Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  Connor realized he had been holding his breath. “Thank you,” he repeated. He glanced worriedly at his friends, who still had not stirred. “Are they—”

  Grimur gave another disquieting half smile. “They are alive and well. Bruised, perhaps, but no serious injuries. I thought it best to let them sleep until you and I had been introduced.”

  Connor frowned. “I thought that magic didn’t work anymore.”

  Grimur shrugged. “The effect that a vampire has over mortals—‘glamour’ some call it—is a part of what we are. If it is magic, it’s a very personal, very old magic.” Grimur did not move, yet in the next breath, Blaine and the others began to stir.

  Piran sat bolt upright, tensed to fight. “Where are we?”

  “Safe,” Connor said as Blaine and Dawe also sat up and looked around. Kestel was the last to stir. She gave a catlike stretch, winced, and then sinuously rose to a sitting position.

  “Who’s he?” Piran asked, his voice wary.

  “A friend,” Connor replied. “And our rescuer.”

  Piran looked around the cabin. “Why in Raka aren’t there any windows?”

  Kestel’s gaze had fixed on Grimur. “Because our host is a vampire,” she said quietly.

  Grimur gave a nod. “Very good. How did m’lady know?”

  Kestel gave an enigmatic smile. “One of my patrons at court was a sometime guest of Lanyon Penhallow—and Pentreath Reese.”

  Grimur’s eyes narrowed at the second name. “Penhallow’s friends are welcome here. Reese’s are not. Which are you?”

  If Kestel felt concerned to be questioned by a vampire, her expression revealed nothing. “I’m Connor’s friend,” she replied. “You asked how I recognized you; I’ve seen others of your kind. They were my patrons, nothing more.”

  Blaine had been watching their host warily during the exchange. “Where, exactly, are we?”

  Grimur turned his attention to Blaine as if he were taking Blaine’s measure. “In my home, in Edgeland. Not far from the location of your… accident.”

  “You mean when we got hit with a ton of snow?” Piran asked, rubbing his neck. “After the spooky lights knocked us flat on our asses?”

  Grimur chuckled, a disquieting sound. “Precisely.”

  Blaine’s expression hardened. “What do you know about the accident? What happened up there?”

  Grimur stood in a languorous movement that reminded Connor of a snake unwinding its coil. He walked over to the corner, lifted the bowl of blood from beneath the unlucky deer, and carried it to the table. Connor eyed the carcass, which was obviously slain just a few candlemarks ago, after Grimur would have brought them to his house. A substitution for dinner? he wondered.

  “You found one of the places of power, a ‘node’ where, under normal circumstances, magic is more powerful than usual.” He paused to pour the fresh blood into an empty wine bottle and to stopper the opening. “These are not normal circumstances.”

  “Magic died,” Blaine countered doggedly. “So what was that?”

  “It was magic,” Kestel answered quietly. “But not normal magic.”

  “Wild magic,” Dawe replied, rubbing his temples as if the attack lingered in a headache.

  Grimur nodded. “More precisely, ‘feral’ magic. Mages call it ‘visithara.’ Something has wrenched magic loose by the roots, so to speak, and this is the consequence.”

  Grimur hesitated as if debating something, then unstoppered the bottle and poured himself a goblet. Connor watched, both fascinated and revolted. “Don’t worry,” he said with a chuckle, noting the direction of Connor’s gaze. “When I realized I would have guests, I hunted well. Would you feel better knowing that the carcass of another deer—one cleanly drained of its blood—is buried in the snow behind the cabin?”

  “Do I have to answer that?’ Piran’s bravado belied his uncertainty.

  “I would be a poor host not to offer you refreshment after your ordeal,” Grimur said, ignoring Piran. “Usually, I have no need of the meat, but I thought that a venison soup might do, given the circumstances. As for the bread,” he said with a shrug and a wave of his hand in the general direction of the hearth, “I still enjoy the taste of a fresh loaf from time to time, although I no longer require its nourishment.”

  Connor saw the warning glance that flashed between Kestel and Blaine. “We are indebted to you,” Kestel replied. “Your hospitality is most appreciated.”

  Grimur’s lips twitched as if he found the notion of indebtedness amusing. Connor did not want to dwell on the idea, unsure of just what, if anything, it might require of them. “Most courteous—and courtly,” Grimur said with a slight bow to Kestel as he walked back to his seat. He held the goblet of blood indifferently.

  “As for the magic,” Grimur said, crossing his long legs, “it is a force of nature. It can be damaged, temporarily altered, but ultimately cannot be destroyed by mortals.” He paused to take a sip. “So far as we know.”

  “Meaning what? That it will come back?” Blaine asked.

  Grimur gave an eloquent shrug. “Perhaps. What form it takes and whether or not it can be controlled by mortals as it once was I have no way of knowing.”

  “You’re saying that magic was domesticated?” Dawe’s tone was sharp with disbelief.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Grimur replied. He seemed mildly amused at their uneasiness. “That’s what my friend Valtyr believed.”

  “The mapmaker?” Connor looked up abruptly at the name.

  “Ah, so this must belong to you.” Grimur withdrew the wooden box with Connor’s map from the shadows behind his chair. “And this?” he asked, holding up the obsidian disk.

  “That’s also mine,” Connor replied.

  Grimur swirled the blood in his glass, watching it coat the goblet’s bowl. “Valtyr was a master mage. He was also, quite literally, afraid of his shadow. His shadow side, so to speak. And of the shadow side of others. Magic, like all types of power, lures the weak into hubris. They begin to believe that they’re invincible, immortal.”

  “Like you?” Blaine asked, an edge to his voice.

  Grimur’s laugh was deep and rolling this time, edged with bitterness. “I am immortal, but, like all of my kind, not invincible. We may not be mortals, but we are not gods. Time has taught me that lesson quite memorably.” He stared toward the fire as if looking into the past. “I was also a mage, but that power has vanished.

  “Valtyr understood that power corrupts,” Grimur continued after a pause. “And he was aware, more so than most mages, that the power he wielded did not come from anything inside himself. Mages are channels through which power flows easily. Those without magic are somehow blocked to the flow of power.”

  “I thought magic sprang from the gods,” Dawe replied warily.

  Grimur chuckled. “Oh, the temple guardians would like you to think so, but what we know as magic is quite different from the powers of the gods. Magic has no source in Charrot and his sorry band of revelers, unless you believe that the world and every power in it sprang from his loins like the lesser gods.”

  “You don’t believe in the gods?” Piran asked, less a challenge than a question. Connor had the impression that Piran’s devotion was haphazard at best.

  Grimur sobered. “Oh, I believe, not because I want to, but because I know them to exist. I have known Torven’s touch. The gods are real. Best you not attract their notice.”

  They fell silent for a moment. Finally, Blaine looked up. “A group of trappers went missing right before the magic died. They had come this way hunting fox. Might they have stumbled into the kind of wild magic we encountered?”

  Grimur finished off the blood in his goblet and nodded. “Another reason why I have rarely ventured outside of late. Over the last several months, the magic has grown erratic. I had chosen this location for a cabin because, among other reasons, the place of power that you found was a boost to my own power—before the magic disappeared.”

  Grimur toyed with hi
s empty goblet before setting it aside. “You happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, with artifacts that had magical properties. Magic calls to magic. I also assume that some of you have some magic, and that it triggered the incident at the shrine. Is that correct?”

  Kestel and Dawe nodded hesitantly, as if unsure how much to disclose to this new benefactor. Connor shared their hesitation. Though Penhallow had always kept the letter of his agreements, Connor had heard rumors that others among the immortals did not consider their word as a bond when given to mortals. Grimur had not retrieved them to feed upon; that much seemed clear. Still, Connor doubted Grimur had saved them out of sheer altruism. Exactly why their host had rescued them remained to be seen.

  Grimur nodded. “What you experienced was a storm, of sorts. Magic has come untethered from the places of power and from those who used to wield it. It’s like an untamed horse, full of potential and dangerous to everything around it unless properly harnessed. Something snapped the bonds that kept the magic harnessed. Such a thing has happened before—and Valtyr knew it.” He rose and lifted the lid on a cauldron on the hearth, poking at its contents with a wooden spoon.

  Grimur straightened and turned to them. “Come, you must be hungry after your ordeal. Eat. As long as it’s been since I was mortal, I still recall that conversation was best over a shared meal.”

  Grimur set the table with an assortment of wooden bowls and pewter goblets. However the vampire had come to live at the edge of the world, he made the small cabin a comfortable home. Did he choose to come here, or was he exiled? And if so, by whom? Connor wondered as the group sat down. By their expressions, Connor guessed that his companions shared his uneasiness over dining with a vampire. His stomach growled, unconcerned.

  Kestel tasted her stew and looked up, smiling. “This is very good.”

  Grimur smiled and gave an exaggerated, courtly bow. “M’lady is generous with her praise,” he said. “I thought I might be out of practice. I rarely crave mortal food, and have very few guests.”

  Connor and Blaine exchanged glances, and Connor guessed that the same question occurred to Blaine as flashed through his own mind. Who else might be among Grimur’s guests?

  Grimur watched them eat, an attentive host. Connor thought that he saw a flicker of longing in Grimur’s gaze, as if the vampire might be momentarily wistful for mortal hunger.

  “After you’ve slept, I will guide you back to the sledge road.”

  “Thank you,” Blaine replied. “Does that pose a risk for you?”

  Grimur shrugged. “Every exposure poses risk. I choose to live alone, but I can go about during the long night without harm. And the way here is difficult to remember, if you were so inclined to return.”

  “How did you come to be in Edgeland?” Kestel asked, setting her empty soup bowl aside. “I doubt the king exiled you.”

  Grimur looked away, remaining silent long enough that Blaine was unsure the vampire meant to answer. “I was not exiled by a king,” he said finally. “I had been a mage in the employ of a master mage. Then I was brought across. The mage hated the talishte—vampires. He cast me out. I remained with my maker, Lanyon, for many years, and then tired of civilization. And so I came here, and here I have lived in peace.”

  “Do you think that magic can be… harnessed… again?” Dawe asked.

  Grimur shrugged. “Over the centuries, I’ve seen the damage man can do to the world around him. Forests leveled. Streams and rivers fouled. Farmland rendered useless. Sometimes magic was involved, but more often it was caused by the malice of men. And yet, over time, the world healed itself. Trees grew back. Waters cleansed themselves. Cropland became usable once more.”

  “So there’s a chance that the magic might heal, too?” Blaine pressed.

  Grimur nodded. “Perhaps. But such things don’t heal quickly. And while it is wounded, we bear its pain.”

  “Immortals, too?”

  Again, Grimur nodded. “And perhaps even the gods.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THANK THE GODS YOU’RE NOT DEAD!” VERRAN met them at the door to the homestead. He looked beside himself with worry, and he fussed over each of them as they trundled in the doorway, shook off the snow, and unfastened their heavy coats and boots. “Where in Torven’s name have you been? I didn’t sleep all night.”

  Blaine pounded the snow from his boots and shrugged out of his cloak. “We were attacked by rogue magic, caught in an avalanche, pushed over a cliff, and rescued by a vampire, who put us up for the night.”

  Verran laughed. “How long did it take you to think that up?”

  Dawe hung his hat and coat on pegs near the door, gave his boots a final stamp, and heel-toed them off. “He’s not making it up.”

  “Actually, I thought it was a rather productive outing,” Blaine replied.

  “And we learned that there’s a vampire prowling around the wilds,” Piran muttered. “I thought that was important.”

  “Which he’d rather not have us make too public,” Connor put in. “I think he likes his privacy.”

  “Point taken,” Blaine said, pouring himself more brandy. He was just beginning to feel the chill recede from his fingers and toes. They filled Verran in, while the musician listened, wide-eyed.

  Verran rose to get himself another bowl of stew. He returned to his seat and licked traces of broth from his fingers. “Oh, almost forgot. Ifrem sent word, looking for you. Seems there’s an emergency Council meeting tonight, down at Crooked House.”

  Blaine swore. “Great. Can I mention that a trip into town—let alone an evening with the Council—is not on my list of favorite things to do?”

  “Look at the bright side,” Dawe said, elbowing him. “Maybe Connor’s buddy has taught Ifrem how to brew a proper bitterbeer.”

  Blaine pulled his cloak around him, heading into the night, toward the road to Bay-town. Verran’s stew had filled his stomach and warmed his blood, though the bitter wind was making a quick end of any lingering warmth.

  The road ahead of him was deserted. Moonlight cast the snow in shades of blue, and Blaine repressed a shiver. His boots crunched through the frozen top skin of the snow, and his breath misted despite the heavy scarf he had pulled over his face. He sincerely hoped that Old Man Jordenson would be on time. Jordenson had a homestead just a ways up the road from where Blaine and the others lived, and he made a nightly run into Bay-town and back to deliver produce and pick up ale or whiskey. He passed Blaine’s homestead every night at sixth bells, and returned from town a few candlemarks later, usually around tenth bells. For a few coppers, Jordenson was happy to give his fellow homesteaders a ride in and back. Blaine’s teeth chattered, and he devoutly hoped that this was one night Jordenson would not be late.

  Behind him in the darkness, he heard the snow crunch. Blaine stopped, motionless, listening. One hand fell to the knife sheathed on his belt. Wolves were common in Edgeland, and Blaine had no desire to face one out here alone on the road. After a moment, when there was no sound except for the wind, Blaine continued walking toward the meeting point, his senses on high alert. Twice, he froze, listening, sure he had heard something in the shadows. By now he was certain that he was being watched, although he saw nothing to provide a clue to his pursuer.

  The meeting point, a small wooden shed at the end of the lane, was just ahead. By Blaine’s reckoning, Jordenson should be along any moment. After all that happened, I’m probably just tired, and nervous. My imagination is playing tricks. Who would be crazy enough to be out on a night like this, besides Jordenson and me? A wolf would have attacked by now, if it meant to. Probably just some wild dogs.

  Blaine approached the wooden shed and heard the twang of a bowstring. Pure instinct drove him to the ground, landing him facedown in the snow. He lay still for a moment, listening. He heard boot steps, coming closer, and then another sound, the creaking of wagon wheels straining against the rutted snow. There was a muffled curse, then footsteps retreating as the sound of the wagon grew
closer.

  Cautiously, Blaine stood, knocking the snow from his cloak. A hunting arrow had embedded itself into the wall of the shed, at just the height that might have taken him through the back had he not thrown himself down.

  Blaine turned, scanning the shadowy horizon, looking across the snow toward the forest. He saw no one. He hesitated, sure that he would find footprints in the snow, but unwilling to miss his ride into town.

  “That you, Mick?” Jordenson called as his wagon rolled up to the shed. “You wantin’ a ride into Bay-town?”

  Rattled from the near miss, Blaine nodded. He stepped up to the shed wall and snapped the arrow free. There were no unusual markings, no pattern to the fletchings, no remarkable workmanship. Only one thing set this arrow apart from hundreds of arrows in the quills of hunters across Edgeland. It bore a military tip, barbed and strong, capable of piercing even plate armor. Only one place in Edgeland was permitted such arrows: the armory at Velant.

  “I said, do you want a ride to Bay-town?” The irritation in Jordenson’s voice broke Blaine out of his thoughts.

  “Sorry,” he said, hiding the arrow in the folds of his cloak. “Yes, I’d appreciate it. Damn cold night.”

  “By Torven’s stars! You’ve said that right.” Old Man Jordenson accepted the coins Blaine paid for a spot in the back of the wagon, and reined in his skittish horse.

  “Keep a sharp eye out, will ya?” Jordenson said as Blaine settled into the horse blankets and straw in the wagon. “Old Betta’s been skittish the last few miles, and I’m wondering if there be wolves about.”

  Blaine’s gaze scanned the tree line. Not wolves, he thought. A hunter. And the question is, why was that hunter hunting me? “I’ll keep watch,” Blaine replied, glad for the shelter of the wagon as Betta jerked the wagon into motion.

  The wagon creaked as it labored through the snowy ruts. Blaine was glad to see the lights of Bay-town come into view, glittering against the snow and the water, a welcome beacon. Down the coastline, Blaine could just glimpse the shadow of the fortifications that were being rebuilt to guard against unwanted visitors from abroad. He turned, looking for the familiar shadow that was Velant, but the ruins of the prison camp blended completely into the twilight sky.