War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga

by Gail Z. Martin

  Before any of the stunned mages could think of another argument, a man cleared his throat behind them. Carensa and the others turned to see General Dolan of the Knights of Esthrane standing in the doorway.

  “A word with you, Vigus.”

  Quintrel looked annoyed. “It’s not a good time, Dolan. I’m instructing my senior mages.”

  “I’m of the opinion you’ve been avoiding my messages,” Dolan replied. “I’m afraid this cannot wait. I’ve come to tell you that the Knights of Esthrane are leaving.”

  Quintrel looked as if he might explode. “This is entirely unacceptable!” Vigus Quintrel adjusted the spectacles on his thin nose. “Completely unacceptable!”

  “We made no guarantee that the Knights of Esthrane would remain in Valshoa forever,” Dolan replied. Though he was a centuries-old talishte warrior-mage, Dolan looked no older than his late thirties, with dark hair cropped short in a soldier’s cut and a body toughened by war. Everything about his manner made it clear that he was a man who was used to being in command.

  “We had an arrangement,” Quintrel shot back. He stood a head shorter than Dolan, with a bald head and a slight build. The quarreling pair reminded Carensa of two dogs warring for dominance. Quintrel was one of the most powerful mages in Donderath. Dolan was a mage in his own right, and talishte, giving him the additional abilities of the undead. A duel between them would be catastrophic.

  “All things end,” Dolan replied. “My soldiers have deliberated the matter since McFadden raised the magic. We have been in exile for two generations. The reason for that exile is gone. Donderath would benefit from our return as peacekeepers.”

  “And kingmakers?” Quintrel challenged. “That’s your plan, isn’t it?”

  Dolan looked askance at Quintrel. “What interest do we have in mortal kings?”

  “Plenty, when they hunt down and murder your Knights,” Quintrel snapped. “Is McFadden to be your puppet king?”

  “You waste my time,” Dolan replied. “Remain in Valshoa, if that’s what you want. It has been our prison long enough. My Knights are readying for departure. I came to give you the courtesy of supplying notice. It was not my intent to ask your permission.”

  “Then go,” Quintrel’s expression was ugly. He turned his back on Dolan. “You’ll quickly find that the world outside is no kinder than when you went into exile.”

  “I did not expect to find kindness,” Dolan replied. “I expect to be useful. We will depart shortly.” With that, Dolan strode from the room.

  Carensa traded a nervous glance with Jarle. Quintrel’s mood, mercurial at best, was certain to turn vicious after such a public loss.

  For several minutes, while Carensa and Quintrel’s senior mages waited nervously, the master mage said nothing. He paced the small room, head down, hands clasped behind his back. From his facial expressions, it was clear he was having a heated dialogue with himself. Carensa found herself holding her breath.

  Finally, Quintrel rounded on them, his face still flushed with anger. “Dolan and his group have chosen to abandon us,” Quintrel announced. “He thinks the Knights of Esthrane will be welcomed as the salvation of Donderath,” he added, contempt clear in his words. “I believe he will be sorely disappointed.”

  Carensa and the others said nothing, unwilling to send Quintrel further into rage. “We don’t need the Knights,” Quintrel muttered. “Dolan and his Knights didn’t build Valshoa. They inherited it—stole it, really—from the original Valshoans.” Quintrel’s agitation showed in his short, shallow breaths, the ruddiness of his face, and the way his hands reflexively opened and closed.

  “What would you have us do to prepare?” Jarle asked. If anyone could talk Quintrel down from one of his rages, it would be Jarle.

  “Prepare?” Quintrel nearly shrieked the word. “Are you implying that we will be damaged by the Knights’ defection?”

  “Of course not, Vigus.” Jarle had been one of Quintrel’s inner circle for many years, a supporter long before the war, when they were both scholars at Castle Reach’s university. He was also one of the first to be chosen by Quintrel for the journey to Valshoa. “But it will cause some disruption until we adjust.”

  “We will get along just fine without Dolan and his men,” Quintrel replied through gritted teeth. “We don’t need the help of untrustworthy talishte.”

  “Perhaps, in light of this development, you may want to rethink our relationship with Rostivan,” Jarle said. “After all, losing the Knights removes some of our military support.”

  “Our plans do not depend in any way on Dolan and his Knights!” Quintrel exploded, wheeling to face Jarle. Quintrel’s right hand rose suddenly, and the closed fingers of his fist snapped open and spread wide.

  Jarle dropped as if struck, his eyes wide, mouth taut with pain. A hard glint came into Quintrel’s eyes. “Don’t doubt me, Jarle. You, especially, should know what I can do.”

  Quintrel let his hand fall, and Jarle slumped to the floor. Quintrel’s gaze swept the other mages, and his mouth twisted into a thin-lipped half smile.

  “Don’t allow your fears to make you weak,” he said. “Our time is near, and we will rise ascendant.” With that, Quintrel swept from the room, leaving Jarle and the others behind. Esban, Quintrel’s second-in-command, followed a moment later.

  Carensa rushed to where Jarle lay. To her relief, he was still breathing, and his pulse was steady. “Jarle? Can you hear me?”

  Jarle moaned, but did not move. Carensa looked to Guran. “Help me,” she said. “I can’t get him back to his quarters by myself.”

  Guran and Carensa got under Jarle’s shoulders and managed to half carry, half drag the injured mage to his quarters. When did everything go so wrong? Carensa fretted as they moved through the narrow corridors of the ancient building. Vigus was supposed to be our protector. What happened?

  They made their way through the narrow corridors. Valshoa was an ancient city, hidden in a mountain valley. More than a thousand years ago, the city had been built by mages who wanted isolation in which to study their craft. Murals and frescoes, mosaic floors, statues, and bas-relief panels chronicled the history of those long-ago Valshoans. Deep beneath the ground, currents of raw magic power, ‘meridians,’ flowed across the world. Where two or more meridians crossed, a ‘node’ formed a potent well of energy. Mages could draw from the energy of the nodes and meridians to extend their power. Beneath Valshoa, a confluence of meridians formed a very powerful node.

  Jarle’s quarters were sparsely furnished. The few personal possessions were a testament to how quickly the mages had fled to follow Quintrel to refuge during the last, chaotic days before Donderath’s collapse.

  “Let’s get him into bed,” Carensa ordered, and Guran helped her maneuver Jarle to lie down. “I’ll make sure he gets supper, and some whiskey to bring back his color,” she added worriedly.

  Guran made a gesture of warding, sealing the door behind them and shrouding the room so that they could not be heard outside. “It’s going to take more than whiskey to deal with Vigus when he’s like this,” Guran said quietly.

  Carensa struggled with Jarle’s blankets to get the older mage comfortably settled. Jarle managed a weak smile. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “That was brave of you—and foolish, given the mood Vigus was in,” Carensa chided.

  “I thought perhaps he would still listen to me,” Jarle replied, and sighed.

  “Increasingly, he listens to no one,” Guran said. “Even Carensa can’t sway him as she used to.”

  Carensa gave a sad smile. “I think you overestimate my skill with that,” she replied. “I was just one of his pupils.”

  Guran raised an eyebrow. “One of his favored pupils,” he corrected.

  Carensa sat down on the edge of Jarle’s bed. Guran leaned against the wall. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it? These last few months, since Blaine and his friends left and the magic returned, Vigus hasn’t been himself.”

  “And now
we have a good idea of why,” Guran replied. “Drawing on the power of a bound divi is always risky. But to do it now, when the magic is so unstable—”

  “You think the divi is what’s changed him?” Carensa asked.

  “Either the divi or one of the other artifacts he’s dabbling with,” Guran answered. “It’s the most logical explanation.” He sighed. “He’s become obsessed, and his obsession borders on madness.”

  “Vigus always thought highly of himself,” Jarle said, his voice still not at its usual strength. “That’s one reason he clashed with the king’s mages and the University senior scholars. The thing that annoyed them was that Vigus really was as good as he thought he was.”

  “I’ve never known him to take opposing opinions well,” Guran said.

  “But Vigus wasn’t so cold—so willing to sacrifice people’s lives for the magic—until after Blaine came,” Carensa said quietly.

  “You knew McFadden, before the war, didn’t you?” Jarle said.

  Carensa nodded. “We were betrothed, until he was exiled. Our families lived near each other. I’ve known him since we were children.”

  “You’re right about the timing,” Guran replied. “Vigus was his usual egotistical self until the magic was restored.”

  “But if it were just the magic itself that pushed him over the edge, wouldn’t we all be fighting like mad dogs?” Jarle mused. “Or dead—like the ones who were too quick to try out the artifacts after the magic came back.”

  Carensa remembered. She had helped bury those mages, and the others who, during the first weeks and months after the magic was restored, discovered the limitations of the new power the hard way. “The magic’s become more stable since then,” she protested.

  Guran shook his head. “It’s still brittle. The power waxes and wanes. If that happens when you’re channeling a lot of power, it’s a good way to end up dead—or damaged.”

  “I don’t think it’s the magic that’s changed Vigus,” Jarle said. “I think it’s the artifacts. Think about it. Before the magic was restored, Vigus was interested in saving the artifacts and scrolls to preserve old knowledge. It’s only been since the magic returned that he’s been interested—obsessed, really—with using the artifacts to gain political power. And he no longer cares who gets hurt.”

  “But the artifacts weren’t evil to begin with. What changed?” Carensa asked.

  “The magic changed,” Jarle replied. “The artifacts aren’t evil now, they’ve just been corrupted. Like spoiled meat. It’s not evil, but it still might kill you.”

  Guran nodded. “I believe that’s it exactly. I think this divi globe is the most likely culprit.” He paused. “And Vigus has changed in another way. He never showed any interest before in ruling the kingdom. He just wanted the mages to be free to practice their magic. But now…”

  Guran didn’t have to finish his sentence. They knew what he meant. Now Vigus wants to be the kingmaker, and the power behind the throne.

  Once Carensa was assured that Jarle was recovering, she returned to her quarters, deep in thought. Her small room looked much like Jarle’s. A few personal mementos were all she had of her life before Valshoa. There was a small oil painting of her son and husband, both of whom lay buried in the rubble of her family’s manor house. Beside the oil painting was a small silver box, and in it, the betrothal ring Blaine McFadden had given her before he had been exiled.

  Several books and scrolls lay neatly stacked on the shelf above the desk, along with a parchment and quill. Her cloak, hat, and scarf hung on a peg near the door, and underneath was a pair of leather boots. In the trunk at the foot of her bed were a few changes of clothing and a new set of bed linen and towels, all she needed in the simple life of a scholar. It would be easy to pack to go to Torsford, although Carensa felt heartsick at the reason for leaving.

  A knock at the door startled her, and she was worried to see Guran standing in the corridor. “Is Jarle worse?”

  Guran shook his head, and Carensa motioned for him to enter, closing the door behind him. Once again, Guran made a warding to keep them from being overheard. “I just wanted to come by and make sure you were all right. We were all pretty upset by what happened.”

  Carensa offered Guran the chair at her desk, and she sat on the edge of her cot. “I don’t understand why Vigus has decided that Blaine is suddenly the enemy,” she said with a sigh. “Just a few months ago, he was happy to help Blaine restore the magic. Why Rostivan? We don’t know anything about him.”

  “Before the war, Torinth Rostivan was a smuggler, and during the war he appears to have made a lot of money supplying both sides,” Guran said with distaste. “Now he fancies himself a warlord.”

  “Why him and not Blaine? Blaine already has an army in place.”

  Guran shrugged. “I think Vigus sees McFadden as a rival.”

  “You think Vigus has set this all up to go to war against Blaine?”

  “I think that’s exactly what he has in mind.”

  Carensa was quiet for a moment, thinking through what Guran said. “Why choose me for the group to go to Torsford?” Carensa asked. “I’ve got very little power. My magic helps me translate languages. That’s hardly battle worthy.”

  Guran’s gaze fell to the small paintings on Carensa’s desk. “Does Vigus know you were involved with McFadden?”

  “Yes.” She sighed, and drew her knees up, hugging them to herself. “Blaine’s exile dishonored his family, and me. My… notoriety… limited the potential suitors.” She shrugged. “I withdrew from everyone. My father got me tutors, trying to find something to interest me. That’s how I met Vigus. Then Father finally found an older man who needed my dowry money. I had no choice about the marriage. I never really loved my husband, but I did love our son.”

  “They died in the Cataclysm?”

  Carensa nodded. “I nearly did, too. The manor collapsed and I woke up trapped in the rubble. Vigus got me out and brought me here.”

  “So you had no idea McFadden had returned.”

  Carensa shook her head. “None at all, until he arrived here. I thought Blaine died in Velant.”

  “You helped McFadden and his friends defy Vigus to leave,” Guran said.

  Carensa lifted her head. “Yes, I did. I made my choice to be a scholar, and I have no desire to change that. Blaine’s made his choices, too. But I’ll always wish him well. He sacrificed everything to save his family from that brute of a father. I would do anything to protect him.”

  Guran met her gaze. “Be careful, Carensa. McFadden is only valuable until Vigus can figure out how to keep the magic bound without him.” He paused. “At least Vigus has a reason to keep McFadden alive. Others might find it to their advantage if he—and the magic—went away permanently.”

  Late that night, Carensa’s dreams were dark. Once again, she was pinned beneath the rubble of Rhystorp, surrounded by the smell of fire and death. Grief seized her, but she had no tears left to cry. She was resigned to dying alone in the darkness, numb to fear. And then, after she had accepted her fate, the stones that sealed her into her prison shifted, sending light and air and, most importantly, hope. Vigus Quintrel had spoken to her, calmed her, kept up a quiet, confident one-sided conversation until he could remove her from the wreckage.

  But in this dream, Quintrel was livid, and in his grasp was the orb, with its withered hand and bound divi. He held the orb aloft, and it blazed like lightning, filling the sky with green ribbons of fire. Quintrel and the divi became the Cataclysm.

  Screams woke her. Carensa sat upright in her bed, clutching the covers to her chest, heart thudding. Before she could question whether the screams were real or imagined, she heard the shrieking once again. Worried, Carensa hurriedly wrapped herself in her robe and gathered her slippers, rushing out into the corridor. More mages began to appear in their doorways. Many quickly retreated, shutting their doors again. A few ventured into the corridor, but hung back, wary.

  She found Vigus Quintrel in his si
tting room, tearing at his hair, ripping his clothing, and screaming curses like a madman. He hurled a vase across the room, barely missing Guran and Esban, who had edged into the room.

  Carensa maneuvered close. Once, they had been friends as well as tutor and student. It was dangerous to trade on that old bond, but Carensa hoped that it might help her calm Quintrel long enough to discover what had gone so terribly wrong.

  “Vigus.” Carensa moved closer to where Quintrel sat. A tankard sailed over her head, slamming against the far wall. “Vigus, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Quintrel threw an inkwell against the stone fireplace, sending a spray of ink across the room. “They’re gone,” he said, breathing heavily.

  “Who’s gone?” Carensa asked. “The Knights? But you knew they were going.”

  Quintrel shook his head disconsolately. “No, no,” he moaned. “They’re all gone.”

  “Vigus, who’s gone?” Carensa pressed, close enough now that she laid her hand on Quintrel’s arm. He looked utterly distraught.

  Quintrel turned to her, a look of complete misery and loss clear in his expression. “The presence-crystals. And the manuscripts that go with them. Gone, stolen.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  I’VE ARRANGED FOR A MEETING WITH FOLVILLE IN public; hopefully, he’ll swear his fealty to you,” Niklas said. It was after eighth bells, and they were gathered in the parlor once more. Dagur and the mages had gone back to their work, reluctantly taking Treven Lowrey with them.

  Blaine stood near the fire, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Piran was sprawled on a divan, while Kestel watched from the window, looking beyond the castle walls into the darkened streets of the city.