“I suppose I will,” I said, feeling my heart lighten for the first time since I was informed of my exile. “It might be nice to relax, for a while.”
Chapter Seventy-Nine
The Council of Beryen
“Our first order of business must be locating the Scion of Ameras,” Master Haruthel said, after we’d introduced ourselves.
The Beryen Council met for the first time in a secluded tower in Carneduin, a few days after Yule. I led the delegation of the Arcane Orders, seated around one fifth of a broad, round table with an accurate map of the Five Duchies engraved upon its surface. Next to us was the delegation from the rest of humanity: Lord Arborn, of the Kasari, and a temporary representative of the Valley People, who were still uncertain about participating but were reluctant to allow action to be taken without their knowledge.
Beyond him was Gurkarl, representing the Free Gurvani – a coalition of Kuline tribes who’d rejected Sheruel’s dark priesthood, and a few rebel tribes among the flinty hills in the northern Penumbra. The old gurvan was hale, though a bit bent with travel and graying around the muzzle.
Sitting next to Gurkarl was a nearly-round specimen of Tal Alon named Thane Agartas. An old and wise leader of his vast warren, he apparently represented the interests of the Tal and other species. And beyond him was Azhguri, the designated delegate from the Karshak clans.
The Tera Alon were present in force. Lady Falawen spoke for them, but included Onranion and Lilastien among their number – both had declared a preference for the larger human phenotype, and suggested they would continue to wear it until the crisis was passed – that was pretty much all that qualified you as a Tera Alon.
A few within the next delegation had been reluctant to include so many “perversions”, as I heard it whispered; yet the Tera Alon represented those most committed to the defeat of Shereul. They were the most enthusiastic to take the fight to the foe. If we needed action against Korbal, they were the ones who would be most likely to undertake that action.
Lastly, the Alka Alon were well represented by Master Haruthel, who sat at the head of the council, the executive position. He was joined by Lord Letharan and Lady Micrethiel, neither one of whom seemed pleased about their inclusion.
“I concur,” Micrethiel said, distastefully, “but we have searched the length and breadth of the realm, and found nothing. Yet it is said that she has not perished,” she said, irritated. “Unless we gain some insight into where the arsenal is located, we are at a loss.”
“Did not the Spellmonger speak with the Aronin, in the dungeons of the Necromancer?”
“Aye,” I answered, “and he gave the kind of cryptic response his race and house is known for. ‘The land itself will show you the way’, he said. Yet I see little sign of that,” I said, gesturing toward the map at hand.
“He must have provided more clues than that . . . if you had the wit to hear it,” Haruthel said, sourly.
“My wit was intact, my lady, but his only other hint involved magic. Where might one place something that can be sought by magic?”
“Well . . . in a non-magical space, of course,” reasoned Pentandra. “Or at least a space with such a high etheric resistance as to be the same. In the belly of a dragon, for instance,” she suggested.
“I doubt the Aronin placed such mighty weapons in a dragon,” sniffed Micrethiel. “Yet perhaps it does give us a hint. For there are places in the world which possess the properties you describe. The island your folk call the Shattered Isle, to the southwest of Alshar, and the distant lake in the north known as Salainen. Your folk call it the Cakered Jevolar, I believe.”
“The anti-molopor?” Terleman asked. “I thought that was a myth.”
“It is no myth,” Master Haruthel said, shaking his tiny head. “It is theorized that it – and the Shattered Isle, for that matter – were both giant mountains that fell from the sky, long before the Alon came here. They are responsible for the dreadful state of the landforms, here, in fact.”
“Would one of them not make an ideal place to put a magical arsenal?” asked Pentandra. “As they are proof against scrying, and likely unable to function in that environment, it seems a perfect location to put something magical and dangerous.”
“That . . . that is an intriguing thought,” concurred Lord Letharan. “Neither place is easy to come to, nor would they be easy to assail. The Avalanti have always had a love of remote and barren places,” he mused.
“We should send an expedition to both places,” proposed Lilastien. “Arborn, perhaps you could organize a survey, with Ithalia? Your folk have travelled that far, have they not?”
“Not with regularity, but we know the way,” he grudgingly admitted. “We could send scouts as early as the late spring, once the northern lands thaw.”
“I should be able to organize a naval expedition to the Shattered Isle,” Pentandra proposed. “Duke Anguin has many naval assets. I should be able to get him to sponsor the trip.”
“That would be gracious of you, Lady Pentandra,” Haruthel said, nodding. “Your people seem uncommonly good with . . . boats.”
“It will give Tyndal something to do, once Rondal is married,” Pentandra whispered to me. We were both concerned about my former apprentices. Rondal seemed to be warming to the idea of marriage strongly, but as he grew more resolute Tyndal grew more despondent over losing his friend to family life.
“Then it is agreed,” Micrethiel said, formally. “The humani shall investigate both locations and report back to this council by next autumn. Among the next priorities on the agenda: a report of the interrogation of Mycin Amana,” she said, eyeing Falawen.
If she was trying to stare down the beautiful Tera Alon woman, she failed. Falawen had let her grief over her father’s death and her devotion to her duty to her people transform her. Indeed, her association with us dirty humani was making her proud and defiant, when it came to the normal Alka Alon. She was not about to be shamed by Micrethiel’s archaic ideals of purity when her Tera Alon form served so well.
“She has been terribly reluctant to part with meaningful information,” Falawen revealed, apologetically. “Even when extreme measures have been brought to bear, she resists. Yet in our conversations she has revealed more than she thinks.
“From what I can tell, the crux of Korbal’s master plan involves first seizing the realm from the rightful council,” she related, “and then using the power base he builds here to challenge the great Rulathi and Farastamari kingdoms. That should only take a thousand years or so, according to his timetable,” she shrugged.
“Kind of makes me feel all . . . mortal and inconsequential,” Terleman muttered, earning a chuckle from Gurkarl.
“But that isn’t all – along the way he intends to build his power not merely through growing armies and conquering lessor races, usurping the places of power in the realm and dominating all life . . . but through a series of measures he feels will establish communication and, eventually, an alliance with the beings known as the Formless.”
“Because the Formless,” Lilastien said, gravely, “can potentially defeat the Vundel, whom Korbal despises.”
“Is he mad?” Micrethiel demanded. “Did his long entombment destroy his reason? If even a tithe of what we know about the Formless is true, then even speaking to them would be catastrophic!”
“Only if we wished to keep good relations with the Vundel, as has been our custom,” agreed Haruthel. “Korbal does not have that as a priority.”
“I do not understand,” the Thane asked, in his squeaky voice. “I am a learned Tal, but I have not heard of the Formless. What danger do they pose?”
“They are myths and legends,” Micrethiel dismissed. “Half-forgotten even among the Vundel. They are beings of great power and unimaginable durability. Long ago the Vundel’s ancestors drove them into the Deeps, and sealed their watery prisons so that they could never escape.”
“Unless, perhaps, someone is helping them from the outside,” Terleman
observed, sourly.
“That’s what I fear,” Onranion nodded. “There are several weak points – even fractures – around the various entrances to those ancient, impossibly deep caverns. The Formless and their spawn have not always been kept within.
“Sometimes one or two escape, squeezing through the smallest of openings to eventually make it to the surface. Sometimes they seek merely to hide in more comfortable surroundings and molest no one unless awakened . . . which has been known to happen,” he said, casting a glance at Azhguri. Once, a few centuries ago, the Karshak apparently loosed one such spawn from its rocky grave. It didn’t go well.
“If Korbal should find one of these fractures, with magic and determination he could possibly establish communication with the Formless.”
“Why would they bargain with a mere human?” asked the Valley Person, curious. “Or even an Alka Alon inside a human host?”
“When you are trapped and desperate, do not underestimate the lengths to which you will go to free yourself,” Micrethiel reminded. “If anyone – even a human – offers you hope of escape, you will promise anything. To anyone. And the Formless were passing desperate ten thousand years before the Alon arrived here.”
“Longer,” corrected Lilastien. “The Formless predate nearly every other alien species on Callidore. Their hatred for the Vundel knows no bounds. If they were offered the opportunity for freedom, they could not refuse. If they were offered freedom and vengeance, they’d deal with forest animals or riverfish to get it.”
“Surely, they could do nothing against the Vundel,” the Valley Person dismissed.
“Don’t be so certain,” cautioned Lilastien. “From the Vundel’s own lore some of the Formless were large and powerful enough to consume the equivalent of a modern leviathan. It took the power of the last of the Celestial Mothers to imprison them. No power less will put them back again, were they released.”
“How could Korbal possibly release the Formless?” Lord Letharan asked, skeptically. “Their prisons are miles under the deepest oceans. He could never get there!”
“Not all entrances to the Deeps are at sea,” Onranion offered. “There are said to be ways – impermanent, shifting, and incredibly dangerous way – to discover a crack of a crack that leads to a cavern that eventually leads to a crack . . . that can lead you to the outer barriers that keep the Formless imprisoned. Should he find a way to one, and should he leverage the great power inherent in Sheruel, then he may well have the means to awaken those dark beasts.”
“He acts with a certainty that suggests he’s already found at least one means,” Micrethiel observed. “Then why has he not attempted it, if he has now the power to do so?”
“Because he doesn’t quite have the leverage he needs,” suggested Lilastien. “Sheruel provides power, it is true . . . but the great barriers the Celestial Mothers put into place cannot be removed by brute force. He must feel that the answer lies within the arsenal.”
“Legend has it that some of the greatest powers of the Alon are stored within that vault,” Haruthel agreed. “Among them are devices which could, if the legends are accurate, be enough to negate the force of the barriers. If they are suspended, even for a little while, then we shall see an invasion of hellish creatures that make our present worries seem like pleasantries.”
“If the spawn of the Formless are anything like what we unearthed – accidentally,” Azhguri emphasized, “then even one of them is too many.”
“What the Karshak found was but a minor servant, from what I can tell,” Onranion agreed. “The creatures in the Deeps are far more formidable.”
“Then imagine what a real Formless might do, should it be unleashed,” warned Micrethiel, “and let that inspire you to search that much more diligently!”
From there the conversation moved to dragons, particularly the slaying parts, and to dragon eggs, of which I had a pair. That bit of news both sobered and excited the Council, particularly the Alka Alon.
“It would be intriguing to have two such specimens for study,” assured Haruthel. “There is little lore concerning dragon husbandry left in our memory, but what exists suggests you have a powerful property, Minalan.”
“Not one that should be humani hands,” Micrethiel sniffed again. “Really! Do we honestly expect a mortal to raise and tame a dragon? When we made the attempts, it could take five hundred years for a trainer to command the beast! Do you have half a millennia?” she asked.
“No, nor do I have the interest, not when there are others with better means and methods. Therefore, I shall turn my two eggs over . . . to the Tera Alon,” I said. “Lady Ithalia and Lady Varen may attempt to hatch them, if they have an interest. If they are successful, then perhaps in a few decades we may have a stronger weapon with which our descendants can continue to fight with Korbal.”
“The Tera Alon?” Micrethiel asked, scandalized. “Why, they aren’t even really Alka Alon!”
“Nor is Korbal and his Nemovorti,” Terleman pointed out. “Yet they have no quibble with riding them. Or wyverns, for that matter – the poor gurvan’s dragon, I suppose. We may be mortals, but they are not. If it truly takes that long to bring such pieces into play, then let us play without them while the Tera Alon train them for battle. Ishi’s tits, it would be nice to see a dragon in the sky and not shit yourself!”
“You would place such potent weapons in the hand of . . . of . . .”
“By all means,” Lady Falawen said, her pretty eyes narrowing to slits. “What kind of hands do my sisters and I possess? Human hands, perhaps?” she challenged. “I assure you, my lords and ladies, if my sisters’ hands are given the leash to these worms, then they will be used exclusively to prosecute this war . . . a war I grow frustrated seeing you diminish. I know little about dragons, but I know my sister emissaries. Power entrusted into their hands is never misplaced.”
“But . . . the Tera Alon,” Micrethiel squirmed, uncomfortably. “Do they need dragons?”
“No one needs dragons any more than one ‘needs’ mosquitos,” I offered. “I think it unlikely that they will be successful . . . but I also feel they have earned the right to try. Unless you wish to invest the time and energy of training and raising the beast into the endeavor . . . and then fly a dragon into battle, Lady Micrethiel?” I asked, tauntingly. “If so, allow me to be the first—”
“My boy, I asked a perfectly reasonable question,” sighed the tiny Alkan dowager. “I understand the foe we are fighting, and I understand the forces in play – perhaps more than you do.
“Yet my people stopped using dragons to conduct our wars for a reason,” she stressed. “As dangerous as they are to an enemy, they are nearly as dangerous to a friend. They are difficult to control, unless one does invest the time and effort. But in the end, we gave up our weapons to ensure our future. To bring them back again, even with such a pretext . . .” she said, shaking her head. “I cannot help but be wary.”
“Wary you should be, my lady,” I nodded. “Yet when a dragon attacked Castle Cambrian, and reduced it to rubble, it might have been helpful to have our own dragon around to contest the battle. Five times or more have we faced the beasts on the field. Only three have left their skulls behind in token of our ability to contend with them. If we have these assets, then I move that we deploy them. Else our dragon-slaying efforts will be pointless.”
“I will accept these eggs on behalf of my sisters,” Falawen agreed. “I do not know if we can hatch them, and bring them to maturity, but it is within their right to try.”
“If not,” I added, “no doubt I could get a pretty fair bit of silver for one on the black market,” I said in a hoarse whisper.
“You will NOT sell a viable dragons egg to some idiot human!” exploded Micrethiel. “If assigning the Emissaries to them will keep you from such madness, so be it. But to even threaten to let your warrior princes bid for such dangerous things . . . it belies reason!” she snorted.
“Then it’s settled,” Pentandra said
, sweetly. “Minalan’s two eggs will be given to the Tera Alon. That is hardly a scandal, my lady,” she added to Micrethiel.
“That depends entirely on how you were raised,” she sniffed. “But I suppose once we allowed you people irionite, it was only a matter of time before you overstepped your bounds. Now you seduce our youth with your ways and want them to raise dragons,” she said, in disgust. “Must we adopt the means of our enemy to defeat that enemy?”
“No,” I countered, “but one doesn’t leave a shiny new silver penny on the road if fortune puts it in your path. The Tera Alon will have the dragon eggs. Let’s see what they can do with them.”
I took the brief space before dinner to walk the grounds of Carneduin. The place was as beautiful in the dead of winter as it was in spring or summer, I saw, just a different variety of beauty. Fresh fallen snow coated every tree, cottage, and shrub and gave the long, deep valley a beautiful mantle. The singing continued the entire time we were there. When I discovered I had a moment to myself before the inevitable banquet, I took a stroll and lit my pipe.
“Beautiful view from here,” Briga said, a moment later. I wasn’t particularly surprised by her appearance, but then I wasn’t expecting it, either. “Minalan, I’m sorry about the exile,” she began. “That took us by surprise. There wasn’t really much we could do about it, save send the man some persuasive dreams. Well, they were supposed to be persuasive,” she amended.
“Don’t worry about it,” I dismissed, enjoying the taste of the smoke on my tongue as it mixed with the cold, wet air. “Sevendor is in good hands. It’s protected. The Kingdom is united. Alya’s back . . . more or less. Exile is a small price to pay for all of that.”
“It will be good, I promise,” she encouraged. “There are a lot of exciting things happening at Vanador, and they’re only going to get better. You should see what the Dradrien are doing – this time next year they’ll be producing magical blades that will make Master Cormoran’s look cheap in comparison,” she pledged. “And you can build a new bouleuterion there,” she said, encouragingly.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 120
