by Frank Morin
That wasn't surprising. The man's relentless efforts to uncover Connor's true identity were getting tiresome. Standing beside him was Lord Runda, the representative of High Lord Goban. The man had hinted that he was responsible for the watchers who had been spying on Connor outside of Ailsa's mansion before they came to the Carraig. Runda was a middle-aged man whose outstanding quality was his sheer unremarkabilty. Even though he was a Blade, he could fade into the background and become easily overlooked.
If only Connor had mastered that art, he might have avoided getting dragged into so many gealls when he first arrived at the school. What might he have done with all the free time not spent crawling to Aifric and the other Healers?
Did Runda know the secret of his curse? Connor didn't know how much the watchers had seen. Whatever he knew or suspected, Runda had not run a geall on Connor using that information as leverage. What was he waiting for?
Connor scanned the other high lord representatives. Lady Polglass was elderly, with a stooped stance and silver hair, but her blue eyes were undimmed. Rumor had it that her long, hooked nose could smell out political intrigue better than a Pathfinder. She was managing Ivor's nomination for High Lady Islay, who planned to marry Ivor off to her eldest daughter if he won.
It was strange that she stood beside the fat Lady Una, who managed Padraigin's nomination. The two women were not exactly close, given that their houses were both sponsoring champions. Could they have been the ones, plotting together, to order a secret Sentry to bring down the Rhidorroch and undermine Connor's position as champion?
There was no way to know, so Connor smiled and declared, "Thanks for waiting. I was delayed with all those new fans wanting signatures on their parchments, their foreheads, and some other places I can't really mention in public."
Padraigin almost stifled a giggle, but ended up spitting on Redmund, who glared. Ivor tried to look bored, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
Frazier, the maze lord, shifted into view from behind Lord Nevan. He watched Connor guardedly, as if afraid he would bring down the roof upon all of them. Some people needed to work on their sense of trust.
"How long must we suffer the antics of this fool Kilian?" Lord Kane growled. Most of the other representatives looked displeased, and Lord Nevan made subtle gestures warning Connor to back off.
Too late for that.
"I'll tell you what," Connor said before Lord Dail could take his place at the podium at the front of the stage to begin the assembly. "Lord Kane, your incessant protestations against my name have not fallen upon deaf ears."
That got their attention. Lord Nevan looked decidedly nervous. "And since my name so clearly frightens some of you, I've decided to relent and demonstrate here at this most important occasion, my willingness to work together to make this the greatest Tir-raon this school has ever known."
As he spoke, someone applied quartzite to his voice. He wasn't sure who did it, but he recognized the faint tickle down his throat. His words magnified until they boomed across the hall. Many students began whispering excitedly, and a feeling of anticipation grew.
"So you will reveal the truth and remove that mask?" Lord Kane asked.
"Of course not," Connor said, giving the man an exaggerated look of disgust to make sure the expression showed through the mask. "But you can call me Lian."
"Lian?" Lady Una asked, her jowls jiggling. She represented High Lord Pilib, and Connor had been surprised to learn that she would have been the head of her own house had it not failed during the rule of her grandfather and united with house Pilib. Perhaps if Padraigin won they would win enough prestige to split their houses again.
If Padraigin won, she would be married into house Pilib and swear allegiance to Obrion. Connor still barely believed she was willing to make such a tremendous sacrifice.
"It's a nice, non-threatening name," Connor said. "Just the thing to help settle our poor Lord Kane's nerves." That triggered a round of snickering from the crowd, making Lord Kane all the angrier.
"Enough of this nonsense," he bellowed. "This farce cannot go on."
"Oh, calm down, Kane," Lady Polglass said, rubbing her long, hooked nose, her eyes twinkling. "That flaming wet dawnus is having a bit of fun, and you're making it far too easy for him."
Connor cringed. He really needed to find time to speak with Lady Polglass after the assembly. She might be using a technically correct term, but there had to be a way to describe his powers in more heroic terms.
As Lord Kane started sputtering again, Lord Dail cut him off. "Silence please. I hate being late."
In a loud voice he announced, "It is time."
Even though Lord Kane kept muttering under his breath, Lord Dail proceeded. He greeted the crowd and launched into a long-winded speech about the glorious tradition of the Tir-raon, the grand history and mighty honor that rested upon all those assembled, and the solemn duty that fell to all of them to perform at their very best, particularly at this time of impending warfare.
While he talked, Connor scanned the crowds. Down in the main hall, early morning sun streamed through stained-glass windows set high in the walls under the domed ceiling and cast multi-colored lights over the crowd of students. The air smelled a bit musty and held a lingering chill, despite the number of people packing the hall.
Connor only barely managed not to yawn as Lord Dail's speech dragged on. Most of the assembled students stared straight ahead, faces expressionless, but some began falling to the insistent tug of that monotonous voice. Some heads began to nod, others started to wobble where they stood, although most were nudged by fellow students before they pitched forward or started snoring. A few unlucky ones made the mistake of locking their knees where they stood, then suddenly collapsing. Connor had learned that painful lesson young while standing at attention under the viper-like tongue of Cinaed on those days when she took her turn teaching the children.
To his right, Ivor muttered in a voice loud enough to carry to Connor and to the droning lord of the Carraig, "I want him in my army. He's unstoppable."
Padraigin snickered and even Redmund cracked a smile, but Lord Dail ignored the comment and prattled on. Lord Kane glared at Ivor's lack of decorum, but Lord Nevan and most of the other representatives looked like they secretly agreed.
Even Lord Dail couldn't talk forever, and the excitement of the long-awaited announcement kept the students focused. Each champion contender would lead an army that was supposed to be as closely identical as the make-up of the student body allowed but, as Lord Nevan had warned, the irritated representatives had agreed to dump on Connor the lowest-ranking students, with but few exceptions.
As Lord Dail finally transitioned to the actual army assignments, students perked up, leaning forward, hanging on every word. He seemed to enjoy the effect and took his time reading down the long list of assignments to cheers and clapping. Connor tallied the counts in his mind and forced a smile on his face to rob his opponents of potential gloating over his inferior army.
Although he received a full complement of forty Boulders and twenty-five Striders, they were mostly younger students or those who held lower standings. Then there was Shona. Her appointment to his army came as no surprise, but it did carry with it a number of complications and not a few opportunities.
He wanted to assign her the duty of official latrine cleaner, but she'd just summon him to her palace as Connor and beat him to powder. Maybe he could make her his personal servant and insist she feed him? Still not right, but he'd come up with something.
Of course, he got the team who had helped him win his nomination challenge. Princess Catriona cheered when her name was called. Lorcc waved, but looked concerned at how many low-ranking Striders he'd be leading, and little Declan looked terrified when he realized he would be the army's only Sentry.
The remainder painted a grim picture. Although Connor knew well all the eager Healers assigned to his army, led by Aifric, the remaining affinities were extremely weak. He did win two Blades,
two Solas, and three Pathfinders, but one of those girls looked to be twelve years old. He did not receive any Spitters.
The Sentries would prove the biggest hurdle. A single Sentry could wreak havoc over an entire battlefield. After last night's practice, he had felt first-hand the incredible power of a competent Sentry, even when they were more or less showing restraint. With only little Declan on his side, he'd be facing two or three powerful earth movers in each of the opposing armies.
He told himself it could be worse, but couldn't quite figure out how.
At least he already knew most of the assigned students from their runs through the Rhidorroch, and had even helped some of them improve. Although the majority of them still ranked low in the standings, as a group he could transform them into something more.
Before Lord Dail even completed assignments, Connor began plotting ways to leverage his underpowered army to offset their handicaps. One thing was abundantly clear, approaching the upcoming battles in any traditional sense would guarantee defeat.
Come curse or confusion, he had to find a way.
One of the lessons driven home from the battles of Alasdair was that the bigger army didn't necessarily win. He longed for Verena. Not only would he love to hold her one more time, but her Builder powers would have spanked those student armies.
The other three champions all ordered their armies to assemble in their individual training facilities for their first briefing, but Connor chose a different location.
"Lian's army will report to the Rhidorroch."
Chapter 17
As the assembly dispersed into chattering crowds, Ivor clapped Connor on the back. "They grouted you good, Lian. And I had been hoping for a serious challenge."
"The beauty of the weed is the thorn, but the tares may choke the golden wheat."
"Sentry-speak isn't going to save you," Ivor chuckled. "That was a good one, by the way."
"I've been practicing."
"Oh, Lian, you're doomed," Padraigin exclaimed, actually looking sad for him.
"Don't cry when I defeat you," Connor replied. "I hate beating a lady, but sometimes it must be done."
"Even with your clever games, you don't stand a chance."
"See you on the battlefield."
She walked away, head high, with softly beating invisible drums punctuating her graceful stride.
"She's right," Ivor said. "We can't afford to hold back, no matter how unfair the assignments might be."
"And what if I requested this army?"
"You're not insane."
"Are not the victories won despite the odds celebrated the loudest?"
"Fair enough," Ivor said. "You want fame and glory, but just remember, most generals who enter a battle with an inferior position just lose."
"And yet it's the baker who eats the freshest cakes."
Ivor rolled his eyes. "Hey, why don't you stop by later? I'd like to discuss possible joint training together."
There it was, the invitation to meet, phrased in a way that even eavesdropping Pathfinders wouldn't pay much attention.
"Why not?" Connor said. "Could be fun."
Connor waited for most of the others to leave the stage before following. Students were crowding around the stage, eager to speak with their generals, some already calling out reasons why they should be chosen as captains.
Tomas met him at the foot of the stairs. "You're slagged. Even Rory would be hard pressed to leverage the army you've been assigned."
Everyone was as pessimistic as a toothless granny in a prune-chewing competition.
"We'll find a way," Connor promised him. "Where's Cameron?"
"Escorting the young maid, Jean, to your suite."
"Jean? She's here?" Connor exclaimed.
"Showed up just after you entered," Tomas said, pushing through the crowd toward the door. "We figured it safer to send her away. Besides, I knew you were worried about her."
"Is she all right?" Connor asked, so relieved to hear she was back that he wanted to shout with joy.
"Seemed fine, but all worked up over something. On the point of bursting with whatever she needed to tell you."
Many people called to Connor for comments on the army assignments or laughed that he was doomed. He ignored them all and ordered Tomas to get him to his suite double time. Not caring that some might interpret his haste for flight or shame, he and Tomas bolted.
As soon as he entered his private suite, Jean catapulted out of a comfortable chair where she'd been sitting. She crossed the room in a rush, her thick, blond hair streaming behind as she threw her arms around his waist.
Connor hugged her close. Jean was one of his oldest, dearest friends, and for much of his life he had dreamed of nothing more than winning her hand before either Hamish or Stuart could. He and Jean had both grown beyond the possibility of such a union, but he was still overjoyed to see her well.
"Where by the Tallan's hideous teeth have you been?"
"You just made that up," she said, stepping back and giving him one of those looks, hands on hips, head cocked to one side.
"I've been playing Lian too long."
"Who?"
"Me, without the Kil."
"You make less sense than ever." She tried to smile, but couldn't quite make it work. Whatever was on her mind was stealing her good humor.
"I'm glad you're all right," he said, smiling.
"How do you know I'm all right then?"
"You're taking time to criticize. You never do that when you're not all right."
"I'm not all right," she said softly.
"Did anyone hurt you?" His worries and vengeful anger started burning hot again.
"No, nothing like that."
"Then where have you been?"
She led him to one of the fancy couches facing the cold fireplace and they settled onto it together. She pulled a small leather notebook from a satchel she wore over her shoulder. It was full of scribbled notes.
Gripping her notebook, she gave him a grave look. "I've been learning the truth, Connor, and it's crazier than anything we imagined."
He forced himself to wait. He'd never seen Jean so rattled by anything. Her hands shook against the notebook, and there was an unusual wildness around her eyes. She never looked that bad, even when treating badly injured patients.
"Patronage is a lie," she blurted.
Connor blinked. He had to have heard that wrong. "What?"
"It's all a lie," she exclaimed, gesturing with her notebook. "That's what I've been studying. Down in a secret library that no one but Evander knows about. The truth has been buried for so long, but he showed me."
"It's got to be a lie," Connor said, thinking back to his recent strange interview with the hulking Evander.
"That's what I said," Jean repeated. "It's all a lie."
"No, I mean it's a lie that it's a lie," Connor insisted.
"What?"
"He's got to be running a geall on you, but why would he make up something like that?"
"Listen to me." Jean gripped his hand. Her fingers were warm, her face flushed. "I read the original treatise, written by the survivors of the Tallan Wars. They were desperate, and they invented patronage."
"Are you sure it was genuine?" he asked, wanting to believe her, but it was such a leap!
"I'm not inventing it," Jean cried. "I know what you're thinking, Connor, but that's why I haven't been around. I've been studying everything, digging into historical records and learning why they set up this elaborate breeding plan with the noble houses."
"Patronage is real," Connor whispered, but her words were beating into his head like his father's hammer. "I've seen the unclaimed, Jean. I had to kill one."
"I don't know what happened with Hector, but it wasn't what you think."
Connor sat back, hope battling with reality. Jean was the smartest person he had ever known. He had never doubted her before, but how could he believe this? The risk was too great.
"Explain it to me. All of
it."
"There's not time for everything. You have to meet with your army."
"Tallan take the army," Connor snapped. "Tell me."
Jean rose and paced away across the rug. "There's too much to cover all at once, but let's start with the Tallan, since you just mentioned him." She drew closer, raising the notebook before her. "Tallan was a man all along. He was the grandson of the king and queen of the Obrion Empire."
He'd heard enough clues that it made sense. "I've never heard more than rumors about those ancient rulers."
"They ruled the entire continent. The land is vast, so much bigger than we ever knew. There's even a southern continent separated by a sea."
"Tabnit," Connor said, thinking back to Gisela's map. "Beyond the Sea of Olcan."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"I know about the Arishat League and a little of the history."
"That makes it easier," Jean said. "I was shocked to learn about those other countries."
Connor had been too. In the sheltered valley of Alasdair, he'd known precious little about their own country, less about Granadure, and nothing about anywhere else.
"They owned it all," Jean said. "King Triath and Queen Dreokt ruled for centuries, but I barely found any direct references about them."
"They must have been powerful Petralists," Connor said. "Gregor's in his eighties, but you'd never know. Only tertiary Petralists could live so long."
Jean nodded. "They were the original Blood of the Tallan. He inherited his powers from them. From what I've read, they could do things that no Petralists today could hope to duplicate."
"Really?"
"Most of the greatest Petralists of the age were killed during the war. Evander wouldn't let me read the list of survivors."
"Why did he show you any of it?"
"I'm not sure. I have some suspicions, and he gave me some strict warnings and conditions that you'll have to agree to."
"And if I don't?" Connor wasn't feeling entirely compliant after Evander hadn't even bothered telling him Jean was all right.
"Don't anger him," Jean hissed, looking terrified. "He'll kill you, Connor. Don't ever doubt that, not for a second."