Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Merrill’s being fed lies by his generals,” Voss said, adding a creatively embellished curse for good measure. “They don’t have the balls to tell him the truth.”

  Penhallow met Connor’s gaze. “Merrill is not hearing the whole truth from his commanders. The war goes badly for Donderath, worse than the generals wish to admit. Edgar has been assembling an army of conquest for a long time. He’ll sacrifice Vellanaj’s troops first, then send in wave after wave of his own. Merrill’s generals are only now seeing glimpses of Edgar’s true power, and they refuse to admit the meaning of what they see.”

  “Where do the mages figure in this?”

  Penhallow sat forward in his chair and watched the fire long enough that Connor was not sure he meant to answer. The firelight warmed the pallor of Penhallow’s skin, and the flickering of the flame tricked the eye to give the appearance that Penhallow’s chest rose and fell with breath. Connor’s gaze rose to the oil painting over the fireplace. Centuries had passed and Penhallow himself looked no different.

  No, Connor thought, that wasn’t correct. There’s a sadness, a jadedness in his expression that the man in the portrait didn’t have. Not so surprising, if one survives several lifetimes of disappointment and sorrows.

  “When Merrill was a young man, he fought in the war against Vellanaj. Merrill’s father, King Landor, had no compunction against using mages and neither did the king of Vellanaj.” Penhallow paused again and Connor wondered whether Penhallow had been a witness to that war.

  “Neither side used their most powerful mages, but they made free use of lesser magic. Sheets of flame descending from the sky, incinerating everything in their path. Walls of water rising from placid lakes and rivers to sweep away armies and towns. Pestilence that had the opposing army coughing blood and writhing in pain in the few agonizing minutes before they died.” Penhallow’s voice grew quieter.

  “Merrill saw how quickly magic could destroy and how vast its potential was for destruction, and I think he decided that the damage mortal soldiers inflicted was bad enough, without the help of mages.”

  “But if Edgar is willing to use his mages, his strongest mages—”

  Penhallow nodded. “Merrill will have no choice. I’ve watched the war play out over the last few years hoping that my fears would not be realized, but I believe Edgar intended this outcome from the start.”

  Connor felt a knot of fear settle into his stomach. “If the magic Merrill witnessed wasn’t what the strongest mages are capable of doing…” He let his sentence trail off, and found himself hoping Penhallow would correct him.

  Penhallow’s gaze did not leave the crackling flames in the fire. Voss answered. “Edgar’s been ‘collecting’ mages for his service for some time now. Merrill hasn’t. That means any mage with ambition—and without scruples—finds his way to Edgar.”

  Connor cleared his throat uncomfortably. “If mages are capable of such destruction, why hasn’t it happened more often?”

  “It has happened before,” Penhallow said quietly. “Several times. The ashes of the empires that nurtured such ambition lie buried with their dead beneath our feet and across the lands of the Far Shores. Search your memory for the tales you’ve taken for legends. Have you never heard the stories about the ‘wars of the gods’?”

  Connor frowned. “Yes, of course.”

  “How the rivers ran red with blood and the land swallowed men and animals and the corpses of the dead were so poisoned that even the flies and the vultures died from eating them?”

  A growing coldness stole through Connor, a chill that the fire could not warm. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “How many times have the gods remade this world? What do the legends say?”

  Connor felt his heartbeat begin to quicken as the old tales became far too real. “Four times, the surface of the world was scoured clean by the sword of the gods, creating it anew for the remnant who were worthy.”

  Penhallow’s glance was cynical. “I don’t pretend to know what the gods do with their time, but neither the scouring nor the remaking was their work. Nor was the ‘whole world’ affected as the bards would tell you, just large enough swaths of territory that it seemed like the whole world to the wretches that survived.” Connor saw an unfathomable sadness in Penhallow’s eyes.

  “And were you among those survivors?”

  Penhallow regarded him for a moment without speaking. “Once. On a far continent, beyond the West horizon. I ‘survived’ because I was already dead, though magic of that strength takes a toll even on us Elders, on all creatures who sustain their existence beyond the fringe of the mortal world.”

  Connor swallowed hard. “Was it as the bards tell? I always thought perhaps they embellished—”

  Penhallow’s gaze silenced him. “The bards did not tell half the horror. They dared not, or no one could hear the stories without despair. In a few candlemarks, I have seen a thriving empire leveled, most of its inhabitants killed. And while the bards sing of war, they say nothing of what happened afterward, of the madness and the starvation, of men living like animals and acting worse than beasts.”

  “Isn’t there some way to warn Merrill? We can’t permit Edgar to create that kind of catastrophe.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Penhallow’s voice was raw. “We Elders have made sure that information reached the king, information he was not receiving from his generals. We dared not approach him directly. Merrill doesn’t hunt us, but his forbearance is more from oversight than by design. We couldn’t reveal ourselves, but our emissaries were well placed.”

  “And he refused to listen?”

  Voss made a dismissive gesture. “The king hears what he wants to hear,” he muttered.

  “He trusts too much in the word of his generals,” Penhallow replied. “His generals fear for their reputations. All great tragedies turn on small emotions—pride, greed, and an inability to see a harsh truth until it’s too late.”

  In Penhallow’s voice Connor heard anger, frustration, and resignation. The last, a concession to the inevitable, chilled him further. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  Penhallow nodded to Voss. Voss crossed to the shelves that were built into the walls on either side of the fireplace and stood on tiptoe to take down a chest that he unlocked with a key that hung from a cord around his neck. He withdrew a velvet-wrapped object from the chest and carefully laid back the wrapping to reveal an obsidian disk. The disk had several small decorative holes cut through its thin surface, and as Voss handed the disk to Connor, the fine carving on the disk’s mirrorlike surface caught the light in a design Connor could not identify.

  “Treven Lowrey was able to get his hands on this and bring it to me. I brought it to Penhallow,” Voss said. “I’ve got Lowrey out looking for anything else that relates to this damned disk, but for now, this is what we’ve got. Take this to Garnoc. Remind him of an astrologer named Nadoren, a man who was in King Landor’s service many years ago. When Landor was very old, Nadoren left court suddenly, under suspicious circumstances. It was rumored that he had stolen from the king’s library. He disappeared and took with him several important maps that were never found.”

  Connor frowned. “What can that possibly have to do with the war? And what’s so important about this pendant?”

  Penhallow shifted in his chair, taking up the story. “The pendant is a key to a series of maps created several hundred years ago by a very powerful mage named Valtyr. Valtyr had traveled throughout the world, beyond the Continent and the Far Shores, to Edgeland and to lands our ships have only just begun to rediscover. Everywhere Valtyr traveled, he made maps of the places of power, places regarded as sacred or cursed, places where magic was strongest—or null. When Valtyr died, the maps fell into diverse hands. No one is quite sure how many there were, but at least four were known to be in the possession of King Landor.”

  “Until Nadoren stole them.”

  Voss nodded. “When Nadoren disappeared, so did three of the maps. I
t was thought that one of Landor’s mages might have been studying the other map, or that it was stored separately and Nadoren didn’t have the time to find it. Needless to say, once Nadoren made off with the others, the remaining map was more closely safeguarded.” He grimaced. “That’s why I’ve got Treven out looking for more information, but it’s dicey. We’re not the only ones interested in these things.”

  Connor looked to Penhallow. “Someone else knows?”

  Penhallow gave a shrug. “So we suspect. You’ve heard Garnoc speak of Pentreath Reese?”

  Connor nodded. He didn’t add that whenever Garnoc had spoken of Reese, what was said hadn’t been good. “I’ve heard.”

  “Reese and I have… bad blood between us,” Penhallow said. “Reese is obsessed with the histories of the thirteen original lords of Donderath, the Lords of the Blood. Why he’s interested, we’re not yet sure. But I’ve found it wise to be suspect of anything Reese pursues.”

  “Reese works through Lord Pollard,” Voss added. “Vedran Pollard. Name ring a bell?”

  Connor nodded. Garnoc held Pollard in nearly as low regard as he did Reese. Voss chuckled. “Don’t be so discreet. I know for a fact Garnoc hates Pollard. With good reason. Pollard is slime. Conscripted his liege men to serve in his place at the front, while Pollard stays behind to do Reese’s dirty work.” He paused, glancing at Penhallow, who gave a nod for him to continue.

  “We think Pollard—and therefore, Reese—is behind robberies at the university library, and he might have had something to do with attacks on some of the scholars. We don’t know exactly what he’s up to, but we think it’s got something to do with that,” he said, nodding toward the disk in Connor’s hand.

  “The pendant?” Connor asked. Voss nodded.

  Penhallow smiled, but it was an unpleasant expression that showed the tips of his long eyeteeth. “Nadoren knew about the maps, but not about the pendant key. Valtyr was a very clever man. His maps included coded information that can only be deciphered with the key. Nadoren was a simpleton, for all that he could read the stars. He was convinced, they say, that the maps hid a treasure. But Valtyr’s only treasure was knowledge. And knowledge is what is needed.”

  Penhallow’s long fingers stroked the smooth surface of the pendant’s velvet case as he spoke. “The map that Nadoren didn’t steal was of Donderath. I believe it is secured in the king’s library. If Edgar unleashes his mages against us, Merrill needs to know where the places of power are located, because the effects will be worse there. Magic shouldn’t be able to hurt the null places—it’s where I’d send as many refugees as possible.”

  “Refugees,” Connor repeated, his head spinning.

  “Let’s say the odds of survival will be higher in the null places,” Voss answered.

  “Is that where you’ll be?” Connor’s fear made his question sound like an accusation. He drew back as soon as he had said it. Neither Lanyon Penhallow nor Traher Voss were men he wanted to anger. To his relief, they ignored the slight.

  “Quillarth Castle is a place of power. Many castles, forts, and even manor houses were built on places of strong magic, as well as temples and shrines. My advice would be to evacuate the castle and the city around it. Send people close to the null places, and away from the shrines.”

  “If Meroven breaks through the army’s line and begins attacks inside Donderath, people are most likely to flee to temples and shrines to beg the mercy of the gods,” Connor said in a hushed voice.

  Voss nodded. “If I were Edgar, I’d count on it.”

  “Edgar’s mages know about the places of power, don’t they?”

  “I believe so,” Penhallow replied. “Most are obvious to anyone with a hint of magic. What was valuable about Valtyr’s maps was that they located many places that weren’t crowned with a palace or a shrine. And the null places tend to be overlooked completely because they are either too unremarkable to remember or have something about them that compels people to avoid them altogether.”

  “Is Rodestead House safe?” Connor asked.

  Penhallow gave Connor the velvet cloth to wrap the pendant and replaced the empty chest on its shelf. “Having survived such a war once, I’ve taken precautions. My retainers and I will be leaving Rodestead House tomorrow night. Traher has made his own preparations.” He turned back to Connor. “Tell Garnoc what you’ve learned tonight. As your blood gave me access to your memories, so my bite enables you to remember my words precisely.”

  And while he’s never come out and said it, I wouldn’t be surprised if it also carried a compulsion to do his will, Connor thought.

  “If Garnoc can convince Merrill of the true danger, find the map and use it to protect as many people as you can. And if you can’t convince the king, I’d advise you and Garnoc to leave the city and take the map and pendant with you.” Penhallow had turned back to the fire that danced in the hearth. As their conversation had turned to darker predictions, Connor found that the flames no longer cheered him.

  “If the worst happens, if Donderath falls, look for a man named Vigus Quintrel. He’s a mage, and much more powerful than anyone gives him credit for being. His abilities are… unusual… which is what’s enabled him to stay free of service to the crown. You can trust Vigus. Show him the map and pendant. He’ll know what use to make of them.”

  “Why haven’t you given him the pendant yourself?”

  “That’s part of the reason why I believe we are running out of time. Vigus Quintrel has disappeared.”

  The road back to the city was deserted. Connor gripped his reins white-knuckled. His heart pounded, though not for fear of the darkness. Will it happen again? Did Penhallow know? Have I betrayed all of us?

  The night was quiet, save for the hoofbeats of Connor’s horse. Connor looked from side to side, barely controlling his desire to spur his horse into a full gallop and ride as hard as he could for home. That won’t do, he told himself. There might be guards around. It would be suspicious, riding like that. They might take me for a brigand.

  In the thicket to the side of the road, a twig snapped. Connor startled, but he could make out nothing in the darkness.

  A black shape rose up in front of him, and his horse reared, bucking Connor into the air. He braced himself to hit the road hard, but felt himself borne up as if by invisible hands. That same force kept him pinned as the dark form loomed over him. He could make out a black cloak and cowl, but whether the figure had a face beneath, Connor could not see.

  “Sleep now,” a deep voice said. “Sleep, and remember nothing.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BLAINE AND DAWE LEANED AGAINST ONE OF THE wagons that had been drawn up to the edge of the festival space. Across the broad, flat common area, a wonderland of sculptures glittered, lit from inside with candles or lanterns. They were made from Edgeland’s most bountiful commodity—ice—and shaped into everything from statues of the gods to fanciful castles and mythical beasts.

  “Nights like this almost make you forget where you are.” Dawe Killick stretched his lanky form and tipped back his tankard of home-brewed ale.

  “With this cold, it’s hard to ever forget where we are,” Blaine replied, sipping from his own tankard as they watched the festivities.

  For those who had survived long enough to go from inmates to convict settlers, the end of the white nights was a time to celebrate before the long dark. Here on the back acres of the homesteads, as far away from Velant’s prison as possible, the settlers did their best to enjoy both the feast days they brought with them from Donderath and events like the coming of the long dark that were unique to their new home.

  Verran Danning and his fellow musicians kept up a lively series of tunes, fueled no doubt, Blaine thought, by the potent liquor that the minstrels’ female admirers kept bringing to quench their thirst. The tune Verran and the others were playing was one that had been popular back in Donderath, and for a moment, Blaine let himself hum along, tapping his toe with the music. In the center of the gathering, a
lively circle dance wove its participants back and forth as they changed partners.

  Blaine didn’t have to check that Kestel was among the dancers. He smiled. Even bundled up against the cold, Kestel was easy to spot in the crowd. She was shorter by a head than many of the women, tiny-boned and quick on her feet and such a good dancer that she made all of her partners look competent. Blaine doubted that the petty thieves and cutpurses who enjoyed a dance with Kestel would ever dream that she had once danced among the royal and noble. The song ended and Kestel sank, laughing, into the arms of her partner before twirling away from him with a peck on the cheek that seemed to leave the man as out of breath as the dance itself.

  “A coin for your thoughts,” Dawe prodded. “You’re quiet tonight.”

  Blaine shrugged. “Can’t stop thinking about the supply ships. If it’s true they won’t be back as often, we’ve got to make sure we have enough food put up to get through the winter.” He raised his face to the wind. “Once the dark comes and the shallows of the bay start to freeze, they won’t be able to take the fishing boats out as far. It’ll make for a lean winter.”

  Dawe nodded. “We’ve been busy while you and Piran were out on the ships. Verran’s not the only one who can earn a living. I’ve taken in some smithing—small things like fixing locks and making hoops for the cooper.” He flexed his long fingers. “Not exactly silver work, but the idea is the same.” He stretched, and Blaine caught a glimpse of the branded “M” on Dawe’s arm. They’d both been sent to Velant for murder, but unlike Blaine, Dawe was innocent, framed by a rival silversmith. “I’ve also been toying with bits of copper. I’ve made some simple rings and such, to appeal to the ladies.” He grinned. “So long as there are lasses in town, there’ll be men trying to win their favor or claim their hand.”

  “We won’t be able to spend coin if the merchants don’t see supply ships for months.”