“Bernhard.”
“You seem like a sensible man, Bernhard. So you’ll lead the warlocks for the time being. Take Thenna to the emperor, speak to Lady Porhilde. Tell her everything that happened here, and everything I said. I’ll follow shortly.”
“But . . . Thenna—”
“Needs to be appointed by the emperor. As Devenish was. As were all the leaders of the warlocks before him.”
There were nods from some of the warlocks. They knew she was right, and some of them obviously hadn’t agreed with the way Thenna had taken power unto herself. Those nodding, and many others, looked to Bernhard and waited for his response. A sign they respected him.
Good.
Bernhard turned and beckoned a few of the burlier warlocks to join him. Together they picked Thenna up, taking care not to manhandle her too much. Bernhard directed them to leave, and the warlocks descended the gangplank to the wharf with Thenna.
“Lady Porhilde,” Felice reminded Bernhard as he turned to go. “You know her, I assume?” Everyone did, or knew of her.
“Yes,” Bernhard said, then hesitated. “Seven warlocks died when Caldan escaped, along with four Protectors. I don’t care what the situation was. There will be a reckoning for those deaths.”
Felice swallowed, then nodded curtly. “Of course. Tell Lady Porhilde everything. Then, when I join you, we can talk. The empire is in peril, and everyone must do their part. Until then, all else can wait.”
Bernhard’s gaze was drawn to the spots of blackness in the distance, the newly created purified lands, one of them erupting from the earth like sea urchin spikes. Felice met his eyes, and in them she read fear, and a desire to do his duty. This man, she realized, isn’t so unlike me.
“I understand” was all he said.
He knows what must be done. All personal quarrels must be put aside. “Then go. I’ll join you soon.”
Bernhard left the ship, and the warlocks began tracking back to their encampment. Some split off and headed to Riversedge, their sorcerous globes lighting the way.
Felice drew a breath and turned to Quiss. “Now, Quiss, what is it? Why do you look like you’ve seen something terrible?”
“I . . . just hate to see Caldan in such distress. What Thenna did to him, the torture, the torment, must have unhinged him. He’ll need plenty of time to recover. Which we’ll provide, of course.”
“Of course,” Felice replied. But what caught her attention was Vasile’s frown at Quiss’s words. He thought the sorcerer was lying. Aidan had also caught the frown and looked at Vasile meaningfully for a moment before resuming a blank expression.
From Quiss’s comment, Vasile’s frown, and his companions’ looks, there had to be something wrong with Caldan, but it wasn’t what Quiss had said. Bloody hells. She needed to stay with him to get to the bottom of this, but she also needed to go after Bernhard and sort out this mess with Thenna, then bring the warlocks on her side.
Felice hesitated, unsure which option to pursue. Time; she needed time to do both.
She had to put Quiss on the spot. If he left with Caldan, for all she knew, they’d be gone when she returned.
“One moment, Quiss,” Felice said in as commanding a voice as she could, considering she was facing two sorcerers who put the warlocks to shame. “I grant you Caldan has suffered tremendously, but that’s not what has you concerned, is it?”
Quiss’s eyes narrowed.
Felice decided to push the sorcerer before he could speak. “Out with it, Quiss. There can be no more secrets. The very fabric of the world is at stake.”
As Felice said the words, she trembled, realizing she meant them. How would she tell what was demanded of her in such a time? The burden was great, and who was she? Who was she to decide who would be sacrificed in the upcoming fight for survival? For deaths would be inevitable.
The weight was too great, and her knees almost buckled, driving her to the deck.
Felice clenched her hands into fists, nails biting into the skin of her palms.
Someone must.
Quiss and his people mustn’t be at odds with the warlocks. The Protectors must join them as well, along with the Quivers. And Caldan, somehow he was pivotal. She trembled anew. And the talon. All were linked. All had to move as one in order to defeat Kelhak.
The world was laid out before her like a Dominion board, the pieces transubstantiated into life. Her opponent was Kelhak, and who knew how many extra moves he had?
There was peril surrounding them all, and her steps needed to be measured and precise.
And Felice knew what she had to do. As in Dominion, she needed more extra moves. The talon. She must find it.
CHAPTER 47
Caldan groaned and squeezed his eyes tight against the pain it caused him. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. The last thing he remembered was facing down Thenna on the deck of Quiss’s ship. Then . . . nothing.
Fool. He’d been a fool again. His treatment at Thenna’s hands had caused him to make unreasoned decisions. With everything he’d learned—both coercive and destructive sorcery—he’d been sure he was more than a match for the warlock. He hadn’t even considered that Quiss might intervene.
Quiss.
Caldan’s lips parted in a soft gasp. He opened his well and clumsily groped around in his mind. By the ancestors. The wards he’d constructed to mask his extra wells had been stripped away.
Though it caused a great deal of agony, he hastily reerected them, testing their efficacy until he was sure any sorcerer sensing him would find only his own well. But even as he did, he knew it was too late. Quiss, and probably Mazoet, would have sensed what he’d tried to keep hidden.
His secret was unmasked.
And when they’d needed to, Quiss had sliced through his defenses as easily as a master would through an apprentice’s. Their knowledge of sorcery was so far above his, the warlocks’, and the Protectors’ that there was nothing he could do to resist them.
And if they knew he was a lich, they’d not suffer him to live.
So why wasn’t he dead? Then he remembered.
They’d needed him. Something about his simulacra was important enough it trumped even his corruption.
With trembling limbs, Caldan sat up, squinting in the dim light. Another cabin, this one tiny. A narrow bunk, cupboards on the other wall, the aisle between barely room enough to turn around in. He was still dressed, and the trinket sword was propped in a corner.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it there. Then he confirmed he had all his other craftings on him. It looked like they’d left him here to recover, knowing he was no threat to them.
Miranda wasn’t here, which was probably for the best. Though he wondered where she was. He didn’t expect her to wait by his side every hour of the day, but it was nice having her close by, and he realized he didn’t like when they were apart.
Caldan rose, intending to find Quiss, but stopped at the door. It was locked.
He opened his well and licked his index finger, tracing runes on the lock, using more saliva when he needed to. He connected a string to his rapidly drying linking rune, let his power flow through the crude crafting, and the lock clicked open. Steam clouded from his vaporized saliva.
Caldan took a moment to appreciate just how far he’d come since arriving in Anasoma. He’d known crude craftings like this were possible from Bells’s escape attempt on the way to Riversedge, but they required control, an ability to precisely calculate how much energy was needed, and an efficient enough crafting to get the job done before it eroded. But there was something else, it occurred to him, about the corrosiveness of wells. This crafting had taken his expertise to control, that was true, but he’d poured his well into it, and it had flowed like a trickle of water—deliberate and calm, not turbulent. Perhaps this was why his paper craftings bore the strain so capably. He recalled Bells’s words when he’d first met her: Your well is remarkable, so smooth and stable.
It made sense that the le
ss turbulent the power of a sorcerer’s well, the longer the sorcerer’s craftings would last.
Caldan shook his head. A small piece of the puzzle that was sorcery, and not one that would help him in his situation.
He grabbed the sword and made his way on deck. Two of Quiss’s colleagues were leaning on the gunwale on either side of the gangplank down to the wharf. Obviously there to make sure he didn’t leave, or on the lookout in case the warlocks returned. Caldan ignored them and scanned the deck, noticing Quiss was standing by the wheel, talking to Mazoet, who pointed toward Riversedge, then back east toward Anasoma. When he did so, he noticed Caldan and smiled. Quiss turned and smiled as well, but there was sorrow in his eyes.
They know they can’t let me live, thought Caldan. It’s up to me to make sure they think I don’t know.
“Where’s Miranda?” Caldan said as he neared them.
“We persuaded her it would be best if you rested undisturbed,” Quiss said. “She’s on the ship, so you can see her if you like.”
Caldan breathed a sigh of relief. She was still safe. “And Felice?”
Quiss shrugged. “In Riversedge. We don’t know precisely where. She wants us to trust her with bringing the warlocks, Protectors, and Quivers to our side.”
Before he could stop himself, Caldan snorted. “They’ll do what they think is best for themselves, not for the world as a whole.”
“Be that as it may,” Quiss said, “we will need them. If only for a diversion. If we didn’t, then we wouldn’t be here, and we wouldn’t have shown ourselves.”
“Caldan,” Mazoet said. “When did you regain consciousness? Did you feel anything?”
With a frown, Caldan shook his head. “Only just now. I came straight here. What’s happened?”
Mazoet gaze Quiss a long look before replying. “There was a surge of sorcery. Close by, but it was over so quickly we couldn’t tell where it came from. I’m not sure any of the warlocks could have created such a pulse. It was incredibly focused. It had the taste of when we travel, but it couldn’t have been. It was too small.”
“And you think if it was Kelhak, he wouldn’t have bothered with this. He’d come at you with all he has.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Then,” Caldan said, “could it have been someone else? The Indryallans?”
Mazoet growled under his breath. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t make sense, and that worries me.”
“It’s a distraction,” Quiss said. “We need to focus on what we need to do to defeat Kelhak.”
Caldan looked toward the walls of Riversedge, then to the dark marks spotting the countryside, his gaze coming to rest on the spiky, shattered purified land, where Devenish had made his stand, and Caldan had killed him for it.
The similarity to his own situation wasn’t lost on him.
Mazoet cleared his throat. “We are . . . less . . . without Gazija, but we are still strong. And now, thanks to you, we have the trinket this Amerdan had in his possession. We’re still hoping to unravel the secret of its workings and apply it to the, er, Kelhak problem.”
Caldan looked down at the deck. Scratches and dents marred the hardwood surface. He knew they knew; there wasn’t any reason to pussyfoot around the situation.
“I don’t know how it happened,” he confessed quietly. “We were struggling, and he just . . . he killed himself. He knew what would happen to me. It was as if he realized he would lose and decided to transfer what he had to me. Perhaps he thought he was making sure a part of himself survived.”
Quiss and Mazoet were quiet for a long time. Water sloshed against the side of the ship, and crickets chirped.
Eventually, Quiss spoke. “It wasn’t a gift, what he did to you. You wouldn’t have chosen such a thing, under normal circumstances.”
“Or even extraordinary circumstances,” added Mazoet with a wry grin.
Caldan found himself smiling in return, though inside he knew they considered him a tool to be used and then discarded. Just like the warlocks had.
“I won’t try to unblock them,” Caldan said, lying through his teeth. For the truth was, he might have to, if he wanted to live. If he could learn to control such power, it would be an advantage when confronting Kelhak, and after, if he survived, would help him escape from those arrayed against him. Quiss included.
“I counted eleven,” Quiss said. “Plus your own well. That makes twelve. Many different shapes and sizes, of course, which is to be expected. But twelve wells . . . Do you think you’ll be able to resist the temptation?”
“My own well has sufficed so far. And what would I do with another eleven wells? I’d have to be able to manage many more strings than I can now. Plus, what situation would come up in which this much power would be useful? My own well—and talent—is sufficient to match the warlocks already.”
Quiss gave him a level look. “I can think of one situation already: the one facing us.”
Would they push him to truly become a lich, rather than let him leave the wells unblocked, then kill him because of what they forced upon him?
Of course they would. What was one life pitched against the world?
Caldan realized his hand was gripping the hilt of the sword so tightly it ached. With an effort, he relaxed his grip and carefully pried the hand away. Affecting a relaxed expression, he shaded his eyes against the sun and gazed out over the river. Birds with long beaks swam past, one diving underwater to return a short time later with a silver fish it swallowed whole.
“We’ll get through this,” Quiss said, the tremor in his voice giving lie to his words. “Miranda has been asking after you. You should see her. If you’re open to advice, I’d tell her everything.”
“No! Miranda can’t know what I’ve done.”
“Secrets between lovers always lead to trouble.”
“We’re not . . . It’s none of your business.”
“Caldan, don’t be foolish. She deserves to know.”
So you can justify removing me later? Caldan began to shake his head, then stopped. Maybe they were right . . . “Where is she?” he asked.
“Belowdecks somewhere, as far as I know.”
Caldan nodded his thanks and left the two sorcerers there. He could feel their eyes on his back as he walked away, and he struggled to keep his steps slow and unhurried.
CALDAN HESITATED AT the cabin door, which was now locked from the inside. For a moment, his mask slipped, and he felt his face twist into an expression of guilt and self-pity. It took an effort to pull himself together, and a dozen heartbeats before he felt calm enough to knock.
Miranda opened the door and ushered him inside, then relocked it. She hugged him tight before suddenly letting him go and looking chagrined.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Your wounds.”
“It’s all right,” Caldan said. “I’m healing quickly, and I’d prefer some hugs these days.”
The room looked tidy; the bunk was made. Miranda’s old habits, he assumed. There was a brush and comb on a shelf, along with a few sets of clothes. On a stool was a tray heaped with bread and dried fruit and chunks of meat on skewers.
Caldan sat on the bunk and almost immediately stood again. His mind wouldn’t settle, and he was too nervous to sit. Then he realized there was something else making him jumpy. A sensation at the edge of his awareness, not unlike what he’d felt when he’d sensed Kelhak’s storm approaching.
Sorcery. Coming from somewhere in the cabin. A trickle, but it was there.
He swallowed and reached for his shield crafting, preparing to open his well.
“Miranda, I want you to stay by the door.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Where was it? He stretched his senses, questing around him. “There’s something here.”
There. Under the blanket on the bunk. There was a slight lump. Could it be a trinket? But he didn’t think Miranda possessed any of the artifacts, at least not the type he could sense.
The lump under the bla
nket moved.
Caldan blinked, unsure he’d seen it. Was it a rat? There were plenty about every ship . . . but that didn’t make sense. There was an air of sorcery around it, and what’s more, it had a familiar tang.
He gripped the sword firmly and stepped forward, prepared for anything.
He darted the blade forward, slipping it under the edge of the blanket, and yanked the material back. His eyes widened, and he staggered, clutching at the wall to support his legs.
Lying on the bunk was his smith-crafted automaton: the manlike figure. The one Gazija had taken from him.
Except it was different. Altered.
Its surface was scorched and marred, as if it had passed through a great heat. As he’d noted when he’d last seen it, intricate runes and patterns covered its surface, hair-thin lines etched into the metal. Shapes and designs far more complex than any he’d come up with.
“What is that?” said Miranda.
The automaton sat up.
Caldan’s heart leaped into his throat, and Miranda yelped. He backed away, shield covering himself and her as he squeezed every ounce of power from his well.
There’s nothing to be afraid of, said a voice in his mind.
Gazija. It sounded exactly like the old sorcerer. But he was dead.
I saw you die . . .
“Who . . .” Caldan croaked, voice quivering, then steeled himself. “What are you?”
I am who I always was. A long pause, as if the automaton sighed or was searching for the right words. I am Gazija, First Deliverer to my people. After I saved you, when Kelhak attacked me, I was forced to flee back inside my own well. Transferring my consciousness to your crafting was the only way to survive.
Caldan mulled this over, still alert for any sign of treachery.
“Caldan, what’s happening?”
He clasped Miranda’s hand to calm her. “It’s talking to me.”
“Sorcery?”
He nodded. “Yes. Wait while I find out what’s going on.” Caldan turned to the construct. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”
Yes.
“But . . . is it worth it? You stay alive, but is it really living?” Caldan knew that how Gazija’s people currently survived was immoral and horrific. But was this the answer? Condemned to a bodiless existence forever? A harsh solution.
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