“My problem,” Lacelle continued, “is that you Warlocks always watch out for your own. If it were a Philosopher that suddenly came down with a case of temporary insanity, he would be doubted, and rigorously scrutinized. But, since Dormael is one of your Warlocks, he must be telling the truth. This is nothing but favoritism. He should be submitted for testing.”
“I’m simply looking at the problem from an objective point of view, instead of dismissing it because I don’t like where it’s coming from,” Victus said. “He’s been tested—you tested him, woman!”
“I did a quick delving to see if anything was amiss,” she said. “That’s not the same thing as a round of rigorous inquiry. He needs to be observed over time, questioned, and tested for a thousand other things. Those things take time, Victus. He should removed from duty until I clear him for release. Until then, he’s a danger.”
Dormael quailed at the thought, and D’Jenn shot him a stealthy, astonished look.
“The day I let you determine the readiness of my Warlocks is the day the gods fucking return. Look at Dormael’s chest! Did his Kai cause the bruising? Did he hallucinate that?” Victus shot back, shoving a meaty hand in Dormael’s direction.
“It is possible, my dear Victus. There have been documented cases of magic causing physical harm to those who’ve wielded it with negligence, or of strange manifestations of power where mental instability was a concern. I could show you the records sometime if you’d like to come over to the Philosopher’s Tower—you’d have to learn to read first, of course,” Lacelle said, her tone dripping acid.
“If you were a man,” Victus snarled, “I would have hit you ten times over.”
“If you were a man,” she spat back, “you might have tried it, and been taught a lesson. Perhaps you’d like to try your hand in a duel?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Victus snickered.
“Why is that ridiculous?”
“Because you’re not even trained to fight with your magic,” Victus said. “But I’m trained to kill with mine. Try it if you wish, woman, but we both know you’ll hide in your tower and keep…reading.”
“One day, Victus Tiranan, perhaps we shall find out,” she hissed.
“Silence,” said a voice from the doorway, bringing the room to immediate stillness.
An older man stood in the opening. He appeared to be somewhere in his seventies, with hunched shoulders and lines of wisdom etched over his features. He had flowing white hair, and a beard that rivaled it in both length and color. Intricate silver wire was wound around his beard, and cradled it like an eastern lady’s headpiece. He was dressed in a simple white robe with black trim, and wore a large amulet shaped like the Eye of Eindor woven around a tower—the symbol of the office of the Mekai.
His magic filled the room like mist, its presence more alive than anything Dormael had ever felt. Every wizard’s power grew over the years—not only in strength, but clarity. Arian Hilrath had served as Mekai for longer than Dormael had been alive, and his Kai was formidable.
The Mekai waved a hand as everyone made to rise from their seats, dismissing the custom as he entered the room. Two secretaries entered behind him, and his magic shut the door in their wake with a casual flick. He moved around to the head of the table and sat, acting as if he hadn’t noticed the argument which had probably been echoing down the hall.
“First, let us dispense with greetings,” the Mekai said. He always spoke softly, but his words carried the weight of mountains. If he chose to ignore something, then everyone else did their best to act like it didn’t exist. He turned to Dormael and D’Jenn. “It is good to have you two home again. I’ll want to hear first hand of your travels so far. You’ll take supper with me?”
“Of course, Honored Mekai,” Dormael replied, inclining his head in respect. The Mekai smiled at this, and Victus looked to lose some of his anger. Lacelle, however, looked at him as if her sky-blue eyes could stab him through the chest. He did his best to ignore her furious glare.
“Very good, very good, indeed,” the Mekai said. “Let us discuss this armlet. Everything else, no matter how emotional we might feel about it, is secondary to this problem. We can discuss other matters at another time, when it is more appropriate. For now I am willing to trust Deacon Victus, and his assessment of Dormael’s capabilities.”
“Honored One—,” Lacelle started, but the Mekai raised a single finger, cutting her off.
“If something odd happens again, we shall revisit your tests,” he said. “For now, let us move on.”
“Yes, Honored Mekai,” she said, nodding her head in respect.
“Good. Now, Victus has already filled me in on most of the specifics of your tale, boys. Finding the Baroness Llewan, recovering her artifact, and the flight from these Galanians. That should be the first topic of our discussion here—the Galanian Empire.”
“The men we fought were led by a man named Grant,” D’Jenn said.
“Rengard Grant?” Victus asked.
“I’m not sure if we ever learned his first name,” Dormael said. “Shawna put a sword in his skull. His soul has gone to the Void.”
“Rengard Grant was the commander of the Red Swords—the emperor’s elite squad of knights. According to my agents, he’s been absent from the field for the entire season. No one has seen him in Old Galan, or any of the conquered cities under the Imperial flag,” Victus said, nodding his head as if running through facts in his mind. “Now I know where he’s been the past winter.”
“These Red Swords—to what capacity do they operate within the empire?” the Mekai asked.
“They serve as his elite guard, and he also sends them on special missions, where the fighting is toughest on the field,” Victus said. “Emperor Dargorin established the order after winning his war of succession, and it’s been a point of honor for Galanian warriors ever since. Serving in the Red Swords earns a man a knighthood, and anyone who completes the training can join their ranks.”
“The emperor’s personal involvement in this is troubling,” the Mekai said. “How would he have found out about this armlet in the first place? He’d have to have advisers of a magical nature to even care about such a thing. This necromancer you encountered in the Runemian Mountains—and Victus, we’ll have to speak about how one of them was moving around within spitting distance of our city—he could be the one behind it.”
“I will see to that, Honored One, you have my word,” Victus growled. “As for the shade in the fire—it’s possible. It’s also possible, though, that Dargorin himself is Blessed and we just do not know. Though, I would think that my agents might have reported anything strange about him. Whomever it was that this Jureus spoke to in the flames—and whatever his position within the empire—he’s a threat we need to deal with. If Jureus was the apprentice, then the master would be much more dangerous.”
Everyone went quiet at the mention of the necromancer.
Necromancers were followers of Saarnok, the god of the underworld. They were wizards who, for one reason or another, turned from the common use of magic, and chose instead to commune with the dead. Little was known about necromancers, but it was widely accepted that the Lord of Bones granted powers to them in exchange for blood rites.
Some necromancers only dabbled in the art, as Dormael suspected Jureus had, without steeping to the deeper levels of corruption. The worst of them could do terrible things with their powers. Thankfully they were few and far between, and there had only been a handful in the past few hundred years. Their names were memorized and recited at the Conclave, so their atrocities stayed burned into its memory.
Victor the Unfeeling, who had butchered an entire nomadic tribe in Dannon and used his powers to enslave their dead bodies, was one such name. Stragen Child-Eater, whose favorite activity had earned him his title, and Saarn of the Thorn, who’d used his powers to subvert the king of Shera, also came to mind. Warlocks had hunted them all down.
Vilthinum.
That was the wo
rd for the worst of them—those that were said to eat human flesh, those that could enslave corpses, and those that summoned monstrosities from the underworld. In Old Vendon, it translated roughly into ‘those who eat the dead’. The very word brought a chill to Dormael’s blood.
“Even more troubling,” the Mekai said, “is this connection between the Galanians and the vilth. If the Galanian Empire is keeping a necromancer in its pocket, it’s certainly something we should deal with.”
“That line of thought brings up a new set of questions,” Lacelle said, leaning back in her chair. “If this vilth is indeed powerful enough to have gained apprentices of his own, such as Jureus, then why have we not discovered him? I would think we’d have heard something.”
“Perhaps he has been staying quiet, out of sight,” D’Jenn said. “Eldath is vast. He could have stayed hidden for years, if he didn’t let things get out of control. All the vilthinum we study here are the ones whom we’ve destroyed. They were dumb enough to try and eat entire villages, or take over kingdoms. Maybe this one has played the game a bit smarter, and has stayed out of sight.”
“But if he is connected to the emperor—and logic does seem to suggest that—then he’s moving within the corridors of power,” Lacelle said. “Perhaps the most powerful corridors in all of Eldath, in point of fact. Why would someone with power like this vilth serve the ruler of a nation that makes magic a hanging offense? Dargorin must have some sort of leverage over him.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Victus said. “He could be the emperor’s slave, for all we know.”
Lacelle narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but what possible thing could be held against a vilth? History has shown that they sever ties to everything that makes them human. The only thing that Dargorin could give him would be power, and that is something their dark god already grants them. Why serve the emperor?”
Victus shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe it’s the vilth using Dargorin, and not the other way around.”
“This warrants an investigation. I suspect that you already have agents in both Old and New Galan?” the Mekai asked Victus.
“Of course, Wise One,” Victus replied.
“Good. Have them dig for answers in this matter,” he said. The Mekai turned to the willowy Deacon of Philosophers. “Lacelle, send a word to our friends at the School of Magical Arts. Ask them to search through their records for anything regarding rogue wizards cast out of the Tower within the last fifty years.”
“The last fifty years, Wise One?” Lacelle asked.
“Indeed. Our scant research of necromancy indicates that vilthinum can sometimes prolong their lives through the use of their art. It never hurts to be thorough. In fact, go back seventy years.”
“It will be done, Honored Mekai,” Lacelle said, bowing her head in respect.
“Very well,” the Mekai said. “Also, have a team look through the Archives to see if they can find any mention of a relic with power such as this armlet. I will study the thing itself. Dormael, can you inform the Baroness Llewan that I wish to call upon her? Any information she can give me would be of the greatest assistance.”
“Of course, Wise One,” Dormael nodded.
“Good. Then let us adjourn this meeting, and rest a bit before dinner. I am ever tired, these days,” the Mekai said, favoring them all with a warm smile. “My old bones, you understand.”
Dormael didn’t believe him for a moment, but he couldn’t help but smile in return.
“Honored Mekai, there is one more matter that needs discussing,” Victus said, placing his hands on the table.
“Do go on then, Deacon Victus,” the Mekai sighed, settling back into his seat.
“I’ve received reports that the Galanians are rounding up Sevenlanders within their borders.”
Dormael and D’Jenn shared a covert glance. Dormael had heard rumors of this from the Administrator in Mistfall, but they had sounded far-fetched to both him and D’Jenn. To hear it now, coming from the mouth of someone he respected, was odd. If Victus was saying it, then maybe it was true.
“Yes,” the Mekai said. “I’ve heard rumors of this, though I thought it nothing more than idle street-talk. Do you have more information?”
Something in the eyes of the Mekai piqued Dormael’s interest. He had been trained to read people, to perceive when they were emotionally distressed, or being duplicitous. He couldn’t help but watch the expressions of the others around him, trying to measure their emotional state. Lacelle, of course, was irritable. Victus had the same training which he had given Dormael and D’Jenn, so his features were schooled to blandness. The Mekai’s face, though, was telling a different story. The tightening around the eyes, the slight rise in the chin—the Mekai was suspicious.
“I do,” Victus nodded. “Most of it has come in recent reports. I was going to gather more information before I brought this to your attention, Honored One, but the story that Dormael and D’Jenn told us makes this ever more poignant. It’s not just Sevenlanders they’re rounding up—it’s wizards from the Mage Tower in Lesmira, too. I’ve received missives from friends in Tauravon, and they’re concerned about the encroachment of the empire. Neleka, of course, was on their southern border, and now they have the empire in its place.”
“Neleka was hostile to the Blessed,” the Mekai pointed out. “They were no great friends of the School of Magical Arts. In fact, the empire only hangs the Blessed it finds—Neleka used to drag them through the streets, stone them, and burn them at the stake. One would think that things on Lesmira’s southern border would be calm. I’ve received no letters that suggest otherwise. Blessed could not go openly into Neleka before, and they cannot do so now. You’ve confirmed that they’ve imprisoned our countrymen with no basis?”
“I have, Honored One,” Victus nodded.
“And whom are they capturing?”
“Most of them are honest merchants and travelers, even a few Sevenlander families living inside the empire as citizens,” Victus said. “A few of the Blessed have gone missing, but so far most of my agents are still in place. There have long been rumors in Alderak that the Conclave keeps a network of sympathizers in place, like a secret cult. It’s my understanding that there is some amount of local hysteria fueling the imprisonments. Honored Mekai, I ask your permission to authorize a rescue operation. We should not allow the empire to detain our people.”
The Mekai remained quiet for a time. Dormael could tell that the old man was torn. The rest of the room waited for his answer as the silence drew out. Finally, the Mekai stood and shook his head.
“I cannot authorize you to do that, Victus.”
“Wise One?” Victus asked, his expression surprised.
“We cannot destroy these camps just yet. Such a thing would not only swing public attitudes against us, but it would put more of our people in danger over the course of the next few years. If we use magic against the Galanians, we’d be tearing down the laws made in the wake of the Second Great War.”
“So we let our people suffer because of politics? Wise One, I implore you to reconsider!”
“Not politics, Deacon Victus, but the law, and good sense. We will send them what aid we are able, but until we can somehow get our people released without the loss of life that would come from a coordinated rescue, I cannot allow it to happen.” The Mekai held up a hand to forestall any further dissent.
“But Mekai, our people are dying in those camps!” Victus growled, ignoring the raised hand.
Dormael was appalled. He’d never seen anyone—much less Victus—speak to the Mekai in such a way. The words of the Administrator of Mistfall danced around his skull.
There’s a lot of anger for the Mekai…
The Mekai’s eyes hardened. “Our people die every day, Deacon Victus. People die of disease, of starvation, of murder. People die of old age. Someday, if you come to be in my position, you will be forced into the unenviable task of making decisions that not only affect your Warlocks, but all members of the Conc
lave. What you ask is to take action on behalf of civil matters—and that’s not the mandate of your discipline.”
“Honored One, I must insist—”
“Must you?” the Mekai asked, raising his voice the tiniest amount. His magic roiled in anger, though, thrashing about the room like an invisible flame. Everyone could feel it. “The Warlocks were founded to deal with magical threats, Deacon, not to go to war on behalf of the people of the Sevenlands. If this vilthinum shows his face, I will gladly send you and all your people screaming for his blood. I will not, however, bend the laws put in place after the Second Great War—the only things that keep everyone in Eldath from marching on the Conclave with torches and pitchforks—so that we can save a few merchants, descendants, and civilians!”
The room rang with his exclamation.
Taking a deep breath, the Mekai went on in a more measured tone. “I know the urge to do something is great—do you think that I do not feel it, as well? We should lay them low with our power, teach them never to shake their swords in our direction, correct? That is exactly the thinking that brought the Conclave into the Second Great War. It is exactly the kind of thinking that saw entire armies, whole cities destroyed with magic. Every Mekai since then has endeavored to preserve those edicts written during the Atonement, when we learned the responsibility inherent in Eindor’s Blessing. What you’re asking for is their complete disregard—and that, I will never do. I will bring this matter to the attention of the Tal-Kansil and the Council of Seven. Until then, you have your orders, and are all dismissed.”
The Mekai strode from the room, ignoring the muttered platitudes of greeting offered to his back. The secretaries looked horrified, but turned and scurried in his wake. The old man’s power crawled down the hallway after him, like a living spider made of invisible mist.
Dormael wondered what his own power would feel like when he got to be the Mekai’s age—however old he was. His power was already vast, and it was true that as he aged, he could feel it sharpening in some indescribable way, deepening by degrees. It was rare that a wizard got to be the Mekai’s age without killing himself, or retreating from society in order to better commune with their own power. From what Dormael understood, it became harder and harder to control magic as one got older, and it intruded more into everyday life.
The Knife in the Dark Page 22
