A Wizard's Sacrifice
Page 44
Scouts estimated three hundred Kragnashians occupied the Manor. At least they hadn’t left it, come down Manor Hill, and overwhelmed the city. An army of Kragnashians falling upon Narath was the stuff of nightmares.
“Go on,” he said as the racket outside quieted.
Velbaor cast his eyes across the list of supplies, restudying the list of weapons at Geram’s request. When the Prime Minister reached the end of the page, Geram put his head in his hands. How many Lathans would die retaking the Manor, and could they block the Device once they’d won it back? If they won it?
“You are meeting with Elekia later?” the minister asked.
“What makes you ask that?”
“The head of state must sometimes act in ways the Prime Minister cannot,” Velbaor responded, “but he must be careful in his dealings with outlaws.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
That afternoon, a chill breeze gusted through the messernils as Geram climbed a steep slope, flanked by Drak and Fieldmarshal Henrik, a squad of twenty-four troopers surrounding them. They entered the ruins of an old fortress, once said to belong to a wizard, but now just a few piles of dressed stone atop a hill where Elekia and Olivet waited with half a dozen Caleisbahnin. The pirates’ feathers jerked and strained in the wind. Geram released Drak’s sight. He did not want to see her.
“Men?” Henrik asked, his mindvoice crisp in the darkness.
“Fifty-two seamen, all armed with steel,” Olivet replied formally. “And you have fewer than a thousand.”
“It takes time to gather troops,” Elekia said, “but I do not believe we can wait any longer.”
“Will any seamen be helping them?” Henrik asked.
Geram Heard Breon’s reply before the ambassador voiced it. “No. The entire embassy is sworn to the wizard.”
“Did you know about this ‘Treaty of the First’ beforehand?” Geram asked.
“We received no orders from the Archipelago, but even if we had, we are under Elekia’s command.”
“Tomorrow night, then,” Geram said.
“Tomorrow night,” Elekia responded, “in the dark of Elesendar.”
They fell silent, but calculations were loud in Geram’s mind. In a battle among humans, three to one would reckon them winners, but three thousand human troops to assail three hundred Desert People might not be enough.
“The Device.” Henrik broke the silence. “Can it be blocked?”
“The master Device is in Direiellene. It can only be stopped from that location.”
“Then we must destroy it,” Henrik replied grimly. “I’m sorry, Eminence, but the required amount of sulfa will bring down the Manor.”
Geram nodded. “Houses can be rebuilt.”
“Sulfa will have little effect, Fieldmarshal,” Elekia said. “People have tried before to destroy Devices and failed. We have no choice but to go to Direiellene.”
“That’s suicide!”
“Perhaps. But from the markings on the warriors who captured the Manor, I do not think the Center is behind this. I think the Center will help.”
“Madam,” Breon said, “if this is true, this rival faction has possession of the master Device or they would not be here.”
“They could easily have come using another Device,” Geram replied. “Vic learned there is more than one in Kragnash. I agree with Elekia. She and I have to go to Direiellene.”
“Eminence!” Henrik cried. “You cannot participate in this attack, much less go to Direiellene. We cannot risk it.”
“I’m a regent, Fieldmarshal, and a lot easier to replace than a Ruler or an Heir. As head of state, I have the authority to bargain with the Center.” He faced in Elekia’s direction. “Isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, Eminence. It is.”
“Then I will go. Tomorrow night, we attack.”
The Cost of Love
Rain pounded the canvas; the ceiling sagged, seepage dripping onto the carpet. Wash water dribbled off Vic’s chin. The mirror showed bright green eyes rimmed red, the surrounding skin bruised and worn. Her thighs, back, and neck ached as if she had a fever; her head pounded, and the contents of her stomach churned like the lava moat. She hadn’t realized how accustomed she’d become to Bethniel’s ministrations until she’d used the Woern for hours without them.
Prenlin handed her a towel and an arm, helping her to a chair. She twisted Vic’s hair into a column atop her head, her mouth set in a deep frown. When she finished, Vic gritted her teeth and stepped into an embroidered silk gown. The fabric rasped against burned skin as Prenlin pulled it over her shoulders and tied it closed. When she was dressed, the Healer gripped her shoulders. “Save her.”
Tears rose up, stuffing her nose. She clasped the Healer’s hand. “I will.”
She met Thabean, and they floated to the Council pavilion side by side, shielding themselves from the rain while the men around them blinked in the downpour. His skin pallid, Thabean kept his features smooth and betrayed no more emotion than he had when Dealn died. It seemed the right thing to do; if he betrayed his feelings, it would only make things worse for Bethniel.
“I had the sergeant at arms restrain Lillem until after the trial,” he said. “His interference could cause disaster.”
Vic grimaced. “That wasn’t necessary. Lillem is a disciplined soldier, but what’s the plan?”
“Do not worry, madam. You will know what to do as events unfold.”
In the Council chamber, he took his place on Saelbeneth’s right, Vic hers at the far end of the table, next to Csichren.
Dripping rainwater, Bethniel entered, escorted by Grunnaire.
Saelbeneth read the charges in a voice solemn and foreboding. “What say you?”
Bethniel pushed aside a wet mop of hair. “I did not take the Elixir.”
“Yet you have Woern.”
“Yes.”
“Explain how this is so.”
Bethniel looked at each wizard, wearing the same fierce expression with which she’d cowed the Relman Council while a woman’s hand burned to the bone. If the princess weren’t sopping wet, Vic would have thought Bethniel had put the Council on trial.
“Eighty-four years ago,” Beth said, “Kara died, and with her all life on Karaduin. For this reason the Council formed in 1998 and established the Code of Wizardry the following year. Afterward, all wizards who were not members of the Council, whether wealthy or poor, powerful or humble, were killed. So was every latent the Council found.”
“Lady Bethniel gives us a history lesson,” Nelchior quipped.
“She has the floor,” Saelbeneth said. “Let her speak.”
“You have said the Purge was a horror, but a necessary one.”
Vic glanced around the table, expecting nods or eyebrows raised in assent, but the Council remained still. Even Csichren and Darien gazed at Bethniel, unmoved.
“Yet the choices of our ancestors need not—I argue should not—bear upon our decisions now. I review this history only to ask, what if any with the Woern were missed? The histories tell us the Council’s enforcers roved across Knownearth and into the Unknown, going to every town, hamlet, and hermitage, testing everyone they found, from the youngest baby to the eldest grandparent, for the Woern. Everyone they found. But Victoria’s people have no records of these visits, so we know the Oreseekers were not tested. Among the Caleisbahnin, the First ordered every household to present for testing, but there is no way to know whether they all indeed went. And what of those who hid from the Council? Can you be sure not a single latent escaped the kill squads? Among the mountain folk in the Elgrion, the Relman nomads, the Semena herders, could there not have been some small band, or even one individual, who escaped notice? Perhaps some prospector in the Elgrion who, unaware she possessed latent Woern, would not even have known to fear the Council and would have gone about her business, unaware of the search, much less the danger. I ask you to consider this as a possibility.”
“I did not steal the Elixir, but I have the Woern,” Bethniel said.
“It is not uncommon for the Woern to take months to manifest,” Grunnaire said.
“I speak truth. I did not steal the Elixir. The Woern have always been within me.”
“You’re still an outlaw,” Tirnor said.
“As is Victoria,” Bethniel said. “And Meylnara.”
“Meylnara has been condemned.” Nelchior stood. “Victoria’s trial was recessed and never resumed.”
“Is it her reprieve you seek?” Saelbeneth asked.
“The Code of Wizardry bans wizards from passing the Woern to others. It bans wizards from conceiving or bearing children. It bans individuals without the Woern from obtaining it outside the sanction of the Council. The Code of Wizards does not condemn children born of wizards.”
Samovael said, “The law is clear: none may obtain the Woern without the sanction of the Council. We came to this land to defend that sacred principle, for which so many died two generations ago.”
“Being born with the Woern is the same as illegally obtaining the Elixir,” echoed Grunnaire.
Bethniel looked to Saelbeneth for permission to speak. Vic had to admire how she kept her cool, followed protocol, even when her own life was at stake. But then, she held her composure perhaps because her own life was at stake. “I bring the Council’s attention to Article Fourteen, Paragraph Eight: ‘No one may take the Elixir without the knowledge and approval of the Council of Wizards.’ The law uses the word ‘take’ but I was born with it; I did not take it.”
“That is a frivolous loophole,” Nelchior said. “One could argue you took it from your mother.”
“We came here,” Thabean said, “with the purpose of preventing Meylnara from establishing a haven for rogue wizards. That is our charter.”
“Ah, but we also agreed that Meylnara possesses the Woern illegally,” Nelchior purred. “That is the reason behind the purpose.”
“I would say it is the other way round,” interjected Murnoran. “We told ourselves that, so as to justify this war.”
“Do not let us begin questioning our purpose now,” Valdesh said. “I have always argued none should be tolerated who are not among the Council.” He looked pointedly at Vic, then nodded firmly at Nelchior.
“I will accept Lady Bethniel’s argument,” Nelchior said. “She is correct that there were many latents when the Council formed, and it would have been a near impossibility that some did not escape the Purge. Yet Meylnara is the only rogue we have seen in the last forty years, besides, of course, our own Victoria. But the emergence of Bethniel’s powers begs a question, one far more important to this Council: if she was indeed a latent, what triggered her Woern to become active?”
His words hung over the Council. As his colleagues frowned in consternation, Thabean maintained a cool half-smile, as if he had put on a mask before entering the room. Bethniel also betrayed no emotion at Nelchior’s question. Yet the room seemed suddenly cold.
“How did you activate the Woern?” Saelbeneth asked.
Vic held her breath. The Council leaned forward.
“I am uncertain,” Bethniel replied. “I fell out of a tree, and my Woern were active when I hit the ground.”
The Council members leaned back, dropping disappointed sighs. Thabean stood.
“I too have recently reviewed the Code on this and related matters. Article Fourteen, Paragraph Nine, states the following: ‘The Council shall consist of all living Wizards but at no time shall exceed the number Twelve.’ We have two wizards here not of this Council.”
Bethniel stared at him, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. A knot clogged Vic’s throat. Around the table, eyebrows rose.
Saelbeneth looked her age—a dozen or more years older than the rest. “What is your proposal, Thabean?”
He looked at each of his colleagues, his eyes resting on Vic, and then Bethniel. To Vic, his face was all hard angles, but his cheeks softened when he gazed at the princess, and Vic realized what he intended.
“Thabean, no.” She stood. “This is a time of war, and laws made to uphold peace are sometimes suspended. Meylnara and the Kragnashians would change history. They would establish a colony of wizards here, people who obtained the Woern without rule and without concern for the powerless. That would endanger you, your people, the world itself. But you have so far been unable to defeat her, even with all your soldiers and all your power put together. Then we came, and you allowed me to live so I might help you. Do not lose the advantage another wizard gives to your cause and of the unique knowledge of this world we hold,” she added, looking straight at Saelbeneth. “When Meylnara is dead, we will cooperate in returning the Council to the way it was.”
“‘At no time shall the number exceed Twelve,’” Thabean repeated. “I contend that Victoria and Bethniel both are meant to be here. Room on the Council should be made for them.”
“And who would you suggest retire?” Nelchior asked, his voice like cold acid.
“Darien has no power; she should step aside and allow Victoria to assume her place. I will step down for Bethniel.”
“What?” Saelbeneth cried. “Nonsense! Thabean, you are distracting this tribunal from its purpose. Bethniel is an unsanctioned wizard. There can be no doubt of that. The only question is how we shall deal with the matter.”
Fists on the table, he bowed his head. “I triggered the emergence of her power.”
Bethniel’s mouth hung open, her eyes stricken.
“I cannot permit this,” Saelbeneth whispered hoarsely.
The Council wizards exchanged glances grave, furious, disgusted. Samovael’s brows sank low, his mouth bent down. Nelchior rose, his fingers spread across the table. “I believe this warrants a full confession.”
Thabean glared at his rival, his expression more contrite as he faced the other wizards. “Bethniel had no idea of the consequences.” He took a breath. “I seduced her.”
“No!” Bethniel threw herself forward, eyes beseeching each of them. “I did know—I knew it was wrong, against your laws. I committed a crime as much as he. More than he—I . . . I knew I was a latent. It was my plan, and he was driven by the Woern, unable to stop himself. I wanted to bind him to me, I thought it would make Vic and myself safer, I—”
“Enough!” Saelbeneth’s eyes flashed. “The Law is clear on this point too—a wizard shall resist desire, or die. Bethniel, you were not a wizard until after the triggering event. Therefore, the Law does not apply to you.” The Council leader looked as if she wished it did. “Thabean Graystone, we have heard your confession and, as mandated by the Law, condemn you to death. Samovael and Grunnaire, execute the sentence.”
“I bequeath Lady Bethniel my family name and my place on the Council,” Thabean said as the two wizards escorted him to the center of the room. “Fainend has the papers.”
Nelchior’s glee evaporated. Saelbeneth signaled to Halbert, who took Bethniel’s elbow. “Join us at table, madam.”
“No, this can’t be.” Tears streaming, she beseeched Saelbeneth. “He is the best of you. You can’t do this.”
“We will. We must.”
Thabean nodded at Saelbeneth and the pair flanking him. Grunnaire’s lips curved into a sad smile. Samovael’s jaw was stretched in agony, his hands bent into claws. “I’m sorry it must be you, my friend,” Thabean said.
“Fucking bastard,” Samovael swore. “Fuck fucking fuck.”
“Sir,” Grunnaire admonished. “We have a duty.” She gripped Thabean’s arm.
Growling, Samovael seized the other arm. The trio shook, Thabean’s tremors elongating,
stretching into a violent thrumming until he shredded away to nothing.
Bethniel swallowed a scream. Vic stared at the empty air where Thabean had stood a moment before. No hero’s death like in the songs, awash in Kragnashian blood and glory. No great sacrifice to save the Kia. Just . . . gone. “That’s it?” she asked hollowly.
Grunnaire nodded and resumed her seat. Samovael stormed to his.
“This tribunal is over,” Saelbeneth announced. “Victoria, Bethniel, come with me.”
“Before we adjourn, I demand justice,” Samovael said through gritted teeth. “Victoria is a rogue and will also bear a child with the Woern. Thabean was the best of us. We cannot execute him and leave this woman alive.”
“Indeed,” echoed Nelchior.
Saelbeneth’s expression was thunderous. “Victoria is still under a reprieve. She will face the consequences of her actions in good time.”
“We no longer need her, madam, as you know.”
Not a breath sounded.
“What do I know?”
Vic’s eyes met Bethniel’s, and her sister’s anguish rent her heart. The Sacrifice was dead, and the Mind remained at risk.
Samovael replied, “You know that Meylnara has placed her essence into the forest, and to kill her, all we have to do is kill the trees.”
Gasps descended from the gallery.
“The old mothers,” Halbert exclaimed. “We cannot kill the forest!”
“There are no cerrenils here,” spat Nelchior.
“I am shocked, sir,” Halbert said. “You know well the Kia, and know it does not live in cerrenils alone. There are messernil and geilmors here; why could not the Kia be within them?”
Samovael recoiled. “Sir! This Council condemned the soul of the forest in 2023. Do not put yourself in contempt of that decree.”