The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Stranger things have happened,” Victus said. “He could be the emperor’s slave, for all we know.”

  Lacelle narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but what possible thing could be held against a vilth? History has shown that they sever ties to everything that makes them human. The only thing that Dargorin could give him would be power, and that is something their dark god already grants them. Why serve the emperor?”

  Victus shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe it’s the vilth using Dargorin, and not the other way around.”

  “This warrants an investigation. I suspect that you already have agents in both Old and New Galan?” the Mekai asked Victus.

  “Of course, Wise One,” Victus replied.

  “Good. Have them dig for answers in this matter,” he said. The Mekai turned to the willowy Deacon of Philosophers. “Lacelle, send a word to our friends at the School of Magical Arts. Ask them to search through their records for anything regarding rogue wizards cast out of the Tower within the last fifty years.”

  “The last fifty years, Wise One?” Lacelle asked.

  “Indeed. Our scant research of necromancy indicates that vilthinum can sometimes prolong their lives through the use of their art. It never hurts to be thorough. In fact, go back seventy years.”

  “It will be done, Honored Mekai,” Lacelle said, bowing her head in respect.

  “Very well,” the Mekai said. “Also, have a team look through the Archives to see if they can find any mention of a relic with power such as this armlet. I will study the thing itself. Dormael, can you inform the Baroness Llewan that I wish to call upon her? Any information she can give me would be of the greatest assistance.”

  “Of course, Wise One,” Dormael nodded.

  “Good. Then let us adjourn this meeting, and rest a bit before dinner. I am ever tired, these days,” the Mekai said, favoring them all with a warm smile. “My old bones, you understand.”

  Dormael didn’t believe him for a moment, but he couldn’t help but smile in return.

  “Honored Mekai, there is one more matter that needs discussing,” Victus said, placing his hands on the table.

  “Do go on then, Deacon Victus,” the Mekai sighed, settling back into his seat.

  “I’ve received reports that the Galanians are rounding up Sevenlanders within their borders.”

  Dormael and D’Jenn shared a covert glance. Dormael had heard rumors of this from the Administrator in Mistfall, but they had sounded far-fetched to both him and D’Jenn. To hear it now, coming from the mouth of someone he respected, was odd. If Victus was saying it, then maybe it was true.

  “Yes,” the Mekai said. “I’ve heard rumors of this, though I thought it nothing more than idle street-talk. Do you have more information?”

  Something in the eyes of the Mekai piqued Dormael’s interest. He had been trained to read people, to perceive when they were emotionally distressed, or being duplicitous. He couldn’t help but watch the expressions of the others around him, trying to measure their emotional state. Lacelle, of course, was irritable. Victus had the same training which he had given Dormael and D’Jenn, so his features were schooled to blandness. The Mekai’s face, though, was telling a different story. The tightening around the eyes, the slight rise in the chin—the Mekai was suspicious.

  “I do,” Victus nodded. “Most of it has come in recent reports. I was going to gather more information before I brought this to your attention, Honored One, but the story that Dormael and D’Jenn told us makes this ever more poignant. It’s not just Sevenlanders they’re rounding up—it’s wizards from the Mage Tower in Lesmira, too. I’ve received missives from friends in Tauravon, and they’re concerned about the encroachment of the empire. Neleka, of course, was on their southern border, and now they have the empire in its place.”

  “Neleka was hostile to the Blessed,” the Mekai pointed out. “They were no great friends of the School of Magical Arts. In fact, the empire only hangs the Blessed it finds—Neleka used to drag them through the streets, stone them, and burn them at the stake. One would think that things on Lesmira’s southern border would be calm. I’ve received no letters that suggest otherwise. Blessed could not go openly into Neleka before, and they cannot do so now. You’ve confirmed that they’ve imprisoned our countrymen with no basis?”

  “I have, Honored One,” Victus nodded.

  “And whom are they capturing?”

  “Most of them are honest merchants and travelers, even a few Sevenlander families living inside the empire as citizens,” Victus said. “A few of the Blessed have gone missing, but so far most of my agents are still in place. There have long been rumors in Alderak that the Conclave keeps a network of sympathizers in place, like a secret cult. It’s my understanding that there is some amount of local hysteria fueling the imprisonments. Honored Mekai, I ask your permission to authorize a rescue operation. We should not allow the empire to detain our people.”

  The Mekai remained quiet for a time. Dormael could tell that the old man was torn. The rest of the room waited for his answer as the silence drew out. Finally, the Mekai stood and shook his head.

  “I cannot authorize you to do that, Victus.”

  “Wise One?” Victus asked, his expression surprised.

  “We cannot destroy these camps just yet. Such a thing would not only swing public attitudes against us, but it would put more of our people in danger over the course of the next few years. If we use magic against the Galanians, we’d be tearing down the laws made in the wake of the Second Great War.”

  “So we let our people suffer because of politics? Wise One, I implore you to reconsider!”

  “Not politics, Deacon Victus, but the law, and good sense. We will send them what aid we are able, but until we can somehow get our people released without the loss of life that would come from a coordinated rescue, I cannot allow it to happen.” The Mekai held up a hand to forestall any further dissent.

  “But Mekai, our people are dying in those camps!” Victus growled, ignoring the raised hand.

  Dormael was appalled. He’d never seen anyone—much less Victus—speak to the Mekai in such a way. The words of the Administrator of Mistfall danced around his skull.

  There’s a lot of anger for the Mekai…

  The Mekai’s eyes hardened. “Our people die every day, Deacon Victus. People die of disease, of starvation, of murder. People die of old age. Someday, if you come to be in my position, you will be forced into the unenviable task of making decisions that not only affect your Warlocks, but all members of the Conclave. What you ask is to take action on behalf of civil matters—and that’s not the mandate of your discipline.”

  “Honored One, I must insist—”

  “Must you?” the Mekai asked, raising his voice the tiniest amount. His magic roiled in anger, though, thrashing about the room like an invisible flame. Everyone could feel it. “The Warlocks were founded to deal with magical threats, Deacon, not to go to war on behalf of the people of the Sevenlands. If this vilthinum shows his face, I will gladly send you and all your people screaming for his blood. I will not, however, bend the laws put in place after the Second Great War—the only things that keep everyone in Eldath from marching on the Conclave with torches and pitchforks—so that we can save a few merchants, descendants, and civilians!”

  The room rang with his exclamation.

  Taking a deep breath, the Mekai went on in a more measured tone. “I know the urge to do something is great—do you think that I do not feel it, as well? We should lay them low with our power, teach them never to shake their swords in our direction, correct? That is exactly the thinking that brought the Conclave into the Second Great War. It is exactly the kind of thinking that saw entire armies, whole cities destroyed with magic. Every Mekai since then has endeavored to preserve those edicts written during the Atonement, when we learned the responsibility inherent in Eindor’s Blessing. What you’re asking for is their complete disregard—and that, I will never do. I will bring this matter to the attention
of the Tal-Kansil and the Council of Seven. Until then, you have your orders, and are all dismissed.”

  The Mekai strode from the room, ignoring the muttered platitudes of greeting offered to his back. The secretaries looked horrified, but turned and scurried in his wake. The old man’s power crawled down the hallway after him, like a living spider made of invisible mist.

  Dormael wondered what his own power would feel like when he got to be the Mekai’s age—however old he was. His power was already vast, and it was true that as he aged, he could feel it sharpening in some indescribable way, deepening by degrees. It was rare that a wizard got to be the Mekai’s age without killing himself, or retreating from society in order to better commune with their own power. From what Dormael understood, it became harder and harder to control magic as one got older, and it intruded more into everyday life.

  Dormael had never seen the Mekai without his Kai singing. The old man had once told him that as he aged, it grew more difficult to hold the power inside. He said that it was something like holding an unruly dog to a leash—if that dog could toss lightning, or set things aflame. Things like the closing of the door behind the Mekai as he strode into the room, or lighting candles, or reaching for a cup—all of those things happened around him automatically, as if the magic knew what he wanted. Dormael wondered how bad his own power would grow when he grew as venerable as the Mekai.

  The bruise on his chest hummed against his skin at the thought.

  “Dormael—are you going soft in the head, boy?” Victus asked.

  Dormael realized he had been staring at the door, which was closing now in Lacelle’s wake, leaving Dormael and D’Jenn alone with their deacon. The room felt cavernous in the absence of the heavy conversation, and Dormael let out a long sigh, stretching his shoulders.

  “Aye, sorry,” Dormael said. “Just…thinking.”

  “Open your ears, boy. The three of us need to talk,” Victus grumbled. He sighed and ran his hands through his wild hair, narrowing his eyes at the table in thought. Dormael and D’Jenn shared another meaningful look as he gathered himself. Victus had always been gruff, but never so openly disrespectful, and never so outwardly angry.

  The suspicion on the Mekai’s face stuck out in Dormael’s mind.

  Why would the old man be suspicious of Victus Tiranan, of all people?

  “First, I’m glad you boys are home again,” Victus said. “I know I’ve said it before, but it’s true—and for more reasons than one. My Warlocks are all like family to me, you know that. It’s good to have two of my best back in one piece—though I know you were taking an unauthorized vacation, Dormael. We’ll talk about that soon enough, but for now, just know that I’m glad you boys are alive. Galanian Red Swords…the world is going mad, boys. It’s going fucking mad.”

  “Deacon,” D’Jenn began, his words coming in a slow, careful manner, “that bit about the Galanians rounding up Sevenlanders. Are you sure of those reports?”

  “As sure as I am about anything. Why do you ask?”

  “Just sounds unlikely,” Dormael said, nodding with his cousin. “Why would the Galanians care about the Sevenlands? They’d have to cross the sea to get here, and they have a war of conquest going at home. One would think that begging trouble from us would be…a little insane.”

  “Ah, that’s the word, isn’t it?” Victus said. “Insane. Think on what the Galanian Emperor has done so far. He moved against and annexed Neleka, then he took Shundovia so gods-damned fast that the ink wasn’t even dry on the treaties. Then, he masses his forces on the southern side of his empire to move against Moravia—which seems like a sound strategy, considering that Moravia owns the other half of Solace Isle with Shundovia.”

  D’Jenn nodded. “He would get the fertile lands that Shundovia offers, then the gold from the mines on Solace Isle.”

  “Aye, but that’s not what he did,” Victus pointed out. “The bastard has moved north, for Thardin.”

  “Thardin?” Dormael and D’Jenn said in unison, sharing an incredulous look.

  “Aye—the frozen, mountainous home of insane, bearded killers itself,” Victus nodded. “He moved his forces to his northern border during the autumn, and there’s been fighting in Thardin all winter.”

  “It’s madness to attack Thardin in the middle of winter,” Dormael said.

  “It’s nearly madness to attack Thardin at all,” D’Jenn said. “No foreign army has ever conquered Thardin, but to enter the passes when they’re locked with ice? He’s going to lose half of his army just to frostbite and fucking disease.”

  “Exactly,” Victus said. “So why, do you think, would he risk such a thing?”

  “Whatever it is, it must be important,” Dormael said, his mind trying to follow down the paths that Victus was walking. “In fact, we should probably reexamine all of his actions in light of what we know about the armlet, and this vilth that was speaking with Jureus.”

  “I knew you’d shake something loose in there eventually,” Victus said, gesturing at Dormael’s head. “You’re right. So what doesn’t make sense?”

  D’Jenn stroked his goatee in thought, looking out the window. Dormael ran through things in his mind, ticking them off one by one and trying to place them into some meaningful context. He picked through his knowledge of the Galanian Army, and the events surrounding the Imperial conquests.

  “First,” Dormael said, “the massacre at Old Shundov. Why would Dargorin have killed the entire Royal family when he hadn’t done anything of the sort before, or since? In fact, one of the things I found surprising during my time in Neleka was that they were so bloody lenient. None of the sort of thing you might expect—orgies of blood, political purges, rapes. The war was bloody, but the transition to Imperial leadership was as honorable as it could have been. I remember how much it had surprised me at the time, and now…now I wonder what it means in this greater context.”

  “Also,” D’Jenn pointed out, “this bit about the camps. Why round up Sevenlanders at all? Why borrow trouble from us? Sure, westerners are hated in the east, but no more than taxes. It just doesn’t fit the rest of the picture.”

  “And now, Thardin,” Dormael said. “Instead of going after the gold, and fighting a winter campaign on the sun-browned hills of Moravia, he leads his men into the snowy passes of the north in the worst part of the year for a passage.”

  “Somehow, this vilth is involved,” Victus grumbled. “The massacre I cannot explain—yet. The camps, though…think on this, boys. If you were a maniac who had designs on ruling the world, what would be one of the first things you would do?”

  “Identify the greatest threats, figure out how to take them down,” Dormael said without hesitation, his training prompting his quick response. It was a force of habit from his days as Victus’s student.

  Victus gave him an approving nod. “And there are only two centers of magical power in the world—the Conclave, and the School of Magical Arts. Military might is all well and good, but he’ll never take Lesmira or the Sevenlands that way, and he knows it. Besides that, we know he wants the armlet, and that he’s working with this vilth. He must know that such a thing would draw our attention. Perhaps he’s looking for weaknesses, or planning some operation against us which we are too blind to see coming. Our distance from Galania may protect us, but it won’t protect Lesmira. I’m telling you, boys—something big is happening. I can taste it on the gods-damned wind.”

  Dormael felt the same way. He’d been feeling it since the Stormy Sea, when he’d watched the Galanian ship fade into the distance, burning sails against dark seas. Knowing what the armlet could do—at least, some of it—and knowing that the ruler of the most aggressive state on Eldath wanted it was enough to fill him with dread. Victus was right.

  But then, Victus was usually right.

  “What about Thardin?” D’Jenn asked.

  “There must be something there that would motivate him to spend so many lives in pursuit,” Victus said. “Can you think of something
worth more than thousands of fighting men?”

  “Besides the throne itself…,” Dormael ventured, but Victus shook his head.

  “No. It would have to be something more valuable. Something more useful. More powerful.”

  “Infused items,” D’Jenn said. “We know he’s looking for them—else, why go after Shawna’s armlet? Maybe he wants Ice Shard, the sword of the Thardish Kings. It’s an infamous magical weapon.”

  “Perhaps,” Victus nodded. “Either that, or something just as powerful. This…well, it isn’t good. Listen, boys, I don’t think the Mekai, nor the other deacons realize the danger that all of this poses. They’re not trained to see the patterns, they don’t recognize the knife in the dark.”

  “You really think he’s gathering an arsenal of powerful magical weapons?” Dormael asked. It was a frightening prospect, but it explained a bit about the emperor’s actions.

  “Why else would he risk so much?” Victus said. “Gold he had in his grasp. Armies?—He’s got those. Thrones? Hells, the Galanian Empire has three of them already. All of those are regular motivations, and would be pursued in a way that made sense. Nothing I’ve heard about Dargorin Penethil suggests that he is insane—power-mad, maybe, but not insane. Whatever he’s after in the frozen passes of Thardin must be important. And mark my words, boys—it won’t be good for us.”

  “Or anyone,” Dormael agreed.

  Victus looked to the door, which stood open into the hallway, and waved a hand. His Kai issued out and closed it. Then, his magic weaved a quick Ward around the room, barring anyone from listening to their conversation.

  Dormael and D’Jenn shared yet another covert, meaningful glance.

  “I know I can count on your discretion—right, boys?” Victus said.

  “Of course,” Dormael said, feeling a little offended at the implication that he was disloyal. “I would never betray the Conclave.”