Dropping the bags from both hands to thud to the ground, he pulled free of Omell’s grip and moved like an old man to the nearest place he could sit, a patch of clear ground a few feet away. The girl watched him curiously. That was only the third time he’d ever taken her walking, as he called it, and those other times he’d displayed no ill-effects whatsoever. There had never been any sign of weakness from Varen in all the time she had known him; exactly the opposite. Although thin and permanently pallid, he had exuded power and strength, virile and commanding.
Then something clicked – it was the island!
When they had been here before that summoning had drained the lord; it would seem something remembered, and revisited the effects on Varen. Of this, she was quite certain. The island was alive – parts of it were. Those parts subject to the profound emotions of the people who had lived, died and suffered here. Etched into the landscape, carved deep into the living earth, sentience ebbed and flowed like breath, like the tide, and caught up the unwary, carrying them along…like Varen. Drawing his energies out, leeching them away, hoarding them...
“I said pick up the bags!” Varen’s snarl broke into her musings, startling her and a cloud of small birds from the nearest tree. They flew around the pale lord’s head close and threatening, chattering, wings flapping in his face, while he cursed and slapped at them. A hissing chant left his bloodless lips, seemed to wrap about the tiny winged assailants like numberless whiplashes, catching and smashing them to the rough ground.
Omell stood rock still, eyes round and large until the last feathered foe lay broken and bloody within the circle of lifeless bodies at Varen’s feet; blood, bright red upon the drab, sundried grasses and weeds, like tiny colorful flowers, loose feathers curled as small fringed leaves.
***
When Morgan and Ky arrived above the impromptu canvass town, the late afternoon sun was just touching the top of the high rugged hills in front of them and there was a tantalizing smell of cooking drifting on the warm air. Tents had already been pitched, each order in its colors. Predominant were Warrior green, the deep red of the Magi and white tents for Morgan’s contingency. Then were Healer blue, a few Bard terracotta, and Seer black, even one or two pearl-grey and beige for the Officiates and Academicians. A small group of assorted marquees were set aside for meetings and dining, and with ones pitched apart for hygiene facilities. The valley looked neat, orderly and nothing like he’d left it. Where were the few Akashiians who continued to live here? All this activity should have drawn a few of them out, at least.
He gazed down towards the Akashii Temple. He could sense there were people inside, communing with the Goddess in one way or another, but they were nearly all from Thesa’s Temple. Liath was one, Demora, Druin, the other order heads, Resh, as usual, was with Liath, and to Morgan’s surprise, Cinbar, too. The shape-changer wasn’t a native and he hadn’t realized the otherworlder worshipped Anraun’s Goddess.
‘Lee, my sweet, could you ask Demora to join me in the large marquee for our first council of war, please? The other order heads are invited, you, and Mesar and...’
He heard her laughter – an unusual and welcomed sound, the surprise silencing him. ‘I get the idea, all the usual suspects!’
‘That’s right!’ he chuckled. ‘A very interesting – and apt – way of putting it. Can you let me know when they’re ready, and I’ll see you soon. Er, in whose tent...’
‘For tonight, I’m bunking in with Anni. Tomorrow, who knows? Actually there’s a young lord I have my eye on – tall, dark, handsome – and guess what, his name’s Morgan, too, isn’t that a co-incidence!’
Again, Morgan chuckled, then, aware of Ky watching him with a raised eyebrow and quizzical expression on his face, bade Liath farewell till later, and smiled at the big blond. Rested his one free hand on a broad shoulder and looked into the startlingly blue eyes, “You will always be my first love,” he stated quietly, “in all things.” Then a moment of deep depression hit him, and he added, “It would seem none of my real loves are suitable for a wife...”
A black cloud, coming from no-where, hid the face of the sun, and an icy blast of wind swept down from the hills, clutching at their clothes and hair, flattening blades of grass. Thunder stamped among the hills, echoing threateningly.
Ky half-forced a laugh. “You only just realized that?”
Morgan clenched his jaw, fingers tightening on Ky’s shoulder. “It’s not what I want!” he snarled.
Ky’s laughter was real this time. “Tough,” he snorted. “Even the High Lord can’t always get what he wants. Now get rid of the weather, or temper tantrum, or whatever, or you’ll have your other two loves appearing to see what’s wrong.”
With a muttered oath, Morgan dismissed the climatic effects of his somber mood and grudgingly allowed that Ky was right.
A great slap on the shoulder almost sent him staggering down the slope as Ky corrected him. “I’m always right!”
Watching him stride down towards the canvass ‘town’, Morgan rubbed his shoulder, then set off in the big northlander’s wake, pre-occupied with lists of things he had still to do.
The slight disturbance in the air and faintest of shadow that usually heralded a Nightlord’s arrival went unnoticed, and when a deep lazy drawl stated, “This place is sending off the weirdest fuckin’ vibes, man,” Morgan almost swallowed his tongue in surprise. Looking to his left, he saw Rowan striding alongside, tanned and shirtless torso glistening with sweat, and marked with red stripes from the equipment sleds he’d hauled.
“I’m not entirely sure what you mean, but I can imagine why it feels weird, it’s because...”
“Believe me,” Rowan interrupted, “I know the history now. I picked up on so much it was giving me a headache.”
The words, said lightly, had a deeper impact. If a person as mentally powerful as this Nightlord was so affected, it wasn’t surprising Morgan was being subject to dark, if short, moods. He wondered how it was affecting all the others here, both mentally sensitive and ‘ordinary’, although Liath had seemed perfectly normal; if anything she was more light-hearted.
Parting briefly, Morgan to his tent and prepare for the war council later, Rowan to freshen up in Thesa before joining Morgan again, the two lords went about their business, both thinking much the same thing.
***
“The plan is simple; complete the opening to Danaach, drag the Voltus through, dispatch him and any of his aides, warriors, followers and anyone else we are able, then to seal the way again – for good, this time, and...”
“And what is to happen to the Starstone – all of it?” Jarath enquired, stepping onto Anraun and into the meeting, Jonas close behind. “Morgan. Demora. Ladies, gentlemen...others...” he greeted. Added dryly, on seeing his second son leaning against the thick corner pole of the marquee, “and Rowan.”
Morgan gestured to one of the stewards to seat the Doman and bring refreshments, “Lord Jarath, please join us – and thank you for the loan of your Nightlords. Their help was invaluable; without them not all of us would be here.”
Jarath made a dismissive gesture and took a seat at the other side of Demora, smiling a greeting to the High Priestess. “You are looking exceptionally well, my lady,” he said, taking her hand and lightly kissing it. Demora smiled her greeting, and although a little puzzled at Jarath’s unusual flattery, she returned everyone’s attention back to the meeting.
“All of the Starstone?” she repeated, wondering what Jarath was intending. “We have one shard, one ray of the Starstone, here. Since Saybel was instrument with us in the creation of the entire stone, it would follow that you are in possession of another shard. Is that correct, Doman?”
“Not quite a shard – the one Saybel has is shaped like a small pentagon, which, I believe, is the heart to which all the rays connect.”
“Even with the heart, Jarath, we would only have two pieces,” Demora said, “I thought all the histories said at least three shards are needed, which
I was about to point out to Morgan when you arrived.”
Jarath inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I believe you are correct, my lady. So who shall we ask to assist us?”
While Demora raised an eyebrow at his manner, Jarath looked around the long, trestle tables linked together along the walls of the marquee, enough for the various leaders, seconds, visitors, temple folk and sundry others. Wondered if Rowan knew his arm was crooked up like a boy answering his tutor, or asking to leave the room; hid a smile when his son realized he was the focus of attention.
“Er, yeah, I was gonna suggest Iantii, since they...er...” For once, the young Nightlords glib tongue deserted him – he didn't want his father to know he’d recently been on Iantii, and he especially didn’t want Jarath to know the reason for his visit. He was understandably astounded when the Prime came to his rescue: astounded, and highly suspicious.
“Since they, or rather Dalran Shan’Ghian drove the Akashiians from Iantii to the brink of extinction, and also here to this island. Very apt, Rowan.”
Despite himself, Rowan felt flattered and pleased by his father’s response, which in turn was so obvious to his father that Jarath didn't follow up with his next comment; that the Iantiian Prime was doing the rounds of diplomatic visits off-world and had but recently been on Saybel.
“I’ll go pay Zander a visit.” Rowan pushed away from his rest against the marquee support pole, relieved to get away from the stuffy atmosphere in more ways than one, and out from under his father’s eye. He was surprised when Morgan also stood and held a hand up for Rowan to wait. He spoke a few brief words to Garrant, his master-at-arms, gave a nod to Demora, a smile to Liath and a half-wave to the remainder of the gathering before joining Rowan at the door. Together, they ducked through the half-laced door flaps and out into the cool, fresh air of evening.
“So when were you last on Iantii?” Morgan grinned, nodding to the two sentries at either side of the pathway to the marquee.
“Ah...a few days ago. Tarik’s still there as envoy,” Rowan replied, enjoying the feel of the refreshing breeze.
“Still? It seems like months since Jarath sent him over.”
“It is. He has to spend a year, minimum, and that’s not a standard year, it’s one of ours. It’s all fucking Lucienne’s fault!” Rowan unexpectantly spat the words like venom.
Morgan shot him a quick, wary glance. “How long’s he been there for?”
The two friends halted in a clear space and turned to face each other. Around them, were-lights in various colors were beginning to light up, marking tents, paths and sundry other areas, either hovering at head or ankle height depending on the location and need. Voices, not close enough for individual conversations to be heard, flowed and ebbed, linked by laughter, the rattle of dice and coin, music and song.
“Six goddammed months – dividing his time between Analys and Morne.”
“Morne...that’s where Tallia...and Randal... Ah.”
“Live. Yeah. And where Randal fought Luc.”
Silence hung heavy between them, until Morgan broached it, carefully, “I thought Lucienne was dead.”
“He is. But that’s not stoppin’ Jarath from still fuckin’ punishing Tarik!” He paused, realized his voice was rising, pushed thick dark curls back with both hands. “Tarik really suffered through all that, well before Luc died, poor kid. If only I’d been there, things would have been different...”
Various scenarios popped up in Morgan’s mind, not one of them particularly good. If Rowan had been there, things would have been different, but not necessarily better.
“What really happened, Rowan?”
“Too much to recount here and now. But if Tarik doesn’t mind, I’ll let you know the full story when all this is finished.” He waved an arm encompassing the entire valley. “I guess as Prime you should know about it anyway. But we’d better get going before they send out a search party for us. Come on, I’ll lead, and let’s hope Jarlan knows something about the shard – where it’s kept, at least.” Holding out the same arm, Morgan took hold of it and together, the lords stepped forward.
“Ya all know,” Rowan said conversationally, “it’s a good job two solid objects can’t occupy the same space at the same time, or else a visitor who hadn’t seen ’em before might just get a bit...”
“Dead?” Morgan offered, staring at the same section of solid wall a hairsbreadth from his nose.
“I was going to say pissed off. But dead will fit, too.”
“Well if you’d have given me a bit more warning before dropping in, I’d have let you know about Mother’s re-modeling,” a voice, more amused than circumstances should dictate, said from behind them.
“Yeah, sorry about that, Lan, something cropped up and needs sorting out fast,” Rowan stated, turning to face an old friend.
Like many of the extended group of friends throughout the Structure, Jarlan Kamutec had been at Thesa’s Academy, his attendance overlapping with Rowan’s. Tall, athletically built and with the family signature of mahogany hair and mulberry colored eyes, Jarlan was as self-confident and charismatic as any Second or Prime lord had to be, but not quite ready to give up on fun and the sheer pleasure of living his life to the full.
The three lords – a Prime, a Second, and one who couldn’t give a damn – spent a few minutes greeting, catching up and sampling a glass of wine from a new vineyard Jarlan was interested in.
“You know, this might just be the rival to Alrian white we’ve all been waiting for,” Rowan stated, helping himself to a second glass.
“That’s my Alrian white you’re talking about,” Morgan reminded him.
“And one less monopoly you hold over us all,” Jarlan reminded him, mulberry eyes twinkling with pleasure. “So, what’s all this about?”
The look of relief on Jarlan’s face when they’d finished telling him came as a little surprise, until the Iantiian Second, a smug grin on his face, elaborated, “That’s what I’ve been feeling! I thought I was going nuts. And you two want the star...shard...to completely bring the exiled world through so you can fight this psychopath and seal the world away for good?”
Morgan and Rowan exchanged glances, then the latter said, “Basically, yeah.”
“Right,” Jarlan smiled. “Please, help yourself to a little more wine, I’ll have some more refreshments sent up while I go find out where we keep this gem key.”
The visitors were on their second bottle of wine, and on the verge of requesting more snacks when Jarlan re-appeared, a vastly different expression on his face, uncharacteristically serious. “We have a problem,” he said shortly. Morgan put down the ornamental woodland sprite he’d been inspecting over at the far side of the room. Rowan stood up from slouching on possibly the most comfortable piece of furniture he’d ever sat on, and put his glass down.
“The shard’s gone. I even went off-world to double-check where it should be located with Dad, which is what took so long.”
Rowan grumbled an oath and picked up his glass again, “So you didn’t have a live guard or anything like that on it?”
“Not after all this time, no. It was locked in some sort of metal box supposed to contain or dampen its radiation, or whatever it emits, and that was inside another lead-lined chest and locked in one of the vaults, one where we keep all the long-term valuables and world-treasures.”
“And you’ve no idea how long it’s been gone? I know, stupid question,” Morgan asked.
“Actually, it's not. I can tell you when it was taken – there’s a date-stamp recorder built into that part of the vault. Unfortunately, it's the original section – probably built to house the shard in the first place and stupidly not as up to date security-wise, as the rest. It was taken 26 years ago, our years. Standard would be roughly...83 years. As for by whom, since the three of us were all too young, that narrows it down to the rest of the Structure who are a generation older than us.”
“Yeah, great detective work, Jarlan. And aren’t you remarka
bly cheerful for someone whose folks just lost a vital part to the key to the future of civilization as we know it!” Rowan pointed out, draining his glass and reaching for the bottle.
“Maybe. Except for the fact I got you another one!” Folding his arms across his chest, the young Iantii heir smiled triumphantly at his visitors.
“Okay,” Rowan mused. “In that case...whoever your folks are with on this tour of theirs – is Prime of one of the original worlds which created the Starstone in the first place.”
“Give the Nightlord a prize!” Jarlan whooped, gesturing theatrically at Rowan. “The folks are on Lammia. Dad told the Juriaan and he’s sending one of the family over with their shard.”
“That’s particularly...generous of him,” Morgan commented.
“Or not,” Jarlan sniffed. “It just means he’s got one over on Dad, us having misplaced ours. Which we will find, trust me. Even if we have to question every single person on this world and all the others in the Structure – we will! Apart from the embarrassment, it’s a pretty...dangerous thing to have loose.”
“You’re right there, man, you’d have thought someone would have done something... Crap! Of all the fucking idiots!”
“Someone has!” Morgan finished, following Rowan’s statement to its logical conclusion.
“Hello...er, where can I put this thing?” A disturbance in the air and a quiet voice indicated a new arrival in the room. “Hey, Rowan, I thought you were taking some time off to write songs.”
“Yeah, me too, Nic,” Rowan smiled a greeting to the young Lammian – the one the Nightlord was sure would eventually become Prime of the little blue music world he loved. Hopefully, the kid would re-name it, too.
“Morgan, this is Nicolas Vander Zant, the Juriaan’s...”
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