War of Shadows (16 page)

“What kind of ‘hocus things’ does Rostivan want?” Niklas asked.

The dark-haired soldier with the scalp wound seemed happy to elaborate. “Bone or stone carved with odd marks, round pieces of black stone. Things that look odd, like normal folk wouldn’t use them.”

“And did you find any of those kinds of things?”

“Here and there, not all at once,” the first soldier replied. “Whatever we found, we gave it to our captain.”

“What else can you tell me?” Niklas glanced up and down the line of desperate captives.

Eager to save their skins, the soldiers passed along bits of gossip and wild rumors, but nothing particularly useful. When they had exhausted their tales, they slumped, awaiting their fate. Niklas met Blaine’s gaze and nodded. Blaine returned the nod.

“You’ve been helpful,” Niklas said. “Lord McFadden keeps his promises. I’ll have our healers take care of you. But you must swear fealty, renouncing your previous lords, and we must be able to assure that your oath is true.”

A skinny blond man with a crooked nose looked up. “How ya gonna do that? Hocus us?”

Niklas shook his head. His expression grew sober. “Tonight, our
talishte
allies will join us. A
talishte
can read truth or lies from a man’s blood.”

The captives looked terrified at the thought, yet none seemed to think death preferable enough to volunteer to be executed instead. Niklas gave quiet instructions to the guards, who pulled the captives to their feet and led them away toward the camp where the healers were located.

Blaine turned to face Rinka and Tormod. “You never mentioned you were a necromancer,” he said tersely, meeting Tormod’s gaze.

Rinka shrugged. “You never mentioned that it was you who restored the magic,” she said. “Yet here you are, the last living Lord of the Blood.”

“Were you able to raise the dead before the Cataclysm?”

Tormod gave a knowing smile. “Before the Great Fire, like
most mages, my abilities were different. What matters is what I can do now.”

In other words, our allies are keeping their secrets to themselves
, Blaine thought.

Several candlemarks passed before Niklas joined Blaine, Piran, and Kestel in the command center Niklas’s men had hastily set up in one of the Citadel’s less-damaged rooms. Niklas looked worn and tired, and he still had not changed from his bloodied uniform.

“Have a drink, mate,” Piran said, passing his flask to Niklas.

Niklas dropped into a chair and took a swig. “Thanks,” he said, handing back the flask. “But I’d need about a cask more to make an impact.”

“Any sign of Rostivan?” Blaine asked. He sat on a wooden crate near the fireplace. Kestel stood close to the hearth, warming her hands.

“Verner’s men chased him for a candlemark, but there wasn’t much point beyond that,” Niklas said tiredly. “I still want to know why he’s going after Blaine in particular.”

“Like the soldier said, it’s got to have something to do with Quintrel,” Kestel said. “But that doesn’t explain why Quintrel turned on us after Blaine brought the magic back at Valshoa. Until then, Quintrel seemed like an ally, leaving us clues, helping Blaine work the ritual. Then he tried to force us to stay.”

“Odds are, he knew about the anchoring,” Blaine said. His hand brushed one temple, but that did nothing to ease the headache that still pounded. “Maybe he figured he’d just keep me in Valshoa indefinitely, and then he would control the anchor and maybe the magic itself.”

“Do you think he’s guessed what the anchoring is doing to you?” Kestel asked, watching him with concern.

“He knows.” Niklas slouched in his chair, head back, eyes shut. “And I don’t think there’s any doubt that Quintrel sent Rostivan to capture you.”

Blaine and Kestel exchanged a glance. “Why do you say that?”

Niklas sighed. “Geir caught up with me not long after sundown, when I was reviewing the troops. Seems General Dolan’s had a falling out with Quintrel and left.” He opened his eyes and looked at Blaine. “According to Geir, Dolan believes Quintrel’s gone mad, pushed ’round the bend by some kind of corrupted artifact. And since Quintrel couldn’t keep you in Valshoa, he’s bound a
divi
spirit and he’s got something called ‘presence-crystals’ he thought could bind the magic to new Lords of the Blood.”

“Do you think that’s possible?” Kestel asked, turning toward Niklas. She looked from Niklas to Blaine. “If the magic can be re-anchored, that could stop the drain on Mick.”

Niklas shifted in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Dolan seemed to think it can. He didn’t just leave Valshoa—he stole the crystals and the manuscripts that went with them.”

Piran let out a low whistle. “I bet old Vigus is stewed about that.”

“Murderous, I’d say,” Blaine replied.

Niklas nodded. “Geir says Dolan’s sent Nidhud our way with a ‘proposal.’ Dolan’s already worked out some type of an alliance with Nidhud and Penhallow, and as Geir understands it, eventually we need to return to a place of power to do the ritual—maybe Mirdalur.”

Piran made his opinion clear with an impressively creative string of curses. “Not that place again! We nearly died the last time.”

Niklas shrugged. “That was last time. Cheer up. Geir said Dolan’s also looking at the tunnels under Quillarth Castle.”

“Lovely,” Piran exploded. “We nearly died there, too. Can we find a place to try this where we haven’t all almost been killed?”

“Probably not,” Kestel replied. “Because it’s got to be a place of power, where the nodes and meridians are just right, and there aren’t too many of them. Valshoa’s out, for obvious reasons. At least Mirdalur and Quillarth Castle are solidly inside Blaine’s territory.”

“What’s the proposal? Do you know what Dolan wants in exchange for helping us?” Blaine asked. He expected to be tired after a battle, but not as bone weary as he was feeling now. His head ached, and his body felt feverish. Blaine was certain the magic had something to do with it.

“Geir didn’t have details, but I gathered Dolan wants assurances that when a ruling body is formed, the Knights—and the
talishte
—will have seats at the table.”

“Not an unreasonable request, given the help Penhallow and the Wraith Lord have already provided,” Blaine said. “And if the Knights are reliable allies, all the better. I’m sure Dolan wants to make sure there’s no repeat betrayal.”

Niklas nodded. “I don’t doubt it. And while I’m fine with the arrangement, I suspect there will be some who balk at bringing the
talishte
into the formal power structure.”

“Let them,” Blaine replied. “I’ve got enough people trying to kill me, they’ll have to stand in line.”

C
ARENSA, I’M SO HAPPY YOU’VE COME DOWN TO
the Workshop.” Vigus Quintrel’s smile was broad and, as far as Carensa could tell, genuine. “Come in, come in. Let me show you around.”

It had been quite a while since Carensa had been down to the building Quintrel claimed as his own private Workshop. Just a handful of mages were permitted inside, and invitations to guests were few.

Quintrel had chosen a building left behind by the builders of the city long ago, the Valshoans, who had died out in centuries past. The secretive Valshoan mages had sealed their doom with their insularity, refusing to leave their mountain refuge and forbidding outsiders from visiting. By the time the Knights of Esthrane had sought sanctuary, there were only a few Valshoans left, and they had permitted the Knights to stay, just as many years later, the Knights had permitted Quintrel and his band of rogue mages to hide within Valshoa’s boundaries from the Cataclysm Quintrel had predicted.

The Cataclysm had not entirely skipped over Valshoa, but the valley’s protections were strong enough to keep the city
from being completely destroyed. Many of the ancient buildings were still standing, though time and the battering of magic storms had taken a toll. Some of the grand structures were only ruins. Without the Knights in residence, Quintrel’s small group of mages were just a few dozen in a city built to hold thousands. The empty streets and lingering silence made Carensa feel as if Valshoa existed outside of time and space, cut off from everything else. The emptiness was eerie, as if they were the last survivors in the world, a possibility Quintrel had thought possible.

“I’m flattered to be invited,” Carensa said. That was true, in part. She had always wondered just what mysteries Quintrel and his senior mages explored in his Workshop. Lately, as Quintrel had become more withdrawn and snappish, and as rumors of dark endeavors had begun to circulate, Carensa had been glad her magic had not been deemed useful for Quintrel’s experiments. Now she was both curious and wary, even though Quintrel at the moment was his eccentrically charming self.

“I’ll give you the tour, and show you some of the things we’re working on. Then I’m hoping your talent with translation can help me solve a puzzle,” Quintrel said.

It would be so easy to take Quintrel at face value, Carensa knew. For a time, she had looked at him with awe and a touch of hero-worship. He had taken an interest in her as a pupil, given her hope and purpose to lift her out of the bleakness after Blaine’s exile, rescued her from the rubble after the Great Fire. She had believed him to be a great man and a mage of extraordinary power, as well as a visionary leader. Disillusionment came hard.

“I’ll certainly give it a try,” Carensa said, wary of making any promises. Quintrel of late was not the scholar she once knew. Time, ambition, and the bound
divi
had changed him. She
hoped her venture into his private Workshop would give her some idea of just how drastic that change had been.

Half a dozen mages worked at long tables or hunched over manuscripts at carrels. Some of the mages she knew well, others she barely recognized. But she frowned as she searched the room. Initially, Quintrel’s ‘special projects’ team had numbered close to a dozen.

“Where are the others?” Carensa asked, hoping she sounded innocently curious. “Do you have other Workshops?”

Quintrel did not turn. “No other Workshops. You know how the magic’s been since it came back. Not entirely reliable. A few of our projects didn’t go as planned.”

Carensa had suspected that would be the answer. She already knew several mages had died helping Quintrel discover the secrets of the presence-crystals Dolan had taken. But Quintrel’s casual acceptance of death made her shiver.
Would the old Vigus have been so nonchalant?
she wondered.
I didn’t think so back then. Now, I wonder
.

“Take a look at this,” Quintrel said with fatherly pride. He pointed to a map in a damaged, gold-leaf frame. “What do you see?”

Carensa peered at the map. It was a little bigger than a foot square, and as she squinted to see detail, she recognized it as a map of the Valshoan mountain pass. “It’s a map of where we are,” she said, straightening.

Quintrel chuckled. “Exactly. And no matter where you are, it will be a map of that area. Not only that,” he said triumphantly, “but it will show you anyone within three leagues of your position. Possess this map, and you’ll never be lost, never be ambushed.”

Carensa nodded, genuinely impressed. “Nice. Was this something your team found, or made?”

Quintrel glowed with pride. “It’s a found object, one of the things we’ve retrieved going into the abandoned Valshoa buildings.” He shook his head. “The Knights left most of the city alone, other than to make sure it was secured from outsiders.” He swept an arm to indicate the valley, with its hundreds of structures. “Who knows what marvels are out there?”

He turned and gave Carensa a conspiratorial wink. “That’s why some of the mages will stay behind when the rest of us return to the outside. I don’t think Valshoa has given up all its wonders yet.”

In spite of herself, Carensa began to relax. Quintrel seemed much like his old self. They came to a large, open area, where several of the mages had gathered. A warding circle was drawn on the floor, and Osten, a thin, angular man dressed in mage robes, stood inside the circle holding a metallic egg-shaped artifact.

“This should be good,” Quintrel said, grinning. “Osten’s about to test the artifact. If this works, it could be quite useful—especially for a mage-assassin.”

Carensa frowned. “What does it do?”

Quintrel’s grin broadened. “It allows the holder to move from one place to another without crossing the area in between. Osten’s going to test it on a very limited scale, getting it to move him from one side of the circle to the other.”

“Is that safe?” Carensa asked. “The magic’s still brittle.”

Quintrel gave a dismissive gesture. “We have to adapt to how magic is now, at least until we’re able to re-anchor the power. It means a new kind of approach for a new type of power.”

Carensa decided against arguing. Quintrel’s exceptional mood was giving her access, and she planned to report what she discovered to Jarle and Guran. And to be honest, the potential for a magical object such as the one Quintrel described intrigued her.

“Could it take you anywhere?” she asked.

Quintrel shrugged. “We’re not entirely sure yet. The old scrolls we found seem to indicate that you have to be either within your line of sight or at least plan to end up someplace you’ve been before. This is our first test.”

Carensa gave Osten credit for bravery, given how unpredictably magic and artifacts had performed lately. The experiment could go wrong in an untold number of ways. From inside the warded circle, Osten shot the onlookers a wide grin, and Quintrel nodded for the attempt to begin.

Osten held up the metallic egg and began to chant, invoking words of power. The silvery metal began to glow, and he held it to his chest, clasped between his hands. The light grew brighter, escaping from between his fingers, and in a blinding flare, Osten disappeared.

The onlookers gasped, then cheered as Osten reappeared an instant later on the far side of the warded circle. The cheers turned to chuckles, and Carensa repressed a giggle. Osten had reappeared, but his robes had not.

Osten blushed scarlet, dropped one hand to cover his groin, and rolled his eyes good-naturedly as Quintrel released the warding. Amid the ribbing and jokes, one of the mages tossed Osten a cloak. He covered himself and then handed off the artifact, making a quick exit.

Carensa wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.
By Torven’s horns! I haven’t laughed in such a very long time
, she thought.

A mage handed the metallic egg back to Quintrel, who held it up, marveling at the object. “Not a bad first test,” he said proudly. “We don’t know its range yet, and obviously, the clothing piece is a problem.”

“It would pose a few difficulties to appear naked behind enemy lines,” Carensa agreed, still chuckling.

“Well, there might be something to be said for the element of surprise,” Quintrel agreed.

Carensa found herself laughing easily, falling into old patterns. The blink of yellow light at the collar of Quintrel’s shirt brought her back. The small orb Quintrel wore beneath his tunic kept him linked to the bound
divi
, reminding her that despite appearances, Quintrel was not himself.

She looked around, hoping and dreading to catch a glimpse of the
divi
orb. Carensa did not spot it in the Workshop, but that did not surprise her. Quintrel was unlikely to entrust an artifact with a hold over his soul to a place of common access, even among the privileged few who could enter the Workshop.

“This is the piece I’d like you to take a look at, Carensa,” Quintrel said, calling her attention back to the present.

Quintrel took down a scroll from one of the shelves near the back of the room and held it out to her. Carensa took it gingerly. The parchment was yellowed and very old, and she feared it might disintegrate at her touch.

“I’ve had the others take a look at it,” Quintrel said, “but they can’t read it. We think it’s an old form of Valshoan.”

Carensa carefully spread out the scroll on one of the empty worktables. “Can’t your
divi
read it?” she asked.

Quintrel’s hand went to the glass orb on the strap around his neck. “
Divis
are powerful, but not all-knowing.”

Carensa fell silent, staring at the unfamiliar words in an alphabet and script she had never seen before. She placed her hands on the manuscript, and brought the magic of her gift to the forefront. Her fingertips tingled on the old parchment, as if she could feel the ink itself, and gradually, to her sight, the script began to rearrange itself as she stared at the document, translating itself into the language she had willed her magic to use.

An essay on the techniques of transmogrification
, the document
began. Carensa blinked, reading slowly so as to fully understand what she saw.

Sweet Esthrane
, Carensa thought.
It’s a working to turn men into unnatural creatures, like the magicked monsters that came through the wild-magic storms
.

She swallowed hard. There was no doubt in her mind who the target of such monsters would be, not after the last rant Vigus had gone on about Blaine McFadden.

“Any luck?” Quintrel asked, looking over her shoulder.

Carensa glanced down at the manuscript, afraid that somehow her gift might have translated it for Quintrel to see, but without her magic applied to the text, the words were as alien as before. “It’s very old,” she said. “And I’m so new with my magic. Are you sure there’s no one else who can translate it?”

Is it a test?
Carensa wondered.
Vigus doesn’t trust anyone these days. Maybe he’s testing my loyalty. Maybe he already knows what it says—or at least suspects—but he wants to see what I’ll do
.

Quintrel shook his head. “You know you’re the only one with translation magic,” he replied. “We have some mages who have learned to read old languages by rote, or who speak other tongues, but no one who can translate a dead language without a cipher.”

Then there is no way in Raka I’ll give you the translation
, Carensa decided. “I’m sorry, Vigus. I’ve tried. It just isn’t working. I guess my magic isn’t as strong as we hoped.”

For a split second, Quintrel looked like he might burst into a rage. The
divi
orb flared, and the light in Quintrel’s eyes was not altogether sane. He stiffened, and grew red in the face, and she feared he might lash out at her, either with magic or with his hands, which had balled into fists at his side. After a moment, he took a deep breath and allowed himself to relax.

“That’s all right, Carensa,” he said. “It is an exceptionally old
piece. All magic has its limits.” He sighed, and seemed to shutter away his rage. He turned to her with a smile, only now she could see how forced and false it was.

“Would you like to see our real breakthrough?” he asked. Something about his voice made Carensa wary.

“What is it?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light. Any illusion that Vigus Quintrel was still the same man she had known before the Cataclysm was gone. She did not know this stranger, but what she had seen of him frightened her to her soul.

Quintrel led her down a hallway and into a windowless room lit by torchlight. A man Carensa had never seen before sat tied to a chair in the center of the room. On the other side of the room sat the large
divi
orb with its withered hand, as if it were the prisoner’s jailer. The orb glowed a sickly yellow, and Carensa wondered if it were indeed watching over the bound man.

“Who is he?” she asked, alarmed. She looked closer, but nothing about the man was familiar. He was dressed in a tunic and trews that might have been military issue but had seen a lot of wear. Nothing about him, from the cut of his clothing to the style of his shoes to the way he wore his hair, suggested that he was a mage, let alone one of Quintrel’s rogues.