His climb, though, went by in silence.
Reaching a top floor window—with no glass in the frame—he slipped over the side and into an empty room. It was dark, but the door had nothing hanging over the portal but a multitude of beads. Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and D’Jenn slipped to the wall and flattened his body, waiting for the steps to fade. He held his breath as they retreated, and only relaxed after they were gone.
Now—where is Nyra Jurillic?
He closed his eyes, and sent his magical senses questing out through the building.
D’Jenn could sense four other people on this floor with him—two in one room at the far end of the hall, and two others in separate rooms. If he had known Jurillic, he might have been able to tell which one she was, but her presence was unknown to his senses. He would have to take a risk.
Cursing, he used his magic to muffle the sound of the beads and ducked into the hallway.
The interior of the building was decorated with a surprising amount of colorful scarves. They weren’t tapestries, but diaphanous bands of fabric in wild hues of red, purple, and blue. Even in the still air of the hallway, the fabric waved as if in a ghostly breeze. He crept to the room at the end of the hall, and stopped short of the opening.
Scattered conversation made its way to his ears—a man and a woman.
“…the clan leaders will not call the Summit next year,” the man was saying. “I have heard no talk of deposing you, just whispers in the wake of…well, you know.”
“I know,” the woman grumbled. “Lot of gods-damned ungrateful cowards that they are. Two years ago they would have fought each other for the chance to join my hunting party, now they squabble over the remains of my corpse. Tell those bastards I’m not a corpse yet, by the gods, and they will feel every inch of my wrath for their disloyalty.”
“Nyra—”
“No, Benten, you listen to me. I want to know who. I want to know where these whispers are coming from. I will challenge them in the circle for their words—know that for truth!”
“They will vote you down for this.”
“Let them,” the woman said. “If they think another is strong enough to lead, then let them. I will return to my own clan, and live happily with my family. They can have this kansil business, the politics, all of it! Let another dance with the snakes on the Council and see how the venom feels.”
D’Jenn had hoped to be able to get to Nyra Jurillic when she was alone, but he knew it had been a slim hope. He was loathe to use his magic on the man in the room, but he couldn’t see an alternative. Every moment he was in the building, the danger of discovery increased.
Apologies, friend.
Reaching out with his Kai, he brushed his magic across the mind of the man speaking to Jurillic, and put him to sleep. D’Jenn had to put a bit of force behind the spell in order to send the man into unconsciousness, as his mind was alert and involved in a conversation. He’d probably wake with a headache, but that would be the worst of it. A muted thump sounded from the room.
“Benten? Benten, are you alright?”
D’Jenn didn’t give her a chance to raise an alarm. He took a deep breath, and ducked through the beads, using his magic to muffle the noise. Nyra Jurillic was a lithe woman, all whipcord muscles and hard expressions, though her hair was going to silver. She had a knife in hand before he got all the way into the room, and had put her back to a corner. Her eyes shot from D’Jenn to the slumped form of Benten.
“Kansil Jurillic,” D’Jenn said, holding up his hands for peace. “I mean no harm! I only want to talk.”
Jurillic had the gaze of a predator, and it was locked to D’Jenn’s eyes.
“You’re no dockworker—or whatever costume that is supposed to be.”
“No,” he admitted.
“You work for the Conclave,” she said, rising from her fighting crouch and spiriting her knife away. “You are Blessed.”
“Even so,” D’Jenn nodded. “I wanted to ask—”
“Ask?” she spat. “You wanted to ask nothing. You and your master can go to the Void. We made one deal—a single deal—and I have paid for it every day since. There will be no more. My son…my son is a broken creature, a whipped dog. You brought him back, and I am thankful—but we are done. Get out, unless you plan to kill me. Do not think that I didn’t notice the death of Berrul’s brother. I am not blind to your scheming.”
D’Jenn was stunned.
That confirms it, then. Someone in the Conclave was doing favors.
Jurillic had just implicated that person in a murder, as well. D’Jenn made an effort to school his expression to blandness. He felt like sitting down, but he couldn’t betray his disguise.
“If you are going to do it, then say so now. I will not go peacefully,” she growled.
“There will be no killing,” D’Jenn said, coming back to himself. “I trust you’ve told no one?”
Now that she had played her hand, he had no need to reveal his own truth to her. Instead, he could use this lever to gather more information. People had a tendency to fill in the gaps in their knowledge with assumptions, and if left to their own fanciful musings, would deceive themselves. Dormael had mentioned it to Shawna back in Borders, and had called it the silence effect.
D’Jenn had always thought of it as the stupid effect.
“You question my honor?” she spat. “My son knows. The two who brought him back know. Your master knows, and you know. My husband knew, but he went to the Void last year.”
“And the Council of Seven? Who else knows on the Council?” he asked.
“I have not betrayed you to the Council,” she said. “Neither have any of the others your master has manipulated. I can see his influence at work. It is of no moment, in any case. I will be deposed, and far beyond your reach. You will need to find another puppet to dance under your strings. If that is all you came for, then get out.”
D’Jenn had everything he needed—or everything he could get and maintain his disguise, in any case. He gave the woman a tense smile, and turned to leave the way he had come.
“I will look over my shoulder for you,” she said to his back. “I will not be taken in my sleep like an animal. Tell your master that. If he wants to kill me, he’d best come at me from the front!”
D’Jenn ignored her and made his way back outside. There were only two Blessed in all of Ishamael who had the resources to send other wizards on dangerous missions. One of them was the Mekai, whose involvement would make no logical sense.
That left only one possibility—Victus Tiranan.
***
Rain poured into the streets as Dormael shouldered through the throng of people choking the East Market. The firewine had dulled his wits and slowed his reactions, so he ran into people amid shouts of protest and curses, and even once went sprawling onto the wet cobbles in his haste. He would catch fleeting glances of Inera in the distance, just enough to keep him on the chase.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid…,” he muttered, shaking his head as he struggled in pursuit. It had been years since he’d seen Inera—and, in fact, their parting had been tumultuous. He’d assumed that she’d died, a victim of the Galanian invasion of her homeland. His heart pounded with how wrong he had been, driving the point deeper into his bones with each beat.
Guilt wracked him. Perhaps he should have searched harder for her, should have torn apart occupied Neleka until he found her, and to the Six Hells with the political consequences. He’d been forbidden to do just that, even though a large part of him had wanted it. He lost something of himself after her death, escaping for a time to travel the world as a vagabond in self-imposed exile. Who knew what horrors Inera had lived through? Finding him at the Headless Dancer was a fitting ending to her journey—it exposed him for the wretch that he was.
“Inera! Wait!” he called. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, and he caught the slightest glimpse of pain-filled eyes before she slipped down an alleyway. Dormael rushed after her, wea
ving through the sea of people to reach her. Thunder rumbled overhead as he followed her into the alley.
***
D’Jenn made his way through the Conclave grounds, trying to think his way through his next move. If Victus was using Warlocks to buy votes on the Council—and possibly to kill for them—then there must be a reason. What possible reason, though, could he have?
D’Jenn cursed himself for not keeping up with what had been happening in the past year. If he had some greater context of Council decisions and events at home, he might be able to piece together a more complete picture of what was going on. As it was, his scant information was just enough to lever an accusation, and nothing else. He needed proof.
He chewed on the problem as he entered the Conclave Proper.
The halls of the lower level were choked with petitioners. People waited on benches, lounged against the wall, and stood amidst a low buzz of conversation. Initiates made their way through the crowd, acting as ushers. His footsteps tapped against the black marble floor of the Common Hall as he hurried through, trying to get to his rooms. He needed to think before he brought this to anyone.
“D’Jenn! There you are, boy!” Victus called out from behind him.
D’Jenn almost gave himself away by freezing in place. Apprehension crawled over his back like a hundred spiders made of ice, and he loosened his spine with an effort of will. He used every bit of training he’d received to smooth his features, and turned to face his former mentor.
His former mentor, the traitor.
“Deacon,” D’Jenn said, inclining his head in respect. “Did you need something?”
“I’ve been looking for Dormael,” Victus said, pushing through the crowd. “Have you seen him?”
“Not since the morning.”
“Probably went out cavorting,” Victus said. “He does that when he’s troubled.”
D’Jenn felt a pang of sorrow at the comment, and then hot anger on its heels. Some dark, jealous part of him rose up and wanted to punch the man. He had no right to be so close with them anymore—not when he had used his position for so much personal gain.
“Probably,” was what he said.
“I’ll have to straighten him out when he comes back,” Victus said, letting out a long sigh. “Walk with me a bit, I’ll put the idea to you, and you can pass it on to your cousin.” Victus walked up and put an arm on D’Jenn’s shoulder, turning him back down the hallway and falling in beside him. D’Jenn wanted to squirm out from under the man’s grip, but he resisted the urge.
“What did you need, Deacon?” D’Jenn asked, trying to speed the conversation along.
“It’s about the girl—the child, Bethany,” Victus replied.
D’Jenn felt another irrational spike of anger.
“Go on,” he said.
“It’s my understanding that the girl will begin her training soon,” Victus smiled. “Her gift is substantial. She could be the greatest wizard that the Conclave has seen in generations. Quite the spunky little thing, too, isn’t she?”
D’Jenn had always found Bethany to be reserved, but he agreed anyway.
Victus went on. “You know that the Mekai and Lacelle have been talking about her connection with the artifact. How she used it, how it…talks to her. It’s still strange to say that, to think it aloud.” He laughed for a moment, and ran his hand through his wild mass of hair. “They wish to perform a series of tests on her, to gauge her connection with the thing.”
D’Jenn stopped in his tracks.
“You mean they wish to put the girl and the armlet together? Just to see what happens?” he asked in an incredulous tone. “We’ve done that before, on the road here. It didn’t work out well.”
“I’m sure they want to test them separately first, but I would think that putting them together would be part of the process,” Victus said. “And a chance happening on the road is very different from something happening in the controlled environment of an experiment.”
“The armlet doesn’t much like control,” D’Jenn said. “It does whatever it wants most of the time.”
“Regardless, they wanted me to put the question to him. Probably hoping it would sound better from my mouth than theirs,” Victus said. “It brought up another point, something else I’d wanted to speak with him about.”
“Such as?”
“You boys are going to be back out in the field soon, if Dormael doesn’t have another episode. As I said before, the girl could be the most powerful wizard in generations. Her training is important, her guidance even more so. I thought I would offer to watch over the girl while he was away on missions, to take a personal hand in her training,” Victus said.
Something black and angry twisted in D’Jenn’s stomach.
“Oh?”
“Listen,” Victus said, “we both know the girl’s talents would be wasted as a Hedge Wizard, a Scout, or a Philosopher. She has been traveling with you for a while, and she’s dealt with so much more than other Initiates of her age group. You and I both know that her place will be here, boy, with us. She should be a Warlock, like her father, like her uncle. I would be honored to keep an eye on her, and to take up the mantle of mentor when she is ready. I would love to teach her, as I taught you and her father before her. You know it’s the right thing, boy. The girl should be a Warlock. Anything else would fly in the face of good sense.”
D’Jenn tried to read Victus’s face, to catch some hint of subterfuge. Even though D’Jenn knew that Victus was involved in some obscure plot, part of him thought the man was sincere in this. A darker part of him was trying to calculate what it was that Victus thought he could gain by controlling the girl, by getting close to her.
“The other thing,” Victus said, “is that her connection with the armlet will make the girl a target.”
“What do you mean?” D’Jenn asked.
“Wizards will want to study her, will want to study the armlet. She’ll be made to perform in one experiment or the other, or recount her experiences with it. I can help to shield her from that, and supervise when I can’t stop it. Bethany’s situation here in the Conclave will be unique. She’ll need a friend like me. In any case, I’m happy to help any way I can.” Victus stepped closer and put a hand on D’Jenn’s shoulder. “D’Jenn, us Warlocks—we’re family. There’s a reason we stick together. Tell Dormael what I said, and to come find me.”
“I will, Honored Deacon,” D’Jenn said.
With that, Victus turned and threaded his way back through the mass of people, disappearing in their midst. D’Jenn watched him go, feeling a whirlwind of emotions warring for dominance. Grief, guilt, anger, suspicion—they all swirled through him as he tried to make sense of it all.
D’Jenn stood in the Common Hall for a few more moments before heading back out onto the Green. It was time for everyone to regroup, and rethink their strategy. He needed to find Dormael, and inform him of what he knew. He hurried outside.
Rain was starting to fall in sheets as he left the shelter of the Conclave Proper. The grounds were emptying as people rushed to get out of the rain, and no one paid him any mind. The clouds were a roiling mass of dark gray and white. D’Jenn closed his eyes and tilted his head up to the sky, letting the cool water run down his face.
Mind Flight was always a strange sensation. D’Jenn could feel his physical body, the rain pattering onto his face and wetting his clothes, but his awareness hovered over the Conclave grounds. He sent a pulse of energy skittering along the streets of Ishamael, searching out the song of Dormael’s magic.
The spell was something he and Dormael had worked out years past. They had grown up together, trained together, and worked together most of their lives, and they could pick out the sounds of each others’ magic from anywhere. One of the things that they had done was to work out a few different ways to find one another when needed. D’Jenn believed that their familiarity with one another was the thing that gave them their edge. Dormael believed it was their supreme magical abilitie
s.
Dormael could be an arse, though—on purpose, most of the time.
His Kai rang back with a harmony, touching upon Dormael’s essence and shining like a beacon. D’Jenn locked onto it and shot off in that direction. The ground fell away beneath him, and he soared toward the East Market.
Ishamael was a strange-looking city when viewed from above. It was one of the oldest cities in the Sevenlands, and new construction was built right alongside ancient temples, or strange magical architecture. People flowed through the streets like ants, moving along lines that they themselves could not see. The river was brown, and pockmarked by the rain that now began to fall in earnest. Thunder rumbled in the skies.
Even in the rain, many vendors still braved the streets, exchanging things with hooded customers who huddled into their cloaks. D’Jenn could feel Dormael somewhere in that sea of people, moving along streets and back alleys. The storm interfered with his spell—moving water sometimes did that—and it was hard to get a precise idea of where he was going.
What is he doing?
He’d expected to find his coz holed up in some taproom, not dragging his bruised body through the rain. He strengthened the connection and followed it into a side street, chasing the spell down an alleyway. D’Jenn spotted Dormael pushing past crates and splashing through puddles, running as if in pursuit of someone. D’Jenn zipped down to intercept him.
Pain surged through his Kai in a sudden flash, bringing with it a nauseating dizziness. D’Jenn was flung from the street, as if some great hand had swatted his awareness to the side. His mind sailed up into the sky, and he could hear a strange dissonance in his ears, an almost deafening noise that grated in his mind like rusty steel hinges. His consciousness surged back toward his body.
D’Jenn’s mind slammed into place with a force that threw him six hands along the wet grass. He landed on his back with a squelch, and shut his eyes against the rain. His head hurt like he’d been kicked by a horse, and his stomach rebelled against the rush of sensations that accompanied such a sudden return to his body. He groaned, rolling over to vomit into the grass, tasting blood and bile in his mouth. His head was pounding in his ears, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He heaved into the grass over and over, until stars swam across his vision.
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