It took a little while for that to sink in. Finally Astyral managed to speak. “So just how much are we talking about, lads?” he asked, quietly eager.
“A couple of fortunes, as near as we can tell,” Tyndal said, clearly enjoying the attention.
“We had Marbles -- Sir Festaran -- take a look,” Rondal said, cutting off his friend before those assembled could do him harm. “Fes told us that, just in gold, there was about a million and a half ounces. Silver, maybe five million. That doesn’t count various jewels, gems, ornate daggers, and assorted gilded crap. A bunch of scrolls. Even some tekka. To be honest, we weren’t paying attention while we were looting. We were just stuffing everything in that room into a supply wand until we hit the bare walls. We didn’t leave a copper,” he added, proudly.
“Which puts the ordinarily-wealthy-and-powerful Brotherhood in a difficult position,” Tyndal added. “As they borrowed about a third of that from various creditors. Including a substantial loan at a high rate of interest from the Iris. That’s the criminal organization that runs everything east of Remere, as far as we can tell. And a good deal in southern Castal and Farise. So . . . there’s that,” he said.
“The money, we figure, is the result of enterprises made illegal by the Duchy of Alshar,” reasoned Rondal. “As such, it seems only proper that the, uh, evidence of their crimes be forfeit to the coronet.”
“Minus a reasonable finder’s fee, say ten percent,” suggested Tyndal. “After our split with the Shadowmagi. But we’re ready to deposit the rest with the Ducal treasury here in Vorone. Hells, we don’t really know where to put our ten percent, if you want to know the truth.”
“You lads just handed Anguin . . . over two million ounces of gold?” Astyral asked, his eyes bright with mirth. “Stole the lynchpin of the Brotherhood of the Rat, and probably wrecked their operations with their allies?”
“We . . . destroyed a couple of buildings, too,” Rondal added, apologetically. “And a ship.”
“They were in the way,” Tyndal explained.
The banter wasn’t distracting Pentandra from the miraculous truth. Tyndal and Rondal had saved the duchy.
With that infusion of capital, Anguin would be able to rebuild the town wall, build the palace keep, and pay the Commandos and as many other warriors as he needed to. He could raise an army and retake the corrupt south . . . whatever parts Tyndal and Rondal had left standing. He could restore Alshar to glory, and stand up to the hegemony of Castal. He could defend his lands against the goblins.
He could afford to build Vanador, the City of Magi. Just as Antimei prophesied. In one stroke, those two wild boys had changed the course of history. For fun.
Her head spinning, she realized she was missing an address from Terleman, who was just as astonished as everyone else. But the first to appreciate the advantages that had suddenly and unexpectedly accrued.
“--to seize this opportunity with both hands!” the big warmage was grinning. “With this, we can afford to attack the foe and drive them to the edge of the Umbra! The armies we can raise, the resources we can employ . . . and the secrets we can exploit in our enemy’s camp!”
“No,” Minalan said, suddenly, his hoarse voice cutting through the murmuring in the room. “That is not what we need to do.”
“What, then, Master?” Rondal asked. It wasn’t accusatory, or critical. It was a respectful request for guidance.
“We use this information - and these resources - very carefully,” he supplied. “If Anguin suddenly starts spending money unexpectedly, not only will that attract the wrong sort of attention from Duke Tavard the Bold,” he said, sarcastically, “but the Brotherhood will have a fairly good idea of where all of their money went. So let’s keep this quiet, for now,” he counseled.
“That does make sense,” Terleman admitted. “It will take time to employ those resources to their best effect. Advertising you have a room full of gold is just asking for people to take it from you.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Pentandra pointed out. As much as she wanted to fill the coffers of Alshar with stolen Brotherhood gold, that would cause more problems, ultimately, than it would solve. “We cannot risk inflation in such a small and fragile economy. It would ruin us. If Anguin is revealed as too wealthy, too soon, before he’s strong enough to defend himself, he loses everything. And so do we. And without us, who will contend against Sheruel? Who can win against Korbal and his walking corpses?”
“Wise words. It’s whispered that the gods themselves are at war with Sheruel,” Master Cormoran said, quietly. “If they are devoted to the task, and the Alka Alon, then how can we proceed foolishly? Yes, let us conceal this development. But let us not deprive ourselves of what we need to progress.”
“It will be easy enough to admit enough funds through normal means to avoid attracting attention, I believe,” Pentandra said, trying to remember everything Sister Saltia had ever said about the subject. “We can add a little to our receipts every month. We can fabricate the sale of certain properties, arrange to collect a little more in taxes than usual . . . all without arousing suspicion. That should be enough to conceal our efforts. But it might be helpful to know what our efforts are.” She looked pointedly at Minalan. So did everyone else.
“We must turn our attention westward,” Minalan said, finally, with a sigh. “We must defend against the Umbra, guard against the Penumbra, and marshal our strengths here in Alshar,” he decided. “But, most importantly, we must strike a blow against Korbal while he’s fresh from the tomb. Before he’s too well-established in Olum Seheri Before he learns how to use the Ghost Rock to its full effect.”
“What do you mean, Min?” Terleman asked.
“Those minions of his, the draugen, they are what happens when you put a simple, aggressive primordial enneagram into a human body. Consider that the Ghost Rock has untold numbers and varieties of ancient creatures buried within. Including some as powerful as gods or worse.”
“From what I learned recently, there are limits to how sophisticated an enneagram you can put into a human body,” Pentandra said, recalling her conversation in the croft about just that subject. “The draugen degrade after only two years or so. And they are relatively simple.”
“In ways,” conceded Minalan. “But we don’t know enough necromancy yet to understand the nuances. I have people working on it,” he assured her. “The thing to worry about is what happens when Korbal delivers some horrific ancient evil to Sheruel . . . in the body of a dragon.”
The thought terrified everyone in the room, for good reason. The dragons they had faced thus far were immensely strong, nearly invulnerable, magically resistant . . . and not terribly smart. They were powerful but they fought like animals. Such a beast as attacked Castle Cambrian with the intelligence and talent to use magic? She clutched her swelling belly protectively.
“Yes. And that’s just the worst possibility I thought of, and I’m not particularly bright,” the Spellmonger informed them. “But we can’t risk whatever devilry Korbal plans to develop. We must prepare a strike against him.”
“Another trip up the Poros?” Azar sighed.
“Come on! It was fun!” Terleman insisted.
“We will not be going in force,” Minalan informed them, firmly. “This will be a carefully planned mission, because so much could go so terribly wrong. But I feel the answers we seek are back in that hidden fortress.”
“Well, the Alka Alon will certainly be in favor of that,” Astyral nodded. “But what do you propose we do once we get there? Steal the Ghost Rock like a room full of coin? From what I recall, the substance was embedded in tons of limestone under a city full of corpses and goblins, under a lake . . . oh, and guarded by a dragon, now. That might be beyond the capabilities of even these cutpurses,” he said, nodding toward the young knights magi.
“At this point, I see it as a reconnaissance mission,” Minalan said. “And possibly a rescue mission, if Rardine is indeed being held there, we need to try
to rescue her as a matter of state security.”
“We could just kill her, if she’s been compromised,” suggested Tyndal. “I will undertake that mission, if called upon.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Minalan said, with a scowl. “And it may well come to that. But we are very far from embarking on this journey, yet. We must study our foe, take his measure, and find the counter to his designs or I fear we will be lost,” he said, without much hope in his voice. “It will take much work. We’ll have to disguise our true purpose behind other things.
“But we must stop this,” he declared, not looking anywhere in particular. “Too many have died already. Too many have suffered because this evil persists. If we are the only ones in a position to stop it, then the magi of Alshar shall do our best.” There was courage and commitment in his voice, but Pentandra could tell that despair haunted every word. “Are you all with me?”
“Always have been,” Terleman assured, raising his mug.
“I will bring the spirit of death itself to stare them in the eyes,” Azar pronounced, his voice chill and a fell look in his eyes. Pentandra wondered how often he practiced that.
“Tell me what you need, lad,” Master Cormoran assented.
“We haven’t heard much from Taren,” Pentandra noted. “What says our smartest mage?”
“I agree with Minalan,” he said, his voice . . . changed. “My short time at Greenflower has shown me things I never thought possible. I have spoken to the dead,” he said, as if admitting some great sin. “I have spoken with gods. There is far more at stake here than a little land in Alshar. There is more at stake here than we could ever imagine.”
“So . . . are you in or out?” asked Carmella, confused.
“We must stop Korbal,” Taren pronounced with the utmost gravity. “No matter the cost. If he is allowed to pursue his ambitions, extinction will be a mercy.”
“That’s a dark way of looking at it,” Tyndal scowled. “But . . . all right.”
“What about you two?” Minalan asked.
“Us?” Rondal asked, surprised. “But we’re rich, now, filthy rich. We can retire to become gentlemen of leisure!”
“Fine wine and pretty whores!” Tyndal agreed. “Eat until we’re as fat as Wenek.”
Minalan gave them a look.
“Are you jesting?” Tyndal asked. “A hopeless quest into an impenetrable fortress against untold hordes of evil to rescue a princess who is literally being guarded by a dragon?”
“A retarded dragon,” added Rondal. “How can any knight resist that bit of errantry? We’re with you until that fucking disembodied skull is ground up into dust, for what he did to our home, Master!”
“But we’re not bitter,” Tyndal agreed. “We’re doing it as a public service.”
“How about you, Pentandra?” Carmella spoke up. “What says the Court Wizard of Alshar?”
Pentandra regarded the faces of her friends. She already knew what she had to do. As dangerous as it was, to both herself and her unborn child, she knew that she had to commit to this quest.
“The Necromancer is a threat to the realm. It is my duty to see it challenged.”
Minalan gave her a grateful nod.
“Then it is settled,” Carmella sighed. “We guard against Sheruel while we strike against Korbal.”
“I don’t think we have much to fear from the gurvani at the moment, anyway,” Terleman dismissed, refilling his glass. “From what I have seen, they have lost their stomach for war. The Midsummer raids were a failure for them, and there is no sign that they prepare for another invasion. We struck at them and took two castles weeks ago, and we haven’t seen them so much as steal a chicken, since. Whatever Mask and her friends did to rile up the gurvani, it doesn’t look like they’re preparing any reprisals.”
“If that’s agreed,” Master Cormoran said, “then let’s eat. I threw up everything I had when we arrived by the Ways. Hell of a way to travel,” he said, shaking his head.
Pentandra was starving, she realized - but then lately she was always starving. The aroma of food was starting to compel her . . . and she felt herself sliding into submission to the tiny baby that was growing inside of her.
That’s when everyone heard it - a sound in the distance that, once heard, one never forgot. Pentandra looked from Minalan to the others to see if they, too, heard what she had.
“Is that . . . ?” asked Carmella.
“Oh, Trygg’s twat!” moaned Terleman as he sprang to the shutters at the far end of the hall and threw them open. “The gods must have a fucking great laugh over this!”
They all crowded around the doorway, dread in their hearts as they searched. For the briefest of moments Pentandra thought, perhaps, they had misheard.
Then it sounded again. A horrific screech of warning. Only much closer, now.
“Dear gods,” Carmella moaned.
“What were you saying about Shereul not retaliating, again, Terl?” remarked Azar.
“Oh, shut up, Azar!” barked Terleman.
“A dragon,” whispered Minalan.
The Spellmonger named the terror they all feared, and as if to prove his observation a brilliant flare of flame burst out of the sky, casting haunting shadows over the town in preparation for the horror to come. The second burst was even closer, and ignited the rooftop of the barracks on the far side of the palace.
“Oh, shit!” Tyndal said. Rondal just stood and stared, his hand over his open mouth at the sight of the dark shape moving through the mists over Vorone. Alurra crowded behind him, unable to see with her own eyes but curious about what was happening.
A third burst of flame tore through the far end of the palace, and marched in a relentless line across the rooftop. With an angry bellow the great worm slashed his tail against the watchtower tops and sent them careening across the town like a child’s toy.
“Mistress,” Alurra said, in hushed tones. “Did you know you are having triplets?”
“What?” Pentandra asked, her attention torn. The dragon’s next blast was dangerously close to her office, she realized. Where she would have been, had she not come to this meeting. “Triplets?”
“Pretty sure,” the blind girl said in a whisper. “Is that a problem?”
The Court Wizard of Alshar looked from the mighty dragon destroying her home to her sightless apprentice . . .
. . . and fainted.
Chapter Fifty
Aftermath
The long walk from the Waypoint back to Antimei’s old croft was lonely, and made all the lonelier by the first cold breath of autumn . . . but Pentandra felt compelled to make the trip. The Anvil was beautiful at this time of year, the trees that clung to its skirts beginning to change their colors and the fading sunset lighting the massive mountain into glorious shades. It was a pretty place, she reflected. She was almost saddened by the thought of Carmella and her construction crews appearing here next spring to set up the first camps.
Vanador would be built. According to Antimei’s direction . . . and prediction.
But before the remote hillside could be transformed, there was much left to do, she knew. And now that the palace at Vorone was an ashen ruin, it was all the more pressing that a suitable stronghold be prepared. Visiting the site undetected would become very difficult, presently. But Pentandra needed answers now, and this was the one place she could find them.
It took a while for her to find the path up to the croft – Antimei’s original wards of obfuscation were still intact, and she required Everkeen’s help to locate the correct path. She was gratified to find her spellbinding undisturbed. No one had entered the croft since she’d sealed it.
Once inside, she lit a magelight and looked around at the room that had been the home of the greatest witch in the Alshari Wilderlands for thirty years. It was humble and practical, with just a splash of decoration to keep it from being oppressive. The shelves and rafters were still stuffed with herbs and roots valuable to her trade . . . but the witch who had pr
acticed it was never returning here.
This was Pentandra’s legacy, now.
She did not come for simple herbs, though. She was here for answers. Answers the Prophecy Stone did not offer her.
Three prophecies had come out of it now, since the dragon attack on the palace. She’d delivered or acted on every one, but while useful, in some way, the verses the stone offered her were tantalizingly vague and incomplete. Pentandra needed more, especially now.
She debated with herself for a few moments before realizing that if she was not intending to do this, she wouldn’t have started out on the journey to begin with. She was committed, like it or not, and she alone would suffer the consequences of her folly.
Pentandra crossed the room to study Antimei’s uncomfortable chair. The old witch had sat in it religiously, like a throne, Pentandra had learned from her apprentice. She rarely left it unless she was out gathering herbs or seeing the rare client. Pentandra sat there herself, while she was debating with the Nemovort. It was hard on her back and rump, and the thought of sitting there now, with three tiny babies in her womb already pressing for space, sounded masochistic at best.
Court Wizard (Spellmonger Series: Book 8) Page 99
