“The items may be damaged,” Zaryae cautioned. “We should be careful.”
Xaffert regarded Zaryae before speaking. “My colleagues and I mastered all manner of magical items at the University. I’m quite certain that we can handle the pieces safely, even if the Cataclysm altered them.”
“Perhaps we should take this slowly,” Dagur cautioned. “We should set a warded circle for protection.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Xaffert replied. He held the dark mirror in front of him in both hands, and his lips moved silently. Blaine felt the tingle of power grow to a roar and it coalesced around the mage, but the magic felt brittle and wild. The air crackled and sparked around Xaffert, who laughed. As the mirror’s images changed, his laughter grew fraught with tension until it became heaving breaths.
The mirror’s surface glowed, illuminating Xaffert’s face caught in an expression of absolute horror. Blood streamed from his nose, mouth, and ears and his laughter changed to a shriek of pain. Before anyone had a chance to intervene, Xaffert fell to the ground, the mirror still clutched in his hand.
Dagur and Zaryae rushed toward Xaffert, while Piran used a stick to knock the mirror from Xaffert’s fingers. “Is he dead?” Blaine asked. He felt disoriented and light-headed as his head pounded. He swayed on his feet before steadying himself against the wall, while trying to keep a worried eye on the mirror, which now lay dim and inert beside the mage.
Dagur knelt beside Xaffert, and his expression grew queasy. “Most definitely. It looks as if his eyes and everything behind them have been burned out.”
“Let me make something very clear,” Blaine said, fixing Dagur with a look. “I’m willing to give you and your mages sanctuary in exchange for your expertise. But I need to be able to trust you—and that means that you’d better be right when you give me your word on whether or not something is safe to use.”
Dagur stood and squared his shoulders. “Unlike Xaffert, when I give you my word, you can stake your life on it.”
“I am,” Blaine replied. “We all are. And that’s why you’d damn well better be right.”
CHAPTER
TWO
HERE’S YOUR TRIBUTE… M’LORD.” CARR McFADDEN tossed a leather messenger’s pouch at Blaine’s feet and stood back, hands on hips, waiting for a response to his challenge.
“Open it. You’ll find Karstan Lysander’s orders to his commanding officers, laying out a battle strategy for his next offensive—against us, and against your ‘buddy’ Vigus Quintrel.” Carr did not attempt to hide a victorious smirk. Eight years younger than Blaine, Carr took more after their father’s looks, with muddy-brown hair and angular features. Soldiering had hardened his body and dispelled any illusions that remained after having grown up under Ian McFadden’s thumb.
“How did you come by this?” Blaine asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the bite from his voice. Niklas Theilsson, the commander of Blaine’s army, bent to retrieve the pouch and opened it, frowning as he reviewed the contents.
“I stole it,” Carr said levelly, his voice insolent. “One of Lysander’s messengers got careless. I jumped him and took the bag.” Carr had made no secret of his anger at Blaine for the scandal that had destroyed the family fortune, even if killing Ian McFadden had saved Carr and their sister, Mari, from Ian’s abuse. A bout of the Madness just before the Battle of Valshoa had added to Carr’s edgy unpredictability.
Niklas looked at Carr sharply. “You were supposed to be spying, not waging a one-man war,” he snapped.
“Spies bring back information. I don’t think he’d have given it to me if I’d just asked. Sir.” Carr’s tone was still impertinent, but he reserved his contempt for his older brother. It was obvious the packet had required a fight: His knuckles on both hands were skinned and swollen. Carr’s lip was split and he had a large bruise on one side of his face, injuries he wore like a mark of honor.
“Of all the wrong-headed, damn-fool stunts—” Blaine began, then stopped to rein in his temper when it was clear Carr was enjoying Blaine’s outrage.
“Just doing my part for the war effort,” Carr said with a grin that baited Blaine to take a swing at him.
“Before Piran and I have to pull you two off each other—again—can I point out that this appears to be authentic?” Niklas interrupted, with a warning glance to both Blaine and Carr. Blaine and Niklas had been friends since boyhood, and when Blaine’s crime sent him into exile, Niklas joined the army in the Meroven War. A few years later, Carr mustered in, seeking out a place under Niklas’s command even though Carr was still underage.
Blaine took a deep breath, accepting the wisdom of the warning glance. Carr wants a reaction, and if I give it to him, he’ll do something even riskier next time. But damn, he makes it hard!
Piran leaned against the wall near the fireplace. They were in what had been one of the exchequer’s offices in Quillarth Castle and that was now being used by Niklas as a war room for the portion of Blaine’s army stationed at the castle and in the city of Castle Reach. “How do you know the messenger you waylaid wasn’t a decoy?” Piran asked, with a deceptively casual tone that Blaine and Kestel knew meant Piran was annoyed.
“I’ve been shadowing that battalion commander for a while now,” Carr replied. “That’s his usual messenger, so if he’s a decoy, then Lysander hasn’t sent any real orders to that division for over a month.” His tone dared Piran to challenge him.
Piran shrugged in acknowledgment. “Fair enough.” He glanced toward Niklas. “Was the information worth the risk?”
From the look on Carr’s face, Blaine was certain his brother had already looked over the documents and knew their value. Niklas took the pouch to the large table in the center of the room and Kestel helped him spread them out.
“I’m not in favor of how you came by these,” Niklas said with a stern glance toward Carr. “But I would be happy to stay a step ahead of Lysander. From what I can tell, he’s out to make a name for himself.”
“Did you know of him—in the war?” Blaine asked, coming around to have a look at the documents. Kestel was already studying them with a practiced eye from her own days as a court spy.
Niklas frowned. “I knew him by reputation. Never met him in person. He won his battles, but he also had the highest casualty rates of any commander in the king’s army. His strategies were daring and unpredictable, and he was willing to send large numbers of soldiers to their deaths to make them work.” His tone made it clear that he did not share Lysander’s perspective.
“He’s got to either adjust his tactics or come up with a lot of replacement soldiers,” Blaine observed drily.
“Rumor has it, he’s agitating the Tingur,” Carr said, and grinned as Blaine and Niklas looked up.
“Aren’t they the crazy folks wandering around saying that Torven sent the Cataclysm because someone annoyed him?” Piran asked. He had left his spot by the fire to come around and eye the battle map. Before his court-martial, Piran had been rising fast in King Merrill’s army. Exile had ended his official career, but Piran’s grasp of tactics and strategy was as sharp as ever.
“We know that the Great Fire happened because the battle mages on both sides got out of hand,” Kestel replied. “But think about how the Cataclysm looked to your average barmaid or farmer. A green ribbon of fire falls from the sky and destroys most of the countryside, killing the king and the nobles. They wouldn’t think about some faraway war. They’d pick the easy explanation—someone made the gods angry.” Torven, the god of the sea and underworld, was believed by his followers to be generous to the faithful and merciless to those he disliked.
“The word is that there are plenty of farmers, sailors, and tradesmen whose livelihoods went up in smoke in the Great Fire, and they’re milling about looking for something to do,” Carr replied. “Some of them join up with the warlord armies, but they’ll only take people who can do real soldiering.”
“So the Tingur attract all the other people who’ve got no place lef
t to go and convince them praying to Torven will make it all right again?” Piran mocked.
Kestel shook her head. “I think you’re missing the point, Piran. These folks saw their world burn. They want it to make sense, and appeasing an angry god makes the kind of sense they can understand. It gives them a purpose. And if Lysander is clever enough to win their loyalty, he’ll have an almost limitless supply of disposable foot soldiers willing to die to make Torven happy.”
Blaine felt a chill as he thought through the import of Kestel’s statement. “Sweet Esthrane,” he murmured. “They wouldn’t stand a chance in a real battle.”
Kestel met his gaze. “They wouldn’t have to. Lysander could use them to wear down the enemy, and save the real troops for the second wave.”
“It takes a sick bastard to use soldiers like that,” Niklas muttered. “But from what I’ve heard of Lysander, it would be like him to try it.”
Blaine riffled through the sheaf of parchment from the pouch. “If these orders are real, Lysander’s going to send an assault our way in the next few weeks, and it looks like he’s interested in seeing if he can break our line to get to Castle Reach.”
Niklas nodded. “I saw. Fortunately, he’s not the only one who’s been recruiting. Word spread after Valshoa. We’ve taken on enough new recruits to make up for the men we lost in the battle.” He met Blaine’s gaze. “We can hold the line on the city, and protect Glenreith, too.”
“Glad I could be of service, m’lord,” Carr drawled, emphasizing ‘m’lord’ sarcastically. “I’ll be heading back to the camp now, with your permission, Commander.”
Blaine could see the irritation in Niklas’s face at the way Carr intentionally maneuvered to show his disdain for Blaine’s authority. And he had no doubt that Niklas would have something to say about it to Carr later, in private. For now, Niklas just gave Carr a glare. “Go. But don’t leave camp until you’ve talked to me. We need to discuss tactics.”
“Yes, sir,” Carr replied with a salute that was a little too snappy to be serious. As he left, Blaine saw the slight hitch in Carr’s gait that was an aftereffect of the Madness, a disease born of the broken magic that nearly killed him.
No one spoke until Carr had left the room. “Bloody hell, Mick!” Piran exploded. “If he weren’t your brother, I’d have loved to wipe that smirk off his face.”
Blaine sighed. “It wouldn’t do any good. Father beat both of us enough that we’re good at taking a whipping.” He shook his head. “I understand why he’s angry with me. Fine. But I don’t understand why he’s trying to get himself killed.”
Niklas grimaced. “Come on, Blaine. Carr always liked taking risks. He was never afraid to try anything you and I did, even though we were a lot older. And if he could, he figured out how to do us one better. Remember?”
More than one long-ago example came to mind. “Yeah, I remember. But that was different,” Blaine objected.
“I agree,” Niklas replied. “And I do wonder if the Madness had something to do with it. I’ve asked Ordel, but he’s had so few soldiers live through the Madness that there aren’t many cases for comparison.” He shook his head. “I don’t know whether he’s trying to prove something to you, or outdo you, or get himself killed. But he’s worse when I try to keep him with the rest of the troops. Letting him go off on patrol—and now, spying—seemed to be the only way to handle him, short of tying him up and putting him in Glenreith’s dungeon.”
“Maybe you should reconsider,” Piran muttered.
Sudden light-headedness made Blaine stagger. From outside the castle came a resounding explosion that made the glass in the windows rattle. “What in Raka is going on?” Niklas muttered, rushing with Piran to look out the window in the direction of the blast.
Kestel hung back, giving Blaine a worried look. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” he said, waving off her concern, although he was far from certain. As soon as he knew he could move without falling over, he joined the others at the window. Smoke was rising from the large tent the mages had claimed as their workspace.
“Looks like it was a good idea to keep the mages out of the castle while they try out the artifacts we brought back,” Piran remarked.
“Let’s hope no one died,” Niklas said.
Kestel still eyed Blaine skeptically. He was reluctant to admit it, but the vertigo worried him. So far, he had not blacked out, but he felt as if his knees might buckle. What if it happens in battle? he wondered.
“We’d better go see what happened,” Niklas said with a sigh of resignation. “Come on, Piran. Let’s find out what they’ve blown up this time.” He looked toward Blaine. “We’ll give you a report once we know what’s going on.”
Kestel waited until the others had gone before she folded her arms across her chest and gave Blaine a level stare. “What’s wrong? You looked like you were going to fall over.”
Blaine grimaced and turned back toward the window. “It felt like I was going to fall over. And I don’t know why.”
Kestel stepped up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. “How long has it been like this?”
He sighed. “Since Valshoa. Since we brought the magic back.”
“Maybe Niklas’s battle healer could help,” she suggested.
Blaine reached over to take her hand and drew her closer to him. “I’ve already had Ordel check me over, after we got back from Valshoa.” He shook his head. “Nothing. Except that he thought I seemed especially tired and ‘run-down’ was his term. Made it sound like I hadn’t been eating vegetables or something.”
Kestel chuckled. “Maybe you need to eat more herring.”
Blaine glared at her. “Not if I can help it.” After his time in Edgeland, manning the miserable herring boats that supplied the motherland with salted, pickled, and dried fish, he had little desire to eat herring ever again.
“There has to be a reason why it’s happening,” Kestel pressed. She thought for a moment. “Just now, you looked unsteady an instant before the explosion.”
Blaine nodded. “And the same thing happened when Xaffert used the mirror.”
He had a suspicion of what was causing the problem, but he desperately wished to be proven wrong.
“Both times there was strong magic,” Kestel said.
“That occurred to me, too,” Blaine admitted.
“You brought magic back under human control at Valshoa,” Kestel said, speaking slowly as she put the thoughts together. “But the last time, thirteen Lords of the Blood anchored the magic. This time, just one.”
Blaine nodded again, keeping his gaze focused on the hectic activity as soldiers and healers bustled around the mages’ tent. “But if that’s the case, how can I fix it?” he asked. “The magic that bound the old Lords of the Blood came down through the eldest son. Except for me, all the others either died in the Cataclysm or the bloodlines died out long ago.” He grimaced. “Well, there’s the Wraith Lord, but he’s a wraith so he can’t really help.”
“Has the light-headedness changed at all?”
Blaine thought for a moment. “I don’t remember noticing it immediately after Valshoa. But it’s been several months, and I’d say it’s happening more often, growing stronger.”
“We need to figure this out,” Kestel said, giving his hand a squeeze before she released it and began to pace. “Maybe Zaryae and Dagur can help.”
“If they didn’t blow themselves up in the tent,” Blaine replied.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go find out what happened, and see if we can get Zaryae and Dagur to come up to the castle tonight, once things calm down.” She smiled. “Besides, I wanted to make an offering at the shrine. For luck.”
“I still can’t believe it’s come to this.”
Kestel stared up at the charred ruins of Quillarth Castle and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The wind tangled her red hair around her face, and she brushed it back from green eyes that shimmered with tears.
> Blaine slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Even though we heard about what happened, it’s different actually seeing the damage up close,” he replied.
The once-grand castle was a blackened shell, with most of the structure reduced to rubble. Only one tower and part of a wing remained standing; the rest was a jumble of massive stones. Quillarth Castle had survived a direct strike in the magical onslaught that brought the kingdom of Donderath to ruin, then a devastating fire when the mages of neighboring Meroven had sent their worst against the castle and the manor houses of the nobility. Magic storms had added to the damage since the kingdom’s fall. But the last, worst assault had been just two months ago, when renegade lord Vedran Pollard and talishte warlord Pentreath Reese had captured what remained of the castle, then took it apart nearly stone by stone to find the treasures Reese believed to be hidden inside.
In an alcove near the castle’s once-grand entrance was a shrine with salvaged statues to Donderath’s three most powerful gods, Charrot, Torven, and Esthrane. Charrot, the high god, was both male and female, with one head and two faces. Charrot was creation and destruction embodied, the True Source, and ruled both gods and men. One side of him was the perfect warrior with rippling muscles and broad shoulders. Charrot was handsome, with dusky yellow skin, dark hair, and chiseled features. The other side of Charrot was a beautiful woman with blue skin whose breasts and thighs promised fertility.
Traditionally, Charrot was depicted stretching out his hands to his two consorts. Torven, the god of illusion, was a man whose beauty rivaled that of Charrot himself. Torven ruled the air and sea, darkness and twilight, water and ice, and the Sea of Souls. Esthrane was the second consort, and equaled Charrot’s feminine beauty. Artists depicted Esthrane with saffron-colored skin and sorrowful eyes. She summoned fertility from crops and herds and commanded birth and fire. Esthrane was also the master of the Unseen Realm, where wandering and incomplete souls went after death.
A collection of guttered candles, withered flowers, and food offerings lay at the feet of the statues, along with pebbles brought by passersby. Whether the gifts came from supplicants who sought protection or merely wished to give tribute, Blaine did not know. If he had ever believed the gods cared about the affairs of mortals, what he had seen of his ravaged kingdom made such interest unlikely.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 3
