The Knife in the Dark (The Seven Signs Book 2)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Dormael had never seen the Mekai without his Kai singing. The old man had once told him that as he aged, it grew more difficult to hold the power inside. He said that it was something like holding an unruly dog to a leash—if that dog could toss lightning, or set things aflame. Things like the closing of the door behind the Mekai as he strode into the room, or lighting candles, or reaching for a cup—all of those things happened around him automatically, as if the magic knew what he wanted. Dormael wondered how bad his own power would grow when he grew as venerable as the Mekai.

  The bruise on his chest hummed against his skin at the thought.

  “Dormael—are you going soft in the head, boy?” Victus asked.

  Dormael realized he had been staring at the door, which was closing now in Lacelle’s wake, leaving Dormael and D’Jenn alone with their deacon. The room felt cavernous in the absence of the heavy conversation, and Dormael let out a long sigh, stretching his shoulders.

  “Aye, sorry,” Dormael said. “Just…thinking.”

  “Open your ears, boy. The three of us need to talk,” Victus grumbled. He sighed and ran his hands through his wild hair, narrowing his eyes at the table in thought. Dormael and D’Jenn shared another meaningful look as he gathered himself. Victus had always been gruff, but never so openly disrespectful, and never so outwardly angry.

  The suspicion on the Mekai’s face stuck out in Dormael’s mind.

  Why would the old man be suspicious of Victus Tiranan, of all people?

  “First, I’m glad you boys are home again,” Victus said. “I know I’ve said it before, but it’s true—and for more reasons than one. My Warlocks are all like family to me, you know that. It’s good to have two of my best back in one piece—though I know you were taking an unauthorized vacation, Dormael. We’ll talk about that soon enough, but for now, just know that I’m glad you boys are alive. Galanian Red Swords…the world is going mad, boys. It’s going fucking mad.”

  “Deacon,” D’Jenn began, his words coming in a slow, careful manner, “that bit about the Galanians rounding up Sevenlanders. Are you sure of those reports?”

  “As sure as I am about anything. Why do you ask?”

  “Just sounds unlikely,” Dormael said, nodding with his cousin. “Why would the Galanians care about the Sevenlands? They’d have to cross the sea to get here, and they have a war of conquest going at home. One would think that begging trouble from us would be…a little insane.”

  “Ah, that’s the word, isn’t it?” Victus said. “Insane. Think on what the Galanian Emperor has done so far. He moved against and annexed Neleka, then he took Shundovia so gods-damned fast that the ink wasn’t even dry on the treaties. Then, he masses his forces on the southern side of his empire to move against Moravia—which seems like a sound strategy, considering that Moravia owns the other half of Solace Isle with Shundovia.”

  D’Jenn nodded. “He would get the fertile lands that Shundovia offers, then the gold from the mines on Solace Isle.”

  “Aye, but that’s not what he did,” Victus pointed out. “The bastard has moved north, for Thardin.”

  “Thardin?” Dormael and D’Jenn said in unison, sharing an incredulous look.

  “Aye—the frozen, mountainous home of insane, bearded killers itself,” Victus nodded. “He moved his forces to his northern border during the autumn, and there’s been fighting in Thardin all winter.”

  “It’s madness to attack Thardin in the middle of winter,” Dormael said.

  “It’s nearly madness to attack Thardin at all,” D’Jenn said. “No foreign army has ever conquered Thardin, but to enter the passes when they’re locked with ice? He’s going to lose half of his army just to frostbite and fucking disease.”

  “Exactly,” Victus said. “So why, do you think, would he risk such a thing?”

  “Whatever it is, it must be important,” Dormael said, his mind trying to follow down the paths that Victus was walking. “In fact, we should probably reexamine all of his actions in light of what we know about the armlet, and this vilth that was speaking with Jureus.”

  “I knew you’d shake something loose in there eventually,” Victus said, gesturing at Dormael’s head. “You’re right. So what doesn’t make sense?”

  D’Jenn stroked his goatee in thought, looking out the window. Dormael ran through things in his mind, ticking them off one by one and trying to place them into some meaningful context. He picked through his knowledge of the Galanian Army, and the events surrounding the Imperial conquests.

  “First,” Dormael said, “the massacre at Old Shundov. Why would Dargorin have killed the entire Royal family when he hadn’t done anything of the sort before, or since? In fact, one of the things I found surprising during my time in Neleka was that they were so bloody lenient. None of the sort of thing you might expect—orgies of blood, political purges, rapes. The war was bloody, but the transition to Imperial leadership was as honorable as it could have been. I remember how much it had surprised me at the time, and now…now I wonder what it means in this greater context.”

  “Also,” D’Jenn pointed out, “this bit about the camps. Why round up Sevenlanders at all? Why borrow trouble from us? Sure, westerners are hated in the east, but no more than taxes. It just doesn’t fit the rest of the picture.”

  “And now, Thardin,” Dormael said. “Instead of going after the gold, and fighting a winter campaign on the sun-browned hills of Moravia, he leads his men into the snowy passes of the north in the worst part of the year for a passage.”

  “Somehow, this vilth is involved,” Victus grumbled. “The massacre I cannot explain—yet. The camps, though…think on this, boys. If you were a maniac who had designs on ruling the world, what would be one of the first things you would do?”

  “Identify the greatest threats, figure out how to take them down,” Dormael said without hesitation, his training prompting his quick response. It was a force of habit from his days as Victus’s student.

  Victus gave him an approving nod. “And there are only two centers of magical power in the world—the Conclave, and the School of Magical Arts. Military might is all well and good, but he’ll never take Lesmira or the Sevenlands that way, and he knows it. Besides that, we know he wants the armlet, and that he’s working with this vilth. He must know that such a thing would draw our attention. Perhaps he’s looking for weaknesses, or planning some operation against us which we are too blind to see coming. Our distance from Galania may protect us, but it won’t protect Lesmira. I’m telling you, boys—something big is happening. I can taste it on the gods-damned wind.”

  Dormael felt the same way. He’d been feeling it since the Stormy Sea, when he’d watched the Galanian ship fade into the distance, burning sails against dark seas. Knowing what the armlet could do—at least, some of it—and knowing that the ruler of the most aggressive state on Eldath wanted it was enough to fill him with dread. Victus was right.

  But then, Victus was usually right.

  “What about Thardin?” D’Jenn asked.

  “There must be something there that would motivate him to spend so many lives in pursuit,” Victus said. “Can you think of something worth more than thousands of fighting men?”

  “Besides the throne itself…,” Dormael ventured, but Victus shook his head.

  “No. It would have to be something more valuable. Something more useful. More powerful.”

  “Infused items,” D’Jenn said. “We know he’s looking for them—else, why go after Shawna’s armlet? Maybe he wants Ice Shard, the sword of the Thardish Kings. It’s an infamous magical weapon.”

  “Perhaps,” Victus nodded. “Either that, or something just as powerful. This…well, it isn’t good. Listen, boys, I don’t think the Mekai, nor the other deacons realize the danger that all of this poses. They’re not trained to see the patterns, they don’t recognize the knife in the dark.”

  “You really think he’s gathering an arsenal of powerful magical weapons?” Dormael asked. It was a frightening prosp
ect, but it explained a bit about the emperor’s actions.

  “Why else would he risk so much?” Victus said. “Gold he had in his grasp. Armies?—He’s got those. Thrones? Hells, the Galanian Empire has three of them already. All of those are regular motivations, and would be pursued in a way that made sense. Nothing I’ve heard about Dargorin Penethil suggests that he is insane—power-mad, maybe, but not insane. Whatever he’s after in the frozen passes of Thardin must be important. And mark my words, boys—it won’t be good for us.”

  “Or anyone,” Dormael agreed.

  Victus looked to the door, which stood open into the hallway, and waved a hand. His Kai issued out and closed it. Then, his magic weaved a quick Ward around the room, barring anyone from listening to their conversation.

  Dormael and D’Jenn shared yet another covert, meaningful glance.

  “I know I can count on your discretion—right, boys?” Victus said.

  “Of course,” Dormael said, feeling a little offended at the implication that he was disloyal. “I would never betray the Conclave.”

  “Nor I,” D’Jenn said. D’Jenn, however, sounded more thoughtful than offended. He watched Victus through narrowed eyes. Dormael calmed himself, and took his cue from D’Jenn.

  Victus sighed. “We all know that things are bad. Things are terrible. It isn’t just this, you know. There’s violence in the south, some war between the Rashardians. The Galanian Empire is on the march again, and now this vilth has appeared—and mark my words, boys, Jureus probably wasn’t his only apprentice. The Sheran Oligarchy is deteriorating, and there are rumors of a horde of Dannon horsemen massing somewhere on the Steppe. All of Eldath is going to shit, boys. Things are going to get bad in the next few years.”

  Dormael hadn’t heard that bit about the Steppe. Borders, the town in Cambrell where they had found the ship that took them across the sea, had been on the southern end of the Steppe. He thought back to their late night flight into the Darkroot, and the sight of the grasslands spread out to the north. There had been no campfires, no tribes massing for war.

  One thing that was always certain, though, was the speed at which things could go to shit.

  Victus continued. “Lots of people—myself included—don’t think that the Mekai is up to this challenge. He’s old, boys. We’ve had relative peace with the rest of the world for a long time, and he’s not ready to deal with the war that will come for us.”

  And there it was. The words of the Administrator again came to Dormael’s mind. The wizards had all come crawling back to Ishamael to witness failures of the Mekai’s leadership. The words hung in the room for a moment as everyone took them in.

  “He serves for life,” D’Jenn said. “Unless he steps down. Is he planning on stepping down?”

  Victus smiled. “I don’t think so, that’s not what I meant. I mean that we need to try and convince him of the danger, to make our points known and understood. Didn’t you see how he rushed out of here when the issue was put to him? He doesn’t have the stomach for war, boys, and war is what’s coming.”

  Dormael had seen that, and he had also seen the suspicion in his eyes. Apprehension tightened his shoulders as Victus spoke. The conversation was quickly becoming uncomfortable.

  “War is the Tal-Kansil’s area of responsibility,” Dormael said. “The Mekai doesn’t lead the Sevenlands to war.”

  “Of course not,” Victus said, but then he leaned forward and looked into Dormael’s eyes. “But what if that war comes with the Galanian Emperor at the head of an army, with vilthinum as allies, and an arsenal of infused weapons? Does that sound like something you’d trust the Tal-Kansil, the Council of Seven, or the Mekai to deal with? Look me in the face, Dormael, and tell me that you trust them to see us through a crisis of that magnitude.”

  Dormael opened his mouth to reply, but stopped the lie before it could escape.

  “It won’t be just them, though,” D’Jenn said. “We’ll all meet them, if it comes to that. The Council, the Mekai, everyone—we’re all on the same side.”

  And then Dormael saw it. He’d been trained to look for the tiny inflections of voice, the tightening around the eyes, the lips going thin. He didn’t believe it at first, not coming from a man like Victus.

  But there it was.

  “Of course we are,” Victus said, his eyes tight and his lips drawing flat. “I just wanted to be sure that I could count on you boys to be there, to do what’s right when the time comes.”

  “Of course you can,” Dormael said, hiding his own emotions behind a bland look. “We’ve been loyal to the Conclave since you trained us. You know that.”

  Victus smiled and stood from the table, hitting it a couple of times with his fist as if to adjourn the meeting. He clapped Dormael and D’Jenn both on the shoulder before moving for the door.

  “I know,” he said. “You’re two of my best Warlocks, boys. It’s good to have you home.”

  With that, he exited the room, leaving Dormael and D’Jenn alone at the huge, dark table.

  “Did you catch that?” D’Jenn asked, turning a troubled eye on Dormael.

  “Aye,” Dormael nodded. “He was lying.”

  **

  Inera stared over the scene where the camp had once stood, taking stock of the damage. She could feel the power that had been used here undulating over the ground like a misty shadow. It was difficult to sense the magic that had been at work here, the residue of power, but she could just manage it.

  Jureus had been here—that much she had discovered. A large mass grave had been dug on the hill—with magic, of course—and somewhere around thirty bodies dumped inside. Inera had picked through them, but the corpse of Jureus was nowhere to be found. It was all the same. The boy had been an idiot.

  The Red Swords loitered nearby, shooting her nervous glances. They had been with her for a good while, and had learned the cost of her displeasure. The first man to voice a complaint to her had been killed and made strega. No one else had complained.

  She delved the grave with her Kai, trying to pull out the melody that clung to the remains like dust on a boot. Magical residue faded with time, but if one got to it fast enough, it was possible to hear the song of the wizard responsible. The wind blew through the passes, filling her ears with noise. Inera took a deep breath, and listened harder to the song her Kai was sensing.

  It was a charming melody, fast and aggressive, but lilting and pleasant. Inera closed her eyes as she heard it, the song bringing back a flood of memories that almost brought her to her knees. She stood against the tide of emotion that welled in her throat, and concentrated on keeping her feelings in check.

  It couldn’t be.

  The first time she had heard that song, she had been a different woman. That had been before the invasion. It had been before her capture.

  It had been before him.

  It could not be!

  Your feelings are irrelevant, her shadow said, flitting up behind her in the odd way that it moved about. The facts are before you. If you wish to grovel and cry like a sheep, then slit our throat and be done with it.

  “I’m not groveling, nor crying,” she said under her breath, hoping that the Galanians couldn’t hear. Others couldn’t see her shadow—not even her Master. He had one of his own, of course. All necromancers did.

  You are distressed because you recognize the song of this one. Because you have lain with him, mated with him. This sentiment is weak. You should rid yourself of it as I have been telling you. Only then will our power be enough to take us down the path.

  “I’m fine,” she hissed.

  If anything, this is better than we expected. Use this to our advantage.

  Inera kept her answers to herself. She didn’t need to talk to the thing, she knew that. It could see into her mind, feel her emotions, experience her life through her senses. The shadow was her connection to the Lord of the Void, her conduit to his power. It was part of her, and part of him at the same time.

  Even as she
turned from the grave, the shadow flew from her in misty fits and spurts, appearing over the shoulders of the different Red Swords in turn. It enjoyed whispering to them, twisting them with slow inevitability. Over the last season, the men had become hers. They had belonged to the emperor, but not anymore. Now they enjoyed the tasks to which she employed them.

  Turning from the grave, she walked out to a ledge where she could look down upon the valley below. Ishamael stood like a scattering of stones around both sides of the river, which was also named for the ancient Sevenlander chieftain. She could almost feel Dormael there, pulsing like a beacon in the distance. She knew such a thing was nothing more than her fancy, but her memory played her the notes of his Kai as if he were standing next to her. She took a deep breath and drew her cloak around her shoulders again, leaving the ledge behind.

  “Let’s go!” she snapped at the Red Swords. “I aim to be in Ishamael by tomorrow.”

  The Truth About Kitamin Jurillic

  The Concave was a sprawling compound.

  Wizards filled the Green, and chattering conversation filled the spaces between them. Dormael tried his best not to favor anyone with a sour look when they searched his face, but it was a difficult thing. His body hurt, his head was killing him, and the constant pall of political turmoil that hung over the Conclave had driven him from its halls.

  Dormael tried his best to keep his breathing steady, as the hand-shaped bruise on his chest throbbed in time with his steps. His body felt like it had been dragged behind a mad horse, then stomped on by the same for good measure. He knew it was healing—his lucidity was evidence of that—but he wished the damned process would hurry itself along.