by Kal Spriggs
Cederic nodded slightly, “Close enough, though I will say that we do get the occasional shipwrecked sailor or castaway washed ashore. The magic itself is more in the sense that it hides the island from perception, both magical and mundane. Since the island has always been ringed with treacherous reefs and shoals and those lie under the same protection, most who sail those waters come to a quick end.”
Katarina shivered a bit. She had done some small bit of traveling by sea, but the thought of some invisible rocks smashing the bottom out of a boat far from land made her feel cold. It was, she must admit, a pragmatic approach to defense, but it was also one that would not differentiate between friend or foe, it seemed.
“Every bit of magic comes with a price, however,” Cederic said softly. “Most times it is simply a cost of energy or power. In this case, there were secondary effects. The isle was leached of color and wreathed in fog. We cannot see the sun from the tallest hills and the colorless light that filters down is a pale substitute. As a people, we too are leached of color, all but those handful of Viani who survive from before the spell was cast... and Noth himself, of course.” He paused a moment, in thought, “We are utterly forgettable, it is in our natures, our very blood and bones. There are other effects, some a result of the spell and the others caused by my people's own preferences.”
“We are, as your companions have noted, rarely remembered after we depart. My people settled the isle long before the Starborn came to Eoriel. They lived there in hiding and they turned their small bit of mind magic, what the Starborn called psionics, towards improving that. After all this time, my people have a minor bit of mind magic that makes us hard to see, unless we actively work to suppress our ability. Even so, someone must focus upon us, and our words, else they will vanish from your mind. It takes someone of strong will and intellect to remember our precise words and even then, they often lose other details. To be one of my people, to be Shrouded, is both blessing and curse. We are safe... yet we will never be remembered long after we depart.” Katarina heard a tone of anguish in his voice, of something that tore at him.
Bulmor grunted, “Seems like a good skill... for a thief or assassin.”
Cederic snorted, “Mind always on the defense, eh?” He shook his head, “I'll admit, there are certain exiles of my people who have come to Eoriel and done just that, but their numbers are few.” He met Katarina's eyes, “That is one thing to understand. We are not some small group of wizards totally dedicated to Noth, we are an entire people. We have blacksmiths and farmers and shepherds, just like any other land. Except, we are shrouded, so we have no history, no sense of community beyond our curse. I was born to a tavernkeeper and his wife and Noth's Disciples saw early on that I had much potential, so they took me in and trained me.”
“Wait,” Katarina said. “You said people don't remember one of your people after you leave... does that go for your own people as well?”
Cederic looked away, “It does.”
Katarina winced. She had lost her own family at a young age. The thought of what it must feel like to return to them and not have them remember you was terrible.
“But not all those who learn wizardry on the isle are followers of Noth... not even most, to be honest,” Cederic said. “There is an enclave of Viani, there, who train those of my people who are willing to learn. There are other wizards from my lands that practice magic... but Noth's followers are the most powerful faction.”
“What does Noth see in our little rebellion?” Bulmor grunted.
Cederic smiled a bit, “I'm not really sure I can speak for him, personally.” His smile faded, “It is not common knowledge, but Noth married a Viani and had a daughter.” Katarina felt her eyebrows go up in shock. The Viani were one of the older races of men, blessed, or cursed, with unnaturally long lives. Some said that they could not die, unless killed by violence, accident, or disease.
“Her name is Seraphai, and like her father, she is powerful in mind magic and gifted with visions. She is Viani, like her mother, so remains young even after many years...” Cederic trailed off. “Some time ago, she came under a spell or curse. There is no cure for this blight, not even with the powers and knowledge of her father.”
Katarina frowned, “What is beyond his abilities?” Noth had crafted the Starblade, he had hidden an entire land from the sight of people, he had wrought dozens of magical creations and to all appearances had defied time itself.
“Not what, but who,” Cederic said grimly, “a malevolent spirit whose power matches that of my master, whose knowledge is tempered with far greater age and an unbelievable level of spite. The same spirit that is responsible for the Armen raiders who ravage your coastlines.”
“You're talking about–”
“Do not say his name, though I don't doubt that if he wanted to he could hear us,” Cederic said softly. “But yes, he is the power behind this curse. Seraphai was granted visions of the future and many of them are most dark and terrible. She's seen the Five Duchies overrun by the Armen, the Darkstar Empire, or the Vendakar– or else laid waste by the Norics. In her visions there is chaos and bloodshed on a scale unseen since the Viani and Wold warred with one another.”
“That's...” Katarina trailed off. Words didn't come to mind to properly describe what Cederic spoke so calmly about.
“We mean to stop it,” Cederic said. “Seraphai has a handful of visions of a different future, one in which the High Kings will return, one where the darkness can be held back. In that future, there is a way for Seraphai to break her curse. In that future, the Five Duchies will be reunited once again to stand against the evils that would destroy them individually. That is why I am here.”
“Very nice,” Eleanor said from the doorway. Katarina started, so absorbed in Cederic's tale that she hadn't noticed Aerion's mother's arrival. Behind the short, blonde woman she saw the stooped form of Arren Smith, his long gray beard and battered, floppy hat another welcome sight, especially for the spark of energy in his blue eyes. “But maybe we should focus on defeating the Usurper first and then work on saving the world.”
Katarina smiled at the bite in her voice. Eleanor was pragmatic and down to earth in a way that kept all of them on track. She was also a woman of no little mystery herself, though she had yet to tell Katarina much, if anything, about her life before she had become the cook at the inn in Watkowa Village. Katarina knew that she had raised her son, Aerion, there, but sometime before that she had seen combat and adventure... and had both the experience and skills to show from it.
“Well,” Katarina said, “that is why I asked Gerlin to get you, we need to start that process.” She waited while the three converged around her in the narrow cabin. It was one of the largest aboard, but even so, with six people, the low, narrow room had become more than a little claustrophobic. “We've all heard Admiral Tarken's proposal in regards to Ryftguard. Now that we've seen the details and had time to think about it, I want to hear your thoughts.” She turned her gaze on each of them in turn and she felt reassured by the confidence that met her eyes from all of them.
“It's a risk,” Gerlin said, cautiously. “We're going in on their battle plan, under their assumptions, and we don't have enough information to make our own evaluation.”
“They're valid assumptions, though,” Arren said slowly. “And the information they've given us matches what we already knew as well as some reasonable guesses.”
“And a lot depends on information we don't know and can't guess,” Bulmor grunted.
“Yes, but sending us into a trap doesn't help the Grand Duchy of Boir,” Arren said. “Rather, it puts them in a bad situation, one where any of our people can say that they were helped by Boir to attack Masov. Boir doesn't need a war on another front, not if what we've heard is true and they're looking at a civil war themselves.”
Katarina nodded at that, “Yes, Admiral Tarken want us to secure the Ryftguard against all passage, which will protect their southern flank. If we prevent their Southern F
leet from using the Ryft, they'll have one fewer set of enemies to face. If they send us in on an attack that fails, they could open up a war with Masov, or even worse, an alliance between Lord Hector and their renegade Lord Admiral Hennings.”
Bulmor shrugged at that, but he didn't argue. Then again, it was his job to think of the worst potentials and Katarina knew he was unhappy with the all-or-nothing plan as they had it now. Most of our plans have been all or nothing, she thought, desperation has that effect upon planning.
“What about Lord Theodore of Nine Peaks?” Cederic asked politely. “Do you plan to contact him before or after you seize Ryftguard?”
Katarina pursed her lips in thought. She had received a message from the Baron of Nine Peaks with an offer of support just after being chased out of Tucola Forest. While part of her had wanted to accept the offer, she had also wanted to approach such support with a position of strength rather than weakness. That had led to their departure for Southwatch and the treasure and weapons kept there. It had also resulted in the deaths of over thirty of her people, to include Eleanor's own son Aerion. I cannot second-guess that decision, Katarina thought, not now, especially not with our gains from it. The fortune in coins they had discovered, the arsenal of spears, armor, and swords, and even the runic weapons and equipment they had discovered had been worth the terrible casualties even if this tenuous alliance with Lord Admiral Tarken of the Grand Duchy of Boir were not.
“I think we can send him a messenger, once we return to the hidden valley,” Katarina said. “Informing him of our intent and asking him to march to Ryftguard to support us.”
She saw Eleanor, Arren, and Cederic nod at that in agreement, but Gerlin frowned. A moment later, he spoke up, “My Lady, not to sound uncertain, but should we fail, that could be the worst thing to do. We would look foolish to your one supporter and it would position his forces to be trapped by Lord Hector's, exposed upon the road between Nine Peaks and the Ryftguard, with nowhere to retreat.”
“True,” Bulmor grunted. “Though from what I understand the Baron of Nine Peaks would probably know a hidden way through the mountains back to his valley.” Katarina cocked her head at that. She didn't know the people or history of Masov as well as she would have liked. She had learned much in her time in exile in Marovingia, but education didn't equate to experience, much less the cultural knowledge of those who had spent their lives there.
“He's a crafty one, alright,” Arren Smith smiled and stroked his beard. “I'd be surprised if he didn't know two or three ways to sneak his army back into the mountains and avoid Lord Hector's men.” The old man leaned against the ship's bulkhead, “Now, I think that young master Gerlin's advice is sound, however, I think it's a bit too paranoid. We've a solid attack plan and from what we can tell, we should take the garrison by surprise.”
“These aren't common mercenaries like most of Hector's men,” Gerlin snapped. “They're hand picked men, some of Hector's most loyal troops, highly trained, well-equipped, and completely loyal. They are the same type of men who serve in his personal battalion, and they'll not give up easily.”
“But they are small in number,” Eleanor said. “And they are far from the front lines in a fortress which has never fallen, that takes a toll on any soldier's readiness over time.”
Arren nodded, “Even Duke Ivan didn't dare to assault it when he took it from the King's Guard after the Sundering. The King's Guard there surrendered only because...”
“History lesson later,” Bulmor grimaced. From his tone, Katarina could tell that something bothered him about Ryftguard and she made a mental note to ask him when she had the opportunity later. “You are right, the troops there might be complacent, this weakness that Boir noted might be true, but this is still a risk. To speak of victory over a place which has never fallen is arrogance in the extreme.”
“Or confidence born of necessity,” Katarina said calmly. The others turned their eyes to her and she smiled a bit, “Think on this. Yes, it is a risk, but a victory there, in the place that no one has ever won, will be a hard blow to the morale of the Usurper's men. It will also be just the display of force we need to force him to come to the table. If we tell our people about it ahead of time and then accomplish it, it will show we follow through with our promises, which will get the people behind us as well.”
“So our plan is still to get Hector to come to the table and talk in good faith?” Eleanor asked, her voice neutral. Her expression was tight and Katarina thought back to the mercenaries in Hector's colors of yellow and black who had fought amongst the ranks of their attackers at Southwatch. They didn't yet know if those mercenaries were deserters or if it signaled some sort of deeper alliance between Hector and those he purported to fight. Either way, Eleanor had made no bones about the fact that she held the Usurper to blame for the destruction of Watkowa Village and that she had added to that debt the death of her son at Southwatch. She had grown quiet about that in the days since their arrival at Lord Admiral Tarken's vessels, but Katarina didn't even consider that the woman had forgotten her grudge. She's lost her son, Katarina thought, so of course she hasn't forgotten or forgiven Hector.
“Yes,” Katarina said. “That should be our first option, even if it means we don't get everything we want.” She sighed, “I still fear the possibility that we would leave Masov open to raids by the Armen and Norics, especially after the battle at Southwatch.” She shivered as she remembered the savagery with which the enemy had attacked and the screams from the enemy wounded as the demons and dark spirits they worshiped had consumed them to regain power.
“If we can bring Hector to the table, we can avoid bloodshed on a scale that would damage the Duchy and our defenses,” Katarina said. She saw the others nod at that, though some seemed more reluctant than others to resolve their differences through discussion. I want most of all to put his severed head on the ramparts of Emberhill Castle, she thought darkly, but I'd still kiss the bastard's hand if it meant an end to some of this.
The destruction of Watkowa Village by the Duke's Hound, Grel. The crushing weight of taxes upon the southerners, who didn't have the economy, industry, or trade to be found in the north, and the brutal occupation of many of the larger towns by Hector's mercenaries were the main issues. She knew it was a more complex issue, brought about by a mix of internal and external factors, yet Hector seemed determined to focus his efforts on the external threats.
He's too focused, she thought, and if he doesn't realize the magnitude of repercussions from his actions then he's going to leave the Duchy of Masov a blood-soaked, charred ruin. The northern merchants and craftsmen dealt with more currency and made more profits, but the nobility, especially those in the south, saw the autonomy that brought the middle class and had fought it. The southern highlands were poorer, as a result, and the common people had a harder time paying taxes for a war from which they saw little benefit. If Hector didn't find some way to get the three groups working together, or at least not against one another, there would soon be a class war as well as a civil war.
Katarina knew all that, yet it did no good to know it and see it without being able to do something about it. She cleared her throat, “So the plan as it is right now: return to the hidden valley, send off a message to Lord Theodore of Nine Peaks, return to meet Lord Admiral Tarken's boats, and mount the attack on Ryftguard.”
Arren gave her a smile, “Right, then. To victory!”
Katarina matched his smile, even as she wondered if her actions would really make anything better... or if she was just kicking off the violence a bit sooner.
***
Aramer Jameson
Aboard the Ubelfurst, the Ryft
16th of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
The man known as Arren Smith scratched at his false beard and ducked low into the forward compartment. It was difficult to find room aboard a ship to talk privately, even aboard one of the massive, iron-hulled Boir Ducal Navy ships. Arranging for several people to meet someplace priva
te in a discreet manner was not a simple exercise.
Nothing in my life is simple, he thought dryly, as he adjusted his disguise again.
“Took you long enough,” Eleanor said from where she sat in the shadows. She gestured at the wizard, Cederic, “We've been waiting.”
“I wanted to make certain I wasn't followed,” Aramer said calmly. In his profession, paranoia wasn't just a survival trait, it was a way of life.
“Well, it's just as likely that someone will notice the three of us all missing around the same time and start to ask questions,” Eleanor snapped. “And while I might share your goals, my stakes in this game are a bit higher.”
“I could always help you to disguise yourself if things go wrong,” Aramer said and kept his tone pleasant, “An elderly matron of–”
“I meant my son, you idiot,” Eleanor snapped.
Aramer grimaced at that, “True enough.” Eleanor's son, Aerion was presumed dead by most of the others. The boy had taken Aramer's own mission to distract the Armen and Norics in order to allow the others to escape. He damned near broke my jaw in the process, Aramer thought darkly. Some part of him still raged that he hadn't foreseen the boy's attack, which had left him unconscious and therefore 'safe.'
Cederic, however, had heard from his companion, Seraphai, that Aerion had somehow arrived at the Eastwood and had impressed the Wold in the process. That news was welcome in more ways than one. If Aerion only knew the value of the treasure he carried, Aramer thought, and the terrible risk he ran if it had fallen into the hands of the Armen and their shamans.
In an echo of his thoughts, Cederic spoke, “Your son has given us all much cause for worry, Eleanor, in more ways than one.” The wizard leaned on his dull iron staff, a frown on his face.
