by Frank Morin
“I think you’ll need more than that,” Student Eighteen said.
Kilian nodded. “We’ll need everything we can come up with. She is by far the most powerful Petralist alive. We’ll need our full might, plus the help of the Mhortair and a good deal of luck to have any hope of stopping her.”
“And that’s assuming she’s not surrounded by the entire Obrioner army when we find her,” Connor said.
Kilian’s expression turned fierce, with flames igniting in his eyes. “She doesn’t own them yet.”
“It won’t take her long,” Student Eighteen warned.
Connor said, “So we don’t have much time to figure out how to start spreading word about patronage and start our revolution.”
Kilian nodded, then gave Connor a warning look. “Don’t mention your revolution plans when we meet with Shona and Rory to sign the peace treaty later.”
“That’s really happening?” Connor asked. He’d thought talks of an official peace treaty for pausing hostilities was pretty foolish. No one was going to fight with winter finally howling down over them.
Kilian nodded. “It’s happening. It’s an important symbolic gesture.”
Student Eighteen snorted. “So they feel clever when they break it and invade in the spring?”
Connor chuckled. “In that case, I’m all for it. They’ll feel doubly foolish when we break the treaty first.”
3
The Most Important Lies Need to Be Written Down
Several hours later, Connor and Kilian flanked General Wolfram, who looked impressive dressed in full parade uniform, his legendary mustaches carefully groomed.
The three of them walked through the southern end of the Badurach Pass in a pocket of remarkable calm. Wind shrieked as it howled past on either side, channeled by the high walls of vertical stone close on either side, but it did not so much as ruffle Kilian’s blue-tipped, black hair.
Kilian still wore only his light leather jacket, even though the fierce winter storm had indeed crashed over the high mountain pass with a savage vengeance that literally snatched the breath away. Connor walked beside Kilian, awed by the man’s mastery of the elements. They both tapped just enough marble to ward against the intense, bone-numbing cold that crept south along with the brutal storm. Kilian regularly placed a hand on Wolfram’s shoulder, sharing precious warmth with him too.
Connor glanced back the way they’d come, but couldn’t see more than a few feet back through the narrow pass, cumbered by piles of rubble from the cracked and broken summits that made walking treacherous. Snow billowed around their little pocket of calm like an ever-changing sheet, whipped to a frenzy by the brutal wind.
Connor tapped soapstone. He’d already downed a mixture of powdered stone and water, and now he imagined the gateway to elemental water like a door in his mind, filled with crashing waves. The doorway to elemental fire, reached through the bit of marble wedged under his tongue, stood back-to-back with the watery doorway. The doorway to marble, wreathed in crimson flame, already stood partly ajar, allowing him to access elemental fire and create heat directly through that conduit. There was certainly none to draw upon from their surroundings.
When Connor pried open the doorway to soapstone, he instantly connected with water. Soapstone responded to his call better than any other metamorphic stone. He could walk with water and fire together without much trouble.
Air was always a challenge, though. It was fickle and unruly on the best of days. Connor always imagined the gateway to air like a trapdoor overhead. Thrusting his affinity senses up through that doorway connected with elemental air. Pulling the door down toward him allowed him to tap quartzite internally, enhancing his senses.
He pushed the door up, and his senses burst upward into the storm, connected with water, fire, and air. Only the queen could manage more than two tertiary affinities together. Even the mighty Kilian was limited to a Dawnus power of fire and water.
Connor sucked in a sharp breath. “Wow. I’ve never felt anything like this.”
The mighty storm churning south over the mountains loomed in his elemental senses, dark and foreboding. Winds tore across the landscape in a frenzy. Usually he could sense a bit about the winds he touched, their history and purpose, but not in that moment. The wind felt wild, panicked, like a spooked stallion. Well, a stallion that could run hundreds of miles an hour and scream like a thousand pedras caught in a bloodlust frenzy.
Kilian spoke loudly over the screaming wind. “I suspect the turbulence my mother released helped intensify it.” He gave Connor a serious, warning look. “Don’t meddle with it.”
“I won’t.” He was tempted to, though.
Kilian leaned a bit closer. “I’m serious, Connor. Tampering with the weather is tricky business on a good day, and this storm is already in a rage. Don’t give it an excuse to turn into the storm of the century.”
“I won’t,” he promised again, but had to wonder what that would look like. Maybe if the peace talks didn’t go well, he could try it on the Obrioner side.
The sheer energy of the storm dwarfed all the power he’d ever harnessed as a Petralist. His affinities might grant him access to the elements, but these elements were completely untamed. Through soapstone, he felt the snow, helpless under the wind’s onslaught, hurled against men and stone with such intensity the hard little flakes felt like hornets fired from Hamish’s speedsling.
The storm still could not ignore Kilian, though. The ancient Dawnus had drawn snow into a protective wedge behind them, fusing the snow into sheets that parted the wind and storm around them, just wide enough to leave them in their protective, calm bubble. It was similar to how he parted the waters of the rivers when they rode the marvelous underwater Slide against the current.
Connor felt tempted to reach farther and grapple with the weather to see if he could ease the intensity of the storm or deflect it to the west. He’d never felt such a storm. But Kilian was still watching him, so he resisted the urge.
As soon as they stepped beyond the end of the pass, called Drumwhindle on the Obrioner side, the wind smacked Connor in the side of the face with a brutal cross breeze, as if chiding him for huddling in the protective confines of the broken pass. In three seconds, the wind whipped Wolfram’s well-groomed mustaches into a tangled mess. He frowned at Kilian.
Connor looked to Kilian too, expecting to see him extend the shielding around them, but Kilian only glanced at him and asked, “What are you waiting for?”
Connor glanced south to where the Obrioner welcoming party waited for them twenty paces away, at the end of the narrow stone causeway that connected the wide plateau with the pass. The causeway was barely ten yards wide, spanning a deep gorge that the wind seemed to love playing in.
General Rory, flanked by Tomas and Cameron and several officers, withstood the battering from the weather through sheet determination. He kept his craggy face impassive. Well, what Connor could see of it was impassive. Rory and his men were bundled in heavy furs, their hoods concealing most of their features.
As General Wolfram strode purposefully toward the Obrioners, Connor seized the whipping snow and pushed it out into another wedge-shaped, defensive barrier upwind of their position. He loved the feeling of the wind and snow parting around it, cut like a thrown pudding. In a few seconds, he adjusted the angle and height of his shield to overlap with the one Kilian maintained behind them, enlarging the calm space enough to encompass the Obrioners as they drew near.
Rory pushed his hood back and shook Wolfram’s hand firmly.
“Well met, General, and congratulations on your promotion,” Wolfram said.
Rory said, “I’m glad we meet with a handshake instead of with crossed swords. Come. Let’s get out of this insane weather.”
Connor had to wonder why they hadn’t employed Spitters to shield them from the weather like Kilian had just taught him. Surely someone else understood the trick. Did they fear tampering with any of the elements that much, or were their Spitte
rs occupied with other duties?
With so much snow to play with, a full team of Spitters, coordinating their efforts closely, could launch a devastating attack. Kilian, Wolfram, and Connor represented a tempting target. Would they dare strike during a meeting about peace?
If the talks failed for any reason, they’d have a great excuse.
Rory nodded to Kilian, who gave him a roguish salute. Then he looked at Connor and gestured toward the storm. “This isn’t your doing, is it?”
“I take full responsibility for shielding you now, but I haven’t even started playing with the rest of the weather yet,” Connor replied as he shook Rory’s hand enthusiastically. “I’m happy to try if you like.”
Rory grimaced. “Please don’t. This causeway makes me nervous on the best of days.”
That was a good point. That narrow bridge of stone might not represent much of a challenge to Hamish and Verena with their flying machines, but Connor didn’t doubt many people felt absolutely weak in the knees crossing it, even without the wind clawing at them.
Connor said, “I’ll leave it alone unless I’m forced to change my mind.”
He felt that was a pretty nice way to warn Rory not to allow any underhanded tricks during the meeting. Unleashing the storm of the century on Rory’s army would be the perfect way to counter any such foolishness.
Tomas and Cameron greeted Connor with their normal enthusiasm, and for a moment he worried he might stumble right off the causeway as they pounded his back so hard he stumbled.
Tomas said, “No offense, Connor, but I don’t want this storm broken.”
“Might just upset it,” Cameron agreed.
Connor was thrilled to see them and hoped they’d join the treaty talks. Their easy banter and unabashed lack of respect for most authority always helped settle his nerves.
They crossed the causeway with the wind battering Connor’s shields. If it broke free, it could easily drag them over the edge and into a five-thousand-foot free fall. Connor decided he’d have to try it on a less formal day. He was getting better with quartzite. With that much open air, he’d surely snag a helpful current before hitting the bottom.
Probably.
The Obrioner camp looked as empty as the Grandurian side. Despite extra tie-downs, tents shook and flapped in the intense storm, and no one moved around outside. Connor doubted more than a token force remained up on the plateau anyway. Most of the army was probably fleeing for the safety of Merkland’s famous white granite walls.
The Grandurian army was just as depleted. The majority of the forces had left the day before, retreating north toward Altkalen. He didn’t envy them that trip. Not only were they marching through a blizzard, but their Petralists couldn’t dare ease the journey much. The land was dangerously unstable almost all the way north to Altkalen.
The battle for Harz had broken it, leaving the land heaving with earthquakes and fiery fissures. The unprecedented earthquake triggered by Queen Dreokt had intensified the problems to the point of complete destabilization.
Entire mountains had shaken themselves apart, burying Alasdair under a mile of rubble. The shaking had spread all the way to the border and cracked the twin peaks of Drwumwhindle Pass. Mini earthquakes were common, and Sappers couldn’t risk walking with earth in any meaningful way. Flameweavers had almost as much trouble tapping fire, which seemed eager to boil out of control.
Soapstone didn’t seem to pose quite as much risk, and Longseers had no issue using quartzite internally to enhance their senses. Few ever tried focusing it to wield external air, and even if the area wasn’t so unstable, air was always a fickle thing.
That meant the fighting was over for now, despite what people might want. The Obrioners wanted the treaty to save face after their failed invasion and to give them time to figure out what the return of Queen Dreokt meant.
The Grandurians wanted the treaty to make the Obrioners think they believed the ruse, and to give them time to figure out how to respond to the threat the queen posed. And to give Connor time to launch his revolution of Guardians.
If he succeeded, the treaty might prove very useful after all. He didn’t want Granadure invading a distracted Obrion, and with the treaty in place, he felt a little more confident they’d show restraint.
Instead of taking them to the command tent, Rory led them to High Lord Dougal’s enormous palace tent. Connor was surprised that Rory would confiscate Dougal’s palace, but at least it now had an honorable occupant.
They passed through a pair of solid oak doors into an enormous, plush entry hall. The thick canvas walls did an admirable job blocking out the howling storm. Thick rugs covered the ground, with tapestries hanging from interior walls made of white birch planking. Braziers of coals stood in the corners, keeping the room pleasantly warm. It might be a tent, but it felt as solid inside as any stone palace.
Shona stood waiting for them, flanked by several other officers and three handmaids, all dressed in House Dougal’s colors. Shona was a high lady, Dougal’s daughter, and she looked resplendent in a blue satin gown with a low enough neckline to accentuate her full figure without overdoing it. Her blond hair, nearly back to shoulder length after the times Connor had burned it off, was pulled back from her face with a simple silver circlet that definitely hinted at wanting to be a crown.
Connor nearly laughed. Shona was beautiful, manipulative, clever, and deadly. She had shared with him her dream of one day rising to rule, using him as her path to ascension.
Her hazel eyes settled on him and she gave him a dazzling smile. Often in the past, despite what he knew of her, that smile had still made it hard to think straight. Today it didn’t work. His worry for Verena consumed all his available emotion and insulated him from Shona’s heart games.
He would have preferred it if Shona had returned to Merkland instead of taking part in the treaty talks. She was devious and brilliant and made him nervous. They’d spent far too much time together, much of it with her trying to seduce and manipulate him into marrying her so she could control his powers and launch her own plans for national conquest.
They’d managed to create some good memories too, and those still tugged at his mind, creating that hated sense of hesitation around her. He didn’t want Shona, but he’d never managed to entirely break from her. Even during the recent war, she’d found ways to twist and complicate his life. He felt surprised to realize that despite everything, he still didn’t hate her. He couldn’t ever trust her, though. Complicated was the word that best described how he felt toward Lord Dougal’s devious daughter.
Connor was tempted to tap limestone and experiment with that mirage effect he’d just learned. Could he make Shona believe her hair was on fire again? He grinned at the mental image of the poised and beautiful Shona suddenly yelping and swatting at her own head.
She gave him an annoyed looked. She couldn’t know what he was grinning at, but it was clear her carefully planned greeting hadn’t produced the desired effect.
But Shona didn’t let that interrupt her for long. She approached and extended her hands to Wolfram. “General. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
General Wolfram made a courtly bow over her hand. “Lady Shona, I’m thrilled that you will be in attendance for this historic meeting.”
A tall soldier standing to Shona’s right sniffed in disdain. “Not so historic. Granadure is once again buying time, but you will rejoin Obrion sooner or later.”
Connor recognized the arrogant, angry voice of Lord Flichity, representative of High Lord Lenox. He’d dared chide Dougal about their loss at Altkalen and challenge Dougal’s orders to retreat back to the border. Now that Dougal’s trap at Alasdair to destroy Kilian and entrap Connor again had failed, no doubt Flichity was raging about the peace accord.
Kilian spoke before Wolfram could. He took a half step closer and said softly, “We haven’t signed anything yet, Flichity. I doubt anyone would mind if you and I stepped outside for a moment if you feel the need for a final due
l.”
Flichity recoiled from Kilian, his face draining of color and his manner changing to near panic. “No need for hostilities today. I completely support General Rory and High Lady Shona’s decisions.”
“Wise choice,” Kilian said simply.
Wolfram’s mustaches twitched, perhaps concealing a smile. Connor wasn’t actually an official delegate, so he didn’t feel bad at all when he caught Flichity’s eye, gave him a wide smile, and winked. Flichity’s expression hardened, but he didn’t dare speak his outrage.
Rory offered Shona his arm and they led the party down a wood-paneled hall, then into a large office. The huge desk on the far side of the room was probably Dougal’s personal work space, and Connor was tempted to take a look in the drawers. He’d love to discover a detailed outline of Dougal’s convoluted plans. He doubted Dougal had exhausted all of his contingencies. It would be nice to not feel two steps behind the legendarily clever nobleman next time they faced him.
The group settled into padded wooden chairs around a long, black table. A single document already sat at the head of the table, beside a gold-tipped feather quill and an ink well in the shape of a pedra’s open, double-jawed mouth.
Connor suspected most such occasions would drag on as the gathered lords and ladies felt obligated to make long-winded, meaningless speeches about good will and trust, which not even they would actually believe. Thankfully, neither Wolfram nor Rory felt the need.
Shona looked like she wanted to, but just sighed and waved them on. While the two generals discussed specific terms, including renewing limited trade across the border, her expression turned thoughtful, worry lines creasing her normally smooth face.
The process took far less time than Connor had feared, and within an hour they finalized the simple document and each signed it. Connor had to wonder how the peace accord would affect relationships with the five nations of the Arishat League. Led by the nation of Althing, they had all begun mobilizing to respond to the threat of invasion by Obrion. Would they believe that peace had been restored?