Guildpact

by Cory Herndon

  The path ended at four veztrees that had grown together to form a small fortress of wood, stone, and steel. That was where the First Acolyte Wrizfar Barkfeather of the Selesnyan Conclave, Holy Protector of the Vitar Yescu, Knight of something, would be found, the Haazda said.

  The spiders didn’t disturb Teysa in the slightest. She’d walked under the legs of a solifuge golem that would barely have bothered to step on these creatures, and arachnids couldn’t have been less frightening to her. She was not prey, and the spiders seemed to know it. They gave her a wide berth, some skittering away to their nests, awaiting an easier meal.

  Teysa cleared the spider tunnel and stepped into the shadow of a living edifice. Unlike the other veztrees, these four—a subspecies, perhaps—boasted huge boughs bearing thin, waxy needles. The thick bark was almost completely covered in distinctive Selesnyan architecture. The homes, libraries, guard posts, schools, barracks—all of it grew upon and into the structure. One of the boughs had been coaxed to grow downward and form a wide ramp leading to the first elevated level of the Conclave of Utvara, where a set of redwood double doors some thirty feet at their arched peak stood open to the night sky. Teysa marched up the ramp, to the surprise of a few straggling parishioners who avoided her gaze. The doors swung inward, and Teysa involuntarily cringed when the wave of welcome and comfort washed over her. Emotional ambushes were a Selesnyan specialty, in her experience.

  Church was in session. In session, and under heavy guard.

  A wide central aisle separated two large groups that represented a jumbled cross-section of typical life churchers. Centaurs kneeled on their forelegs, their heads bowed in meditation. Silhana elves in white and emerald robes of varying styles that all somehow looked of a piece, sat cross-legged, equally lost in the gathering of minds that the Selesnyans, in Teysa’s opinion, mistook for communing with life itself. There were wild-looking humans, too, young dryads fresh off of the Unity Tree, and even a hulking family of loxodons. A sextet of centaurs in ledev battle armor flanked the aisle in two lines of three, poleaxes sharp and gleaming in the greenish light of the Selesnyan globes. All paid her little heed as she strode toward the pulpit.

  One of the Selesnyans certainly did notice her walk in, the only one whose eyes had been open from the moment Teysa had crested the ramp. “Wrizfar Barkfeather,” she said, willing to risk disrupting a few wholly unproductive meditations on the wonders of existence. “I am Teysa Karlov. May we speak privately?”

  The elf untangled his legs and rose to his feet effortlessly. He nodded once, and his face belied no other emotion in any way. She could use his cooperation, but didn’t expect to get it easily. Her mistreatment of him had been foolish, a miscalculation that had only served as petty entertainment.

  The old elf, who had long ago gone wrinkled and bald except for a heavily braided beard, raised a finger to his lips. Teysa nodded in return. Barkfeather crooked that finger and beckoned her to follow him up a spiraling inner staircase to the next level up, and Teysa followed. It was slow going. Apparently, respect for life in all its forms didn’t extend to giving a woman with a cane a handrail, but she managed.

  Barkfeather led Teysa through several winding tunnels grown into the tree’s trunk and past several empty rooms. “You don’t seem to be full up yet,” Teysa remarked. “Recruitment down?”

  The elf shot her an expressionless look over one shoulder just long enough that she placed a hand over her mouth and mouthed, All right, already. Expressionless, but not without meaning.

  Their silent walk ended at a seemingly random door that bore no distinguishing marks as far as Teysa could see. Almost nothing in here did, the complete opposite of the ornately decorated, some might say gaudy, fixtures and doorways of an Orzhov structure. The door opened into a high-ceilinged room lined with books on one side and huge, segmented windows on the other. The moon looked huge and distorted in the haphazard Selesnyan design.

  “The moon is not distorted,” Barkfeather said. “It is something else causing that, something your kind bought and paid for, I think. You call it ‘the Schism.’”

  “Everyone calls it ‘the Schism,’ “Teysa said, somewhat relieved to find this entire exchange would not be conducted in pantomime. She walked to the only piece of furniture in the otherwise empty room, a large perch next to an open section of the window. “You don’t strike me as a falconer, Barkfeather, but with a name like that I shouldn’t have been—hey. Don’t read my mind.”

  “Then do not think so loudly,” the old priest said.

  “I don’t think—Never mind. What do you know about the Schism? Short answer, if you please. I’ve spoken to a lot of cryptic types today, and I’m a little weary of it, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “I know it is why this place has no lingering ghosts. Well, except those taj of yours. They are remarkable, but they’re a special case, aren’t they?”

  “Taj?” Teysa said.

  “Your ghostly servants. Your attendant is with them, and you will meet him soon, I think, if you stay on your current path. What do you want from me, Teysa Karlov?”

  “I wouldn’t mind knowing how you know so much,” Teysa replied. “I didn’t come here for my fortune. I’m not here to argue with you either.” She opened her cloak and pulled out a pair of plague cures from her dwindling supply. She offered them to the elf, who looked at them but did not move. “This is why I’m here: a chance for us to eliminate this plague now. End the kuga, Barkfeather, now, immediately. With this. And before you object, yes, it’s Simic. I’m aware that the Simic and the life—the Selesnyans don’t always see eye to eye, but this will work.”

  The elf still hadn’t moved or changed his expression from one of constant contemplation. “How do you know it will work?” Barkfeather said.

  “I put Nebun in a verity circle. He wasn’t lying. It will work. But only if we all take it within twenty-four hours.”

  “This is extremely suspicious,” the elf said. He took a few steps toward her and plucked one of the tubes from her hand like it was a poisonous snake. “Simic magic is based on unnatural beginnings. Their cures are often worse than their plagues.”

  “Just answer me this,” Teysa said. “If everyone carrying the plague became immune, would that leave enough pollen to finish off what’s airborne? Could it mutate again? The Simic can create these things, but you know how they behave once created.”

  “Could it? Would it?” the elf finally displayed an expression, one of mild surprise, for only a moment. “I think yes, the Vitar Yescu could at that,” he said. “The plague could also mutate. There are many possibilities.”

  “Many possibilities? Is that the best you can give me?”

  “I am afraid so. But it interests me. I still fear there may be side effects to this Simic ‘cure’ we may regret later, but I misjudged you, Teysa Karlov. I had not thought you the type to try to save this place.”

  “And I treated you rudely,” Teysa said. “That’s just bad business.” She placed the second green cylinder in his hands, and he looked at them with strange curiosity, like a child allowed to pick up a sword. “You, all of you, need to take this. The two tubes there are enough to cure everyone here, but speed is the watchword.” Without waiting for his reply, she grabbed one of the cylinders back and pressed the end against his neck. Barkfeather gasped, and his eyes widened. “That’s how you do it. Simple.”

  “It is—It is working.”

  “Of course it is,” Teysa said. “Now it’s up to you to take care of the rest. You must, Barkfeather.”

  “And why must we do this, Teysa Karlov?” Barkfeather said, his voice rising in volume and dropping in pitch as he straightened, his gentle eyes now creased in anger. “Who are you to command those whose only master is life itself?” He placed a hand against his neck as if he’d been bitten by an insect that had only now begun to itch.

  “Because if you don’t we don’t have a chance of stopping three newborn dragons from burning us all alive.”

&
nbsp; Now the elf was shocked. It was so sudden Teysa couldn’t help but break into a small smile of triumph herself. “Excuse me,” he said, “three newborn whats?”

  * * * * *

  Teysa shifted the sling to keep her cane from slapping against her legs as she rode. The dromad huffed a bit but continued at an agreeable pace down the thoroughfare. The beast was a gift from Barkfeather and his church. The old elf had naturally insisted that the dromads were choosing their new masters, Obzedat forbid any being should possess another. The church had been able to spare enough mounts for anyone in her entourage who could ride. The others were keeping up as best they could, but the dromads were speedy.

  They charged past mining claims, some of which were operating on into the night, though most were abandoned for the evening except for the night watch sitting in crow’s nests built into the rigs. She reined in the galloping dromad when they reached a narrow trail that effectively ended the ride. This had to be the right way to the Gruul camp. At the very least it was the way Kos and Pivlic had gone. That much was clear from the slaughtered pair of thrulls and the dead, bloated dromad lying between them. The dromad was Kos’s. She’d seen him take it out of the stable, and the thrulls were Bephel and Elbeph. Elbeph’s body was spread over a mile’s worth of trail, in fact. There was no sign of Phleeb or his new brothers, but then Teysa was no tracker.

  Aside from the mounts, the Selesnyan had made one more major contribution to her forces, a golden falcon that squawked into her ear. “These were allies of yours,” the bird said in the voice of the First Acolyte, or the nearest approximation an avian throat could muster.

  “Yes, Barkfeather,” Teysa said. “But don’t weep for them. Well, weep for the dromad if you wish. But not the thrulls. Now don’t hold on too tight. Those claws are sharp.” She slipped off the side of her dromad, grabbing her cane from the saddle on the way down. She raised a hand to Nayine Shonn, who brought the rest of the odd gang to a stop.

  “I can see what you’re doing. I cannot be so close to necromancy!” the falcon screeched.

  “Relax, it’s not necromancy. Well, not exactly,” Teysa said. Then again … “Actually, it is necromancy. Why don’t you go keep your eye on the Husk? See if you can find any trace of Pivlic or that human Kos. See if you can find the Gruul. Just don’t look down here if you’re going to go all squeamish on me.”

  “Gladly,” the falcon said. It launched from Teysa’s shoulder and circled overhead, passing in front of the moon with a cry.

  “Shapeshifting show-off,” Nayine muttered.

  “Quiet, for a moment, please,” Teysa said to her motley assemblage. She stepped to Bephel, the nearest dead Grugg. Bephel had probably been killed more often than all of the other Gruggs combined, but that had only made him bounce back more quickly. She picked up his head, what was left of it, by the ear, and pressed it against the stump atop his reptilian neck. “Bephel,” she said and released the head.

  Against all logic, the severed head stayed put and began to grow new flesh. She then took his tail and a severed leg and did the same, repeating “Bephel” each time. An arm, another arm, and the thrull was complete again. “Rise,” she said at last, and thanks to her Orzhov blood Bephel Grugg did just that. “Bephel. Speak.”

  “It’s terrible!” the thrull said, as if complete resurrection was something people did every day. “The attendant—he’s already been there, and he’s doing bad things. Lots of bad things. It was fun to watch, but then he did bad things to Bephel and Elbeph. Elbeph, who was already injured! He was just trying to get back to me! Elbeph coming back soon?”

  “In a minute,” Teysa said. “The attendant has been where?”

  “The pathetic camp of those Gruul primitives, of course,” Melisk said, stepping from the shadowed overhang that jutted from the edge of the Husk like a natural barricade against the flats—the teeth of the Huskvold. The moment the attendant moved, the rest of the hills moved with him. Drawn, pale Gruul bodies possessed by the taj emerged from every crack, fissure, and outcrop in the area. The ghostly agents had been busy, spreading through what looked like at least thirty individuals by Teysa’s quick head count. Thirty taj against her hodgepodge “Guildpact army,” and the attendant himself, a power in his own right even without the blood. Or so it appeared.

  “I have to admit, Melisk,” she said, “I sort of hoped it would happen like this.”

  “What would happen like this?” the traitor sneered.

  “That you’d bring the taj,” Teysa said, “that you’d be too frightened, you pathetic, traitorous, mind-raping pig, to face me yourself. You’re smart, I’ll give you that. And damned devious. You’ve got a problem, though.”

  “Really,” Melisk said. “And what would that be?”

  “You aren’t as smart as you think you are.”

  “These are the taj, my lady,” Melisk said. “They have destroyed the Utvar Gruul in their homes and will hunt down the rest with ease. They destroyed an entire lokopede filled with Orzhov when there were only ten of them. You haven’t got a chance.”

  “Where did you study, Melisk?” she asked.

  “What are you talking about?” the attendant replied. “What does that have to—”

  “Where?” Teysa repeated. “Don’t bother to answer, because I know as well as you do. You studied in the same halls I did, learned from the same masters of law, of business, and of the arcane arts related to them.”

  “Of course I did,” Melisk said. “I grow tired of this stalling. You can’t talk your way out of this, ‘Baroness.’ I’ve been waiting too long, and you can’t stop me now. The taj are mine.”

  “Then attack me,” Teysa said. “Unless you want to know why I’d ask about your education, of all things, right now. Aren’t you curious, Melisk?”

  The attendant looked unsure of himself for the first time in as long as Teysa could remember. “Tell me.”

  “There are areas of study open only to those with the blood,” Teysa said.

  “This is ridiculous,” Melisk said. “I am not a child, to be spoken to in this way.” He looked genuinely surprised that Teysa wasn’t already nodding along with every word he said. He was trying to trigger a “narcolepsy” spell. She rapped a knuckle against her forehead.

  “Found a new doctor,” Teysa said. “He fixed me up. You won’t be getting back in here again, Melisk. You’re not going to take anything else from me. And you’re not going to take them either.”

  “Them? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Melisk smiled.

  “The taj,” Teysa said, “They answer to you?”

  “As you can plainly see,” Melisk said, but his voice was already betraying doubt.

  “These three stones, Melisk,” Teysa replied. She leaned onto her cane with her left hand and thrust her right into the moonlight. Her sleeve slid down to expose her forearm. “You don’t have any idea what they really mean or what the blood means. Nothing created purely of Orzhov magic can resist it. Ever.”

  “I have enough taj at my back to—”

  “Do you?” Teysa said. “Or do I?”

  The attendant’s eyes shifted back and forth. There were more than thirty taj backing him—or there were thirty taj surrounding him, from another point of view.

  “Taj,” Teysa said, her trained voice ringing clearly as a bell in the moonlit night, “kill Melisk. And don’t leave any pieces larger than …” she smiled at Melisk, who had gone completely white as he tried to back away in every conceivable direction at once. “No pieces larger than an egg,” she finished.

  Teysa had never truly enjoyed what passed for vengeance among Orzhov the way she enjoyed the screams of the traitorous attendant that floated through the haze as her dromad galloped into the thick, humid air and echoed off the metallic hills. When the last note of terror died out long after Melisk had, Teysa called, “You can come down now, Barkfeather.”

  The baroness could just make out a wispy, translucent shape that left Melisk’s dismembered corpse an
d wafted into the sky toward the Schism, curling like smoke as the falcon flew threw it beak-first.

  The bird’s flight path shattered the fragile ghost, and it began to flicker, failing to find cohesion. Melisk’s soul dissipated like the smoke it resembled, and the falcon fluttered down to alight upon her shoulder.

  “An auspicious first battle,” the shapeshifter said.

  “We didn’t do the real work yet,” Teysa said. “Let’s get back to the dromads. I don’t think these trails are going to get us to the Cauldron in time.”

  It was hours before dawn, but the sky was growing brighter by the minute. She knew little about what that meant for the Schism, the source of the new light, but it was bright enough to drown out the light of the setting moon.

  “Shonn,” she called as she sped back to her motley group.

  “Baroness,” the Devkarin called back. She was astride a dromad and led Teysa’s beside her. “Your dromad awaits. Where to next?”

  “Already counting your rewards, Devkarin?” Teysa asked as she pulled herself into the saddle again and secured the cane. “I’m impressed. You could have stolen that bam-stick easily enough.” She pointed at the weapon that hung from the saddle below her cane sling.

  “You’ll need that more than I will,” Nayine Shonn replied. “You’re worth much more alive to all of us, in the long run.”

  “Good enough,” Teysa said. “Tell me, does the Schism glow like that often?”

  “Not in my experience. Then again, I have been jailed for extended periods by idiot Haazda with no senses of humor. Don’t have too many windows, those cells.”

  “May I ask why they jailed you?”

  “A little of this, a little of that. Murder, public drunkenness, public drunken murder. And robberies. Group raids on passenger traffic, temples, banks—the usual.”

  “But what exactly made them lock you up?” Teysa asked and sniffed the air. “Are you drunk now?”

  “On what, the milk of Orzhov kindness?” Nayine said with the look of a woman telling a child how the gods pushed the sun into the sky every day.