The interior was a single open room—the distance to the back wall was only twenty feet, but the hall extended at least thirty feet off to either side. A large table ran almost the entire length, with benches lining either side. There was probably room for sixty or more, but currently there were only about twenty seated at the table, all on the opposite side so they could face the door.
Those inside rose as Shalana made her way along the length of the table, around to the other side, and eventually to a seat in the middle, directly across from where Norr and the Outlanders stood, waiting and anxious. The other thanes took their seat only after she sat down, and Vaaler heard the door close behind them.
The Danaan scanned the faces of the thanes staring curiously back at him. Most were men; he counted only six women besides Shalana. The men were all bearded, so it was difficult to judge their ages, though Vaaler guessed they ranged from mid-twenties to well into their sixties. Seated immediately to Shalana’s right was a stern-looking man of about fifty, clutching a rough-hewn cane in his left hand. Based on his position at the table, Vaaler guessed this was Terramon. The last two fingers on the hand clutching the cane were missing, probably lost to frostbite on a long winter campaign. Between the weathered lines of his face and his beard, it was hard to see any resemblance to Shalana, but he shared her cold blue eyes.
In contrast to the unbridled enthusiasm of the men and women in the camp, the thanes showed little emotion as Norr stood before them.
They probably know what really happened when he left. And they know the reality of being chief is a lot harder than most realize. They don’t imagine a world where everything is perfect just because Norr is in charge.
An awkward silence settled over the gathering. Norr shifted, trying to find a more comfortable stance. One of the thanes cleared his throat, and another coughed, but none dared speak. The silence dragged on, becoming an oppressive weight on the room. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably less than five minutes, Shalana rose from her seat and addressed her followers.
“Five years ago, the man before you disappeared. We did not know what happened or why he left. We did not know whether he was alive or dead. We only knew he was gone. Now he is back, and we must decide his fate.”
She sat down, yielding the floor. Vaaler noticed Scythe, Keegan, and Jerrod all wearing concerned, confused expressions, unable to follow her Verlsung speech but fearing the worst.
Beside her, Terramon was quick to rise and let his voice be heard, using his cane to help him get to his feet.
“I think we all have the same questions,” he said, addressing Norr. “Why did you abandon us? And why have you come crawling back?”
“I make no excuse for the actions of my past,” Norr said, speaking slowly. “What is done cannot be undone. What happens now, and will happen in the future, is all that matters.”
“Fine words,” Terramon sneered, “but they tell us nothing.”
“I left because I could not bear the burden of becoming clan chief,” Norr replied.
Vaaler felt the words came easily from the big man; if he felt any shame over what he had done, he had come to terms with it long ago.
“My actions were rash, and I know there are some who were hurt by what I did,” he continued, his eyes glancing quickly to Shalana, then back to Terramon. “But at the time I felt it was best for the clan.”
“Do you no longer feel this way?” Terramon pressed. “Is that why you returned?”
“I am not here to reopen old wounds,” Norr explained, his voice deep and calm. “I turned my back on the clan, and I was wrong. But now I hope the Stone Spirits will not turn their back on me and my friends.”
“Friends?” Terramon replied with a smirk. “You have chosen these Outlanders over your clan! Why should we help you after you turned your back on us?”
“What’s going on?” Scythe hissed in a loud whisper, unable to follow the conversation but sensing from the tone that Norr was being challenged.
“I am not the only one on trial here,” Norr said, switching to Allrish. “My friends have a right to know what is being said. I ask that I be allowed to translate for them.”
“Now you wish to turn your back on our language, too?” Terramon snarled, still in Clan-speak. “Their fate is tied to yours. Nothing they say matters!”
“Peace, father,” Shalana said, reaching up from her seat to place a hand on his arm.
An awkward silence fell over the room. It was Norr who broke it, addressing himself directly to Shalana.
“We need your help,” he said, still speaking so his companions could understand. “We have nowhere else to turn. We have many enemies, and I ask you for the protection and aid of the clan on behalf of me and my friends.”
“We already have enough enemies of our own,” Terramon answered before Shalana could reply. He obviously understood Allrish well enough to grasp what Norr was saying, but he refused to speak any language but his own.
The old man turned to his daughter. “I warned you no good could come of Norr’s return. I warned you not to pay the Ice Fang ransom.”
“But you did pay the ransom,” Norr said. “And we are grateful for our freedom.”
“You are not free yet,” Shalana curtly responded, rising to her feet. Like Terramon, she was only using Verlsung.
Her father begrudgingly took his seat, yielding the floor to his daughter.
“You are here as a prisoner,” she reminded Norr, “not as one of the clan. You gave up that right when you abandoned us.”
“Banish them,” Terramon spat from his chair. “Send them away. They have no place here!”
“Is that how the rest of you feel?” Shalana asked, turning her attention to the other thanes. “Should Norr be cast out?”
Her question was met with another awkward silence.
They really don’t know how they feel about him anymore, Vaaler thought. They’re hurt and betrayed, but they remember the man he used to be and they don’t want to turn their back on him.
Shalana nodded slowly in understanding.
“I will grant you and your friends safe haven,” she said to Norr, “if you meet my terms.”
“Name your terms,” Norr said, though he hesitated before speaking.
“You swear allegiance to me as Chief of the Stone Spirits. You promise to once again be a warrior and protector of the clan. And you become my husband, as you promised long ago.”
She still spoke in the language of her people, so there was no immediate reaction from Scythe.
Good thing. She’d probably leap across the table to try to tear out Shalana’s throat in a jealous rage if she knew what was being said.
The former prince, however, recognized that the offer was more political than romantic. Bringing Norr back into the clan would appease the masses, and having him marry her would leave little doubt that she had his full support as the new chief. In this one symbolic act she could seal the rift she had created five years ago by challenging Norr, solidify her position, and eliminate a potential future rival.
“You know I can’t do that,” Norr answered, switching back to his native tongue. His eyes glanced down at Scythe, then back up to Shalana. “I told you why that first night.”
“If you refuse,” Shalana said, her eyes narrowing, “then you and your friends will be cast out with no food or supplies. How long will you survive with winter coming?”
“Would you really condemn us to death out of jealousy and spite?” Norr asked her, his voice low and hard. “Are you really still so bitter?”
“Don’t think you know me,” Shalana shot back. “Much has changed since you’ve been gone. You have my terms. Make your choice!”
“You brought this on yourself,” Terramon declared, rising from his seat to stand beside his daughter and slamming his cane hard against the floor for emphasis. “You know the ways of our people!”
“I do,” the big man agreed, then turned his head to address the other thanes in the room. “I left to keep
from tearing this clan apart. I thought Shalana would lead you down the proper path. Now I see I made the wrong choice.”
A murmur of surprise swept through the thanes. Scythe, Keegan, and Jerrod reacted as well, though only with confusion. Unable to follow what was going on, they had no way to know what Norr had said to draw the startled reaction from the thanes.
“I have returned to fix my mistake,” Norr continued, his voice gaining strength. “I have returned to reclaim what is rightfully mine. I have returned to challenge Shalana for the right to rule the Stone Spirits!”
All the blood drained from Shalana’s face, and Terramon’s jaw dropped as the big man made his declaration. Some of the thanes gasped aloud, but Vaaler noticed others nodding faintly.
Norr raised his massive arms up and held them out wide toward the assemblage.
“Who among you will stand with me?” he bellowed, his cry echoing throughout the Long Hall. “Who among you will support my claim?”
At first, none of the Thanes made any motion. Then one near the far end of the long table—a man of about Norr’s age—slowly rose to his feet. Another, a man as old as Terramon, joined him a moment later. Then another followed, and two more.
Before any others could rise to their feet, Shalana slammed her fist on the table.
“Enough!” she shouted. “I accept your challenge. We will settle this in the old way; three days from now.”
“If you lose,” Terramon added, waving a gnarled finger in Norr’s direction, “you and your friends will be stripped of your weapons and clothes and turned out naked on the tundra to die shivering and helpless!”
“That is not for you to decide,” Shalana snapped at her father.
Chastened, the old man sat down.
“I am not as bitter and spiteful as you seem to believe,” she said, addressing Norr but clearly speaking for the benefit of her thanes. “I did not cast you out of this clan—you left of your own free will. You have also returned of your own free will, and it is not my place to cast you out now.
“If you lose your challenge, my first offer still stands. Swear allegiance to me as a warrior and husband, and your friends will be kept safe from harm. Is this acceptable to you?”
There was a murmur from the assemblage, and Vaaler had the feeling they approved of Shalana’s moderated response.
Norr hesitated before finally realizing there wasn’t any way to refuse. “If I lose, I will accept your terms.”
Shalana nodded and called for the guards.
“Take Norr and his Outlander friends to their tents,” she said when the door opened.
“Three days,” she reminded Norr.
As the guards led them away, Vaaler could just make out Scythe whispering to Norr under her breath.
“I don’t know what just happened in there,” she hissed, “but I’m pretty sure I hate that bitch.”
Chapter 14
YASMIN’S EYES SNAPPED open as the first rays of dawn crept through the windowsill. Disentangling herself from the cross-legged lotus position she had slept in, she rose from the thick, carpeted floor to her full imposing height.
The room was empty, though only a week before it had been lavishly furnished. Lord Carthin, ruler of Brindomere—largest of the seven capitals—had graciously offered his most luxurious guest quarters to the new Pontiff when she and her entourage of Inquisitors and Seers had arrived in his city. Yasmin had accepted, but only on the condition that the goose-down bed—and all the other ornate trappings of luxury and wealth—be removed from her chambers. Lord Carthin had, of course, complied.
His unhesitating obedience was more than just political savvy. Brindomere had always been a stronghold of the Order’s influence in the Southlands; its ruling family steadfast and earnest in their faith. For this, the True Gods had looked favorably upon the city, granting it wealth and power that had endured for centuries. With the fall of the Monastery, Brindomere was the most logical place for the Pontiff to relocate.
But Yasmin understood there were still dangers lurking, even here. In these dark times she could ill afford the sins of complacency and contentment. That was why she had demanded the removal of the bed and why she continued to sleep on the guest chamber’s floor.
Opening the door, she left the room behind and made her way down the staircase to the main floor. She passed through the kitchen, grabbing a single slice of stale bread to nourish her body. Tearing into it with grim resolve, she continued on, ignoring the mix of reverence and fear on the faces of the household staff as she passed them by without even acknowledging their existence.
In the courtyard outside she found the Seers already waiting for her. They also had private chambers, though these were located in the servants’ quarters in the buildings at the rear of Lord Carthin’s estate. Like their leader, they rested only a few hours each night—just long enough to give birth to their nightly visions.
Recently, all the Seers had shared the same dream: a wave of blood sweeping across the Southlands, devouring all in its path. For three days Yasmin and the Seers had tried to interpret the dream, seeking understanding and guidance.
Nazir had been a master of interpreting the Seers’ visions, but Yasmin lacked her predecessor’s talent. Her strength was in her unwavering resolve and her willingness to take action—traits necessary now more than ever. And yet, ever since the dream of blood, she had been unwilling to act, paralyzed by the fear of leading the Order—and the entire Southlands—down the wrong path.
If Cassandra had not stolen the Crown, I could use its power to interpret the visions.
A pointless sentiment. Yasmin had patrols roaming the Southlands, the Frozen East, and even the Danaan forests searching for Cassandra, but so far they had failed to reclaim the Crown. The Pontiff was confident they would eventually track her down, but until then there was no use in lamenting the Talisman’s absence.
The patrols were also searching for the heretics: Jerrod and Rexol’s apprentice. They had nearly captured them in the Free City of Torian, only to lose them when they unleashed a fiery destruction upon the defenseless city. Another had nearly captured them in the wastelands of the Frozen East, only to fall victim to the barbarian savages that roamed that Gods-forsaken land. Yet despite these setbacks, Yasmin never doubted for an instant that Jerrod would one day pay for his crimes.
Unfortunately, the unshakable certainty that both Cassandra and Jerrod would eventually be found did nothing to help her make sense of the Seers’ most recent dreams.
On sensing Yasmin’s arrival, Xadier, the newly appointed head of the Seers, rushed over to greet her. The young man was eager, excited. It was unbecoming; he lacked the dignity and gravitas suitable to someone in such an important and revered position.
Too many of our best were lost when the Monastery fell. Those who remain are weak and inexperienced, their visions only coming when they work in concert. It limits them, makes them all see the same thing over and over.
“Good news, Pontiff,” Xadier gushed, not even waiting for Yasmin to make a proper acknowledgment of him. “The dream has changed!”
“Tell me,” she instructed, not quite ready to share his exuberance.
“The wave of blood still sweeps across the Southlands, but now it shifts and changes during the journey, becoming an army of marching soldiers.”
When he finished, Yasmin waited silently, hoping there would be more. Of course there wasn’t.
The vision is still unclear. Is it a warning of something we must stop or a prophecy showing us something we must do?
“Is something wrong, Pontiff?” Xadier asked, his elation fading given her lack of response.
Had he been an Inquisitor, Yasmin would have unleashed the full fury of her rage on the hapless young man. She demanded results from the Inquisitors; failure was unacceptable, and she held them accountable for their actions. But the Seers were different. Their visions were born from Chaos; unpredictable and unreliable. Berating Xadier for things beyond his control was n
either fair nor productive.
“I am considering the implications of this new vision,” she explained.
“Of course, Pontiff,” Xadier said with a slight bow of his head.
Blood and armies. War is coming. Against the Danaan? Against our own people? What wisdom would Nazir have drawn from this?
Despite her faith, Yasmin didn’t believe in divine inspiration. She believed in preparation and planning; success came through cold, hard resolve. When the sudden spark of understanding flared up within her, she was momentarily stunned by its force.
The Purge. The blood of wizards, witches, and heretics. The armies of the just.
“I understand the visions,” she declared. “It is time for another Purge.”
Xadier knew better than to question her openly, but she caught a glimmer of doubt in the young man’s eye. Nazir had openly cautioned against another Purge, believing it could destroy the Order. He had feared the Free Cities would unite against them, and the public executions and harsh laws against magic would drive the people of the Southlands to rebellion. Perhaps he had been right, once. Times were different now.
“For too long we have sat idly by while those with Chaos in their blood have spread their vile teachings,” Yasmin began. “We have allowed them to practice their foul arts openly, without fear of punishment and retribution, and they have brought death and destruction to the land.
“Chaos has been unleashed upon the mortal world,” she continued. “The rumors have spread throughout the Southlands: The Monastery has fallen; Chaos Spawn wander the depths of the Danaan forest; Evil walks the earth.
“The devastation in Torian has rekindled the fear of rogue mages, especially among the Free Cities,” she explained. “The people there are scared. Helpless. Powerless. They need someone to lead them, someone to hold back the Chaos.
“This time the Free Cities will not oppose us—they will flock to our cause, along with the entire Southlands. They are eager to follow, and it is our sacred duty to guide them down the righteous path!”
“Yes, Pontiff,” Xadier agreed, his expression changing to one of rapturous joy as he was swept up in her holy fervor. “Now I see! Now I understand!”