’s wisdom. Once he had been known as Heslin and had been schooled on Vilwan. Since swearing allegiance to the empress, he had been shown great magicks and given great power. By himself he had created the Conservatory and helped Chytrine shape other sullanciri.
His mouth did not open, and his words did not actually sound in the room. I am pleased that you have come so swiftly, Isaura.
“As my mother wishes, Lord Neskartu.” Isaura slowly descended the stairs, heedless of the stone’s cold on her bare feet. She lifted her skirts enough that she would not trip on the hem, but not a bit higher than modesty would permit.
One of the other two studied her as if he wished she would divest herself of her skirts altogether, and not for the sake of safety. Tall and lean, with fine dark hair and a rakish smile that suggested he knew how handsome others found him, the man wore a blue blouse embroidered with a spiderweb pattern. He lifted his chin, then nodded in greeting, but Isaura gave no sign that she had noticed him at all.
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