by J. C. Staudt
“What of your companions? The woman of Phyraxis and the fellow who’s bedding her.”
“Was it that obvious? Norne is on his way here even now, I should hope. Assuming he’s won, of course.”
“Won what?”
Maaltred explained.
Cronion eyed the two sleeping girls as if from a new perspective. “They are rather darling. Been through a lot, have they?”
“Quite.”
The dwarf wagged his mustache, considering. “Just so. Bring them in.”
“Thank you,” Maaltred said with a relieved sigh. “Thank you so much. You’ve no idea how—”
“I’ve every idea, and believe it when I say you’ll be in my debt for this.”
They were headed toward the front of the sanctuary when someone entered from outside. It was evening now, but there was no mistaking Norne’s bald head in the moonlight. He moved on unsteady feet, his skin pale, the neckline of his robes dark-stained. Maaltred put Vyleigh down and ran to him. “Where have you been?”
“Fighting for my life,” Norne said in half a whisper. Blood streamed from twin holes in his neck, each as big around as a small stone.
“You’re bitten.”
“Worse. I’m certain I broke a rib or two. The spell, Brother Maaltred.”
“Again?”
“I’m not long for this world without it.”
Maaltred could see he was right. “You’re in bad sorts, alright.”
“It isn’t often I battle two druids in the same day.”
“The third is still out there. I imagine he was displeased to discover the fate of his… brother, or whatever.”
“Which is why we’ll head for Maergath at first light. Well done on getting the hostages out of there. Things got ugly after you left.”
“How ugly?”
“Let’s just say the Temple of Dalahmet isn’t so much a temple anymore as a pile of crushed granite.”
“And good riddance to it,” said Cronion. “I don’t call myself a godly fellow, yet I’m certain I know when a god’s up to no good.”
“Dalahmet excels at being up to no good,” said Norne.
“As do his servants,” Maaltred agreed. “We’ll have to hope Blinch doesn’t catch wind of us.”
“You’ll be off before he knows you’re gone,” said Cronion, motioning them to follow.
When they left the orphan colony the next morning, signs of the previous night’s events lay strewn across the cobbles and hardpan streets. Their route toward the east gate took them past spatters of blood, discarded items of clothing, and smoldering torches, among other sights more brutal. Ryssa and Vyleigh observed these scenes with reserved disquiet, though Maaltred could not say how much they understood of what they saw.
The temperature had dropped overnight, and a cold wind struck them as they left the city walls behind and headed for the river. Maaltred was worried they might run into the ferryman whose barge they’d destroyed, but there was no sign of him on either bank. Likely he’s off spending his coin even now, Maaltred thought, if he didn’t drown in the accident.
It was a dour thought; a reflection of his own uncertainty about the future, perhaps. Yet he refused to meet his worries with a downtrodden spirit. As they neared the riverfront, a wave of panic swept over him. This was his last chance to turn north and head for home, assuming Norne would still consider reporting him dead to the king.
He couldn’t abandon Ryssa and Vyleigh now, though. They’d become too important to him, and he feared for their safety under Norne’s supervision and Olyvard’s eventual authority. When he paid the boat fare for himself, Norne, and the girls using the last few coins from his purse, Maaltred knew there was no turning back. He would be forced to beg his way back to Sparrowmeet unless Olyvard offered a reward of some kind. He could only hope Norne was wrong about the king’s frugality.
When they’d boarded their single-masted riverboat, Norne looked around and gave a shiver, pulling his robes tight about his shoulders. “Does something feel different to you today?”
“I wondered if you’d felt it,” said Maaltred. “Nature’s power grows stronger. There’s another sphere nearby.”
“I’d feared this was the case, though I can’t imagine how either sphere could’ve been moved. Or why. Best look sharp. Trouble may be afoot.”
Though the river was rougher than last time, and the wind brought an icy mist over the bow to soak them and the deck around them, the boat arrived on the eastern shore without incident. After debarking, Norne bid Maaltred wait with the children while he went to investigate something.
“What are you investigating?”
“You’ll see… or not.”
Maaltred waited in confusion until Norne returned.
“I’ve found some helpful gents who’ve agreed to bring us across the desert.”
“What sort of gents?”
“Traders. They’re bound for Desparr, but they mean to stop in Maergath along the way.”
“Why do we need traveling companions?”
“In case Blinch picks up our trail. Once we’re safe behind the walls of Maergath, we’ll give the city guard his description so they’re on the lookout for him.”
“Can we trust them?”
“They’re merchants, Maaltred. Not everyone we meet is a blaggard in disguise.”
“How are they traveling?”
“By horse and camel, with travail sleds for their wares.”
“So we’ll still be walking. How will that get us there any faster?”
“Speed isn’t my chief concern. It’s numbers. On a positive note, they’ve offered Ryssa and Vyleigh seats on their travails. Save our backs a bit of strain, eh?”
“These are the most benevolent traders I’ve ever heard of.”
“It isn’t benevolence driving them so much as the king’s gold.”
Maaltred groaned. “What did you do?”
“Never fear; Olyvard will provide the purse when I recount to him the misfortunes we’ve endured.”
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy the part where you sold off his hostages and gambled away the takings.”
Norne’s easy mood turned stoic. “Brother Maaltred. Need I remind you we’ve both done things over the course of this journey we wouldn’t want the king knowing about? I trust you’ll remain silent on such matters, with the understanding that I intend to do the same.”
“If we’re going to lie, we’d better get our stories straight.”
“We’re not going to lie. We’re going to omit details and alter our wording so as to downplay our mistakes and emphasize our successes.”
“How is that not lying?”
“I like to think of it as polishing the truth.”
“Are you going to let me in on the particular refinements you had in mind?”
“Later. First, allow me to introduce you to the leader of the convoy.”
Branco Drün was an olive-skinned trader with traces of the eastern Dathiri coast in his accent. Maaltred pegged him for a son of the wayfaring clans who roamed the cold deserts of northeastern Dathrond. Branco had stories aplenty to tell, and by the time the convoy set off into the desert he’d been through half a dozen of them.
Through bleak windswept days and frigid nights at the fireside, Branco’s stories never ceased. He told tales of devils and monsters and bandits on the sands, and of brave expeditions in search of rare flowers and spices and timber deep in the Bogs of Desparr, which his people called the westerlands despite their being easterly to the rest of the world. Maaltred came to like Branco Drün, and found his stories as enjoyable in second and third tellings as the first.
The wind and cold and sandstorms worsened each day. Just as Maaltred had felt the air’s thinness while the spheres dispersed from Maergath, he now felt the pressure mounting as the three came together again. Indeed he sensed not only the blue sphere ahead, but the red coming up behind. He wondered whether Olyvard King knew the red sphere had left Deepsail, and what it meant for t
he invasions of Orothwain and Ralthia.
By the end of the week-long journey, Maaltred was having strong reservations about delivering Ryssa and Vyleigh to the king. His thoughts turned to possible avenues of escape, though the forested Mountains of Driftwater seemed the only viable one. It would be a hard road to take, but he knew enough about edible plants and fire-building to get them beyond the sphere’s influence, at least.
Thinking about it put a hammering in his chest. Norne would be angry, and he might even come after them with a detachment of Dathiri soldiers in tow. Reckless though the vicar may have become without Sullimas’s guidance, he would not be swayed from delivering the girls to Maergath.
And so it happened that on the morning of the sixth day—half a day sooner than planned, thanks to Branco’s rigorous schedule and intimate knowledge of the desert—they passed through the gates of Maergath beneath a dust storm like none Maaltred had seen yet. He could remember neither wind so strong nor weather so biting cold in his three years in the king’s city. Even after he’d forged the third sphere, when all three were together in the castle’s high hall, the power of nature had never lain so heavy upon this place.
Maergath’s streets were quiet but for the howling wind, its residents barricaded inside their homes to wait out the storm. Maaltred was halfway up the long sandy path to the castle when he looked back noticed a shimmer of movement through the storm haze. Out in the desert, upon a tired horse, he saw—or thought he saw—a lone rider with shoulders slumped and head hung low beneath a thick woolen cloak. The sight of a single traveler approaching a walled city shouldn’t have been cause for concern, yet it sent a chill through him all the same. Blinch, he thought with alarm.
It wasn’t Blinch, though. There was something about the rider’s bearing; something about the shift Maaltred could feel in the air with every step closer he came. It’s the Warcaster, he realized. We should’ve finished our task. We should’ve killed him while the advantage was ours; awaited his return and taken his pack of bandits to war while Roke and the others were on our side.
Maaltred tried to put the thought out of his mind as Norne hailed the guards in the castle gatehouse and secured their way in. They were safe now, out of sight behind the walls of Castle Maergath. The spheres would stop even Darion Ulther from causing harm.
The guards refused to allow Branco Drün past the outer gates, so Norne promised the trader he would speak to the king at his first opportunity and have the promised purse brought out to him. Branco grumbled, but accepted the terms. Norne smiled as the portcullis closed behind them.
“How much gold did you promise him?” Maaltred asked.
Norne shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He’s out of luck now, isn’t he? Stand out there as long as he likes.”
“You mean you’re not going to—”
“Brother Maaltred. I’m a priest, not a saint. Besides, wouldn’t you rather split the king’s reward two ways instead of three?”
“I’d rather the man be paid what he deserves for assisting the crown.”
Norne stopped beneath the shelter of the bailey, adjusting Vyleigh on his hip and brushing the dust off her kerchief. “And here I thought you’d learned something on this journey. You’re still the same soft, naive little man you were when we left.”
“Branco was kind to us.”
“He was greedy. You should learn to recognize when people are only pretending.”
“And you should learn to separate actions from motives. He helped us. Who cares why he did it?”
“Leave the chivalry to knights, Brother Maaltred. That desert rat doesn’t deserve a hair off your head. Nor mine, had I one to give. You’d know that, were you a true Warpriest. Only you aren’t, are you? You’ve said so yourself. Olyvard gave you the title, and he’ll take it back once you’re gone. He gives and takes as he pleases, simply because he can. If you don’t learn to do the same, you’ll never be more than a glassblower in fancy robes. Now let’s get this over with so you can go home. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Old Master Carthag received them outside the high hall and shuffled through the doors to announce their arrival. Olyvard bade them enter at once. He was pacing the room’s eastern wall, wearing a footpath in the thin layer of sand working its way through the shuttered windows. “What news from the far east?”
Norne bowed beside Maaltred. “We return with the best of tidings, your majesty.”
“You’ve brought me Darion Ulther, then.”
“Better still. We’ve captured his daughters.”
Olyvard turned. He studied the girls, then looked at Norne and Maaltred. “Where is Vicar Sullimas?”
“He was wounded, sire. He died of his wounds and was buried at sea.”
“Died of his wounds? What sort of ludicrous notion is that? Has the wild-song not afforded you the means to remedy such conditions?”
“It has, my king. Only… Vicar Sullimas refused to accept aid for his injuries.”
The king gave Norne a level look. “He chose to die when he might willingly have lived.”
“It was a mystery to me, and still is.”
Olyvard paused. “We’ll come back to that. Let us now speak of Darion Ulther. These are his daughters, you say.”
“Indeed they are, my king.”
Olyvard came close, touching Vyleigh’s cheek, then bending to take a curl of Ryssa’s dark hair between his fingers. “How did you come to apprehend them instead of him?”
Norne explained everything, from hiring Rochlathan to finding the hamlet to Darion’s absence and the death of his young son.
“You told him to come here?”
“We told his wife to tell him to come here, your majesty.”
“And do you believe he will?”
“I’ve no doubt he’ll come begging at your gates soon enough, my king.”
“You’ve returned with the sphere, I trust?”
Maaltred removed the sphere from his pack and held it up for the king’s inspection.
“Even after a trip round the world, its condition is no worse than when it left.”
“It is bound and safeguarded by the wild-song,” said Maaltred.
“Have it carried to the central tower and placed beside the blue sphere. You’ve borne it well, Master Furiel.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“It shall soon go once more into the world; when Orothwain and Ralthia are under our full control, the green sphere and the red will travel to Belgard and Galmeston, respectively. I expect the capitals of Thraihm and Berliac will fall faster than Deepsail did.”
“About Deepsail, your majesty,” said Maaltred. “Norne and I believe—”
“Brother Maaltred,” said Norne, cutting him a sharp look. “I’ll do the talking. You do the listening. Remember?”
Olyvard lifted a hand to silence Norne. “You believe what?”
“We believe your armies have yet to establish a firm hold over Deepsail.”
“One does not turn the will of a kingdom overnight. The Mages of the Council are dead, but the people must nonetheless be quelled. Time and again, if needs be. They’ll soon learn to abandon their reliance on magic.”
A door opened, and old Master Carthag shuffled into the throne room. “There is a man here to see you, your majesty.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s the strange bit, sire. He claims he’s Darion Ulther.”
The king gave a disbelieving chuckle. “Surely you jest.”
“I’ve not seen him with my own eyes, or I’d know if it were true.”
“I suppose climbing the battlements would be too much to ask of a man your age. Tell Darion Ulther he may enter my castle only by full surrender.”
“He demands to see his daughters alive, your majesty.”
Olyvard smirked. “It’s a good thing they are alive then, isn’t it? Brother Norne, you claim you left Tetheril well ahead of Darion Ulther, and yet he arrives hard upon your heels. How is this so?”
“
We were engaged for a time in Forandr—” Maaltred began.
Norne interrupted him. “Be silent, Brother Maaltred. You are speaking out of turn. Do it again, and I’ll have you sent away.”
“Let the poor man speak, vicar,” the king urged. “Surely he’s able to explain things as well as you can.”
Norne nodded.
“We stopped in Forandran during our return journey,” continued Maaltred, “to pay our respects to the goddess Yannui in thanks for a successful voyage. Perhaps the Warcaster gained ground on us during our stay.”
“A foolish notion,” Olyvard snapped. He cleared his throat and took a breath. “And yet, when the gods are faithful to us, we must honor them. It would seem you’ve managed to avoid catastrophe, if barely. Master Carthag, see Darion Ulther bound. No rope. I want him in irons. He is to be blindfolded, gagged at the mouth, and chained by wrists, waist, and ankles. Take no chances with him.”
“And his daughters, sire?”
“Yes of course. Bring them out. Dangle them over the battlements if you must. Whatever it takes to show him they’re alive and well. Once he’s restrained, lock him in the oubliette.”
“What if he demands we free his daughters?”
“Find some way not to. Promise him you will, and then don’t.”
Maaltred thought to protest, but he decided against it. So long as Ryssa and Vyleigh were here at the castle, he could look after them while their father was imprisoned.
Master Carthag bowed. “Come. Bring the children.”
Norne and Maaltred followed the castellan outside, covering their faces against the dust storm once more. The winds had intensified, and when they rose to the battlements to look down upon the rider claiming to be Darion Ulther, they could barely distinguish him through the haze. Ryssa and Vyleigh cried out to him when he removed his hood and cupped hands around his eyes to squint up at them.
“Hello, my sweet ones,” he called. “Mommy and I have missed you so much. Draithon misses you too. It’s alright now. I’m here.”
Ryssa tugged at Maaltred’s hand. “Can I go see my papa now?”
“Not quite yet,” he said, holding on.
