“There are pathways the mind must travel to reach the source of my power. We don’t have years, Darin, but months, I think, before your lady needs all that you can give her. I can help you learn quickly, judging by the shape of your summoning.” Now he rose, unfolding slowly. “I want very much to help you learn this, but trust cannot be forced; if you don’t choose to give it, I can’t help. Will you learn?” He held out a hand; it was the one that wore the glove of flame.
Darin heard the muted whisper of Bethany’s voice; she urged caution; she feared the unknown. But she gave advice; as she had promised, she made no attempt to force his decision. After all, neither of them understood this strange, new magic, and they both saw a possibility in it. He took a breath, dragged air across his dry throat, and spoke. Until the word left his mouth, he himself wasn’t sure what it would be. “Y-Yes.”
“Then take my hand.”
“It’s burning!”
“Do you trust me, Darin?”
Darin nodded. And then he stared at the hand, knowing it suddenly for a test of resolve. Swallowing, he reached out; his hand shook. Fire had touched him once before, and he bore the brand of Damion because of it.
But worse than fire had happened under the house of that brand. He could stand fire, now. Closing his eyes, he reached out and suddenly clamped his fingers around Trethar’s hand.
It was cool and dry to the touch. Darin opened his eyes gingerly and saw that the fire still burned—but it was a halo that surrounded and warmed their locked hands. After a few seconds, Darin looked up to meet the eyes of the brown-robed mage.
“Very good,” Trethar said quietly. “You’ve courage, Darin. Now, sleep. Tomorrow is the first day of your apprenticeship.”
At midnight, the moon a slim white face above the trees, only three of the tents were occupied. The occupant of the fourth, dressed in black, moved silently around the camp site. He carried no light and stopped often, but his movements were catlike in their grace and surety. He seemed small, almost slight, and he never stood long enough in one place to cast the moon’s shadow wide.
He found the tent he sought in the darkness and hesitated a moment at its side; his breath, as everything else about him, was silent. He bowed his head, and then quietly drew the flaps of Darin’s tent open.
Darin didn’t stir, although there was a risk of it, as Robert reached over his sleeping body. His hand hesitated; his uncertainty was shown by his sudden stillness. Doubt? Too much of it.
With a decisive movement, Robert reached out and grabbed the staff of Culverne. His grip, though firm, was gentle as he levered it quietly away from Darin’s side.
The moon was quarter-cut, and in its slender light, he raised the staff and ran his fingers down its sides, staring at it, eyes narrowed in question. Minutes passed in his silence; he dropped the staff, point to ground, and let it rest against his shoulder. He let it carry his weight for a simple step or two, and then lifted it again, holding it inches away from his eyes.
Then, when his inspection was done, he crept back to Darin’s tent, and once again lifted the flaps, causing no more sound than a passing breeze might. He laid the staff down, once again, at Darin’s side, then let a sliver of light touch Darin’s legs.
A flash of teeth, too painful to be a smile, cut the shadows of his face for a moment. Then he stepped aside and left, with no one the wiser about his visit.
No one but Bethany, whose voice he would not have heard, even had it been raised.
And Erin slept in the safety of her tent—but walked and dreamed in the darkness that the world didn’t touch. The lands moved about her, dissonant with pain that was not her own; she crossed the bridge it made, but fought it in sorrow and anger both.
chapter six
Lord Vellen of Damion, heir to the Damion title, leader of the Greater Cabal, could not call or touch the power of his heritage; it came weakly and caused pain before it could be shaped and used. He could not preside over ceremonies given for the nobility and had to hand that duty, in trust, to Benataan Lord Torvallen, the second of the Karnari—his rival for the seat of the Empire’s power. It had not gone unnoticed or unmarked, and House Damion’s fortunes and alliances had grown cool and somewhat shaky.
He could now sit for hours at a stretch, but any walking tired him quickly—and he continued to keep his presence confined to his rooms. The lack of public appearances hurt his power base, but any display of weakness would harm it immeasurably. He bore his confinement with poor grace.
Left alone, he had time to dwell upon the First Servant and the cursed slave that had slipped, at the Lord of the Empire’s behest, through his fingers. He should have killed the boy when he’d had the chance and taken the consequences that might have resulted; surely they could not have been worse than this. Yet how could he have known that the boy was of Line Culverne? How could he have known that the First Servant of the Dark Heart would have willingly harbored such a one?
The ringing of the inner bell in his sparse, plain sitting room pulled him from his moody reverie. He sat up in bed and gave the quiet command to enter. A slave shuffled in and dropped gracefully to both knees; he settled his forehead against the deceptively plain design of an ancient rug.
“Lord,” the slave said quietly, “Erliss of Mordechai requests an audience.”
Vellen exhaled slowly. News; news at last. “Very good. Send a valet and keep Erliss waiting for the half hour. I will see him in my study.”
“Will you require refreshments?”
“No.”
He knew, of course, the moment he set eyes upon his cousin, that his timing was poor—had he the choice or the chance, he would have retreated immediately to wait for a better time. As it was, all choice had been removed as he met the eyes of Lord Vellen of Damion.
Erliss fell immediately to the posture of supplicant; one knee to ground and forehead to knee. His hands fell to either side of his stiff body as he strove to control his trembling. The last thing he needed now was an overt display of fear.
“Lord,” he said steadily, with no reference at all to their kinship. It would have been too great a presumption at the moment, and he had survived by being just cautious enough to recognize a near death when it was present. “Please forgive your servant for interrupting your repose.”
“Erliss,” Lord Vellen said, in a congenial tone of voice that fooled neither. “I gave you leave to report any news of import at the moment of your arrival in the capital. Rise.” Vellen knew, by Erliss’ composure, that the news would not be to his liking. But he also knew, as he glanced briefly down at the formal red and black of the Karnar, that he needed Erliss for the moment; his young cousin had ambition enough to make him controllable and as loyal a servitor as one might find in the priesthood. He also had mobility. Of the two, Vellen valued the mobility more highly.
Erliss lifted only his head and met his cousin’s pale eyes with his dark ones.
“What do you have to report?”
Not even the slightest of hesitations marred Erliss’ reply. He watched his cousin’s face like a sparrow watching the hawk’s passage. “We saw the signs of battle the evening after your arrival at the castle.” Lord Vellen stiffened; Erliss swallowed.
“What signs?”
“The red and white fires in the air; I have never seen either brighter.” He searched Vellen’s face for some sign of displeasure before continuing. “We cannot ascertain what occurred there, Lord—and we did not question.” A lie that was expedient; better to say that they had no answers. Erliss disliked to look unintelligent. “What we do know is this: one young woman and her slave left the castle grounds shortly after the battle.”
“And?” Pale blue eyes narrowed; the lowering of lids was the only movement that Vellen made.
“We attempted to stop her. Three of our Swords were dead in minutes.”
If he expected any sign of surprise, Erliss was to be disappointed. Vellen nodded quietly to himself and raised his fingers, in a steeple, to his chin
. “And this slave?”
“The slave?” Erliss froze for a moment, unsure of how to answer the question. Silence reigned before he rose, clumsily, to retrieve the documents that he had carefully composed about the incident. He ruffled through the parchment. “Here. A youth; not tall, but not yet finished growing. Pale hair, pale eyes and complexion. Slight and awkward looking. Slave’s clothing; brown tunic—”
Vellen raised a hand. “Enough. Continue with your report.”
Erliss did so. He described Tarantas’ role in the search for—and discovery of—the woman, and then described, in hazy detail at best, the events that followed.
“Stop. The short man in black. Describe him.”
Erliss was no memory-walker to see into and clearly recall the past, but he did what he could. “Reddish hair; dark clothing. Fully grown; younger than you, perhaps, but not by much. Thin face. He moved quickly; he used odd weapons, perhaps thrown daggers.”
“Did he name himself?”
“No, Lord.”
“And this—this fire, this explosion. Describe it.”
Erliss tried, and failed utterly. But he gave enough information for Vellen’s satisfaction. “You’ve told no one about this, of course.”
Erliss shook his head.
“Good.” He rose from his chair and turned to face the curtained window. “This is a delicate matter, Erliss. I’m sure you understand why. But I believe it can be resolved to my satisfaction—and to our mutual benefit. How long have you studied in the priesthood?”
“Seven years, Lord.”
“A long time, then. I have heard good said of your abilities with blood-power.”
Erliss said nothing, but he lowered his head to hide the sudden flush of pleasure that lined his cheeks.
“There will be ... a new opening in the Greater Cabal in a month, perhaps less. Should you serve me well, Erliss, that seat will be yours.”
“Lord.”
“But in order to take that seat, you will have to learn the last of the rites. These are not taught to any but the Karnar, and you will not speak of them to anyone—is that clear?” He called fire suddenly, and it came—an orange cloak that guilded his back without burning him. The fire shivered in the air a moment, and then, the warning made clear, it died. “I will teach you how to call up the power of God and use it in the Church’s behest. It is a gesture of faith in you, Erliss. A gesture of my intent.”
“And how must I serve, Lord?” Erliss asked, eager and youthful in his impatience.
“You must find and capture—or kill, if capture is impossible—the enemies of the Church. The boy, the woman, and their companions.”
Erliss nodded, and Vellen studied his face in the silence, wondering if he had ever been so transparent and so easily manipulated.
Benataan Lord Torvallen was in a contemplative mood, which was a common occurrence. That it was also a pleasant mood was more rare, but still not unheard of. However, his hands were occupied with a philter of a vintage that was dear enough to be called for only on special occasions.
The occasion was special enough.
He was not a man who disdained finery or elegance to prove some misguided notion of strength or discipline, and his study, with its multiple rooms, each lavishly detailed with only the finest of paintings and small sculptures that the Empire could produce, was testament to his preferences. He dressed well; his shirt was of deep, dark purple, and his jacket, folded carefully over the divan, was turquoise velvet, with a border of gold thread and black lace.
He held, in perfectly manicured hands, two letters: the cause for his celebration. Lord Vellen—momentary leader of the Greater Cabal—had been absent for mere weeks, but his leaving had been perfectly timed; perfectly opportune. The assassination of Corval and Stillonius had left two seats in the Greater Cabal—two seats that had been filled by Lord Morden of Farenel and Lord Sorval of Kintassus.
In the two weeks of privacy, with great care to avoid Vellen’s accursed allies and ever-present spies, Lord Torvallen had managed to link the fortunes of these two men with his own goals and rise to power. He considered the makeup of the Greater Cabal with something approaching sublime joy; the seat had never been so closely contested in his tenure.
Of course, the ideal would be Lord Vellen’s death—but that was unlikely; and besides, how would he then usher in a new regime? It was the custom of the high seat to give over to God the Karnar that had once been his most powerful mortal agent—and Lord Torvallen briefly relished the thought of Vellen upon the high altar.
Ah, what a grand dream. The fact that it was no longer completely out of reach made it more intense, more intoxicating. Smiling, he ran his fingers through the dark streaked hair that was the Torvallen trademark. His signet ring glittered in the light as he brought his hands to rest, folded neatly, across his chest.
He had Wintare, he had Abranthraxus—and in a very tight game, he had Urturas. Valens—the wily Lord Valens—was open, as always, to question. But he was close now; perhaps another death to tilt the balance, and he would challenge Vellen openly for the seat.
At Erin’s behest, they avoided the road entirely as they made their way through Mordantari. They stopped seldom and foraged heavily where they could—but the autumn shades had already fallen like a curtain that would only be lifted by winter. Nights grew chilly, and even the mornings were just this side of frosty.
They lost the entirety of a morning studying the map that Erin had been left by the Lady of Elliath; it had taken more than a week for her to finally pull it out of her pack and accept it as the gift that it was.
“It’s old,” Trethar said softly, “and I’ve never seen such parchment in my life.” He reached out, and his fingers hovered over the details writ there by an impossibly fine pen. “But it doesn’t reflect the Empire, Lady.”
“It was made before the Empire existed,” she answered qui etly. She would not say more, not even when pressed—although only Robert did so.
“I need your help; we need a map that’s as detailed as any of us can make it. This,” she said, pointing to the northwestern corner of the map, “must be Culverne holdings.”
“Marantine,” Darin said softly.
“Marantine?” She looked up and met his eyes just before he closed them.
“The name of the kingdom.” His grip on Bethany was tight enough to whiten his knuckles. “Are we really going there?”
“Well,” Robert answered, before Erin could, “I don’t see that we have much choice—where else in the Empire would you suggest? That’s at least a new addition—why, I think they even have a resistance of sorts.”
“Yes,” Erin said, as if Robert had not replied. “Do you know its boundaries?”
“The former ones, you mean?” Robert said again, although the question had clearly been asked of Darin.
“No,” she said coldly, turning to face him, “I mean Marantine’s boundaries.”
“Oh,” he answered. It was as close to quiet as he got, and it was bound not to last. “Well, then, in case you hadn’t realized, there was a bit of battle there. It’s called Illan now, by the Church elite.”
“I don’t care what the Church calls it.” The words came from between teeth clenched so tight it seemed air wouldn’t breech them. “Robert, you can help with the drawing of the map—I don’t think it needs scaling—or you can go and forage. Now.”
He took one look at her face and bent himself to the task of mapping. It came as a great surprise to all of his companions when he proved to be the most useful. The major roads he seemed to know by heart, and even the minor ones that surrounded any of the provincial capitals were ones with which he was familiar.
“But you know, Lady,” he said, when his knowledge had mollified her annoyance, “it’s going to be a very long walk. Horses—”
“Are out of the question. We can’t chance the roads here; they’ll be looking for us.”
Erin did not feel the cold, and neither did Trethar, the mage of the broth
erhood; each had magics to protect them from the worst of the evening’s chill. But Darin and Robert were not quite so lucky, and Erin saw this with growing concern. She tried to teach Darin the use of his blood-magic, but it was not a completely easy task, and he was also often called upon by Trethar. He learned the compass spell, but nothing more complicated.
Robert and Darin took to wrapping sleeping blankets around their shoulders in the early morning; the afternoons were warmer, but that would change soon. Food became more difficult to find, and travel slowed considerably as snares were set and watched.
During these days, Darin took his lessons.
“It is not a matter of blood or instinct,” Trethar said, as he strode the ground in a circle, his arms clasped tight behind his back. “It is a matter of two things: the key to the gates and the will to control what will come of opening them.”
Darin nodded intently; he sat in front of a magical fire, created and held by the mage. This fire was special; it burned nothing, casting no plumes of smoke or wood particles. It was small, but very hot, and when a chill wind gusted by, the flames didn’t waver at all.
“Are you listening, Darin?”
“Yes, sir.” He brought his head up, tearing his eyes away from the fascination the fire held.
Trethar raised an eyebrow, but did not make his skepticism known with words. “Good. This fire—I call it and it comes. I am its gate; I am its master. When I’m finished with it, it will return.” He frowned. “You show a lack of concentration, apprentice.”
Darin reddened.
“We do not have the time for it.” Two steps brought him to Darin’s side. His eyes grew silver; they reflected firelight and day in an eerie semblance of a Servant’s eyes. Darin pulled back and brought his arms up in front of his face as Trethar reached out. The mage stopped at once.
“Darin,” he said quietly, “have you reconsidered?”