by Layton Green
No one in the room dared move. Lord Alistair’s pulse pounded in his head. The law was clear that an unauthorized use of the Pool of Souls was an act of treason, punishable by death.
“How do you know this?” Lord Alistair managed to choke out.
“The Legate in Porlock sent an emissary to Londyn as soon as he saw Adaira.”
Lord Alistair fought against the rage that rose within him like a boiling kettle atop a blacksmith’s fire. A terrible temper that had always plagued him. “My daughter is not a spirit mage—how did she manage the Planewalk? Avoid triggering the wards on the Pool of Souls?”
Rasha swallowed. “Milord, Adaira claims she used your seal to bypass the wards on the eldergate.”
There was a long silence. Braden was the first to speak. “We agreed to commute the sentence of Val Kenefick if he is successful in his mission. I propose we extend the same clemency to Adaira.”
It took all of Lord Alistair’s willpower to suppress the trembling of his hands. Adaira was the one who had suggested the idea of sending Val on a redemptive mission in the first place.
Knowing she would join him.
He loved his daughter above all else, above even the Realm, above even the hegemony of the mage-born he had dedicated his life to preserving.
Yet Adaira had made a very shrewd move. If he tried to intervene to save her, he would lose face. His enemies would band together, block the move, and use the breach in protocol to usurp his authority.
What his daughter did not know was that the task Lord Alistair and Queen Victoria had chosen for Val was virtually a death mission. Useful if completed, but extraordinarily perilous, perhaps even impossible.
Yet she had left him no choice. Was she seeking to make her own mark in the Realm, he wondered? Or did she love the man that much?
He scoffed. Love had not had time to sprout. What Adaira felt was the infatuation of a sheltered child.
“I second the proposal,” Kalyn said.
Lord Alistair’s voice sounded faraway to his own ears. “As much as it pains the soul of this father, I fear it is my duty to make the only choice I possess a formality. All in favor of Braden’s proposal, please say aye.”
This time, no one dissented.
After the Conclave dispersed, Lord Alistair flew out of the Sanctum in a rage, his majitsu struggling to keep up. Anyone watching knew that his black-robed bodyguards were a show of power. Most wizards were vulnerable while flying, but if attacked in midair, Lord Alistair would simply create a floating dais of hardened spirit and rain death upon whoever was foolish enough to confront him.
He sailed through the pair of silent colossi guarding the midnight blue pyramid housing the Sanctum. Whisked above the tropical gardens and pathways of mosaic tile. Higher still, he soared through the forest of spires to the dizzying heights of his wizard compound, barely noticing the dun-colored stone flowing and dripping in surreal patterns, the Gothic symphony of bridges and archways.
He entered the central spire through an archway shielded by wards created by the strongest runemaster in the Realm. Past his chambers, up through a wizard chute, and into the observation room atop the tower, amber orb lights blinking on and off as he passed.
Alistair flew straight to the row of obsidian spirit helms, yanked the one marked “Inverlock Keep” off its hook, and shoved it on as he strode to his throne.
“Fesoj!” he roared, his vision blurring as it made contact through the ether.
The spirit helm nullified the sibilant lisp of the menagerist. “Yes, milord?”
Alistair’s vision cleared, revealing the workshop of his cloud fortress through the eyes of Fesoj, a notorious fugitive on the run for multiple crimes. Unlicensed menagerie had been outlawed in the Realm for centuries.
A circle of five upright azantite pods dominated the center of the room. The incubators of the Spirit Lieges: Lord Alistair’s secret weapon against an assault on his power. The reason he risked employing Fesoj.
Troublingly, only three Lieges remained. One had disappeared without a trace in mid-transformation. A second, he presumed, had fallen to Zariduke. Though disturbing, it would be nearly impossible to trace the creation of the Lieges back to him.
His mind snapped back to the present.
Adaira. Porlock. A doomed quest among demons.
Valjean Kenefick was the catalyst for all of this. The queen said he had spoken the truth about using the Pool of Souls to find his brothers. While Lord Alistair was furious at the outcome, he understood such a thing. The loyalty to family.
Moreover, despite Val’s transgression, he liked the budding spirit mage. The young mage had intellect, instincts, and great potential. Power. He would make a fine son-in-law, despite his lack of lineage.
But, far more importantly: could he bring Adaira home safe?
Lord Alistair debated trying to send a Spirit Liege to aid the expedition, then discarded the idea. Not just because he didn’t want one of his creations within a hundred miles of his daughter, but also because he didn’t want her to know what he had done. Not before she understood why. She was still too principled, unaware of the harsh realities of the world. Of what it took to maintain power.
Of the fact that an empire, even one as powerful as the Congregation, must never remain static.
That it must forever conquer.
Lord Alistair’s best hope was that Val and Adaira would spend weeks in a failed attempt to breach the strange portal the crown had opened. It would mean failure and a death sentence, but the attempt would buy Lord Alistair the time he needed to stifle dissenting voices, seize power, and pardon them both.
The time for his coronation drew near, but there were still obstacles. Powerful dissenting voices who might yet spark a civil war among the Congregation.
Voices that needed to be silenced.
“Milord?” Fesoj said again.
Lord Alistair shuddered away thoughts of his daughter. In times like these, he almost wished he had a god in which to believe. “I assume there is still no word from the liege we sent to find the sword?”
“Not yet.”
“Then send the next two,” Alistair said slowly, thinking through the ramifications as he eyed the circle of azantite pods, “on a mission to kill Garbind Elldorn.”
Fesoj hesitated. “My lord?”
“Was I unclear?”
Another pause. Lord Alistair could sense the almost erotic pleasure his command had arisen in Fesoj.
“Not at all,” the menagerist murmured.
-11-
When Val saw Adaira sitting by the fire in The Oak and Bull inn, he refrained from rushing over to sweep her off her feet. Instead he approached slowly, wary of her intent. What was she doing here? Who had sent her?
She held him by the shoulders and kissed him on the forehead, then let her hands linger as she met his gaze. “I heard Dean Groft declined your request. I thought you might need some help.”
As she turned to greet Dida, Val sank into a chair, stunned. He was happy to see her, even more than he thought he would be, but he had never considered asking her. Not just because of the danger, but because her father would never consent. “How did you get here so fast?”
Her smile was warm but melancholy. “The same as you. The Pool of Souls.”
“You completed the Planewalk?” he said, surprised.
“I’m afraid I haven’t the power for that. I used my father’s seal to access the eldergate. It’s a restricted portal to the Pool of Souls beneath the Sanctum.”
Val paled. “But the law, your father . . .”
He trailed off when he saw the truth in her eyes.
She had committed treason. For him.
“I haven’t spoken to my father,” Adaira said, “but he can’t—he won’t—make an exception for me. We come back together,” she said with a thin smile, “or not at all.”
Val looked away, shocked at what she had done. Sensing his mixed emotions, she took his chin in her hand. “I care for you, Va
l. But I did this for myself. If I want to effect change, I have to make my own mark on the Realm.”
“Not like this,” he whispered. “You don’t know where we’re going.”
“I know enough.”
Rucker cleared his throat. “The rooms are upstairs.”
Realizing he had forgotten about the others, Val stood and introduced Adaira to Rucker and Synne. The majitsu looked stunned when she realized who Adaira was.
Rucker snorted. “If I was your father, I’d put you over my knee and wallop your backside.”
“I’d advise against trying that,” Adaira said icily. “I might decide to flay you alive for your troubles.”
“Adaira’s studying to be a cuerpomancer,” Val said.
Rucker slapped the table. “Well, then. A spirited lass. Maybe ye’ll be useful after all.”
As they relaxed by the fire with ale and rabbit stew, the party told Adaira everything they knew, and relived the fight with the demons. She maintained a grim, determined air throughout the tale. As the discussion turned to penetrating the barrier of fog, mere speculation at this point, Val tried to process what her appearance meant.
He got that Lord Alistair couldn’t risk political capital by intervening. Yet even if the party made a successful return, would he blame Val for putting his daughter at risk? What if something befell Adaira on the journey?
He tried to push away the scent of her, the look of challenge in her eyes that excited him as no woman ever had, the loyalty and bravery she had exhibited just by showing up. She was a remarkable woman, no doubt. One for whom, under different circumstances, he could see himself falling.
But Val Blackwood was a goal-oriented man, and at the moment, his goals were all-consuming.
Return from the expedition and secure his freedom.
Locate his brothers.
Get them home safe.
He would do his best to protect Adaira, but he couldn’t let love cloud his judgment.
Adaira pled exhaustion and headed upstairs. Dida asked Val for a word alone, and he followed the bibliomancer to his room.
Dida shut the door. Curious, Val watched him trace a finger through the air, outlining an upright square the size of a wall safe. As the square glowed soft blue, Dida’s spindly fingers danced across the surface, inscribing intricate patterns in midair. The face of the square swung downward as if hinged.
Val gaped. When Dida pushed his hand through the space behind the blue “lid,” his flesh disappeared. The bibliomancer’s elbow moved up and down as if groping inside the magical cavity, and he pulled out a leather bound journal and a long staff tipped with an azantite crescent moon facing upwards.
“My staff—my father’s spellbook!”
Val gave his friend a look of profound gratitude as Dida returned his most treasured belongings.
“It was a strange affair,” the bibliomancer said, closing the lid and then making the square disappear with a swipe of his hand. “Do you know a man named Alrick? A phrenomancer, he claims?”
Val nodded warily, remembering the strangest experience of his life. “I do.”
“He visited me the day before I learned of your predicament. He claimed he was gazing and had seen your future possibilities.” Dida swallowed. “He said there were many pathways, but the only one that did not end with your death included your staff and your father’s spellbook. I must tell you that, even with these items, he said the pathway of success was an extremely unlikely one.”
“Did he say why he was so concerned about my future?”
“He said you owed him a gazing session.”
Val pursed his lips. “How did you get these?”
“Alrick gave me an address in New Victoria and said I would find them inside. I found the residence, knocked, and no one answered.” Dida hung his head, sheepish. “The door was unlocked.”
Salomon, Val thought to himself.
He clutched his staff and tucked the spellbook into his cloak. Pieces of his father’s past he could never replace. “I know you didn’t have to come on this journey, Dida. You barely know me.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Dida said crossly. “In the Kingdom of Great Zimbabwe, a friendship is counted not by the days it has lasted, but by the strength of its bond.”
Val was quiet for a long moment. “Then thank you, my friend,” he said softly. “I feel the same.”
Not yet tired, Val left the staff and spellbook in his room and returned downstairs, forcing himself to keep walking as he passed Adaira’s door. He found Synne and Rucker in the common room. The grizzled fighter was hunched over a mug of ale in the corner, watching the door. The tables in a wide swath around him were empty. He saw Val and scowled. Val got the hint.
Synne was sitting near the hearth, wiry arms folded across her chest, warming herself by the fire.
“May I?” Val asked.
She looked up, then gave a curt nod.
He sat beside her. “I’ve never known a majitsu before.”
She looked surprised but didn’t respond.
“Look,” he said. “I’m guessing they told you they would commute your sentence if you agreed to protect me. You had no choice in the matter.”
“You know nothing,” she said quietly.
Val spread his hands. “I know you’re sitting alone, and I have time to listen.”
Synne continued staring ahead.
“Did they tell you why I was imprisoned?” he asked.
After a time, Synne slowly nodded, then looked down at her hands. She plucked at the sleeve of her black shirt as if ashamed by the material.
He rose. “Trust takes time to build. You saved my life and have already earned mine.” He refrained from a paternal squeeze of her shoulder. This proud woman, he sensed, would not take well to pity. “Good night, Synne. Perhaps one day we’ll learn a bit more about each other.”
Her eyes rose to meet his for the briefest of moments, her gaze unreadable, before sliding away.
Val retired to his room, unable to stop thinking about the barrier of fog. How it had appeared and whether they would be able to breach it. What they would find on the other side. Knowing he needed to prepare as much as possible, he reached for his father’s spellbook, written during his time at the Abbey and containing notes and instructions on a set of spiritmancy spells that, if Val could learn them in time, might prove invaluable.
There was a knock at the door. He tensed and reached for his staff. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Adaira’s voice.
He set his staff down and opened the door to find Lord Alistair’s daughter dressed in a sleek blue nightgown, hair unbound. Val stood in the entrance, not inviting her in but not pushing her away.
She met his eyes, stepped forward, and kissed him in the doorway. Kissed him long and hard and deep. As her body pressed against his, he sank into the kiss, feeling light-headed with desire.
He took a step back, pulling her inside the room, forgetting his earlier promise to himself. Her eyes had a glazed look when she spoke. “You wouldn’t have come to my room yourself,” she said in a throaty voice, “and I don’t know why.”
That was not what he expected to hear. Yet he didn’t deny the statement.
“There are a great many things I don’t know about you, Val Kenefick. But I know you somehow managed to escape the Wizard Vault. I know my father thinks very highly of you, despite your crime. I know you completed the Planewalk, by yourself, with no instruction. I know that something happened between you and Gowan, because whenever I speak your name he recoils as if stung by a viper. But most of all, while I sense that my attraction is returned, I know that something in your life stands between you and me. Something important. I assume it to be another woman, but whatever it is, you should know that until it’s resolved to my satisfaction, that will be the last kiss you receive from these lips.”
She brushed a hand across his cheek, flashed a sad smile, and left him standing in the doorway.
&nbs
p; With a shudder of attraction coursing through him, Val grabbed his father’s spellbook and climbed into bed, poring over its contents until his eyes closed themselves. Yet when he slept, he dreamed not of Spirit Shields and Moon Rays and travels through the astral plane, but of a strong-willed young woman with hair like spun gold, challenging turquoise eyes, and lips so soft they brought him to his knees.
When Adaira returned to her room, she sat with her back against her headboard, her stomach churning so hard she felt as if she might throw up.
The mattress sagged. The rough woolen blanket made her itch. Still, though accustomed to the finer things in life, it wasn’t the lack of creature comforts that troubled her. Adaira was nearing her twenty-fifth year and had never traveled without her father or a swarm of majitsu present. She was eager for adventure, and the hardships of the road sounded romantic to her. Wondrous new horizons to behold, sleeping under the stars, tests of will and wit.
She had known full well what she was doing when she entered the Pool of Souls. That her father would not—could not—allow her any concessions. Making the decision to risk one’s life was one thing, however.
Following through with it was another.
Hearing about Val’s imprisonment had sent her reeling. It seemed like such an unfair punishment for his crime. She had known in her heart he was not trying to commit treason.
Of course her feelings played a part in the decision. Val intrigued and challenged her like no one ever had. As if he cared not a whit about her lineage. For a young woman who found it impossible to escape her family’s name, that was an incredibly seductive trait. She wanted to fall in love, not gain a political ally for her father.
Valjean was cool, confident, smart, and handsome. He gave her chill bumps when they touched and she found herself thinking of him at the oddest times.
Yet her mysterious beau wasn’t the main reason she had come to Porlock.
Adaira knew her father loved her. But her mother’s death had changed him. Never a carefree man, a genuine laugh had not escaped his lips in years. He had become withdrawn and sullen, and Adaira yearned to lift his spirits. Yet he wouldn’t let her in. Her father saw her as a fragile thing to be protected, a reminder of his beloved wife that he must never, at any cost, lose. It was stifling. Adaira was a caged bird. Her father wouldn’t let her walk down the street without a pair of guards.
