"Your Grace, I do not know where to find the Library at Westmarch," Kiara replied. "I thought it was only a legend."
The Sister nodded, and looked to her fellows. Once again, Kiara sensed other presences, as if a conversation were taking place just on the verge of her hearing, and assumed the four were in conference. Finally, the Speaker leaned back once more. "Your Journey is part of a much larger story, one that began long ago," she said.
"Years ago, a great war was fought among the mages of the Seven Kingdoms, between those who would nurture the currents of magic for the good of all, and those who sought to bend its course for their own gain. In a conflict that nearly destroyed everything, the darkness was driven back. But not defeated. When the Great War ended, the mages of the Light were too spent to pursue the Dark Ones further, and it was our hope that they were damaged even more than we. We were mistaken." Her expression hardened. "They have returned. This time, we must stop them before they rise once more, or there will be no reprieve. Neither we nor the world itself can bear another great conflict."
"But I am not a true mage," Kiara protested weakly. "I have only the blood-line magic of Isencroft's kings. I can do so little. How can it help?"
The sorceress smiled, her eyes distant, as if remembering something from long ago. "There are magicks that have been forgotten, my princess, perhaps even by the Dark Ones themselves." She paused, and once again looked at Kiara as if taking the measure of her soul. "Now, it is time to ready you for your journey. At dawn, you must set out for Westmarch."
Before Kiara could ask the questions that filled her mind, her guide touched her arm. "Come with me," the brown-robed woman said. When Kiara looked back, the speaker and her companions were gone. Weak in the knees, Kiara allowed herself to be led from the audience hall.
She clearly was expected. A stack of new garments lay on the bed-rugged travel clothing that Kiara knew without checking was exactly her size. A worn-looking leather and light mail breastplate lay with them. A sizable purse of gold lay to one side, and on top lay a parchment map, yellowed with years. Next to these, a plain but beautifully worked dagger glittered beside a small velvet pouch and an unremarkable clay oval on a thong, pressed with runes Kiara did not recognize.
Kiara looked to her guide for explanation. The woman nodded toward the provisions. "Here is your first lesson in judgment, princess," her guide said. "What do you see?"
Kiara shook her head. "Ample provisions, more than I would have expected."
"Guard them well," her guide replied. "That riding cloak will hide your magic from those who scry for your power," she said, gesturing with a long, thin finger to the woolen cloak. "Replace your breastplate with the one on the bed." She held up a hand as Kiara began to protest. "It will lessen the impact of magic weapons, such as spelled daggers and arrows, but cannot turn them altogether. And its power can be exhausted, so do not offer yourself foolishly as a target."
Kiara turned the dagger in her hand, admiring its workmanship. "Guard it well, princess," her host said from behind her. "In the hands of a mortal, it will turn the undead. In the hands of a mage, it can destroy the soul."
"Undead?" Kiara whispered.
"You have much to learn," the guide said. "There are some who walk among us neither living nor dead. Some are wizards, who sought such power for themselves. Some are changelings, who by birth or accident lost their mortality. Yet others serve the Dark Lady as vayash moru."
Kiara's eyes widened. "But vampires are only in children's tales."
"Believing in them is beside the point." She reached past Kiara for the clay oval and handed it to the princess, who accepted it in cupped hands. "Guard this carefully, Kiara," she said gravely. "Use it only in a moment of dire need." As the woman turned it to the light, Kiara could see a pattern embossed in its surface. But as Kiara looked closer to examine the pattern, the lines blurred, as if in motion.
"This wafer is spelled with the magic of the Sisterhood," the sorceress said. "Snapped in two, it will transport the bearer and those in immediate contact to the place chosen in the bearer's mind." She replaced it carefully in the bag. "It may only be used once." She anticipated Kiara's objections. "You need not be a mage yourself to use these things. We know your gift, and its limits."
She gestured toward the coin purse that lay on the bed. "There is gold enough for your travels." She gave an unexpected, mischievous smile. "That, at least, is as it seems." She paused, noting that Kiara remained silent. "There is more you do not say, Goddess-blessed."
"It's just... I sent my closest kinswoman to the Sisterhood in Dhasson. We were told that the Sisterhood's best healers were there. If you were so close, why-"
"Why didn't we just pop in with potions to help?" the Sister finished her sentence with gentle humor. Kiara nodded.
"We are aware of your father's sickness," the Sister replied carefully. "And as much as I wish it were so, we do not have a 'magic potion' that can undo the spell. We sent word to our sisters in the Seven Kingdoms to see if any elixir might be found that could help prolong your father's life while you and others destroy the sender of the curse." She paused. "Word travels slowly, even among the Sisterhood. And such marvelous transportation as you experienced can be used only sparingly, for short distances, and at great cost. Otherwise, we are just as constrained by distance and the speed of a horse as non-mages," she said with a sad smile. "As for our cloister here, it is just a small hiding place. We have no healers here."
"But the Sisterhood has the most powerful mages alive," Kiara marveled. "Why would you need to hide?"
The Sister's eyes took on a sad, distant look. "What people do not understand, they either destroy or worship," she said quietly. "Throughout our history, we have, unfortunately, encountered both. We neither seek worship nor martyrdom. And there is fear among our Sisters-well-founded fear-that now that Jared Drayke rules in Margolan, we may once again be targets."
"Why?"
The Sister looked away. "Jared Drayke's mage, Foor Arontala, is well known to us. Now that he controls a king and the resources of a kingdom, his ambition will grow. He will see us as a threat, and rightly so, because his blood magic is the dark stain Bava K'aa and others gave their lives to wipe out."
"Can't you just... zap him or something?"
The Sister chuckled. "I wish it were so easy. Perhaps no one since the Obsidian King so deserves to be 'zapped' as you put it. But the Sisterhood does not, cannot, intervene directly into the rule of kingdoms. To do so would bring about our destruction. We, too, would be seduced by power, and it would be our ruin. And so, we work behind the scenes. We enable, we guide, we arrange fortuitous coincidences," she said with a knowing smile. "But we cannot become kingmakers. We would be presuming the role of the Lady. Instead, we make it possible for Her will to work."
Kiara considered for a few moments. "If the Sisterhood does not have a potion, Carina's journey is in vain."
The Sister shook her head. "We do not know that. Our Sisters throughout the kingdoms will search their records and send us word if help can be found." she said. "You are correct that the healers in Dhasson are among our finest. It may well take the length of your kinswoman's journey for them to exhaust their resources and find something that can help. But I do not believe the journey is wasted," she said, meeting Kiara's eyes. "I believe their path is in the hand of the Lady Herself."
A knock at the door startled Kiara but her hostess brightened, expecting the interruption. "Come," she said, and the door opened to admit another robed woman carrying a tray full of food. Kiara's stomach rumbled, reminding her that it was nearly morning. "You must be hungry by now," the guide remarked, and while she did not completely lose her reserve, by comparison, she was now almost friendly. "Please eat well, and take your rest. You have a long journey ahead of you."
"What happens after I wake up?"
"When you awaken you can be on your way," the Sister replied, turning to go.
"Wait!" Kiara called after her. "How am I going t
o know what to seek at the Library?"
"What you need will come to you." Without additional comment she turned, leaving Kiara and Jae alone.
Kiara watched the door close, then dropped onto the bed as Jae flew a small circle in the room, hissing skeptically.
"I know, I know," she moaned to her companion. "I feel the same way. It's bad enough leaving in the middle of the night and getting assigned a Journey, but, Goddess, we're in a Citadel of the Sisterhood!" she exclaimed while the gyregon gurgled his reply. "We're in the thick of it now, and there's no going back," she said. "Even stopping a dark mage sounds better than marrying Jared!"
With a sigh, Kiara sat up, stirred by the smell of warm biscuits and hot tea. A thick potage simmered under a silver lid. She was delighted to find a bowl filled with bits of meat for a gyregon meal, and Jae settled down across from her on the table to feast, gurgling contentedly as he gulped his bounty. Between mouthfuls, she thought aloud to the little dragon.
"I remember a legend about Westmarch," she murmured. "I think it was supposed to be near the borders of Dhasson and Eastmark, upriver on the Nu," she recalled, spreading out the map between herself and the gyregon.
She frowned. "Camand Carina went towards the Sisterhood's cloister in Valiquet, the palace city in Dhasson. I'm more than a month behind them." Her finger traced the most likely routes. "Westmarch is almost two months' ride from here," she said thoughtfully. "That's if I take the quick route, right across the top of Margolan, through the Borderlands just below the sea. And pray for good weather." She grimaced. "I don't know which is more dangerous-taking my chances with bandits in the Borderlands or hoping that Jared doesn't notice that I'm sneaking across his kingdom." She thought for a few minutes and looked up at the gyregon, who finished his meal and now rocked back and forth on his hind claws, burbling contentedly.
"That route is still at least three weeks north of Margolan's palace at its closest point," she mused. "And Jared has to suspect I'm there to look for me. The closer we get to Westmarch, the longer it will take his guards to catch up to me, even if he does hear."
She set the map aside cradled a hot cup of tea. "Maybe Carina will find what she needs from the Sisterhood, and be on the way back to Isencroft before I return," she mused. "Or maybe, the Sisterhood will send her to the Library, too. I don't understand how wizards think! Why can't anything be simple!"
She stood up, stretching, and set the items on the bed to one side, turning down the ample covers. "Well, at least we know we're safe to sleep for tonight," she said to Jae. She climbed into bed and the gyregon made himself comfortable on the chair next to her, wrapping his tail around himself with a contented hiss. "Enjoy it," she said sleepily as she extinguished the candle. "I don't think we'll sleep well until we're home again."
Chapter Thirteen
Jonmarc Vahanian headed into the Boar's Inn with caution. Inside, a motley clientele packed the greatroom. Toward the hearth, four merchants drank together over steaming trenchers heaped high with food. Near the wall, a small group of priests huddled in quiet conversation over a bottle of wine. Three of the local baron's guardsmen laughed raucously near the fire, uproarious over a joke and a large jug of ale.
Altogether unremarkable, he thought, scanning the crowd. Ploughmen and merchants drank together, while near the fire, a bard sang to a small audience. Vakkis was nowhere to be seen. Vahanian ordered his food and a Cartelasian brandy to wash it down. He caught himself tapping his foot, and frowned. Long ago, he learned to listen to himself, to the instincts that kept him alive. He was nervous as a cat tonight, without good reason.
Arrestingly blue eyes locked with his. He froze. The blond man was not there when he first scanned the room. The man was about Vahanian's own age, with an aristocratic mien and hair the color of flax. He was thin, with a pallor that suggested he did not work in the sun. He regarded Vahanian with a mixture of curiosity and jadedness that sent a chill down the mercenary's back.
"Here's your brandy," the barkeeper said, setting down Vahanian's order with a thump. "Five skrivven if you please," he said, pushing a trencher of steaming food next to the heavy glass tumbler. Vahanian dug for his coins and paid the innkeeper, then turned to find a table.
The flaxen-haired man was gone.
Vahanian found a seat with his back to a wall, perfectly positioned to watch the inn's clientele, nodding at the table's other occupants as he squeezed into an open space. He looked back to where the blond man stood just an instant before, to assure himself that the man was indeed gone. Vahanian's misgivings increased as he sipped his brandy. He should have seen the man pass on his way out. Vahanian was facing the stairs to the rooms above, so if the man simply retired for the evening, Vahanian should have seen him leave by that way, too. The door to the kitchen was behind the bar, and the inn's large windows were shut against the chill night air. The man should still be in the tavern. But he was not.
Forcing his mind away from the flaxen-haired stranger, Vahanian surveyed the room once more. He purposely chose a table near the thick of the action, where he could hear as well as see. Three burly guardsmen in nondescript livery finished up their ale at a table near the fire. The red-haired one looked familiar, but Vahanian could not place him. Over the years there were too many run-ins with too many guards in too many places. By rights, he thought as he sipped his brandy, half the guardsmen in the Seven Kingdoms should look familiar.
He let his attention move from one overheard conversation to the next. The priests at a nearby table were from Nargi, but no arcane religious matters concerned them. The disappearance of a young noblewoman, possibly waylaid by slavers, consumed their conversation, morbid speculation mixing with what appeared to be genuine concern for the young woman's welfare. Not much chance for that, Vahanian thought as he tore off a piece of the warm bread. He encountered slavers once before, enough to last him for a lifetime. They preferred less traveled byways through disputed territories, where neither king nor noble was likely to bring arms against them. Some mountain passes were nearly unusable because of them, for any but a large armed party.
If slavers were on the prowl again, perhaps a warning to Linton might be in order, Vahanian thought, letting the brandy burn its way down his throat. Across the room, the woeful strains of the bards' songs reached him, a mournful tune about a young woman whose love for an Immortal doomed them both. It was an old tune, with as many variations as there were taverns, and when the guardsmen's laughter drowned out the last chorus, Vahanian found he could fill in the last verse from memory.
"Gettin' so that it's not safe no more, travelin'," his companion to the right commented. "First the bandit gangs, as if common highwaymen weren't bad enough," his tablemate lamented. "Not like the wolves or the weather warn't enough of a problem. But now, it's worth your life to journey north. If the magicked things don't get you, slavers will."
"Maybe the magicked things will get the slavers and save us the bother," Vahanian replied.
His tablemate grunted. "Huh. You'd think so, but there's enough profit to be made, I hear as soon as one slaver disappears there are four more to take his place." He leaned over conspiratorially. "Though I did hear that there were remains found, up on the Joursay Pass, that curdled even slavers' blood," he added in a rum soaked wheeze. "Naught but pieces of beasts, like they'd torn themselves to bits battling over what was left of some poor Goddess-forsaken group of travelers. Heard tell that the beasts warn't nothing ever seen by nobody round here before, since the Great Wars. Magicked things, bless the Mother and Childe, straight out of the Tales."
"Bound to be bad for business," Vahanian remarked, half-listening as he surveyed the room once more. It was unusually full for early in the evening. Perhaps the rumors were getting credence. If travelers truly feared both slaving gangs and magic monsters, it would be no surprise if they sought refuge early. Then again, he thought, perhaps both rumors were instigated by tavern owners to boost their business. He did something similar himself, years ago, in his river
days. Started the story that one of the tributaries was infested with poisoned eels, and made sure that some dead ones washed up near there. By the time the scare calmed down, Vahanian managed to steal most of the business from his upstream rivals, based, not coincidentally, on the ill-fated tributary. Of course, disclosure resulted in hasty relocation, but such were the realities of business.
"You're right, it's too big a problem for any one man to worry hisself about," Vahanian's tablemate continued, undeterred by the lack of enthusiastic response. "Looks like old Vakkis has bitten off more than his share this time, I'd say."
Vahanian's attention snapped back to the present. "Why do you say that?" he asked casually, glancing down at his food to mask his acute interest. He could feel his heart beginning to pound.
"Why, he's sold his services to King Jared, down in Margolan, to rid the border of slavers and bring back the mage that made the monsters," the tradesman replied, in a tone that told Vahanian that it was no longer fresh news. "Says 'twas the same wizard as killed King Bricen, Goddess rest his soul, and that like as not, kidnapped that noble lady for some awful dark sacrifice." He shook his head, mopping up the last of the juices with his bread. "There's one that's dead for sure, that's a fact," he said ruefully, stuffing the bread into his wide mouth. "More's the pity, since the King of Principality offered a mighty fine sum for her return."
Just like Vakkis, Vahanian thought, feeling his fists clench under the table. He did not doubt that the bounty hunter was using the rumors of trouble in the north to hide his true quest to hunt down Tris. By linking Tris to the dark magic and the young noblewoman's disappearance, Vakkis made it impossible for Vahanian and the others to count on aid from noble houses along the way. Dark Lady take his soul! Vahanian swore under his breath. Now they would have to be doubly careful. Whatever they were going to pay me, I want double, whether or not they bring down Arontala, he thought, finishing off his dinner. Not for the first time, he rethought his decision to guide the party to Dhasson.
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