Prologue
Chapter 1: The Stone
Chapter 2: Plans
Chapter 3: Departures
Chapter 4: Tarford
Chapter 5: The Thaeiin
Chapter 6: Sufferings' End
Chapter 7: Perceptions
Chapter 8: But for the Trees
Chapter 9: The Sword and Anchor
Chapter 10: Darkness
Chapter 11: The Red Tower
Chapter 12: Secrets Revealed
Chapter 13: Honored Guests
Chapter 14: Siblings
Chapter 15: In Memory
Chapter 16: Everyman
Chapter 17: Lesson One
Chapter 18: The Fivescore
Chapter 19: The Light and the Dark
Chapter 20: The Apprentice
Chapter 21: Noblemen
Chapter 22: Unfinished Business
Chapter 23: Smiles and Daggers
Chapter 24: The Master
Chapter 25: One Such Day
Chapter 26: Through Her Eyes
Chapter 27: Old Scores
Chapter 28: All Courtesies
Chapter 29: Fear and Doubt
Chapter 30: The Ways
Chapter 31: A King's Word
Chapter 32: Stains
Chapter 33: Rebirth and Reunion
Chapter 34: Old Friends
Chapter 35: The Queen
Chapter 36: New Friends
Chapter 37: A Falling Out
Chapter 38: The Stone Horse
Chapter 39: Desperation
Chapter 40: Drover's End
Chapter 41: Confrontation
Chapter 42: A Long and Quiet Winter
Chapter 43: Loose Ends
About the Authors
Weldon bit back a scream as the house collapsed around him. Fire lashed out from the wall to his left, and the flesh of his arm seared as he flung himself forward.
The thick wooden rafters that held the roof gave way behind him, puncturing the stone floor at wild angles. Everywhere thatch met flame, sparks and ash flew afresh.
“Papa!—” Weldon squealed, choking the word back into his throat scarcely after he had begun.
Fool. You saw what happened to Papa. You saw.
Crying out now would only draw the attention of the crazy man. The man who had staggered into their home not two minutes ago and wreaked this destruction.
It was not merely a man, though, and Weldon knew it. He was nearly grown now, ten years past his naming day, and Weldon knew magic when he saw it. The crazy man had been a mage, once.
Now he was a monster.
If Weldon could make it outside, past the door, he reckoned he could hide in the dusky shadows. He could use the greasy black smoke as cover, slipping from the hedge to the line of tall ironwood trees that lined the Road East. From there, he could make it to the banks of the Mirin and swim away. He was a strong swimmer.
Weldon forced his legs to move faster, thrusting himself through the cindered hole that had been their front door. He rolled, hard, and the blistering skin on his left arm ripped away. He ignored the pain and sheltered behind a stack of heavy barrels.
Weldon peeked through the space between the barrels. The entire yard looked hazy, indistinct. The air was acrid, and he fought the urge to take deep, panicked breaths.
Easy, lad. A few quick, quiet steps and you’re to the hedge. A few more and you’re to the road… and then the river.
He crept from behind his cover, low and steady as he could manage. He reached the hedge, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the mage had not seen him. He had not.
The mage was staring at Weldon’s sister.
Daneen. Cowering by the hog pen, caked in mud, and still holding on to her stupid cat, tears streamed down her face as the mage approached. She had been playing outside when he arrived, Weldon knew. He had hoped she would have had the good sense to run away.
Already the mage was flailing his arms, menacing Daneen. The mage’s hands… glowed, white-hot, like the branding irons Papa used on the Earl’s horses. It looked as if the mage were trying to extinguish them. Yet still the hands burned, and still they were not consumed.
There was no time to think on it. Weldon bolted toward his sister, yelling at the top of his voice.
The mage turned to meet him, and Weldon saw why Daneen could not flee. If not for his own momentum, the sight of the mage’s ruined countenance would have stilled him as well.
The mage would be shrieking in agony now, had he not scorched out his own tongue and most of his mouth with it. The mage had clawed his face into a smoldering ruin. The black ribbons of flesh that hung around his eye sockets still glowed and sputtered.
Weldon collided with the mage. He felt the air around him crackle, and smelled his own roasting flesh, and nothing more.
***
Today was the day. Thael’s father, Uriah, had given his grudging consent for Thael to leave the household months ago. Since then Thael had prepared everything, just so, as tradition demanded. His own steading was ready, and today Thael would pledge his troth.
By custom Nithians regarded the Nayoran witches—the hazas, as they called them—with contempt. For their mind magic, for the fire and thunder they could wield, for the destruction that could not be controlled by threat of spear and arrow.
But Thael was in love.
Uriah and Thael rode side by side, in the old manner, to the east bridge. Their armor fairly gleamed in the morning sun, and the horsehair plume of their helms was combed and knotted in the ceremonial braid of their family. Uriah held his posture more rigid than ever in the saddle, chafing at the thought of what was to come. Of welcoming a haza to the family table.
Thael’s gaze turned forward, searching the land beyond for a first glimpse of his beloved. Villagers crowded the far end of the bridge, motioning to them to hurry forward.
Uriah frowned. Doubtless they are eager for the celebration… and they expect the witch to be generous on the day of her betrothal.
The gifts of magic the haza could bestow upon such a small village, so far from the larger Nithian outposts, had won the adulation of the lowborn. But her manner with Uriah and his wife had always been courteous, and she was comely.
More than comely, Uriah admitted to himself. No wonder the boy loves her. She is a beauty, and rare, despite her allegiance with the other hazas. With their Order.
As they crossed the bridge they glimpsed her, resplendent in gossamer weaves of white and gold. She bore a strange expression upon her face, a serious, almost somber look. But it suited her, and she was no less beautiful for it.
Thael turned in his saddle, meeting his father’s eyes. Uriah felt a moment of shame then: a moment of pain at his own doubt, and fear, and undeserved malice for one so sweet, so undeserving of his hatred.
But it was only for a moment.
As Thael rode forward, the countenance of the haza turned grim. Her eyes narrowed, and without warning she lashed out.
A thin black arc of lightning tore Thael from his saddle. The boy’s body fell, limp and unmoving, upon the dirt.
The haza turned, directing her magic at the next bystander, and then the next. The black whorls of force danced about the crowd, and their touch was death.
Thael’s father saw no malice in her eyes, nothing about Thael that had driven her to such a murderous rage. No. It came from within.
These hazas are mad!
Thael’s father turned and fled amidst crackles of fire and lightning. A spray of frothy blood from mangled bodies—Thael’s body—flew over his head as he spurred his steed.
The sour sweat of fear was upon his skin, and the wails of the lowborn rang in his ears, but Uriah did not look back as his mount carried him across the bridge and back to the steppes of Nithia. There hazas were forbidden, and in the years that passed Uriah would not speak of that day, or of his son, again.
***
King Rotswald’s harangue continued unabated, despite the arrow that had pierced his ether-wrought breastplate, his shirt of Ceresian chain mail, and his heart.
Blood seeped from the wound and congealed almost immediately, layer upon layer, like mud from a mineral spring. The clots formed with unnatural speed, aided by the protective magic bound into the breastplate. Even so, it was too little to stanch the flow from the artery. It would only prolong the inevitable.
The wound is mortal, then.
The king paid it little mind. The magic that girded him had failed his body, but it was still effective upon his mind. To him death seemed like a small, distant trouble.
The king’s thoughts now bent upon what remained to him: discharging the final moments of his office in such a way that history might look more favorably upon him. A proper valediction.
“Is this how victory looks to you, my duke?” Blood sputtered from the king’s mouth as he addressed the man across the courtyard. “You think you have won?” He gestured weakly over the balustrade, toward the city below.
“Is this the scene with which you would p-paint your entrance unto the… unto the grand stage of Nayoran history?” The king slumped, bending slowly to the ground. Each limb fought to stay erect; each lost. “History written in… in chaos and b-blood?”
At last the king’s voice failed; his mouth still struggled to form words, but no sound emerged.
The Duke of Mettingen strode closer, past the corpses of a dozen Stonesmen. He allowed the jay-feathered arrow in his fingers to slip back into its quiver. He tucked his bow over his shoulder. The duke’s companion followed him, her gaze curious rather than frightened, but his Wayl Guard held back, weapons at the ready. Their eyes fixed upon the duke, and their hands were still. Despite their clear advantage, they would not relax their vigilance.
Their training serves me well.
“Of course it is… Your Majesty.” The Duke halted his advance. “Chaos begs order… and someone with the strength to deliver it. My victory lacks only one final brushstroke.” The Duke watched King Rotswald’s last few strained breaths, his lips speckled in crimson, until the king moved no more.
The duke spun about, his eyes rolling. “Honestly. ‘Is this what victory looks like…?’” he whined, imitating Rotswald’s voice. “Simpering, prattling fool.”
He offered the woman his arm, and together they approached the edge of the high courtyard. Her gaze lingered upon him but a moment before she turned to peer over the ramparts. Together they surveyed the scene below.
Nayor’s Stone had descended into a profound tumult. Much of the city was ablaze; whole sections lay smoldering. Thick smoke rose from the ruins, dimming the late-afternoon sun to shades of twilight.
Lunatic mages roved the shadowed city. They stumbled through alleyways, expelling jets of fire, of lightning, of pain and death, and the lowborn and highborn alike ran screaming. Two mages flung raw magic at each other in an open square; the bizarre, unpatterned waves collided and expanded outward in crackling tendrils, and everything they touched crumbled to vapor.
To the east, the Merchant’s Gate was no more. In its place for perhaps a hundred paces in every direction was a ragged sinkhole, an irregular seam where the ground had simply distended and ruptured. By the Riverman’s Gate, something like a crystalline explosion had frozen solid an entire section of the water, several rows of storehouses, and any souls within. A plague of rats and other small, swarming vermin—perhaps conjured, perhaps merely trying to escape the general pandemonium—blanketed an entire section of twisting alleyways by the Queensbridge itself, effectively blocking escape to the south.
A gurgling cry rose above the general din, drawing the duke’s eyes to a rooftop far below. There, a person—it was just barely possible to tell it had once been a man—squirmed along the wooden shingles, his body slowly transmogrifying into an undulating, slimy mass of tentacles.
A thin smile crossed the duke’s countenance, and he spoke, as if to no one.
“Generations hence, our posterity will wonder at how this moment must have felt. The realm, poised on the precipice of oblivion. The Order, destroyed. House Rotswald, brought to its inevitable, ignominious end. And then… restoration. Redemption.”
The woman on his arm murmured, “You must commission a chapter, my lord… for the Book of Years. For those generations to come.” Her hand grazed his cheek, and he turned to her, his complexion ruddy, his hands groping, pulling her close.
“Indeed… We must think to our future.” The duke smiled once more, and nodded toward his Wayl Guard.
One final brushstroke, then, and all would be complete.
Jerrith perched on the edge of his bed, not quite awake but unable to sleep. His eyes stared upward, unfocused, at the rough-hewn ceiling. Outside his chambers The Stone held fast against the first raging storms of autumn, but those ancient castle walls did nothing to lessen the torrent of thoughts surging through his mind. Images he could not discern, sounds he could not identify… all just out of reach. That he was a scion of House Albareen, a Prince of Elden Nayor, meant nothing to the visions. They came and went unbidden, serving what dark masters he could not say.
These shades of the future had haunted Jerrith for as long as he could remember. They lurked in the dusk of his waking mind, beckoning him with glimpses of a chasm whose crags and depths were unplumbed and uncertain. And with the inevitable fall into darkness there was always pain.
Jerrith’s head ached. It was often so in the early mornings, a dull remnant of fitful, half-remembered dreams. Tonight, though, the sensation was focused, immediate: a glass shard puncturing his brow. And it would not be assuaged.
Jerrith rose with a dull grunt. He paced his chamber, stopping occasionally to stare out the window, muttering as he stumbled over the detritus of some abandoned pursuit. Half-finished portraits stood draped in white linen and grey shadow amidst scattered brushes and paint-pots. Scraps of parchment with fragments of poems littered the stone floor by his writing desk. The remnants of a meal, nibbled at and long since forgotten, made ample provender for a family of mice in the corner under his wardrobe.
“It will come from the East,” Jerrith murmured, rubbing his temples.
He pulled the chair from his desk and sat. He picked up his lute and struck a few idle chords, loosing a jarring dissonance through the bedchamber. The hearth fire had long since dwindled, and the cold and damp had thrown the fragile instrument out of tune.
He played only a few minutes, and poorly, he thought, until he could tolerate the sound no longer. He set the instrument aside and traipsed to his wardrobe, donning a simple pair of breeches, a woolen tunic and a pair of soft shoes. He wrapped a black cloak around his shoulders and departed.
Jerrith’s mind cleared as he walked the dim, familiar corridors that led to the Stable Gate. A flash of lightning silhouetted him as he appeared before the lone sentry, a drowsy Stonesman.
“Open the gate.”
“Your Grace?” The Stonesman, blinking, pawed at his eyes.
“Open the gate. Now.”
The pair marched through the drizzle, passing through a series of portals—some intended for men, others for horses—to arrive at the Stable Gate, the fortified side entrance to The Stone. The guard had roused a fellow Stonesman along the way, and the two men put their backs into it, lifting bars and turning winches to swing the gate open. Other sentries looked on from the ramparts above, but they recognized both their fellow Stonesmen and their prince, and continued their patrol.
Jerrith and the Stonesmen peered into the darkness of the Hemlock Court beyond. The ancient trees that shaded the courtyard during the day now obscured what little moonlight managed to pierce the churning sky. The men squinted to see, but there was only shadow amidst the rain.
Jerrith led the Stonesmen beyond the archway, his feet slogging through the muck. At the edge of the Hemlock Court, the men paused. They stared into grey, watery nothingness.
From atop its granite plateau, The Stone commanded a view of half the city, and many leagues beyond to the east. Tonight, though, Jerrith strained to discern even the closest rooftops. The vast unbroken span of the Queensbridge was a vague silhouette to the south.
One of the Stonesmen pointed toward one of the few visible lights below, a singular bright spot winking and fluttering against the downpour. “The Sword and Anchor. Does Ivar never sleep?”
“How do you know he’s there now?” The other asked.
“Ever been to the Sword when Ivar wasn’t there?”
“Quiet.” Jerrith heard the approach before he saw it: A man on horseback climbing the serpentine path from the city, coming into view only as he traversed the last few switchbacks below the courtyard.
The two Stonesmen stood aside as the rider reined up in front of Jerrith, dismounted and removed his leather cap with a bow. The man was caked with mud, and steam rose from his close-cropped scalp.
“Your Grace?”
“Hawick.” Jerrith nodded, turning to the Stonesmen. “Take his horse and secure the gate.” The guards leapt to their tasks as Jerrith escorted Hawick toward the protective eaves of the castle.
Hawick removed his gauntlets and wiped his face. He was soaked through, and shivered visibly as he walked. “I have dire news from the Forest.”
Jerrith pulled his cloak tight. “I know.”
***
Malcolm heard the footsteps outside his door before the knock came. His eyes snapped open; his body tensed.
“Malcolm?”
He knew the voice. It was Roen Adair, an inconsequential lordling by most accounts, but castellan of The Stone and his brother Jerrith’s closest friend. Malcolm was less annoyed by the late-night awakening than by the man’s lack of deference.
“What news, Adair?” He slipped his arm from under the girl lying beside him. She mumbled a few words and rolled over, still asleep.
Roen’s answer was muffled through the thick oaken door. “Your man Hawick has returned from Nithia with urgent news.” Roen paused. “Jerrith bids me summon you to the Repository.”
“Tell my brother I will meet him there directly.”
“It shall be.” Roen marched away.
Malcolm threw back his feather-stuffed blanket. The chill air in the room woke his companion, who wrapped slender arms around her naked form.
“Off you go.” Malcolm rose and began to dress. “And be quick about it. I have business.” He threw her shift on the bed and lit a candle for her after he finished with his clothes. He could hear the heavy patter of rain outside his window.
The girl slipped into her dress, took the candle and left without a word. Malcolm smiled. She was just a handmaiden, but she was nice—very nice to him—and she knew better than to cling. He donned worn leather boots and made his way down to the Repository.
***
Gwendoline awoke with a start. It took her a moment to take account of her surroundings. She saw nothing in the darkness, but the steady slapping of rain on stone outside was enough to rouse her.
Gartner lay next to her in bed. She could tell he was awake; surprisingly, the thought comforted rather than annoyed her. The knock came again, and Gwendoline realized this was what had stirred their slumber.
“Your Grace?” The woman’s voice was muffled behind the portal.
“A moment.” Gwendoline had been dreaming of dogs, of running through sunlit meadows, hounds biting at her heels. The dream was already fading. “Who is there?”
“Your Grace, a rider has returned from Nithia. He speaks with your brothers in the Repository even now. I thought you would want to know…” The voice, her handmaiden’s, trailed off. Once again, Gwendoline heard only the rain.
“Thank you, Leith. You may go.” She was already dressing.
Gartner rekindled the coals in the fireplace and turned toward his lover. He stood, regarding her silently as she donned a simple gown and slippers lined in fur. Her lengthy brown hair was a tangled mess—his doing to be sure—but she merely pulled it into a knot behind her head and secured it with a clasp of plain silver. Hardly apparel to befit a princess, but warm and quick to attire.
When she was finished she looked up at him, glancing casually over his body. “You should be elsewhere when I return.” She stepped toward the door as if to go, then turned again. “That is twice this week we have fallen asleep. We must be more discreet.”
Gartner reached for his tunic. “Part of the enjoyment, that, isn’t it? The chance of being caught…” He hopped into his trousers as he shrugged off a black look from Gwendoline. “Not so enjoyable for you, I can see.” His eyes remained fixed on her as he buckled his boots.
Gartner sauntered toward the wall, where a tapestry depicting the first king, Elden Nayor himself, hung. Like the kingdom that bore his name, Elden Nayor’s tapestry was centuries old. Gartner slipped behind it and pressed a recessed handle, opening a concealed door. His expression turned serious.
“Be careful they don’t overlook you.” He took a step into the narrow hallway. “And let me know when you’d have me return.”
“In the usual manner.” Gwendoline turned her back to him as he exited. Her brothers would not overlook her. Of that she was certain.
***
It was not yet dawn when Gwendoline entered the Repository. Her brothers were already there, deep in discussion with Hawick and Roen Adair. The four men paused to regard her briefly before continuing. Gwendoline allowed herself a slight frown as she seated herself in their midst.
She sat the same leather-backed chair she had occupied the day before when taking her cartography lesson with Amasan, map-master of The Stone and one of her closest advisors. Strange that that very lesson, not twelve hours ago, had concerned the recent expulsion of the Nithians from the same forest of which Captain Hawick of the Fivescore was now speaking.
“For one such as myself,” Amasan had remarked, “such endless reversals are nothing but welcome news. Politically they are insignificant, beyond the general animosity they perpetuate between ourselves and Nithia. But they do require me to commission the drawing of new maps.” He showed his pupil a hint of a smirk. “For which I am, of course, thankful. Otherwise my presence in your father’s court would be utterly superfluous.”
Gwendoline chuckled at the thought before bringing herself back to the present moment. Hawick had arrived at the crux of his report, and she and her brothers leaned forward to listen.
“The news from our men still in the Forest looks to be accurate. A small force of Nithians has crossed the Tarno. They’ve passed through several villages south of the Mardish Valley, near Tarford.” Hawick indicated an area toward the center of the map. “That much we know for certain.”
The Repository was often used as a planning room. Its maps now lay spread across the enormous table around which they were gathered. One overlapped another, outlining the terrain of the entire peninsula. More parchments and scroll casings, hundreds of them, all in punctilious order, filled low wooden racks throughout the room. Every available wall was covered with intricately woven tapestries depicting landmarks from Nayor’s Stone to as far east as central Elibia.
Elden Nayor to the northwest, Ceres Nayor to the southwest, and the borders of the eastern nations of Nithia and Elibia, both of which extended far inland, were delineated precisely on those maps. Every geographic feature was included: The fertile, rolling plains of Ceres Nayor; the hills and lakes of the Northlands; the great central river, the Queen, wending her way to the Aerethine Ocean that bordered the Peninsula on three sides, stretching to the edges of the table. What lay beyond that ocean, beyond the western edges of the maps, no one knew.
Now Gwendoline gazed at the Nithian Forest, the mountainous, nearly impassable border between Elden Nayor and the Nithian Steppes that Hawick had indicated. She sipped from the cup of hot tea placed at her side as she studied the terrain.
Hawick wrapped his hands around his own mug of sebre as he continued. “We can confirm the Nithian movements, but their number, and their objective, is unknown.”
Gwendoline raised her eyes to meet his. “You never made sight of the marauders?”
“No.” Hawick’s tone was factual; a veteran soldier reporting what information he had gained, venturing no opinion.
Roen spoke through a yawn. “No surprise there. The ground is treacherous, even in the passes. Thickets so dense, you might never see an enemy until you were upon him.”
Hawick nodded. “We did speak with several of the locals. Nayorans, Nithians, villagers, hunters… they all told us the same. A mounted Nithian contingent crossed the Tarno south of the Mardish Valley, and then set about running in circles around the Nayoran lands in the same region. They’ve raided hamlets for food and supplies, though in the main they’ve kept to the forest. One Nayoran huntsman told us he saw the Nithians raid the same village twice in one week. Their movements seem to be without a pattern. Almost random.”
Malcolm raised a finger. “Not random. The Nithians are disciplined soldiers. Good with tactics. If we cannot see a pattern, or a plan, it is because we are missing it. Not because there is none.”
Jerrith set down his cup. “They are searching for someone, or for something.” He exchanged glances with the others in the room. “You said it yourself, Roen. The forest is so thick you might not see an enemy. Now imagine their force was looking for something in that forest. They might need to move in circles in order to—”
“—Exactly!” Roen interrupted. “The border has been calm for months now. For the Nithians to cross the Tarno, for them to violate the treaties they just negotiated, they must be seeking something important.” Looks of agreement circled the table, though Malcolm’s face was stony and noncommittal.
Hawick frowned. “None of the villagers told us anything about a search. How do we figure out what the Nithians are looking for?”
It was Gwendoline who answered this time. “We ask them.”
***
The Hall of Telling at Nayor’s Stone sat atop the Ivy Tower, an imposing vine-draped spire constructed when the castle was a mere generation old. The Hall itself was more recent by several centuries, a lasting monument to the wonders of the Age of High Sorcery.
It was constructed in the midst of near-constant warfare amongst the various realms of the peninsula. The High Mage of Nayor’s Stone, in conjunction with the Lords of the Keep and the high mages and high lords of the other consequential cities on the Nayoran Peninsula, had sought a safe and reliable way to conduct negotiations. In a central chamber within each kingdom’s throne, artisans constructed elaborate configurations of stone and metal, mosaics of marble and granite, diagrams of lead and gold, on floors and walls and ceilings. These embellishments were as functional as they were decorative.
If the maps and tapestries in the Repository were striking, the Hall of Telling was a masterpiece. The entire floor of the huge chamber was devoted to a bronze casting of the Nayoran Peninsula, with bejeweled recesses set into those points where the other Halls of Telling lay: Ceresia, Nith, Gilmaran, a few others. The whole of the bronze floor map was ringed with runes and sigils whose meanings were lost to the ages. At the point indicating Nayor’s Stone a slender crystalline rod was placed: the activation key for the Hall’s magic. The Hall of Telling served as a conduit of sorts, allowing neutral ground for negotiations or other important communications, wrought out of pure ether and known to none save the most powerful.
Entire teams of mages from the Etherine Order had empowered the tiled runes, and their craft was potent. The Etherine Conflict had ended three hundred years past; the use of magic was now forbidden by the unanimous decree of the nobility. Mages were now considered an insignificant rabble, an outlawed remainder of the Age of High Sorcery. But the Halls of Telling stood, functioning as perfectly as ever.
Rumors abounded as to what it was the Albareen kept within the chamber at the top of the Ivy Tower, under lock and key, a guard ever-present outside the doors. If the Albareen knew about these rumors, they gave no sign of caring.
Gwendoline, Jerrith and Malcolm came to The Stone’s Hall of Telling just after dawn. All three had changed into formal attire befitting a courtly event. Gwendoline wore a gown of lace and green silk, high-necked and uncomfortable. Jerrith wore an elaborate costume of embroidered grey breeches with a matching shirt and an azure velvet waistcoat. Malcolm had donned his road-worn leather armor, but he did have the good taste to cover it with a long green cape, clasped at the shoulder with an ornate steel pin.
They were met at the doorway by an older man whose wardrobe was as nondescript as his expression. He was a warden of the Hall of Telling: one of a half-dozen aged Stonesmen whose years of loyalty had earned them the solitary function of sitting a daily shift, alone in the Hall, awaiting any visitor who might hail the Albareen from afar. The Hall had seen little use since the end of the Nithian conflict, and the warden seemed almost relieved to have some company.
“Good morrow, Your Graces. The Hall stands ready.” The warden bowed them inside and took his leave.
“Poor fellow is probably happy for the opportunity,” Jerrith said. “Gives him a chance to swap war stories with his mates outside, I suppose.” He offered his brother a conciliatory smile.
Malcolm ignored him, turning toward Gwendoline. “I should do the talking.”
“Small chance of that.” Gwendoline pressed on before Malcolm could protest. “I am the only one here with the wit to treat with the Nithians. But since they seem to regard women as inconsequential, Jerrith will represent us. His temperament is more suited to parley and civil conversation.”
She held her hands out toward Malcolm in a conciliatory gesture. “If the dialog requires more… forceful rhetoric, Malcolm, you must take the lead.”
Malcolm managed a puckered sneer as Gwendoline pulled the crystalline key from the sconce of Nayor’s Stone and placed it into that representing the Nithian capital.
At once the lighting in the chamber shifted. Flames within the ornate lanterns lining the walls flickered wildly. Gwendoline rejoined her siblings near the entrance to the hall as the air around the group shimmered and the details of the room blurred and twisted. Now the three siblings no longer appeared to be in the Hall of Telling in Nayor’s Stone, but in a different room of similar design. The maps were different; the mosaic floor showed a different perspective of the peninsula; and the Albareen siblings knew that they were seeing the Hall of Telling in the Holdfast at Nith.
Their senses reeled for a few moments as they oriented themselves to their new surroundings. As their eyes found focus, they realized they were not alone in the room. A white-haired scribe in brown robes regarded them from across the chamber.
“It is early. If the matter is urgent, I shall bring my lord.” The scribe stood still as he delivered his terse welcome, but his image and the walls behind him wavered and wriggled before the eyes of the siblings.
“It is urgent,” Jerrith said. “If you would be so kind as to tell your lord we request an audience with him, we would be most grateful.” He offered a slight bow as he finished.
The scribe turned to walk away. After his third or fourth step, the man’s image shimmered briefly and disappeared.
The Nayorans waited silently, until, without warning, three figures appeared before them with a ripple of light. All three wore armor of boiled leather and chain mail, and all three bore swords across their backs. That the three wore armor in the safety of their own keep, or that none bore any insignia of title or rank, was no surprise for the Albareen. It was typical adornment for Nithians. The lack of visible rank did not matter, however, as the siblings had spoken with these three before, here in this very Hall, and knew each by name.
“Well met, Lord Marks. It has been too long.” Jerrith offered a genuine smile.
“Yes. What is your purpose?” Lord Urdus Marks was the quintessential Nithian: terse almost to the point of rudeness. It was said that Nithians never lied, but most Nayorans were convinced the expression was no more than wishful thinking.
Malcolm and Gwendoline held their breath as Jerrith took a moment to organize his thoughts. “Our outposts in the Forest have reported Nithian raiders on the west side of the Tarno River.” Jerrith held his gaze on the blue eyes of Marks. “Milord, this act could be construed as a prelude to war. We have come to ask your intentions directly.”
Gwendoline could feel the tension. Her brother Jerrith might be out of place on the battlefield, but he had a gift for reading people. She hoped his candor was inspired by that gift, and not by impatience.
The Nithian stood quietly for a moment, as if weighing his next words. “You speak like a steppelander. That is good.” Marks stepped backward, out of focus, turning his back on the trio to confer with his two comrades. Gwendoline noticed the subtlety; the Nithian would not yield even the slightest advantage to be gained by a clear observation of posture or expression. She smiled in admiration despite herself.
Beside her, Malcolm wore a thinly veiled expression of disgust. Unaccustomed to others turning their back on him, Gwendoline supposed.
Once again, she realized how little she knew or understood her brothers. As children the two had been identical, but as they grew to manhood their appearances had diverged. Both were twenty-four now, and would hardly be recognized as brothers, much less twins. Jerrith was slim and graceful, with gentle, almost boyish features. Malcolm was broad-shouldered, with a deep chest and brawny arms. He had not shaved, and the dark stubble on his face made him look ten years older than Jerrith.
Their mother, Mariss, had died not long after her brothers’ births, and their father, King Barnard, had taken hardly any part in their rearing. All three had been drawn into the machinations of nobility, though each had followed a different path.
Malcolm had thrown himself into training with the Fivescore, the elite Nayoran fighting corps created by Andar the Finch.
Andar was a commoner who rose through Muster, Ironhead and eventually to Captain and High Captain. Ten years ago, long before the Nithian Campaigns, Andar won an audience with King Barnard and proposed the commissioning of a force purpose-built for fighting in the Nithian Forest. Barnard agreed to fund the project, and the Fivescore were born. The best of Elden Nayor’s Ironheads, and a great many knights—the Paladine—had trained under Andar the Finch (including the man’s own son, Gartner), but the Fivescore would be his greatest accomplishment. Finch was the finest military tactician the realm had ever known, and the Fivescore were his legacy. Though few in number, their superior training and unconventional tactics had been instrumental in the expulsion of the Nithian threat from Nayor’s eastern border.
Malcolm was the only noble in those ranks; he served as their commander by virtue of merit rather than station. He had taken to the hardships of their training regimen, relishing the simplicity of it all. “On the battlefield,” he often said, “you see your enemy, you put a blade in his belly, and he dies.” Malcolm was direct, and, in his way, easy to understand.
Jerrith had drifted from one pursuit to another, gathering broad but shallow expertise, stopping long enough to master only the lute. His many talents had guaranteed him the finest tutors, each of whom hoped to capture his interest where others had failed. It was only Aylmer, the curmudgeon, the deformed Ceresian, who had convinced him to continue his studies… in music, the least productive pastime imaginable. Gwendoline could not understand the attraction. Frivolity had no place in the court.
Gwendoline accepted the political cut-and-thrust more readily, learning from the royal treasurers and bureaucrats the intricacies of administering a realm. From the various nobles who visited Nayor’s Stone, she learned the pleasantries of noble etiquette… and how to conceal a blade behind a smile. Of the three, Gwendoline alone had seen to the needs of their now-ailing father. She alone visited him regularly. She alone had been faithful.
She blinked heavily, returning to the moment. She noticed her siblings were similarly immersed in their own private musings. She was perceptive, but their thoughts were opaque to her. She focused her concentration anew on the blurry outlines of the three Nithians before her.
At length Urdus Marks returned. “My marshals know nothing of the raids of which you speak. Either your information is in error or I have rogue factions in my service. I suspect the former.” Was the note of indignation that crept into his voice feigned, or was it genuine?
Jerrith replied in a more clerical tone. “I trust the word of my riders. I can assure you—”
“—You can assure me of nothing. If you have proof, you may send it to me by means of courier or pigeon, as you wish.” Marks looked to each of the siblings in turn; his stare fell on Malcolm and stuck.
Malcolm refused to look away. The two locked eyes for a long, silent moment.
Finally Marks turned away to address Jerrith. “If there is nothing else…?”
Jerrith hesitated only a moment—still too long.
“Then we say goodbye.” All three Nithians turned and walked away into a wavering wall of color.
As the siblings left the Hall of Telling, Gwendoline wondered how they had ever managed to make peace with the Nithians in the first place. Jerrith looked at his siblings and shrugged helplessly.
Not quite an hour passed before Jerrith took his customary breakfast with Roen Adair. This morning Jerrith’s manservant, Lancaster, had arranged for poached eggs with cream sauce, herbed veal in puff pastry, and a large bowl piled high with fresh fruits.
Lancaster took one look at me this morning and decided I needed fortification. Jerrith grinned to himself. Unjust. Most unjust.
If last night had been a typical evening—if Jerrith and Roen had been down in the city, favoring the barkeeps and the hostesses and the card-sharps with their custom—the way he felt this morning would at least have been earned.
“Would Your Grace care for his usual beverage?” A willowy man of impeccable style and precise grooming, Lancaster suited the prince perfectly. The fellow was in his late fifties now, old for a household servant, but still graceful and capable from years of ritual.
“Thank you, Lancaster.” The aroma of sebre, thick and pungent, greeted Jerrith as the cup was set by his place. Lancaster retreated from the broad stone terrace without further comment.
Jerrith and his siblings had decided to wait until later in the morning to bring their concerns to their father. The king’s fragile state often rendered him slow to wake, and slower still to gain full lucidity. Jerrith supposed Gwendoline was right: a few additional hours were less important than their father’s most alert and considered decision.
Jerrith and Roen sat for a while without speaking, yet comfortable. Jerrith sipped his cup of sebre, but only picked at his food. He stared outward, over the balustrade of the terrace where they were seated, into the vast space beyond and below.
On most days their perch afforded a sun-bleached view of the Aerethine Ocean to the west. This morning, however, the storm clouds had lingered, and the skies and ocean alike bore the dingy cast of old wash-water.
“Slow down, Roen. You eat like a bear with winter on the way.” Roen had devoured a plateful of poached eggs, and was descending upon the pastries with obscene glee.
“Winter is on the way. Hawick said there was already snow in the hills around Fen Tara.” Roen’s arms encircled his plate. He barely paused to pare the skin from a pomegranate—eschewing his fine silver place setting for this task in favor of the horn-handled dagger from his belt—before popping a chunk of it into his mouth.
Seeds dribbled unheeded from between Roen’s teeth as he continued. “Besides, no one serves up a meal like your man Lancaster. An entire castle to oversee, and you would think I should know where they keep the best bits.” Roen gobbled another chunk of the fruit, pawing at his chin with the back of his hand. “I have yet to find anything this good, I can tell you that.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lancaster replied, appearing from nowhere to clear away Roen’s empty plates, “but you should direct your compliments to the royal cooks. I merely carry the trays.”
Jerrith grinned. Roen crumpled his unused napkin and dropped it onto the empty plate. “Well then, you carry the trays with great skill.” Lancaster nodded noncommittally as Roen turned to Jerrith. “So what will you recommend to your father?”
“I suppose it depends on what the Nithians are doing.”
Roen leaned back in his chair. “They must be lying, reputation be hanged. Marks is a royal, or as close as the Nithians get to one. Men like that lie all the time.” Roen looked back at his friend. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Jerrith drained his cup absently. “But Marks was not lying. I can tell.”
“I would not be so certain. If you are wrong…”
“I am not wrong. Whoever crossed the Tarno, they are under no orders from Marks. They might not even be Nithian.” Jerrith stood up and began to pace. “We are either dealing with some sort of elaborate deception, or—”
Roen finished for him. “Rogues. Mercenaries, perhaps.”
Jerrith nodded. “The only way to be sure is to send Hawick back up there, back to the forest. In force.”
***
Gwendoline breakfasted in her customary fashion, in the drawing room of her chambers. Today she had invited her tutor, Amasan, to join her. She knew the remainder of his night must have been consumed with replacing the maps and charts and parchments she and her brothers had consulted to their proper resting places throughout the Repository. Still, she deemed it necessary to impose upon his leisure time still further by seeking his counsel in private. On matters far wider than simple geography or politics.
Bald-pated Amasan had been a fixture in The Stone for a generation. He was well known, if not beloved, as a fastidious, pedantic recluse. Less well known—in fact, a closely-kept secret—was that Amasan was a mage. Moreover, he was a non-aligned mage: one who could work the ether, but who claimed no allegiance to the Etherine Order. His loyalty lay only with the princess. Since Gwendoline was three years old, Amasan had advised her on courtly matters and instructed her in spellcraft.
Crucial to the wielding of magic was a substance Gwendoline knew as resin. Taking resin—which mages referred to as “the Black,” in reference to the liquid’s pitch-like hue—into their bodies allowed them to see the ether: the diaphanous, omnipresent raw energy used to create magic.
If the ether was the very stuff of magic (”unsolidified potential,” or “incipient flow,” as Amasan called it), then resin was at once both the conduit and the catalyst. With a sufficient dose of the resin, mages could manipulate the ether. They could shape it, rather than merely perceiving it.
Though he claimed to dose the Black seldom anymore, Amasan had often used the substance earlier in life, and still showed the outward signs of that use: a gaunt, undernourished body and a darkly stained left hand. It was Amasan who had first warned Gwendoline about the stain left by the use of resin. The stain was a death-mark, for a mage, once discovered, was subject to execution. Thus it had been for three hundred years, since the time of her grandsire, Larkin Albareen.
Amasan also warned her of other, less lethal dangers. Habitual users of the Black bore children rarely, if ever. Their bodies became frail and emaciated, and their minds could be driven to obsession by the craving for more resin.
Thus Gwendoline had herself never dosed more than the tiny taste, an insignificant amount of resin that allowed her to see faint etheric flows. Amasan had seen to it that she never “crossed over the Bar,” the threshold beyond which she could manipulate the ether directly… but which would also lead inevitably to the damning stain. He had taught her the magical theory, but had never given her enough resin to put her knowledge into practice.
Gwendoline’s handmaiden served the pair honeyed cakes and sebre, and Gwendoline stared at Amasan’s linen-gloved hands as he reached for a cup of the dark brew. Fine gloves to handle delicate old maps… and to cover his identity.
“So tell me, Amasan, how do you read your former countrymen?”
Amasan added heaps of grainy brown sugar to his cup and recounted. “I was born in the Forest, nigh five leagues from Mardish.” He stirred the thickening brew, drawing his spoon across the cup’s edge so that not a drop of the liquid could spill onto the pale fabric of the tablecloth. “I spent—or rather, mis-spent—most of my youth there.”
“And did you treat much with the steppelanders?”
“From time to time. I served a handful of Nithian marshals before making my way to Elden Nayor.” Amasan watched as Gwendoline munched a honeycake. “They treat mages as the Nayorans do: they ostracize them in public, but every lordling with two gold flakes to rub together has one in his service.”
Gwendoline set down her pastry. “Am I such a lordling, Amasan?”
“Your jest wounds me, Your Grace. I am your humble servant, and my well-being depends entirely upon your beneficence.”
Gwendoline, who could never tell if these remarks from Amasan were sarcastic or merely obsequious, shifted in her seat. “Yes, well, you were about to describe the Nithians.”
Amasan wrapped his hands around his sebre. “If what you tell me is accurate, then you need not worry about the Nithian leadership. I have seen them lie before, once or twice, but it is really quite abhorrent to them. More likely they have a rogue marshal, or perhaps some sort of miscommunication.”
“Jerrith seemed certain of their honesty as well.” Gwendoline offered her empty cup to Leith, who filled it with sebre. “Perhaps we make too much of all this. We should investigate further, but I am inclined to withhold any extreme action for the time being.”
“That is your choice to make. Not mine.”
“Unfortunately, it is not my choice either. I can only offer my opinion to my father, and hope he trusts it.” Gwendoline frowned and looked down.
“Your voice is the wisest of the three, Your Grace. Jerrith has a sense, it is true, but he lacks the spirit to lead, and Malcolm is but a brute.” Amasan set down his cup and rubbed a lone scar on his smooth scalp as he mumbled softly. “Jerrith has a sense.”
Gwendoline smiled helplessly. “I hope the king shares your opinion… but somehow I doubt it.”
***
Malcolm skipped breakfast and returned to his chambers alone. He paced a bit, pondering. He ignored the rumbling in his stomach, turning his attention to the plain walnut wardrobe in the corner of his dressing room. Inside hung his clothes: several sets of comfortable breeches and shirts and one formal ensemble. The purple waistcoat and matching tunic were a twentieth-birthday gift from his sister, but he had never worn them. In fact, he doubted he could even squeeze his muscular frame into the suit anymore, though he never mentioned it to Gwendoline.
One pretty costume is one more than I need.
Malcolm reached beneath the garments to pull open a cleverly-crafted drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe. He drew forth a small steel box and held it up to the light, inspecting it for any disturbances. Satisfied, he produced an iron key from his pocket and opened the box.
Within lay a rolled vellum sheet, tied with a leather thong. He paused, almost reverently, before removing the scroll and re-locking the box.
***
Jerrith was the first to arrive at King Barnard’s suites. Servants loitered in the anterooms near the king’s bedroom, and one of these Jerrith questioned.
“How is he today?”
“He is awake, Your Grace... and aware.” The man, a journeyman physick, kept his eyes low. “He has been asking to see your brother.”
Jerrith was about to respond when Gwendoline walked into the room.
“Is he awake?”
Jerrith dismissed the physick and turned to his sister. She had taken her hair down since they left the Hall of Telling, and Jerrith could not help but notice how much she looked like the portraits of their mother.
“Awake, and lucid.” Jerrith looked to the entryway. “Have you seen Malcolm?”
Gwendoline shook her head. “You know how he hates seeing Father this way. For Malcolm strength is all that matters, and Father has precious little of that left.”
Malcolm entered. He passed his siblings and made straight for Barnard’s bedchamber. After exchanging glances, Jerrith and Gwendoline followed.
Another physick, the wares of his trade stowed in a red leather case, stood huddled over Barnard, removing the last of the morning leeches that had become an integral part of the king’s therapeutic regimen. Gwendoline had urged him to accept aid from Amasan, though she never acknowledged that Amasan was a mage, but Barnard had refused vehemently.
Malcolm eyed the physick with contempt. “Get out.”
The man fled at Malcolm’s coarse mandate.