The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  “Oh. Lucky him.” Tyvian buried his face in the nape of Voth’s neck. The ring twinged, concerned for Artus, but Tyvian ignored it. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

  Chapter 14

  A Meeting of Esteemed Colleagues

  The problems the White Army faced became evident even before they moved through the pass. Myreon bent over travel-worn campaign maps and argued with Barth and Valen and Artus and even Lady Michelle while their soldiers hiked up the winding trail that led up through the mountains and then down again. The whole process, Barth guessed, would take them two days. In three, they’d be mustered on the other side and ready to march on Ayventry—a straight shot down the Freegate Road over relatively flat ground.

  The initial euphoria over their victory had worn off quickly in the command tent. First there were the arguments over who should garrison Tor Erdun—Valen wanted one of his surviving knights, Barth wanted one of his guilder friends. Then there were the arguments about what to do with the prisoners—kill them, let them go, or keep them hostage, there was no answer that satisfied everyone. Necessity and basic decency told Myreon that they should just be set loose, but she also knew what that meant—hundreds of people preceding their army into Ayventry, telling everyone they saw about the White Army, its size, disposition, and weaknesses.

  And Sahand was out there, waiting. Myreon knew it. Ayventry was a trap.

  “When we come down out of these mountains,” Myreon said at last, weary from argument, “we are going to be weakened by casualties, short good officers we cannot spare, and preciously low on food. Meanwhile, Sahand’s men are rested, disciplined, aware of our disposition and movements, and sitting on a mountain of supplies stolen from every village and hamlet from here back to Eretheria City, not to mention the support of Ayventry itself, who we have now terrified right into Sahand’s arms.”

  A heavy quiet drew out.

  “So”—Myreon slumped into a chair—“they have all the advantages here. We have none. Suggestions?”

  Silence drew out. Valen was wearing his arm in a sling, the shrapnel wound in his arm still healing. Artus was singed all over to the point where he looked like he had fallen asleep in an oven. Barth’s face was a storm cloud of anger and frustration, and his big, knobby hands were busy strangling the life out of his own war-hammer. They were all on edge, and there was still at least one more battle to go.

  Michelle looked around at each of them, her slender frame like a reed among the tree trunk men. She curtsied, looking at Myreon and blushing.

  Myreon put her chin in her hand. “Yes, Michelle?”

  “I realize this probably sounds obvious to you all, but . . .” Michelle paused.

  Myreon snapped her fingers. “Out with it, girl!”

  “Couldn’t we just use some kind of, you know, magic?”

  Silence. All eyes turned to Myreon where she sat, head in hand. She closed her eyes. There it is. “You’re aware that Saldor has laws against that kind of magic, yes?”

  Michelle nodded, still blushing. “But the last time somebody defeated Sahand, they used that kind of magic.”

  “That was different. That was Saldor itself using battlefield-scale magic. I’m pushing things with the White Guard as it is. The Defenders have been very specific about the consequences should I go any further than I’ve already gone.”

  “Begging your pardon, Magus, but . . . so what?”

  Artus was beaming at her. “My lady has a point, Myreon. We can’t lose now. Too much is riding on it.”

  “You don’t know what you are all asking.”

  “Indeed we do not, Magus,” Valen said. “But . . . as we have no other options . . .”

  “There must be other options.”

  Barth eyed the White Guard, standing stone-still in the shadowed recesses of the room. “I’m no great lover of sorcery, Magus, but you’ve already raised the dead to fight with us. How much worse could it get?”

  Myreon pressed her lips together, but held her tongue. That was the statement of an uneducated man. Looking around, she realized she was surrounded by the uneducated—Valen was the closest one got, and his knowledge probably didn’t extend much beyond Eretherian history and heraldry. But she knew. Lyrelle Reldamar, when she pushed the late Keeper Astrian X to sanction greater use of sorcery on the battlefield, had changed the whole world. She had made it more dangerous. No more than a century ago, magecraft was rare and the common people had little knowledge of it. This, of course, was a tool used by the wealthy to cement their control over the poor—an injustice—but indulging in the kind of sorcerous warfare her advisors were suggesting . . . that was something else. That led to very dark places. Androlli—and the Defenders—were right.

  Artus put a hand on her shoulder. “Myreon, we trust you. I trust you. You’ve led the people to victory three times now—I know you won’t let us down.”

  Myreon looked up at him. Where in all the hells had this man come from? This handsome, tall, strong man with a gleam in his eye and a voice warm as sunshine? Wasn’t this Artus—that boy that always hung around Tyvian Reldamar? And yet here she was, getting swept up in that same magic that seemed to afflict everybody in this army when he spoke to them. How in the names of all the gods does he do that?

  Myreon knew, of anybody there, Artus would understand. She put her hand over his and looked him in the eye. “It means going to the League, Artus. Do you really want me to involve them?”

  Artus shrugged. “It’s either that or we all get slaughtered by Sahand. Barth’s right—how much worse can it get? It can’t hurt to ask, can it?”

  Myreon nodded and dismissed everyone to their duties. Then she put her face in her hands. Oh, it could hurt to ask, all right.

  But she was going to have to ask anyway.

  Being a secretive organization, the League was obsessed with security. Most communication was done via the untraceable correspondence of the network of enchanted letterboxes—one of which was left in Myreon’s possession after the disappearance of the old blind necromancer. The magecraft was sufficiently sophisticated that she had only a basic sense of how they worked—they operated on the same principle as an anygate, except much smaller and easier to use. Correspondence, however, had its limits. Everyone dealt in pseudonyms, for one thing, and it was difficult to know who one was corresponding with. As Banric Sahand was evidently a member of the League (or at least was), Myreon had no way of knowing whether her letters were being read by the enemy. She had to presume they were or at least could be, which meant her requests for aid had to be very carefully worded.

  It wouldn’t be the first time, though, for this was how she had acquired the formula to create the linking stone. She had written certain members of the League she “knew,” courtesy of her letterbox’s previous owner, whom his “esteemed colleagues” referred to as “Requiem,” and asked certain oblique questions regarding how to best continue Requiem’s work in the field. If Sahand had intercepted that one, it was no giant secret what she was doing with a linking stone and, if Sahand hadn’t, it would take some doing for somebody to figure out what exactly her intent was. Or so she hoped, at least.

  If she wanted to acquire more help than the occasional spell formula, however—if she wanted large-scale military support, for instance—correspondence simply wasn’t secure enough. Any number of League members might forward her letters to any number of others (though they would have to be copies, as no letter could be sent through the letterbox twice), and it did not stretch the imagination to see Banric Sahand, sitting in some forbidding chair, reading her requests with a grin.

  So Myreon decided to write the Chairman to request an in-person meeting.

  The League had three officers who loosely managed the complex web of independent and rogue sorcerers comprising the organization. The Secretary was in charge of informational security—policing the letterbox network, specifically, and supposedly also spying on members who were out of line. The Treasurer maintained the League’s physica
l assets, which evidently included a number of hidden laboratories, safe houses, and various stashes of money. Last, the Chairman was the steward of the Black Hall—the semi-real pocket world where League meetings took place—and was also in charge of disciplining erratic members or assigning members to assist in various group efforts. As both the Treasurer and the Secretary ultimately reported to the Chairman, he was the de facto ruler of the League, if indeed something that decentralized could be ruled.

  Surprisingly, he quickly agreed to Myreon’s request for a meeting. So it was that Myreon found herself in the Black Hall for the first time.

  The structure of the place was fascinating—a thirteen-sided hall, terraced, descending to a black pool, still as death, known as the Well of Secrets. Tyvian had told her about it once (and its limitations in actually detecting the truth) in a long and winding story he had found knee-slappingly hilarious. Now that she was actually here in the flesh, Myreon felt cold and terrified.

  Via convention, she was wearing a shroud to disguise her face. She made herself look like a stern old woman—a governess type—with a tall silver wig that spilled down to her midback. She took care to lean on her staff a bit, just to complete the illusion. This proved a fortunate precaution, as she was not, evidently, the Chairman’s only meeting for the day.

  At the top of the terraced hall, she could see the Chairman—who appeared to be Rhondian man with sun-baked skin and lesions all over his face—in conference with a completely unshrouded Banric Sahand. The Mad Prince looked up as she entered and, for a moment, Myreon wondered if perhaps somebody had adopted a shroud of Sahand as some kind of joke, but Sahand’s recently ruined face and hard eyes would be subtle details for anyone but someone close to the prince to miss. When he spoke, any doubts Myreon still had were dispelled. She would know his voice anywhere. “Very well then—I see you have another meeting. I will depart. Send me the names when you have them.”

  Then the Mad Prince turned and left, heading out the opposite side of the Hall. Myreon shivered.

  The Chairman looked up at her. Even at this distance, she could see that his eyes were icy blue and piercing—an odd match for his Rhondian face. “Welcome to the Black Hall, my esteemed colleague.”

  Myreon didn’t know what the etiquette was here, or even if there was an etiquette, so she opted for a polite nod. “I’m pleased to be here.”

  The Well of Secrets flickered with the lie, but the Chairman only smiled. “Everyone is unsettled during their first visit. Please, come closer.” He waved Myreon down the terraces until she stood across the well from him. Despite herself, Myreon found herself squinting at his face. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on what. “Was that Banric Sahand?”

  The Chairman sighed. “Though I would ordinarily decline to comment on the identity of any one of our members, the Prince of Dellor makes a point of scoffing at our security procedures.”

  Myreon couldn’t help but ask, “What did he want?”

  “If he were to ask me the same question of you, would you like me to answer?”

  Myreon pursed her lips and nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “Now, what can I do for you?” The Chairman asked.

  Myreon grimaced. “First I need to know to what extent I can trust you.”

  “You can trust me to the extent that you can trust anyone, I suppose.”

  “That’s dodging the question.” Myreon pointed at the Well of Secrets. “Don’t think I don’t know how this thing works. Answer me.”

  The Chairman smiled. “Good. Good—that’s a good instinct. I like it. Very well, I will rephrase my answer: you can trust me to help you as long as our goals coincide. How does that suit you?”

  Myreon looked at the well—nothing—but still not enough. “And your goals are?”

  The Chairman cocked his head for a moment, considering something. Finally, he sighed. “The destruction of the Arcanostrum and the political structures that support it.”

  No glimmers from the black water. It was the truth, if a frightening one. “That’s . . . ambitious.”

  “No less ambitious than your own quest to upend all of Eretherian society, I would say.” He waved away Myreon’s look of surprise. “Now, now—don’t be alarmed. You can’t expect to lead the first army of undead soldiers in over sixteen hundred years and maintain anonymity for long. Everyone in the League knows of the Gray Lady. You are quite popular. In many ways, your current quest is in keeping with the ancient purpose of this League. You and it are both devoted to the idea that people are best at liberty to pursue what they will, without a tyrant choking them at every turn.”

  Myreon narrowed her eyes—an evasion. “And what are you devoted to?”

  “I have already told you. Come now, surely you didn’t come here just to pump me for information. Have I adequately satisfied you that I am an ally, or do you wish to depart?”

  “Do you give your word that you will not share information about me or my plans with Sahand?”

  “I have no intention of doing so, no.”

  The waters were still and dark—not a lie. Myreon took an easy breath. “I need battlefield-grade sorcery. Something to give the White Army an edge against Sahand.” She explained the strategic dilemma she was facing, all the while trying not to give away too much. Well or no well, she didn’t trust this man.

  There was something about him, even behind his shroud, that she found too dreadfully familiar. Was he someone she had arrested at one point? She tried to remember the voices and mannerisms of all the rogue wizards she’d caught during her career as a Defender and their sentences. The list of persons who had already served their term of years in Saldor’s penitentiary gardens was short, and none of them fit. They were dabblers and mischief makers, not arch-sorcerers in control of international conspiracies.

  When she had finished, the Chairman rubbed his chin. “Hmmmm . . . I may have something for you—something that could settle a battle quite quickly and very much put Sahand’s armies on their back foot.”

  “What is it?”

  “I should stress that it is extraordinarily dangerous.” The Chairman looked her in the eye. “It should not be used lightly, if at all. Its effects are likely very . . . thorough.”

  Myreon held his gaze. Something about those eyes . . . so familiar.

  The Chairman looked away, gazing deeply into the Well of Secrets. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the Seeking Dark?”

  An involuntary chill travelled up Myreon’s spine. “The Bane of Vorn the Terrible. The superweapon that ended the Third Mage War and saw the end of the last Warlock Kings. Gods—you have that?”

  “No, we do not,” the Chairman replied, “but the League knows where it is—a small part of it, at any rate—and I know how you can get that part.”

  Myreon felt cold. The Seeking Dark had, according to legend, killed an entire kingdom’s worth of people in a single night. How was not clear—every sorcerous text Myreon had ever read or heard of had refused to even speculate. It was held up as the perfect example of why the Arcanostrum existed and what the Defenders existed to stop—sorcery of such terrible potency that it was unstoppable, uncontrollable, and cataclysmically fatal. She could scarcely believe that the Chairman was offering it to her—and yet the Well had remained dark. He was telling the truth.

  Her voice was breathless. “And . . . in exchange?”

  “You will give it to the League when you are done.” He didn’t say “for study.” He didn’t say “for safekeeping,” either. He intends to use it.

  “Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t,” she said, backing away from the well.

  The Chairman shrugged. “You may, of course, continue your pursuit of justice in your own way. The historians agree on one thing, however: a quick war is always preferable to a long one.”

  Myreon’s mind leapt to the dead little boy in the village, facedown in the dirt. To Barth’s tears. To Erdun town, burned to ashes. How many more towns will it be?
And what of Ayventry—a whole city! She forced herself to stand tall. “Where is it?”

  “At the ancestral estate of the Reldamars—Glamourvine.” The Chairman smiled.

  It was the smile that did it. The smile and those eyes—she’d seen that look before, or a version of it, on Tyvian’s face a thousand times. But this wasn’t Tyvian.

  Xahlven Reldamar was Chairman of the Sorcerous League.

  And he wanted her to break into his own house.

  Myreon’s whole body erupted in goose bumps, but she kept her voice steady. “When do we leave?”

  The Chairman—Xahlven—motioned to one of the thirteen doors to the Black Hall. “Right now.”

  Chapter 15

  Frontal Assault

  The Great Whiteflood—the longest river in the world, stretching from Dellor in the north to Eddon in the far southwest—was still and flat and the color of slate on a cloudy day. It looked cold and vast and forbidding. Hool paused on its banks, feeling a shiver travel up her spine. “We have to get across.”

  Damon sat down next to her, his feet dangling over the embankment. He was panting. It occurred to Hool that she had been running for the past several minutes, and that Damon had actually managed to keep up for a short way. He was getting in better shape.

  He looked worse, though. He wore a cloak of beaver pelts now, with a deep hood; his good boots were worn and patched, and all vestiges of the clean, perfumed knight she had known in Eretheria had been scrubbed away by the harsh expanse of the Wild Territories they had just crossed in two weeks of hard travel. “Might we . . .” He struggled to catch his breath. “Might we pause for a moment to put together a feasible plan?”

  Hool put her ears back—he was just saying this because he was tired. “No. We go on.”

  There, across the three-mile expanse of the Whiteflood, rested the city of Dellor and its infamous Citadel. It was the biggest single structure Hool had ever seen—almost like a city in itself. No, not a city. It was too solid—almost like some giant made of stone had laid itself down to sleep and then frozen there. The walls and the turrets presented themselves at angled intervals, like the teeth of a sleeping beast. Its high towers flew Sahand’s banners. Somewhere—somewhere within there—the object of her hatred rested, thinking himself safe. She was going to show him how wrong he was.