The Rift War

by Michelle L. Levigne

  Before the food was brought to the tables, Carious and Baedrix brought Athrar's chair from behind the high table and set it before the table, facing down the long aisle between the other tables. Again, the murmurs faded to watchful silence, and this time Grego felt the tension thick in the air.

  "This is worse than the psych readers they strap you into, when you're applying for a high security job," Shalara said. She sat on the end of the table with an even better view of the activity in front of the high table.

  "What are they doing?" Brysta whispered.

  "It's the oath of fealty," Grego guessed, and Shalara nodded, her expression grim. "Athrar isn't taking any chances. Every noble here, especially the ones Baedrix told Emrillian were suspect, will have to swear on Braenlicach." He shuddered, imagining what the sword could do to anyone who swore falsely, with plans of treachery in his heart.

  He shuddered harder when it occurred to him that if the sword reacted, he might feel the reverberations as the Zygradon responded.

  "You have come to welcome the Warhawk back to Quenlaque," Athrar said. His voice wasn't raised, yet it rang and echoed, likely enhanced by imbrose. "My family and I thank you. It is heartening to see in some features faint reflections of faces we remember so clearly, because to us it has only been days since we fought beside your ancestors.

  "A new war has come to us. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that we have come forward in time to a new war." He looked around at all the nobles in their glittering finery. "We have the knowledge to meet them on their terms, and take the weapons from their hands. Education is needed. But loyalty and confidence is needed, first." He took a step forward, and a collective indrawn breath swept across the crowded tables as he rested his hand on the hilt of Braenlicach.

  Grego glanced at the high table. Emrillian sat forward, lips parted, eyes bright with anticipation. He held his breath, bracing for the first strumming of the chords in his chest when Athrar drew the sword from its scabbard. He was almost disappointed when nothing but a sense of warmth washed through him as the first rays of light from Braenlicach flared through the gathering, across the tables, brilliant to the point of casting sharp-edged shadows. Many in the crowd raised hands to shield their eyes, and murmurs and exclamations swept across the tables. When he could see clearly again, Athrar sat down, holding Braenlicach pointing down, the tip touching the ground, and both his hands resting on the hilt.

  "In my father's day, a man who shared your salt and bread was considered a friend and ally. Before we share salt and bread in this feast, I would have the nobles renew the oath of loyalty their forefathers swore to my grandfather and my father and to me."

  Emrillian stood and stepped down from the high table. Silence swept over the assembly as she walked to the tables where the Archaics sat.

  "My friends, you have come here at the risk of your careers, your former lives, and possibly your physical lives. Will you be the first to pledge?" She lifted a hand, gesturing to Athrar and the sword. "Show the old guard how the new breed acts with honor," she added, lowering her voice.

  "For Lygroes, for Quenlaque, for Athrar," Shalara said, standing.

  The others joined her in moments, and Emrillian led the way to stand before Athrar. Then she knelt before him.

  "My daughter..." Athrar shook his head. "You have no need to take the oath of loyalty. You have proven yourself."

  "So have my friends, my lord, but I am pledging myself surety for my friends' loyalty and their service. I have brought them here to our land. I am responsible for their actions and for their deaths. May the Estall grant there be no death in this war."

  "May the Estall grant it indeed." He bowed his head, took a deep breath, and when he raised his head, his expression had hardened in determination.

  Grego caught his breath as a shiver of anticipation mixed with apprehension washed over him.

  And to think it all started with a lonely, hurting boy wandering in the woods, who stopped to make friends with a little girl and an old man, Mrillis said. He nodded to Grego when he looked to the high table and their gazes locked.

  Braenlicach's light stayed quiet, a reassuring blue, as one by one the Archaics knelt and rested a hand on the hilt of the sword and pledged their lives and honor to serve the Warhawk. After them Baedrix came, with everyone who was in the welcoming party. Then the commanders in the army came, to give their honor and stand surety for the men under them. Finally the nobles came. Grego wished he had his datapad, to record the spoken pedigrees as each lord and lady stepped forward and announced who their ancestors had been who served with Athrar, and with Efrin, and with the first Athrar.

  "It's going very well," he said, when he had calculated at least half the occupants of the tables had come to kneel before Athrar and swear.

  "That's because those who would swear falsely know better than to do it on Braenlicach," Shalara said.

  "What?" He thought about that for a moment, then stepped up to the chairs where Emrillian and Ynfara sat to Athrar's right, watching the oath-taking. "What are you going to do about the ones who won't come forward to swear?"

  "We are aware, and taking the names of all who try to slip away in the night," Ynfara said.

  "What will you do with them?"

  "We will remember, and we will treat them peaceably, but we will not trust them, no matter what they say after the crisis is over." She took hold of Emrillian's hand, palm-to-palm, and intertwined their fingers. "We have learned from our mistakes. We also know that now, on the eve of war with an enemy who considers us fables, we cannot afford to dishearten our allies. We must look for the hidden meanings behind friendly faces and the promises we want and need to hear. We are using... What is the term, Emmi?"

  "We are using psychology, Mama. I prefer to say simple common sense and long experience." She sighed and tipped her head back to meet Grego's gaze. He saw her weariness and ached for her. "The people are riding high on a crest of euphoria and wonder at the fulfillment of prophecy. We must not fail them. They are depending on us to defend them, to help them understand the world of the future that they have been pulled into. Capturing and punishing the rebels and doubters will take the wind out of our sails far too much to risk losing all the allies we need so desperately."

  * * * *

  Baedrix breathed a long, weary sigh of relief mixed with apprehension when the feast ended. He reflected that the departure of perhaps a fifth of the nobles who had made the long trip down the coast had put a damper on the festivities. That was a good thing. It meant the first meeting of Athrar with the Council of Lords might even end around midnight. After the long day they had, getting here to the coast in the first place, then facing down the Directorate's people, they all needed a good night's rest. Especially when the other navies of Moerta were somewhere out there on the ocean, arguing among themselves. And that was the purpose and topic of discussion for the meeting.

  It felt strange, knowing this would be the last council meeting he would call to order. He would not close it, because he would officially return the throne to Athrar. He was relieved to be free of his duty, and despite his sovereign's praise, he still felt ashamed to hand a kingdom tainted with rebellion to the Warhawk. His head knew that there had always been rebellion. The Warhawk's ancestors had faced treachery more insidious than nobles who wanted to believe Athrar and imbrose and the world outside the dome were all fables, and who refused to pay for the upkeep of the army and the defense against Edrout and his barbarians.

  "What do those do?" he asked Karstis, as his new ally walked around the perimeter of the Warhawk's pavilion, putting small wands that glowed with dots of green light in the ground next to every other tent peg.

  This modern world technology fascinated him, and he thought perhaps when this crisis ended--it had to end, eventually--he would enroll in what Emrillian called a university and learn about science and machines and how the Moertans could fly through the air without bird wings.

  "White noise generators." Karstis gave
him an encouragingly wicked grin. "I know--how can sound have color? These will set up a barrier so no one can listen to what we're discussing inside the tent. They also have the advantage of acting as intruder alerts. Overkill, I know, with all our Archaics standing guard outside, but you can't be too careful."

  "Wouldn't it be easier to simply set a shielding spell around the council meeting, that will let no sound out and no outsiders in?"

  "The use of that strong a weaving of the Threads would attract unwanted attention," Meghianna said, coming up behind them.

  She looped her arm through his, and Baedrix congratulated himself on not flinching. He found it hard to reconcile how young Meghianna looked, despite her white hair, with the knowledge that she was his grandmother, four generations removed. It was somewhat reassuring now that she displayed genuine pride in claiming him as family, and affection toward him and his siblings.

  "Edrout, yes." Baedrix sighed. "I feel responsible for the fall of the dome, somehow."

  "Don't you start in on that, too." She lightly slapped his captive arm. "Emmi is rapping her knuckles constantly. She has convinced herself that if she had worn her star-metal armor from the start, Edrout wouldn't have attacked. I'm sure he would have, but simply been more discrete. Poison in your food, perhaps."

  "He wouldn't have had us to use against her," Karstis said. "She wouldn't have been forced to such drastic steps to keep him from getting the sword."

  "Perhaps. And perhaps it was the Estall's guidance, pushing us all beyond our schedules. The Moertans were damaged and cast into chaos and confusion by the fall of the dome, and we could not have managed that, no matter how prepared we were. Come, Grandson." She patted his hand. "The council is about to begin."

  The Moertan Valors were set up as perimeter guards around the Warhawk's pavilion, all except Grego, Karstis and Shalara, who participated in the meeting. They silenced the lords and ladies of the council when they set more modern world equipment down on the long trestle table.

  Athrar, Ynfara and Emrillian sat at one end of the table, with Meghianna, Mrillis and Graddon on the other. Baedrix, Carious, and the three Moertans stayed standing. Athrar unsheathed Braenlicach and set it on the table, glowing in ripples of white and blue and silver light, pointing down the length of it to the three enchanters. Not a word had to be said, and Baedrix bit his lip hard to fight his grin of appreciation at the elegance and eloquence of the warning implicit in the presence of the glowing sword.

  Taking a deep breath, he began the final recitation of the ancient ritual words, invoking the blessing and guidance of the Estall to open the council meeting. Then he said the words that had been written by Lycen, which each Regent had hoped to speak, ritually laying down the authority and duty resting on his shoulders and giving it back to his sovereign.

  "By the mercy and the grace of the Estall, prophecy has been fulfilled and the High King has been restored to Lygroes. I do swear on my honor, on my vows as a Valor, on the loyalty of my bloodline, I have fulfilled my duty, entrusted to me by my forefathers. Quenlaque is as strong as it was the day it was given into my family's keeping. By the mercy and grace of the Estall, I gladly return it into the hand of its true lord and king. May he find me worthy, and be well-pleased with his most loyal servant." Baedrix bowed low, then went to one knee and held out both hands, with the massive ring of chatelaine keys lying on his flat palms. He kept his gaze focused on the keys and fought to keep his hands steady as Athrar reached out slowly, and gently lifted the keys up.

  He clutched the ring in his fist, letting the keys dangle, and reached with his free hand to catch hold of Baedrix's hand before he lowered it.

  "Well done, Regent. I know your grandsires would be most proud of you, and I am proud to call you kinsman. The Warhawk throne owes you and your predecessors a debt that can never be fully repaid." Athrar squeezed Baedrix's hand before releasing him.

  Without being quite sure why, Baedrix looked for Emrillian as he stood up and backed away from Athrar. She met his gaze, and though her mouth stayed somber, her eyes gleamed with pride, and a light sensation settled in his chest.

  "My friends, descendants of loyal, valued friends and allies." Athrar got to his feet just as Lord Obaran, speaker of the Council of Lords, braced his hands on the table to stand and make the first salvo. "We can discuss the condition of the kingdom later, when we have ensured the peace and security of our borders. What concerns the council now is ensuring there is indeed a Lygroes and a Quenlaque to discuss, and borders to argue over, and a place to play courtly games. Here are the facts: the dome that has kept us in a different time, safe from the outer world, locking us in with the remnants of our enemies, has been shattered. The Moertans are two thousand years beyond us in terms of civilization, of tools, of changed society." He paused as murmurs raced up and down the table.

  Baedrix wasn't surprised at the reaction of the nobles. There were many who refused to believe anything without concrete proof. They would have their proof from the devices Grego and his companions had brought to the table.

  "They can perform wonders that look like magic, without the use of the Threads and without imbrose," Athrar continued. "They have discovered what our ancestors knew--that star-metal is the source of the power that flows through the Threads--and they have come to our shores with their devices to drain the power from the Threads for their own use, thereby threatening our existence."

  Athrar went on to give a brief history of Moerta. How the many small kingdoms had squabbled through the centuries, sometimes devouring each other, forming new alliances, splitting apart in revolution. And how much of the technology in the modern world came as a direct result of the quest to subdue the enemies on all borders. Grego and his two friends took turns bringing up images on the flat screens of their devices, impressing or shocking the nobles in turns by projecting maps and images of vehicles and weapons of war into the air and making them turn, to be visible from all angles.

  Emrillian took over the lecture to describe how the history of Quenlaque had been distorted by time and deliberate insertion of falsehoods by Mrillis and Meghianna through the ages, to protect the truth. She explained the Archaics, and how they had grown through the last several decades, dedicated to the values and ideals of Quenlaque. And how she had been trained among them, made friends and allies, and tested everyone she met to discern the presence of imbrose among them.

  "We shall need these allies in the days and years to come," she concluded. "Even now, enemy warships are a hundred leagues out from our shore, primed for battle. The first ships came to drain the power from the Threads, and the others followed them to steal the technology. Right now, they are squabbling among themselves, wounded and disorganized by the damage that struck them all when the dome fell. When they have recovered and have sorted themselves out, they will attack us. Either working in concert, or every nation attacking us separately, it does not matter, because they will all be attacking us, not each other. Grego?" She gestured for him to step up to the table, and sat down at Athrar's left hand.

  Grego activated the devices, showing the shoreline of Lygroes projected in the air a handspan above the surface of the table. Several nobles reacted with gasps and mutters and curses, and it took a moment for Baedrix to see what they saw. He was first amazed to realize that a good three-quarters of the land mass of Lygroes below the Wayhauk Mountains was no longer there. Then he shuddered as the implications struck him. True, much of the Encindi land was gone, meaning a wide-scale annihilation of the tribes. But that meant those who had survived the cataclysm were infuriated, with nowhere to go but over the barrier that had held them back for the last four generations. They had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. A thousand desperate, revenge-driven warriors could do far more damage than ten thousand semi-disciplined troops.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Blood magic is stirring," Mrillis said, drawing the attention of everyone at the table without raising a hand or standing. "Graddon and I felt it when we were half
way to the mountains. Edrout is even now drawing on the power of all those lives lost, gathering his strength to launch against us. We have one advantage he cannot anticipate."

  "Only one?" Lord Garvon grumbled.

  "We have managed to surprise him on several fronts," Meghianna said. "But even our bag of tricks will be empty after a time. We must strike him while he is still wounded. His flaw is that he still has his imbrose. He must depend on other enchanters to control blood magic, and weave it in with his imbrose to use against us. If you cut off a serpent's head, all the rest will be in disarray and perhaps rendered impotent once and for all."

  "At the very least," Graddon said, his words spaced out slowly, giving them emphasis without his needing to raise his voice, "the whiplash of the blood magic flowing back on his underlings will cause more damage throughout the land. The southern portion fell into the sea when the dome fell because so much blood magic and imbrose was woven into the land, shielding it, controlling the very minds and flesh of the people. Cut enough strings in the net holding your supplies in a rocking ship, and everything is scattered."

  "What is this advantage, then, that Edrout can't anticipate?" Lord Obaran asked. He had lost his usual façade of a reasonable man being oppressed by unreasonable and immature bullies. Baedrix decided to take that as a good sign. At the very least, other members of the council would take note and decide to be more cooperative.

  "We captured the ships with the power siphon technology," Karstis said. "Sooner or later, our political enemies from Moerta will try to capture it. If Edrout learns why the other navies are out there, what they're after, he'll either try to destroy the technology, or take it for his own use. We make him come to us."

  "Bait in a trap." Lord Garvon nodded. "Simple. Simple is always best. Less chance of errors endangering us all."

  "Poisoned bait," Athrar said.

  When the council dispersed, shortly after midnight, they were in agreement on the basics. Every noble had a section of Lygroes' shore to patrol with their personal household guard, to watch for invaders. Signal fires, as well as Valors strong enough to push through the cacophony in the Threads, would be woven into a net of communication. For every soldier who patrolled the shore, either on foot or on a ship, two would go to the Wayhauk Mountains, to reinforce the sentinel towers and create a barrier of weapons and magic to hold back the Encindi, if they hadn't already begun the first push into Quenlaque's territory.