by Frank Morin
“She’s in a coma. Delayed reaction.”
They fell to bickering and calling each other increasingly colorful names as they escorted Connor and Ivor across the square, through the inner gate, and into the palace’s main entrance. Connor had seen many impressive palaces, and Dougal’s rivaled the best of them. The central palace reared five stories above the inner court, lined with marble columns, with tall windows between them.
The doors opened into an enormous, vaulted great hall, with walls trimmed in gold, silver, and Dougal’s colors of blue and green. Word of Ivor’s return had preceded them and the halls were lined with people, both noble and linn, soldiers and servants, all excitedly welcoming him home.
While Ivor paused to wave, Connor scanned the area. He didn’t see anything threatening. The people looked genuinely happy to greet Ivor. As usual, he’d captured the hearts of his forces.
A grand staircase rose to the third level above them, while huge hallways led into the northern and southern wings. Connor caught glimpses of beautiful statues and paintings lining the halls behind the crowds, while a chandelier hung over the stairway, blazing with enough light to make it feel like midday. Its glittering crystals seemed to magnify the light source, which had to be generated by a Solas.
The palace was comfortably warm, but Connor spotted only a few heat braziers. Dougal must have a Firetongue on staff responsible for keeping the temperature comfortable. He wondered how often things got accidentally burned. He couldn’t think of a single Firetongue he’d met who would enjoy such a mundane duty without going a little wild.
Ivor grumbled at Tomas, “Did you two bring us through here just to parade us around? I bet Rory’s really waiting in the military command building.”
Connor had assumed the military command would reside in the central palace.
Tomas said, “Usually he’d be there, but he should be wrapping up a meeting with the lesser nobles, and he’s got another meeting with Lord Nevan in a few minutes.”
Cameron grimaced and rubbed one temple. “By the Tallan’s bad memory, never imagined we’d have to keep track of so many meetings. So much thinking dulls the reflexes.”
Tomas nodded agreement. “Good thing we work together. We can share the load, keep from overloading the brain muscles.”
They eventually led Connor and Ivor to a spacious room on the fourth floor. Limestone lanterns hung on the tapestry-lined walls, while a long, gleaming wooden table occupied most of the floor space. Two dozen velvet-padded chairs stood in formation around the table, with General Rory alone sitting at the head.
The sight of Rory triggered a smile and a flood of memories. He’d helped teach Connor his first lessons about his affinity, battlefield strategy, and fighting. Rory was a good man, a treasured friend, and hopefully soon, a key player in their revolution.
Rory rose, his hard, craggy face actually cracking into a smile.
Ivor saluted. “Returning from duty, General.”
Rory returned the salute. “How did you get out of Granadure? And where are the rest of my troops?”
“It’s just me for today, but the rest will be coming soon, I wager.”
Rory shook hands with Ivor, then with Connor. “I can’t imagine you two simply sneaking out of Altkalen, but if you had leveled the city, you would’ve brought everyone else with you.”
“We’re sort of on a secret mission,” Connor said.
Rory raised an eyebrow. “Working together?”
Ivor shrugged. “There’s a peace accord in place, so why not?”
Rory gestured them to take seats. “So if you’re on a secret mission, why create such an uproar here in Merkland?”
No sense using a little hammer when a big one could do the job faster. They had left subtlety behind in the queen’s palace, so Connor said, “It’s more fun to start a revolution with a bang.”
“A revolution? Are you here to destroy Merkland, then?” Rory didn’t show any outward concern, but Tomas and Cameron exchanged knowing glances and made several gestures between them. Connor figured they were betting on how much destruction he’d cause.
Ivor shook his head. “This is more of a recruiting stop, you might say.”
Rory gestured Tomas and Cameron from the room. They left reluctantly and Connor wondered why he bothered. Rory could never hide anything from them, and he’d need them on his side, but he’d figure that out soon enough.
After the door closed behind them, Rory said, “We’ve had that discussion.”
“Not like this. Last time, you were under orders to invade Granadure. You were a captain, not a commanding general.”
Rory chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a commanding general defecting to the other side.”
Ivor said, “More like defecting to the same side. We’re on our way back from Donleavy.”
That cracked his calm. “Are you boys mad? Reports suggest the queen is wreaking havoc among the nobility worse than any Grandurian army ever did.”
Connor grimaced. “It’s even worse than you’ve heard. If we give her much time, she’ll either kill or mind-wipe everyone and lock the entire nation under her thumb.”
He and Ivor spent a few minutes relating to Rory what they had experienced in Donleavy, how the queen mind-wiped her own people, her crazy insanity, and the warnings from Shona.
“At least Lady Shona is okay,” Rory said, looking relieved.
“Too many others aren’t. That’s why we’re here. Rory, you need to understand what you’re fighting for,” Ivor said angrily, gesturing to Connor. It was time to throw every stone on the table.
Connor said, “Rory, patronage is a lie. There is no curse, there are no unclaimed, and Guardians are enslaved by the nobility.”
Rory rocked back in his chair as if struck, and looked like he didn’t believe it. Connor did not blame him. The lie was so massive it defied understanding. It defined the lives of Guardians. Without it, the entire framework that they lived within evaporated.
Ivor said, “He’s right, Rory. You saw Connor turn unclaimed at the Carraig.”
“I saw something,” Rory admitted slowly.
Connor said, “What you saw is what we now call rampagers. It has nothing to do with patronage, but everything to do with a secret power stone called porphyry.”
As soon as he said it, the maddening, addiction-driven hunger seized hold of his mind and Connor groaned under a wave of agony that seared through his midsection. His muscles clenched and unreasoning rage swept through him. Before he realized what he was doing, he snatched up his chair and lifted it high to smash over the table.
Ivor grabbed the chair and said in an irritatingly soothing voice, “Connor, fight it. Stay in control.”
For a moment they wrestled over the chair. Rory looked shocked. The initial wave of raging need subsided after another moment and Connor released the chair and staggered back. He was sweating heavily and breathing hard. His vision had gone blurry, and it was hard to think straight.
“Sorry,” he stammered as he dropped into a chair with Ivor’s help.
“What just happened?” Rory asked, his tone concerned.
Ivor said, “Porphyry. Connor’s only used it a couple of times, but it’s extremely addictive.” He placed a comforting hand on Connor’s shoulder. “We need to get you back to Kilian fast. Hopefully he’ll know what to do.”
Connor looked up and met Rory’s concerned gaze. “It’s real, Rory. Only the heads of houses know the secret that patronage is a lie, but only Dougal knows about porphyry. He spent years secretly building up an army of rampagers. We destroyed the last of them in Alasdair just before the earthquake.”
“How—” Rory began, but the door opened and a grizzled, elderly man strode into the room.
Rory was supposed to be meeting with Lord Nevan, but this fellow was not Nevan. His gray hair was a little longer than military standard and his black eyes seemed shrouded in flickering shadows. Connor realized he must be a Pathfinder. He did not look
surprised to see them, nor did he look concerned that he had just barged in on the commanding general.
Had he heard their conversation?
Rory didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. “What do you want, Craigroy?”
The newcomer pointed at Connor. “I want him, of course. His service to our high lord is past due, and I am here to collect him.”
Connor welcomed any challenge that helped take his mind off porphyry. He rose slowly, hating his quivering muscles and shaking hands. “You’re either remarkably optimistic, or remarkably stupid. Doesn’t really matter which. I’m planning on killing High Lord Dougal, not serving him.”
Rory said, “Connor, this is Craigroy, head of High Lord Dougal’s intelligence network. He thinks highly of himself, but has never interrupted one of my meetings before.
Craigroy gave Rory a confident smile. “You command the army, General. I do not report to you.”
“And I don’t live in your dark webs of intrigue,” Rory said, his expression unfriendly. “I thought we agreed to stay out of each other’s business.”
“Until now, our business has not overlapped.” Craigroy swept his dark-eyed gaze over Connor and smiled again. “I heard you’re brave, and I applaud your resilience. Most people I’ve known who’ve fallen under the grip of porphyry would’ve been reduced to blubbering, pathetic wrecks by now. They were some of the mightiest Petralists in the kingdom, but no one beats porphyry.”
“That’s why there are so few Agor,” Connor guessed with sudden understanding. “Dougal took all the children with the most powerful gifts from birth. That’s where he got his rampagers, like my uncle.”
Craigroy nodded. “It’s refreshing to find a servant who can think once in a while.”
He noted Rory’s surprised expression and said, “Yes, I’m afraid what they revealed to you is true. Connor will keep the secret once I take him into service. You and Commander Ivor are bound by your oaths to our mutual high lord, and I expect you to maintain the secret for national security reasons.”
Connor took an angry step toward the irritating old man, embracing the rage still thundering through him. “I told you I’m not serving you. Since you seem to think you represent Dougal, I’m thinking you deserve the same treatment.”
Ivor looked ready to help, but Craigroy did not look nervous. He simply held up his left hand and opened his fist, revealing what he’d held clenched inside.
Porphyry.
Half a dozen tiny grains of the purplish powder glinted in the lantern light. They seemed to seize Connor’s mind and he howled like an animal and leaped forward to snatch them up.
Craigroy pulled his fist behind his back and cried, “Stop!”
Connor paused a quivering stride away, hands outstretched, barely restraining the urge to rip the man apart. He could, but that might scatter the precious porphyry. He couldn’t risk it. Not yet.
Craigroy said in a commanding tone, “I will give this to you, boy, but not until you drop to your knees and swear fealty to High Lord Dougal. Then you get enough every day to keep the beast under control.”
Connor seized him by the throat and tapped granite. He gloried in the itchy-crawly feeling of his curse blossoming out through his body and strengthening his muscles. It paled in comparison to the ultimate glory of rampager power, but it was more than enough to crush out the life of the man keeping that powder from him.
Connor hissed, “You fool. I’ll just take it from your dead fingers.”
Craigroy’s eyes bulged and he pried uselessly against Connor’s stone-hardened grip. Fear glinted in his eyes, but he managed to croak, “Think, boy. What I have is barely a taste, not even enough to quell the pain tormenting you for a day. If you kill me, you’ll never find more, and you’ll die in more pain than anyone you’ve ever known.”
Connor wanted to crush him, rip his head right off. His lips curled back into a snarl and his arm shook with the need to vent his fury, but he hesitated. A tiny flicker of reason held him in check.
Craigroy was right. He needed more.
“Kill him,” Ivor said, his tone cold. He had circled around them and now stood between Craigroy and the door.
Connor couldn’t take the chance. He dropped the man and retreated a pace, breathing fast, eyes glued to Craigroy’s hand as it came back into view and lifted slowly toward him.
Ivor took a step forward, but Connor hissed, “Stay back!”
“But—”
“I’ll deal with this,” Connor snarled, his voice shaking with rage. Ivor looked torn, but hesitated, so Connor focused on Craigroy and begged, “Give it to me.”
“Kneel,” Craigroy commanded, looking absolutely confident that he now owned Connor.
Connor laughed. The sound came out hysterical and high-pitched, and it visibly rattled Craigroy. His confident expression wavered, but he commanded again, “Kneel!”
The need for the porphyry was like a living thing ripping at Connor’s innards. He couldn’t endure it long. The thought of leaving now, of facing the long journey back into Granadure with no hope whatsoever of quenching his need made him want to whimper like a chained animal. No, he couldn’t just leave.
He’d take all of Craigroy’s stash with him. “You forget who you’re dealing with. I have ways of making you tell me what I want to know.” He did, right? Thinking through the haze of porphyry need was like running fracked through a fog. He couldn’t quite see what he was doing.
Was he planning to pretend to swear fealty? He could leave once he got more. No, somehow he sensed that once he took another full measure of porphyry he’d never again muster the willpower to deny that need. If he surrendered now, he was accepting a chain he could never break.
There was something he could do, some other affinity he could use? But he didn’t want to use anything but porphyry.
Craigroy must have sensed his confusion because his smile returned and he opened his mouth to speak.
Ivor didn’t give him the chance. He calmly slugged Craigroy in the side of the head. Craigroy never saw it coming, and the granite-enhanced blow threw him off his feet, across the room, and into the wood-paneled wall.
The tiny grains of porphyry went flying.
Connor caught sight of them for a second, glittering in the lantern light as they sprayed across the room. He shouted with despair and lunged after them.
Ivor intercepted him with a much harder curse-punch. He caught Connor in the stomach and the blow lifted him off his feet. Air exploded from his lungs, and his innards burned for a new reason.
Ivor helped him straighten up.
He coughed, “Why?”
Ivor winked. “Just returning a favor.”
He curse-punched Connor in the chin.
All the lights went out.
27
An Unworthy Servant
With a remarkably soft rush of air, Shona touched down slightly behind Queen Dreokt. The rich, frozen soil of southern Obrion stretched away in every direction, cluttered with rotting, broken stalks of grain from the recent harvest. They had crossed half the kingdom, supported only by a warm cushion of air, as fast as Connor might hope to fly in one of those infernal Builder flying machines.
They’d flown so far, so fast, for this?
Shona glanced around in confusion at the boring farmlands, empty of any sort of human habitation. She’d never visited the vast fields of High Lord Lenox’s agriculture-heavy realm before. Now that she saw it, she was happy she’d never wasted the time. She couldn’t see any mountains, saw no rocks at all. How did people live in places like that? Why had Queen Dreokt brought them there?
Shona glanced at the queen, who was dressed for travel in a purple skirt, split for riding, a snow-white linen blouse, and a leather jacket with ornate, golden filigree worked all over. Shona had opted to wear her battle leathers. She had no idea where they were going or what they might be doing, and she refused to enter a potential battlefield unprepared.
That desolate field was no battlefield.
She couldn’t even see anyone who might have witnessed their unique form of arrival. Shona had always thought Petralist flight was virtually impossible. It wasn’t impossible for Queen Dreokt. She wielded the unruly currents of air as easily as Shona might throw Verena off a cliff using granite. Air had held them aloft, as if sitting together on an invisible couch as it hurtled through the air, protected in a bubble of warmth and calm.
During the journey, Queen Dreokt had acted downright bored and spent the time asking Shona about the various realms and the high lords and ladies who ruled them. Shona doubted she was actually interested in the information, which she had probably already pulled directly from Shona’s mind, the mind of her father, and others in Donleavy. That meant she was interested in Shona’s interpretation of the current political situation and the families that ruled across the kingdom.
She had silently thanked her father for educating her so thoroughly in politics, intrigue, and the complex economics that supported the many semi-independent realms that made up Obrion. She had no idea what the queen thought of her answers and analysis, but she did not strike Shona down for making a wrong answer. That suggested she might be doing all right.
It was by far the longest period of time that Shona had ever seen the queen not flip abruptly between widely different emotional states. Perhaps after so many years of slumber the queen needed a little more alone time to gather her thoughts and grow accustomed to returning to humanity.
Queen Dreokt turned to look back at her. “You may have a point, child, but do you really think it wise to try analyzing my psychological state?”
The queen’s unexpected question caught Shona by surprise and she started, retreating half a step and tapping granite before catching herself.
Queen Dreokt gave her an approving nod. “Good defensive reflexes, suggesting a strong survival instinct. Very appropriate for one in your position.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Shona said, feeling weak with relief.
Queen Dreokt looked satisfied as she paced around the empty field. A chill breeze crept along the hardened furrows of soil, carrying a faint scent of dry plants. The queen stopped after a few steps and stretched forth a hand. The earth beneath it rose in a delicate column. She grasped it and her expression turned thoughtful.