The overlord accepted Cirian’s apology with a lot more grace than Ty would have and simply nodded.
“The creature is dead,” Barl said. “There’s no need to panic. I figured the only way most of you would ever believe a tale so ridiculous would be to see it for yourselves. To be honest, when I was first presented with this information, I thought it utterly preposterous myself. Then, next thing I know, I’m fighting for my life against a dark witch from the White Tower, Tallosian savages, and an army of giant spiders.”
“A witch from the White Tower?” Cirian looked aghast.
Barl didn’t respond to Cirian’s question. He did gesture to the empty rows at the front. “Please, everyone, take your seats.” He motioned for the guards to take the creature away. The assembly cautiously began to file back to their benches; even those seated near the wielder council retook theirs, if not quite as close.
“Let’s start from the beginning.”
For the next hour, Lyessa’s father laid out everything that had taken place, as best he knew it, over the last couple of months leading up to the conflict outside of Ty’s home. He told of Ambassador Lanmiere’s battle during his hunting trip with High King Rhydan. He talked about the coming of the Black Watch, the defeat of the Northmen, the wielder battle at the Easthaven barracks, and the eventual retreat of the witch Mangora and her spider army. Clearly, he’d spent a great deal of time with Ty’s father while they were away.
Ty’s palms were sweating as he recalled the events. He had tried burying the images, but being forced to listen to the details pulled them up all over again. He was practically panting by the end. Thankfully, Lyessa had let go of his hand at some point, or he might have crushed hers.
He reached for the book. Its touch seemed to calm him, to pull his thoughts back into focus. He would find Mangora and avenge his mother if it was the last thing he did. He wanted to pull the book out and take a look to see if anything new had appeared, but there were too many people around. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and turned his attention back to the meeting.
Barl was methodical as he laid out the situation. He conveniently skipped over the part where Ty was a faeling and how this entire situation had unfolded because of the White Tower’s desire to have him. He also left out Nyalis’s involvement, probably not wanting to add further anxiety to an already delicate situation.
Few questions were raised during the overlord’s discourse, as most people were clearly engrossed by the unbelievable account. Those few questions, whether directed at the overlord or the wielder council, were promptly answered with as much clarity as possible, trying to overcome the assembly’s previous perceptions of wielders. Ty realized how difficult this must have been for them to absorb.
Cirian stood, still keeping a close eye on Orlyn and his robe. “Are you telling us that the White Tower—which has been purging magic from our land for over a thousand years—is now employing wielders of its own? If the White Tower is in league with the wielders, then why are they rounding them up?”
Before the overlord had a chance to reply, Ty’s father spoke up. “The White Tower is not in league with the ven’ae. They are out to destroy us. At least, those of us who will not pledge fealty to them.”
“To what end?”
“We believe they are building an army.”
Heated whispers spread throughout the hall.
A lady a few rows up on the right spoke up. “If this were the case, then why have we not heard of this sooner?”
“Because you’re all too stupid to see what’s right in front of you,” Feoldor blurted out without turning around or unfolding his arms.
Orlyn nudged him in the side. “That’s not helpful.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“The problem,” Ty’s father continued, giving Feoldor a harsh glare, “is that the people of Aldor have been raised on the notion that magic is evil, and that those born with magic, whether they wanted it or not, must also be evil.” He pointed down the row. “Assemblyman Cirian said as much already.”
“But it was magic that nearly destroyed our world over a thousand years ago,” another member pointed out, this time an elderly white-haired man near the back. “Those with magic turned us into slaves, or have you forgotten what the Defiler did?”
“No one has forgotten the Dark One or what he did, but if you recall, it wasn’t the jun’ri but rather the ven’ae who defeated him and his followers. In fact, if we were to apply that same logic, then I could say those born with wealth are evil.”
Angry whispers spread through the room.
“There are many who use their wealth to usurp power and to drive others into fealty. They believe because they have it that it entitles them to do so. How is that any different than what you are ascribing to wielders? Just because someone is born—unwillingly, I might add—with magic doesn’t mean they will use it for evil any more than those born with wealth.”
Ty’s father took his seat. Ty remembered having to listen to that same speech not so long ago. He also remembered how effective it had been.
Lyessa reached over and squeezed Ty’s hand. “Your father is quite the orator.”
Ty smiled. For a simple gamekeeper, his father was quite a remarkable man.
Cirian remained in his seat but at the very edge. “For all this talk of magic and its use, and the supposed misconceptions between the jun’ri and the ven’ae, we still have yet to discuss what I believe is an even greater issue. Aramoor and our new High King. Or have we forgotten his recent egregious overreach in power?”
Talk about a swift change of subject, Ty thought. Apparently, Cirian had had enough with discussing magic, which Ty was fine with. The less they talked about it, the more likely the council would make it out of there in one piece.
“Our newly appointed king has taken it upon himself to do something that hasn’t been attempted since the days leading up to the Wizard Wars,” Cirian continued. “How does Dakaran think he has the authority to lay claim to an entire kingdom? I don’t begrudge Elondria going to war with Cylmar to protect their lands and their people. It was the right call by his father. But to then turn around and claim that Cylmar is no more and that its people and lands are now forfeit as property of the Crown is preposterous! What’s to stop him from turning his eyes on us next?”
Again, the Assembly Hall was filled with worried, scared, and enraged men and women as they all voiced their opinions at the same time. It was chaos. No one person could be heard over the other, all voices mixing into an overwhelming confusion.
Overlord Barl raised his arms to quiet the audience, but it was the chamberlain who finally managed it as he whacked the butt of his staff down on the white granite.
“Quiet down!” the nasally voice yelled above the din. “The overlord of Sidara will be heard!”
The clamor lowered as heads turned back to the front.
Barl lowered his arms. “My friends, I share your concerns. You are the ruling body of Sidara, and like me, you worry about the safety of our people and our land. But where you see two separate events, I see only one. I don’t believe that the growing arm of the White Tower and the unexpected actions taken by Aramoor and this High King are of themselves unrelated. In fact, I believe the two are inexplicably linked.”
“What can be done about it?” one of the members called out.
“I have requested a summit with Overlords Agnar and Meyrose. I would like to hear their thoughts on the matter and discuss what actions we may take as the Provincial Authority in response to the situation. Our goal should be to prevent any further escalation from Elondria.
“But for now, I have recalled the Sidaran Lancers. I want a full battalion here in Easthaven as well as a small contingent assigned to every city throughout Sidara. I also want constant patrols on the border roads and travel stops assigned to every major thoroughfare in and out of Sidara. It also wouldn’t hurt to allocate some lancers to patrol the waterways along the river.”
Man
y of the assembly members nodded, even more so with his suggestion of a full battalion being stationed in Easthaven.
After fielding a few more questions, Overlord Barl ended the conclave with a few poignant words of encouragement and promises of swift action.
Afterward, it took nearly a quarter of an hour for Ty and the others to worm their way through the crowd of loitering officials as the assembly members shared their thoughts on the situation and the best way it should be handled. Outside the chambers, Overlord Barl pulled Ty’s family aside for a quick word. Lyessa stood with Ty.
“I was wondering if you could help me with a little problem,” he said to Ty’s father before glancing at Ty’s sister. “You too, Adarra.”
Adarra’s head popped up from the book she was reading. “Me?”
Ty’s father smiled. “We’d be glad to help, my lord.”
“Drop the my lord, Kellen. Any man who has fought beside me in battle, as you have, can call me Barl.”
“Of course . . . Barl. What seems to be the problem?”
“I’m going to need your help with an interrogation.”
Ty’s attention had been wandering to his new book, but it was quickly diverted. Who could the overlord be wanting to interrogate?
“We still have the Northman that Adarra and your wife subdued during the battle. However, we can’t seem to understand his dialect, and what little we can make out has me confused.”
“Oh?”
“It seems he will talk to no one except the spotted warrior.”
“Spotted warrior?”
Barl shrugged. “I have no idea.”
I bet I could get him to talk, Ty mused. “Where is he?” He could feel the warmth of his magic building. The man might know where Mangora was.
“He’s being held in the barracks prison.” Barl looked at Adarra. “Do you think you could help us interpret?”
Ty clenched his fists. Let me have five minutes with him and you won’t have to interpret.
“Depends,” Adarra said, closing her book. “Do you have anything written about the Tallosian language? The more I have to work with, the better chance I’ll have.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I think I have a book or two in my library. When you get a chance, come by and we’ll see what we can find. I’ll have Piel start searching.”
Ty smiled. “Maybe I could be of some use as well.”
Chapter 37 | Barthol
NIGHT HAD FINALLY ARRIVED, which meant Barthol was free to move about the city without the constant fear of being spotted. Even with a city as large as Aramoor, he didn’t want to risk someone recognizing him and getting word back to the king. Since being back, he’d spent most of his days holed up in his home, playing with Arina, helping his wife with the housework, and enduring an endless barrage of common-sense advice from his old man. As wonderful as it had been to hold them all in his arms again, the confinement was driving him crazy. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life hiding behind four walls, especially when he was holding on to a secret so large, it could start a civil war or even topple the kingdom.
The extra time spent with his family had gone a long way in helping him recover from the horrors he had endured, but each night, his wife had been forced to wake him, sweat-soaked and shaking, as he relived the battle all over again.
Kensey had begged him to talk to her about it, but how could he burden her with what he had seen and done? How could he ever explain what it felt like to watch his men, his comrades, his friends ripped apart in front of him while he was helpless to do anything about it? How could he ever make her understand that most nights he would lay his head on his pillow and fight the guilt of having survived? And then there was Ayrion—his captain and best friend—who had sacrificed himself to save Barthol. There were times Barthol wished he could have taken Ayrion’s place. At least then he wouldn’t feel such shame.
Barthol pressed himself up against the wall of a building at the corner of Grisdale and Elmwood and waited for a young couple to pass.
More than guilt plagued him that night. Was he doing the right thing? Maybe his father was right. Perhaps he should take his family and leave. Aramoor had been his home. But was it still? He had spent a quarter of his adult life inside the palace walls, working side by side with Ayrion. He had been able to hold his head high when he walked around town in his black High Guard uniform. Now . . . now he wasn’t sure where he belonged. Aramoor would never be the same, not as long as a traitor sat on the throne.
The young couple passed, too wrapped up in each other to even know he was there. He waited until they were out of earshot before moving out of the shadows. He adjusted his hood and continued down the road, which placed him inside the northwest quarter’s residential district. The roads here were clean of most debris, which meant the air smelled more of chimney smoke than rotten food. Also, the homes on the upper west side were grander than those on the eastern side where he lived, but still, nothing in comparison to the Bayside District, where the elite ruling class resided. Each of the homes in Bayside was almost a miniature palace.
When he’d been younger, and Kensey pregnant with Arina, Barthol would take his wife for long walks through the city proper. She would always insist on walking through Bayside to look at the regal manors backed against the waterfront. They enjoyed talking about what it would be like to live in one, to have such untold wealth that it required an army of servants just to keep it up.
There were times when it weighed heavy on him, knowing he’d never be able to give her such things. That’s when Kensey would wrap her arms around him, lay her head against his shoulder, and say, “No matter where we live, it will be a palace as long as you’re there to share it with me.”
Blazes, how he loved that woman.
Barthol pulled his cloak tight against the bite of the evening air and thought through what he would say, his pace increasing the closer he got. Stopping only long enough to make sure no one was coming, he headed north on Nimbin Way, counting down the homes on the right side of the street, hoping he could remember what it looked like.
It had been a good six months since he had been to this particular house, and he wasn’t sure he could remember what the outside of it looked like in the dark. The last thing he needed was to go knocking on the wrong door.
Barthol stopped and studied the waist-high wall surrounding the house in question. It was familiar. This had to be it. Taking a moment, he scanned the vacant road. The streetlamps scattered shadows from nearby trees across the walkway like long, emaciated fingers reaching out to snatch him.
Once he was certain no one was watching, he flipped back the metal latch and cringed at the loud squeak of the gate’s hinges as it opened. Slipping inside, he pushed the gate shut and dropped the latch into place. He waited for what seemed like an eternity for any sign of alarm. When none came, he crept across the lawn toward the front door, sticking to the shadows of the trees as best he could.
He was within three strides of the front steps when he felt the tip of a blade press against the small of his back, and he froze.
“You’ve picked the wrong house to burglarize, my friend. If you pray to the Creator, now would be the appropriate time. You might be one of the largest men I’ve ever laid eyes on, but I promise you that my sword is no respecter of persons.”
Barthol chuckled. “And if I thought for one moment you actually had something inside worth stealing, I would have been in and out before you’d have had time to pull on your flamin’ underdrawers.”
There was stunned silence.
“Barthol?”
The blade lowered, and the man holding it circled to the front.
Barthol pulled back his hood and watched as Commander Tolin’s face went pale. Barthol smiled. “Who else would be stupid enough to creep through your wife’s garden in the middle of the night?”
“Barthol Respuel!” Tolin grabbed him by the shoulders. “As I live and breathe! How’s this possible? I was told no one had survived.”
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“Shhh!” Barthol raised his hood back into place. “Are you trying to get us both killed?”
The commander rubbed a hand through his greying hair. “I was at your funeral, you know, even said a few nice words over your grave.”
“Really?”
“No. But I would have if you’d been given one.”
Barthol groaned, not caring much for the joke.
“Dakaran didn’t even wait for the bodies to grow cold before packing up the army and scurrying back to Aramoor. He acted like he was afraid someone was going to steal his daddy’s throne while he was out.” Tolin grew pensive. “So, tell me. How’d you survive? Were you one of the wounded they brought back in the wagons?”
Barthol shook his head, his arms already shivering. “Not quite. Can we talk inside? There are words that need to be said, and I’d prefer not to freeze my tail off while we did it.”
Tolin sheathed his sword and motioned for Barthol to follow.
Barthol cast a wary eye at the nearby homes as he trailed the commander up the front steps. The estates on either side of Tolin’s were similar in size—three stories, one stone block, the other brick, each with clay tiles and decorative molding. Definitely a step up from Barthol’s home, but nothing compared to the nobles’.
Tolin held the door for him. Barthol was surprised to find the inside of the front sitting room in disarray. He remembered Tolin’s wife keeping a rather fastidiously clean house. But now, there were crates scattered everywhere, some filled to overflowing, others only half full.
“Sorry about the state of things,” Tolin said, shutting the door. “The wife and I are in the process of packing.”
Barthol withdrew his hood. “You’re moving?”
“Not much choice in the matter, I’m afraid. Not after my change in position. Can’t afford to keep this place.” He led Barthol to a small study at the back of the house.
“What change in position?”
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