Dedication
This book is dedicated to my daughters, Madelyn and Violet: find the steel inside you, my girls, and hone it well
Epigraph
There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow men.
True nobility lies in being superior to your former self.
—Ernest Hemingway
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1: Rude Awakening
Chapter 2: In the Army Now
Chapter 3: Earning Pay
Chapter 4: The Spoils
Chapter 5: Between the Living and the Dead
Chapter 6: Crimes of War
Chapter 7: In the Shadow of Sahand
Chapter 8: Dark Times
Chapter 9: On-the-Job Training
Chapter 10: The Jaws of Vengeance
Chapter 11: Tor Erdun
Chapter 12: Uphill Battle
Chapter 13: Backup Plan
Chapter 14: A Meeting of Esteemed Colleagues
Chapter 15: Frontal Assault
Chapter 16: Mind Games
Chapter 17: Children of a Schemer
Chapter 18: A Night of Knives
Chapter 19: Over the Top
Chapter 20: The Sack of Ayventry
Chapter 21: Myreon the Destroyer
Chapter 22: Beast at Bay
Chapter 23: Another Damsel, Another Tower
Chapter 24: Retreat
Chapter 25: Walled In
Chapter 26: Return to Freegate
Chapter 27: Into the Mountains
Chapter 28: Among the Ashes
Chapter 29: A Study in Misdirection
Chapter 30: The Scorpion’s Nature
Chapter 31: The Keeper of the Vale
Chapter 32: The Oracle
Chapter 33: The Lord of the Rings
Chapter 34: The Beast of Dunnmayre
Chapter 35: Working a Hunch
Chapter 36: The Crossing at Dunnmayre
Chapter 37: The Black College
Chapter 38: Blood in the Water
Chapter 39: Prince to Prince
Chapter 40: An Extra Set of Hands
Chapter 41: A Sense of Theatrics
Chapter 42: Desperation
Chapter 43: That Was Your Whole Plan?
Chapter 44: One Last Duel
Chapter 45: When the Walls Come Tumbling Down
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By Auston Habershaw
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
The Keeper of the Balance, Polimeux II, was a haggard old man with a hook nose and a bleary gaze perpetually fixed on some unknowable, distant horizon. Though he was fairly dripping with gilded amulets and precious stones and clad in thick robes of lush and vibrant purple, he had the look of a beggar mooching coppers down by the docks. This, as Xahlven understood it, was the way with Keepers. Once you achieved the fifth mark in the Chamber of Testing, you lost something of yourself. Some idiots claimed you gained some “higher understanding.” Xahlven was pretty sure the only thing that “higher understanding” did was make you lose your mind.
Of course, that never stopped the raggedy old nut from looking down his ridiculous nose at Xahlven. “You are late, young Xahlven.”
Xahlven, in point of fact, was not late. It just so happened that the other four archmagi had arrived earlier than he had. Still, he put on his best sheepish grin and genuflected to the Keeper on his towering dais at the center of the chamber. “My apologies, Keeper. Time runs differently in the Black College, it seems. I lost track.”
The Keeper’s displeasure quickly dissipated as his attention drifted to some distant eddy of time and space. Xahlven doubted the old goat had any memory of their brief exchange, and so he took the obsidian throne reserved for the Archmage of the Ether and waited for the opening ceremonies of the meeting to run their course.
The Chamber of Stars stood at the very heart of the Arcanostrum, at the very nexus of three of the world’s most powerful ley lines. It was, therefore, a place where the five great energies of existence—Ether, Lumen, Fey, Dweomer, and Astral—were in such vital abundance that they could be seen with the naked eye, pulsating through the walls along veins of precious metal long ago infused into the stones. The four quadrants of the rhomboid room each blazed with the character of their respective energies—Xahlven’s part, for instance, was dark and silent, with stagnant puddles forming upon the flagstones and long, unnatural shadows.
Sitting on that ancient throne, he could feel more power coursing through him than in any other place. It was a good thing, too—his mother’s hex was still there, draining away his power at all times, day and night. A week since his duel with her in the Empty Tower, and still he had found no way to remove it. He had often been tempted to try his luck here, with all the power of the Star Chamber at his command, but then his fellow archmagi would doubtlessly notice what he was doing, and he had no intention of showing them weakness.
On the floor of the chamber, between the central dais and the platforms of each archmage, Trevard, Lord Defender of the Balance—the technical archmage of the Astral—walked a circuit of the room, verifying with various auguries that each archmage was indeed who they said they were, and not some shrouded or shape-shifted impostor, simulacrum, or other such ruse. Trevard was a tall, thin man with a severe, humorless face, his forehead creased with frown lines that extended up beneath his mageglass helm. He spent an unusually long time peering at Xahlven, verifying his identity. There was a lot of banging his staff upon the ground and grunting on the Lord Defender’s part. Xahlven chose to ignore it.
When he had finished with each of the archmagi, Trevard banged his staff against the floor five times more. “The Great Cabal is complete, all are present. May the Balance prevail!”
The noise broke Polimeux from whatever stupor had transfixed his attention on his hands. “What? Yes . . . yes of course. What of Eretheria, my servants?”
Trevard started speaking almost before the Keeper had finished asking the question. “Necromancy! Necromancy used to field an army of the living dead! This cannot be tolerated!”
The Archmage of the Dweomer, Delkatar—the eldest archmage by far and a conservative relic—smoothed his knee-length beard with one hand. “A lost art, I assumed. Who has found it anew?”
“It has not been taught in the White College for centuries, of that I can assure you.” Talian, the Archmage of the Lumen, was looking directly at Xahlven from the opposite side of the chamber, her rose-colored spectacles glinting in the glow of her bright and shiny quadrant. “I am forced to assume there has been some kind of malfeasance.”
“I can’t imagine why you are looking at me that way, Talian,” Xahlven said. “I am as disturbed as the rest of you, and necromancy is a Lumenal art, remember?”
“Oh, it’s just hedge magic, is all.” Hugarth, Archmage of the Fey, hooked a knee over the armrest of his brass throne. “Who cares if somebody’s animated a few corpses?”
“I care!” Trevard said, banging his staff on the floor again. “This so-called ‘Gray Lady’ is a former Defender who—”
Hugarth laughed. “A former Defender, eh? Well, that sounds as though it’s one of those you problems, not a me problem.”
Xahlven did his best not to sneer at Hugarth—even if he was taking the position Xahlven wanted, there was just something so unseemly about an archmage who didn’t wear shoes. “Lord Defender,” he said softly, “the issue is not whether or not Myreon Alafarr has committed a crime—of that we are all agreed, yes?”
Delkatar banged his staff in approval. “That is sensible. This woman is the instigator of a popular revolt, but the revolt has already been instigated, yes? If we remove her now . . . well . . .”
“Chaos,” Xahlven confirmed. “We create a martyr—”
“You mean another martyr,” Talian broke in. She smiled sweetly at Xahlven. “The first one was your brother. Or . . . have you forgotten about him already?”
Xahlven barely suppressed a bark of rage. “Yes, yes—of course. Another martyr, very well—the point is that removing Alafarr won’t stop the uprising, it will merely rob it of its moderating influence. The woman wants to create a better, more stable Eretheria. I propose we let her try.”
Delkatar nodded while Talian looked pensive. Hugarth jerked his chin in Xahlven’s direction. “And just what are you getting out of this, boy?”
Carefully, carefully . . . “A stable Eretheria, Hugarth.”
“If she wins,” Delkatar said.
“And if she loses—then the old order will be restored.” Xahlven looked around at them all. “Let her continue, because win or lose, the war ends one way or another. Necromancy or no necromancy.”
“Necromancy is an abomination!” Trevard was livid, his nostrils flaring so wide a sparrow could conceivably get caught in one.
Xahlven couldn’t let that one go. “And firepikes aren’t? Colossi? Bladecrystals? War fiends? It seems the Lord Defender is perfectly satisfied with all the other sorcerous weapons we have permitted to propagate across the West, but when it comes to dead bodies holding spears, there the line is crossed?”
“Mind your manners, young man.” Delkatar had the temerity to waggle a finger in Xahlven’s direction, like he was some misbehaving nephew and not a fellow archmage. “It was your mother who brought us to this pass. Don’t go blaming Trevard for your own family’s misdeeds.”
“And do not presume to lecture me about my own family, Delkatar,” Xahlven said, keenly aware of how hot his temper was running. These . . . these idiots. These self-involved imbeciles! Gods, if there were only poison enough in the world to drown them all in it.
He closed his eyes and took a cleansing breath. Not yet. Not yet. His mother took thirty years to have her grand plot come to fruition; he could wait a few more months for his own. One step at a time, Xahlven. “Myreon Alafarr must remain in command of the rebel army she is massing in Eretheria. We cannot interfere without making the problem worse.”
“If she maintains an army of the living dead—” Trevard began.
“Then we can warn her—threaten her. By all means we can encourage her to stop using proscribed sorcery. I am not suggesting otherwise.” Indeed, Xahlven thought, I very much want you to do so, you inflexible old battle-axe.
Trevard looked up at Xahlven, thinking the suggestion over. “You know the woman. How would she react to such a threat?”
“She will not wish to anger Saldor—her rebellion cannot confront another enemy.” This was not precisely a lie. But neither was it entirely true. Myreon will do exactly what she feels she must, threats or no threats.
Silence fell over the chamber as everyone mulled this over. Xahlven steepled his fingers beneath his chin. This was the moment he had been scrying for some time—what happened now would alter how his plans would unfold from this moment forward. No doubt his fellow archmagi, too, had scryed this. Manipulating them was the most delicate of arts, stupid though they were. It had taken him only a week as archmage to realize how much he hated them all, but it had taken him almost ten years of constant, painstaking plotting to bring them to this juncture. That they suspected nothing he felt was proof positive of his genius. Now the fools mulled over the time of their own deaths, and it was all Xahlven could do to keep from grinning.
Talian spoke first. “Agreed. As much as I dislike it, Xahlven is correct. Trevard should send her a warning, but we should take no direct action unless she escalates things.”
Delkatar agreed as well, and Hugarth shrugged his shoulders and said he couldn’t give a damn either way. It fell to Trevard. “I will make preparations to field an army of Defenders at short notice, just in case, but . . . but I am reluctantly forced to agree with the Archmage of the Ether.”
Xahlven gave Trevard a shallow bow out of respect. The old battle-mage returned the gesture reflexively and grinned. Xahlven had seen that grin in his scrying pool before—he knew now what happened next, and knew it better than any other person in that hall. With that grin, Trevard had sealed his fate. Xahlven’s plot could never be stopped now. Not by Trevard, nor by any other archmage.
For the first time in years, he saw a clear, unbroken path to victory—to an end of the perverse order of the world as fashioned by his mother and a beginning of a new era of his own devising. The board had been cleared of all obstacles—his mother, awaiting her death in Sahand’s tallest tower, his brother dead and on the bottom of a lake, and Myreon Alafarr embroiled in a war she could never hope to win. No matter how his mother’s hex drained his power, Xahlven couldn’t help but smile.
The Keeper of the Balance, Polimeux II—the most powerful mage in the world—wiped a string of drool from his face with a silk handkerchief. “What of Eretheria, my servants?”
“Never fear, Keeper,” Xahlven said. “Everything is well in hand.”
Chapter 1
Rude Awakening
Tyvian awoke with a gasp and then he kept gasping, gulping down air as though he hadn’t breathed in days. He was struggling—something was grabbing him, holding him down. He kicked and thrashed and then coarse wool was thrown over his head and it was dark. He tried to scream, but his voice barely seemed to creak.
He fell out of the bed and thumped his face on a dirt floor. He was covered in a wool blanket, which had been pushed up over his head by his struggles. He lay there for a moment, collecting his wits, letting his breathing calm. I’m alive, he thought. The ring brought me back. He felt it on his right hand—cold, hard, immovable. Hard to imagine so much power packed in so plain an iron band.
The plan worked!
He was lying in a barn. There were no animals present and the big doors were pulled closed. Sunbeams through the windows lit the dust and motes of hay in the air, cutting diagonally across the big, empty room—it was either early morning or evening, then. The place smelled of horse manure and a hundred different kinds of dander. His bed was something makeshift—a couple of sacks stuffed with dirt laid atop a few small crates. A little cook fire was going, the smoke rising up above the hayloft and then out the vent near the barn’s roof. Tyvian frowned at it. An open fire in a barn was a bad idea, unless . . .
The door slid open a few inches—enough for a big man with a sword on his back to slip through sideways. He was clad in black mail and had a shaggy mane of black hair striped with gray. When he turned to face Tyvian, he could see that the man had been growing his beard out again. “Well met, Eddereon.”
Eddereon smiled, showing his uneven teeth. “Back with us at last, eh? I was beginning to wonder.”
“Has it been two weeks?” Tyvian pulled himself atop the makeshift bed. It was now that he noted what he was wearing—a loose shirt, brown and stained, and a pair of green hose patched at the knees and toes. He nearly gagged.
“Those clothes were the best I could find—you’d better plan on keeping them.” Eddereon rubbed his beard and squatted next to the fire. “It’s been about twelve days since the Battle of Eretheria, which is what they’re calling it. How did you know it had been—”
“Your beard,” Tyvian said offhandedly as he inspected himself. The wounds were all there, barely scabbed over—each place Xahlven’s simulacra had run him through. He felt the tightness of healing skin around each of them. They’d probably scar. “Who won the battle?”
“The White Army?”
“Myreon,” Eddereon said. He pulled out the spoon and licked it. “Hmph . . . I’ve grown too used to pepper.”
Tyvian rubbed his temples, only to discover that he had no hair. Someone had shaved his head. “What . . . what the hell?”
Eddereon chuckled. “I know you went to a lot of trouble to fake your death, but not everyone believed it. Red hair is likely to stick out.”
Tyvian closed his eyes and took a good, long breath. It was the right play. It made sense. But he still felt naked. His goatee, at least, was intact, if a bit ragged. “The Free Houses?”
“The war is shaping up like this: the White Army is putting any noble to the sword who doesn’t join the cause and renounce their titles. Turns out this is very popular among the peasantry, who flock to the Gray Lady’s banners. House Davram is likely to march on the capital, or is doing so right now—battle is in the wind. Ayventry is under the control of Sahand. That leaves Camis, Vora, and Hadda, all of whom are biding their time to see how Davram fares. Until then, they’re the ‘Free Houses.’”
“It didn’t work, then. My death didn’t unify them against Sahand.”
Eddereon shrugged. “I have never been very good at politics. It seems to me, though, that if Myreon defeats Davram in the field, the western part of the country will stay at peace—Camis and Vora seem unlikely to get involved, and Hadda will stay neutral until a winner seems clear. That just leaves Sahand.”
“Half a war is still a war. And Sahand is better at it than Myreon is.”
Eddereon spooned out a brown-black stew of beans and some kind of game meat into a wooden bowl and shoved it in Tyvian’s hands. “Begging your pardon, but none of that is your concern any longer, correct? That man—Tyvian Reldamar—he’s dead. You’re somebody else now.”
The Far Far Better Thing Page 1
