The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  Except maybe Argus Androlli.

  “Good morning, Argus,” she said one day as he came to the palanquin to deliver a report. He had come before, of course, and he had always said hello to her—he was gracious that way—but her decision to initiate the contact instantly put a wary expression on the Mage Defender’s face.

  He gave her a half bow. “Myreon. I trust you are well.”

  She held up the casterlocks. “I’d like to get these off, to be honest.”

  “We all bear our burdens, eh?”

  “I’d like to speak with you before you leave. Will you?” she asked.

  Androlli gazed around at the guards, the palanquin, and the vastness of the barren plains around them before answering. “Why?”

  “There’s something I think you should know.”

  Androlli pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Anything you tell me will be conveyed to the Lord Defender immediately. You know this, correct?”

  Myreon gave him her sweetest smile. “The Lord Defender won’t listen to me, Argus. Maybe you will.”

  Androlli didn’t answer her. He went into the tent where Trevard was poring over a map of mostly blank space that ran between Galaspin and Dellor. After he’d delivered his report, he left without so much as looking at her. This was expected—Myreon had planted the seed. Androlli was a climber—ambitious, confident, ever eager. The fact that he might get a piece of intelligence Trevard had overlooked was a delicious prospect that he would be unable to deny, but it wouldn’t happen overnight. It would take time. Chained to her post on the big floating palanquin, Myreon knew that time was one of her only assets at the moment.

  To keep up appearances for Xahlven, Myreon kept trying to draw Trevard into conversation or catch his eye as he was surveying the troops. Her efforts only repelled the Lord Defender. If what she had to say had nothing to do with the sorcerous weapon that had destroyed Ayventry, he didn’t want to hear it. “I am not your judge, woman,” he had snapped once, slapping a table. “Save your bargaining for them.”

  Xahlven was almost impossible to read, but Myreon hoped it was enough to throw him off the scent. She was under his power; he didn’t have anything to fear. That was how he liked it, so why should he worry? Besides, even if he did suspect something, what could he say? Who could he warn? She was a criminal—of course she was up to no good.

  Still, she could not sleep. In her tiny tent at the back of the palanquin, the casterlocks digging into her fingers and the shackles biting her ankles, she lay on a thin pallet of straw and stared into the utter darkness, dreaming of all the terrible fates that might befall her—and everyone else—if she failed.

  It was going to be another long night.

  “Myreon!” someone whispered from outside the foot of her tent. It was Androlli.

  Myreon rolled onto her front and pushed herself up on her elbows. She returned his whisper. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “I’m working a hunch,” Androlli said, waving his hand. The shackles around her ankles fell off.

  Myreon hadn’t expected this—she hoped Xahlven hadn’t either. She shuffled out of the tent and Androlli—disguised as a Defender-at-arms—took her by the elbow and led her down off the palanquin and a short distance to an empty tent. It had a smooth floor and all the equipment needed for a wide variety of sorcerous rituals. One of them was already in action—an anti-scrying circle, glowing faintly around the edge. Myreon took care to step over it.

  Once inside, Androlli took a peek through the flap and then sealed it behind them. “We can talk freely now.”

  Myreon looked at the circle and recalled Lyrelle’s comment about scrying not being the only means to collect intelligence. “Ward against eavesdropping, too. Just in case.”

  Androlli nodded and then altered a few of the runes in the veta. The world beyond the tent—the quiet bustle of an army camp, even in the middle of the night—vanished. The silence seemed to envelop them.

  Androlli produced a smooth white crystal ball—it would record everything said. “Now, what is it you need to tell me?”

  Myreon assumed that Xahlven would find out what was on that ball—it seemed safest. She was, on some level, performing. Putting on an act. “First I need some assurances.”

  “Don’t toy with me, Myreon. I’m taking enough risks even doing this. What is it you can’t say to Trevard? Out with it!”

  Myreon shuffled her weight around on her feet to make her look nervous. Hell, she was nervous. “Trevard won’t listen to me, and I don’t trust Xahlven.”

  Androlli rolled his eyes. “Gods, Myreon—Xahlven Reldamar is the only decent Reldamar in the damned family. I trust him more than I trust you, that’s for certain. Is that what all this caution is about?”

  “No!” Myreon said, holding her casterlocks against his arm as though tugging on his sleeve. “No, it isn’t—it isn’t at all!”

  Androlli frowned at her display of fear. He looked concerned. Good.

  She pressed on, shaking her immobilized hands above her head. “Argus, I can’t go back into stone. I . . . I just can’t, all right? Before we start, I want assurances that what I tell you won’t count against me in court.”

  The Mage Defender looked her in the eye and spoke softly. “Myreon, you toppled a government. You escaped imprisonment. You used bloody necromancy in war. How much worse can this get?”

  Myreon licked her lips. “I’m a member of the Sorcerous League.”

  Androlli stared at her. She knew that look—he was deciding whether to believe her or not.

  “I can prove it. The necromancer beneath Eretheria—he inducted me.”

  A moment of silence was all it took before Androlli made his decision. He spoke carefully, as though she might misunderstand something. “Names, Myreon. Get me the names and whereabouts of members. This could go a long way to alleviating your sentence.”

  Myreon tried to summon up some tears, just to make it stick, but couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, she made her voice tremble. “I . . . I can’t. Everyone uses aliases, shrouds—it’s a cell-structured organization. Nobody knows more than one or two other members.”

  “Do you even hear yourself? Myreon, you sound like any dozen other crazed hedge witches we drag in every year. They all say things like that, and there isn’t damned scrap of evidence they can produce.”

  “They aren’t trained sorcerers—I am. I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  Myreon took a deep breath. Here it goes. “I know where they meet. You need to perform a ritual to get there. It isn’t complicated, but it’s time-consuming. Ether-and Astral-based, you know?”

  Androlli scratched his chin, no doubt considering the implications for his career. “All right—teach it to me.”

  “And then let you cast me aside while you steal all the credit?” Myreon snorted. “Fat chance. I’m going to show it to you, and then you and I are going to go tell Trevard together.”

  Androlli chewed it over for a moment. Myreon knew what the answer would be, though—maybe just enough to erase the stains Tyvian Reldamar had put on his record and secure a good posting after this little war was over. Maybe. “Fine,” he said. “Deal.”

  She held up her casterlocks. “Take these off, then, and we’ll get started.”

  Androlli shook a finger at her. “Nothing funny, Myreon. You’ll never make it out of this camp alive if you try something.”

  Myreon gave him an innocent grin. “Me? Try something? You must have me confused with a Reldamar, Argus.” She shook her casterlocks at him. “Let’s go—this thing takes hours.”

  They came off. Her fingers trembled and ached, but Myreon was able to go through marking out the veta that would take them into the Black Hall, even if it took an hour or so longer than usual.

  Androlli watched her carefully, seeking to follow the complex forms and straining to eavesdrop on her recitations. Myreon was pleased at the looks of frustration that crossed his face—though a competent
investigator and interrogator, Androlli had never been an especially talented theorist. His sorcerous style was functional and direct—the kind of thing Trevard encouraged in his magi. Lyrelle Reldamar’s influence had made Myreon something different—had given her the edge she needed to get ahead . . .

  Only so men like Androlli could abandon her when it was politically convenient.

  The thought filled her belly with bile—it was an Etheric thought, probably encouraged by the ritual. No matter. It was true, anyway. It was important to keep things in perspective—Androlli was no friend, even if he had been, once. She was using him. Just like he hoped to use her. That was what life was like—user and used, the exploiter and the exploited.

  Another Etheric thought. Myreon pressed on.

  When the ritual was complete, it was nearing dawn. Myreon knew her absence from her “cell” would be noticed within the hour. She desperately hoped that, within the hour, she would be beyond anyone’s reach. “There,” she said, standing up and wringing her hands.

  The runes of the veta darkened, seeming to drag all the light from the pavilion. Androlli gripped his staff tightly, ready to bind Myreon if she made a move. She simply stood there and let the ritual overcome her. Soon, the darkness was all around, obliterating any sense of place or sign of their location.

  Androlli pulled a shard of illumite from one of his uniform’s pockets, but it was dark. “Dammit—what is this place?”

  “A pocket world—on the edge between the material plane and the Ethereal.” Myreon stepped forward and offered her hand to Androlli. “Come on.”

  Androlli followed her, squinting into the dark. As they walked, details began to solidify—walls of pure shadow, a floor of dusky flagstones, an arch of midnight black. She whispered to him, “This passage goes to the main hall and will lead us back to where we came from. I don’t know if anyone else is here, so be quiet.”

  Androlli nodded, sliding down the visor to his mirrored helm. “If there is, I’ll take care of them. Just stay behind me.”

  Myreon rolled her eyes. Typical Rhondian chivalry.

  She led him into the Black Hall. It was empty, as she had hoped. Thirteen terraces leading down to the ink-black Well of Secrets, and not a rogue mage present for Androlli to duel. The Mage Defender pointed at the Well. “What is that?”

  “An artifact of fairly incredible design—it’s called the Well of Secrets. It detects lies. I’m fairly certain it is the primary reason this place exists.”

  Androlli gaped up at the semi-real architecture as they walked down the stairs toward the center. “The League . . . built this?”

  “I don’t know—maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. I have no idea how old the League is, but I get the sense they’ve been around for a long, long time. For all I know, this was a courtroom used by Rahdnost the Undying that they somehow inherited.”

  He looked at her as if she was crazy, but she just shrugged.

  When they arrived at the center of the hall, Androlli examined the Well in detail with a few auguries. All the Lumenal ones he attempted failed. “I can’t tell how this is supposed to work.”

  Myreon walked to the opposite side of the Well. “If you lie, a light shines from the depths. That’s all I know. Here—tell me a lie.”

  Androlli looked at her. “I trust you completely.”

  The dark, still liquid in the well glimmered for a brief moment, as though a white flare had been cast into its depths. Androlli slid back his visor. “Impressive.”

  Myreon fixed him with a hard stare. “Are you in Xahlven Reldamar’s employ or otherwise under his direct influence?”

  Androlli blinked. “What? No. Why would I be?”

  The waters of the well remained still and dark. Myreon exhaled. “Do you accept that this thing works?”

  Androlli looked at the Well and then back at Myreon. “I . . . suppose it does. It seems to. What’s this all about?”

  “Argus, I need you to listen closely to what I say: Xahlven Reldamar is the Chairman of the Sorcerous League.”

  Androlli snorted. “What?”

  Myreon pointed at the Well. “Did it glimmer? Did it shine?”

  “Well . . . no, but—”

  “Xahlven Reldamar is planning to topple the Arcanostrum and the current world order. I very much suspect that the army of Saldor is walking into a trap and that the Arcanostrum is in grave danger.”

  “Myreon, that’s ridiculous. Even if you believe it, you can’t expect me to—”

  “That’s not the issue, Argus—the issue is whether or not I lied.” Myreon looked him in the eye. “Did I? Did I lie?”

  “I suppose not.” Androlli sighed. “But you could be insane.”

  “I could be. But there also could be evidence I’m right that we—you and I—could go and collect right now.”

  “Where?”

  Myreon licked her lips. “Xahlven’s private offices in the Black College.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  Myreon nodded. “I most certainly am. It’s the most secure place I can think of. No one but a former archmage has access to that place, and what just happened to that former archmage, eh?”

  “You’re asking me to commit treason.”

  “Magi can’t commit treason, Argus—we recognize no king, remember? Xahlven is not our ruler—not once we attain our staff. That is the most basic principle of the Arcanostrum—it’s the first damned thing they teach you.”

  “That still doesn’t mean we can go breaking into an archmage’s office without consequences!”

  Myreon took a deep breath. “Argus, I can’t do this without you. If you only knew the . . . the terrible things Xahlven is responsible for. If you only knew what he’s done, you’d understand.”

  “Then tell me!” Androlli spread his arms. “I’m here—I’m listening!”

  Myreon pursed her lips—she couldn’t tell him about the Creeping Dark. How could she tell him what she’d done? He’d never believe her when she said Xahlven made her do it. She scarcely could believe it herself. “I’ll make you a deal, Argus—if I’m right, and we find the evidence we’re looking for, you get to be a hero, but I get a pardon. But if I’m wrong, you get to be the one who apprehends me and I get turned into a statue for a long, long time. It’s win-win—you can’t get a better deal than that.”

  Androlli frowned. “This will be very dangerous.”

  “You found me among a pile of skeletons in a dead city—you think I care about danger?” Myreon could tell Androlli was debating with himself. She could tell by the way he kept tightening and relaxing his grip on his staff. On the one hand, he could just turn her in now and get plenty of credit. On the other, though—saving the whole Arcanostrum would make him famous. He’d be a shoo-in for Master, maybe even manage to sit in the Lord Defender’s seat someday. “Argus—this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Don’t play it safe for once.”

  Androlli smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the permanent gloom of the Black Hall. “You always were the crazy one.” He extended his hand. “I’m in. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 36

  The Crossing at Dunnmayre

  Trevard, Lord Defender of the Balance, was explaining strategic concerns as if he, a glorified constable, understood them. Xahlven was nodding along, pretending that what Trevard said was revelatory and not plainly obvious to any fool with a map.

  “Here,” Trevard tapped the worn old map of Dellor—the most recent one they had. Not a lot of cartographers jaunting about the area, it seemed. “The main problem with laying siege to the Citadel of Dellor is crossing the Whiteflood, which is several miles wide. There is a ferry at Dunnmayre—a small trading outpost at the edge of the forest. If we can sneak a small raiding party across the river incognito, we can ambush the mercenary garrison and take control. The army can then be ferried over.”

  It was fiendishly difficult not to look bored. Xahlven nodded and stroked his goatee. “Clever. What do your augurs say?”

  Tr
evard stood at attention before his map, arms folded behind his back. He was briefing Xahlven, and the man was determined to look the part. “There is some interference scrying the ferries themselves—they’re on the water, after all—but our raiding party should reach the river without incident. Anything beyond the crossing is too unpredictable at this moment, since we cannot yet establish what happens on the water to get a reliable reading.”

  Xahlven hummed with interest, as though how scrying worked was foreign to him. “And Sahand’s armies?”

  “Our aerial scouts haven’t seen a Delloran banner since we began the march north. Sahand must have taken more casualties in the Ayventry incident than we thought—he is probably stocking the Citadel with whatever rearguard he can muster, preparing for a siege. Scryes of the city have shown a lot of troops marching in, but Sahand has a lot of wards on his gates, so getting a precise read of how many are coming and going is difficult. My best estimates put his garrison at two thousand men at the most. Still a significant force, granted, but we are more than equipped to take him on.” Trevard chuckled at that last point.

  Probably imagining the kind of sorcerous ruin the Defenders can rain on Dellor. Xahlven elected to chuckle along, though for different reasons entirely. The chuckle was an important release for him—he’d needed to laugh in Trevard’s face for weeks now. The idiot. The bombastic moron.

  After they had shared their chuckle, Trevard relaxed a bit. “We should have done this years ago. If only Varner were here—you never saw a man who hated Sahand more. Gods, what I wouldn’t give to have him with us.”

  Xahlven expressed his sympathy with a smile. “Yes, a shame. But Varner has his own king now, and his own wars.” And if Conrad Varner were here, he’d know that Sahand is going to punish your river crossing in ways you cannot imagine, you trumped-up court bailiff.

  Trevard put his hands on his hips, surveying the campaign map as though it showed territory already conquered. “Well, the raid should be underway in a matter of hours. Best get some rest. Tomorrow is a busy day.”