by Lisa Shearin
Mychael and the Guardians in front of us reached the top, checked the door for any signs of entry or trap, and with Mychael on one side of the door and a Guardian on the other, Mychael reached out, opened the tower door, and cautiously leaned around to look inside.
He stood there for a moment, not moving. After what seemed an eternity to me, he went inside. More Guardians followed, and I ran the rest of the way up, Vegard at my heels.
Sarad Nukpana was still in his coffin.
I slowly walked to where Mychael stood next to it, looking down.
I stepped up next to him and sharply inhaled.
A thin layer of dust coated the crystal coffin. The only disturbance in the dust was where two thin trails of water had fallen on the coffin’s lid and had run down the side.
Tears.
Next to the tears was a note. It was unsigned. It didn’t need a signature. We knew who it was from. There were two short sentences.
You destroyed my world. I will destroy yours.
“We need to get a look through that Timurus rift,” Mychael said. “Now.”
It looked like my bachelorette party would have to wait.
Chapter 28
Cuinn Aviniel and his colleagues had been working feverishly since we’d left his lab, determining the best and safest way to briefly open a rift to Timurus. Eamaliel was working with them. During his centuries on the run, he had apparently become quite adept with rifts. When you had a father who was close to a thousand years old, you didn’t find out something new about him every day—it was more like every minute. He’d opened a rift before in exactly the place we needed to see—the Table of Iron overlooking the city of Astava. He hadn’t lived as long as he had without being cautious. He told me that when he’d needed to travel, he’d always opened a small rift—much like a window—and looked before he leapt.
That was what we’d be doing—the looking part, not the leaping.
As to my plans for this evening, as much as I wanted a night out with my friends, Sandrina’s threat of an impending invasion knocked my plans right off the table. While going out and drinking too much was exactly what I wanted to do, staying stone cold sober was what was needed. Not to mention, there was no way Mychael was letting me out of his sight with Sandrina Ghalfari and her master shapeshifter possibly still on the island. Under normal circumstances, I would have argued with him about being overprotective. Right now, I completely agreed with him.
Mychael stayed awake and alert all night, or at least he was that way every time I woke up from my fitful dozing on the couch in his office. Since speed was now of the essence, we’d dispensed with Guardian messengers and were using telepaths. A Guardian telepath was in Cuinn’s lab, relaying regular updates to Ben, who’d taken up residence with his scrying bowl in Mychael’s outer office.
Knowledge of what was happening on Timurus was only half of what we needed. If there was an army poised to invade, what could we do to stop them?
Tam, Imala, Justinius, Garadin, and Tarsilia were among those working on that.
It had been seven hundred years since the unknown invader had wiped out the population of Timurus. That didn’t mean that the Khrynsani’s new allies were the same invader. That army had invaded Timurus, killed the population, then taken what they wanted and left. Why would they come back to an uninhabited world?
However, when it came to a possible off-world invasion with our worst enemies acting as tour guides, chances weren’t something we were willing to take.
Justinius had made a recommendation concerning who should be in Cuinn’s lab when the rift was opened. While none of us really liked what he wanted to do, we had agreed that it was necessary.
The ambassador from each kingdom needed to be there.
If there was an invading army massing on the other side, a representative from each kingdom needed to see the proof with their own eyes.
Proof we were really hoping wouldn’t be there.
*
Just before dawn, Cuinn sent word via Ben that they were ready to open a window onto Timurus.
Justinius had personally made the rounds of the embassies last night to inform them of the possible situation. Some had taken it better than others. He’d told them a Guardian messenger would be sent when the rift was ready to be opened. Even with their usual Guardian escorts, the old man wasn’t holding his breath that most of the ambassadors would get here on time.
We were in Cuinn’s lab. Considering that I was about to look through a rift to another world and possibly see an invading army, I was appallingly groggy even though I had eaten and consumed enough coffee to float one of Uncle Ryn’s ships. Maybe after the events of the past few months, it simply took more for my survival instinct to kick in, like a threat of immediate death. Either that or I was getting too old for this crap. Then I glanced over at my nearly-a-millennium-old father who, after being awake and working all night, was plenty perky.
Tarsilia and Garadin were there as the two newest members of the Seat of Twelve.
Isibel arrived next, followed by the Myloran, Caesolian, Majafan, and Brenirian ambassadors. Tam was standing in for Dakarai Enric. As Chigaru’s chancellor and temporary heir, Tam needed to be here.
I knew Mychael didn’t want Isibel anywhere near here.
Eamaliel was talking to the ambassadors. All of them had arrived except for Aeron Corantine of Nebia. No surprise. He was on his way, so we were waiting for him. In the meantime, the group was close enough for me to listen in.
“Our rift won’t be stable enough for travel,” my father said, trying to reassure the nervous Caesolian ambassador. “From either direction.”
“But could someone try to come through?” the Caesolian asked.
“That would be ill-advised.”
“But they could still try.”
My father put a comforting hand on the ambassador’s shoulder. “Professor Aviniel and I would slam the door in their faces.”
“Where would that put them?”
Eamaliel chortled. “Somewhere that’s not here.”
“If anyone is close to our rift when it opens,” Mychael quietly asked Cuinn, “will they be able to see through it?”
“Possibly. It largely depends on the angle at which they’re standing. If they’re directly in front of the rift, then yes, they will be able to see through to this room.”
“It’s an unavoidable risk, son,” Justinius told Mychael. “And one we have to take.”
“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise, sir. Merely determining what defenses we need to have in place should it happen.”
Justinius glanced back at his four regular Guardian bodyguards, then around at me, Mychael, Vegard, Tam, and my father. He grinned. “I think we have adequate firepower. No need to make the place any more crowded than it needs to be.”
I turned away from the door. “Speaking of unneeded,” I muttered.
Aeron Corantine had arrived, looking distinctly unhappy. Another dozen Guardians were stationed outside of Cuinn’s lab, ensuring that only the ambassador of each kingdom was allowed inside. I glanced beyond the door. Yep, the Nebian ambassador had brought an entourage. I’d already pegged the Nebian as the type that couldn’t feel important unless he was surrounded by people who were paid to treat him that way.
Tarsilia had said the drug used to taint the delegates’ ink was the kind that needed to be in near continuous contact with the victim’s skin to remain effective. It’d been over twelve hours since we’d discovered the drugged ink and Justinius had dismissed the delegates for the day. Fortunately, no one had discovered that they had been drugged, and according to Tarsilia, twelve hours was enough time for the ink’s effects to fade enough that the delegate would be back to normal, which in Aeron Corantine’s case wasn’t a noticeable improvement.
The Nebian ambassador apparently had a problem with something this morning and was making a beeline for Justinius. Two of the old man’s bodyguards put their large selves in the ambassador’s path, effectively
stopping his beeline.
“I demand to see the archmagus,” he said from behind the armored wall of Guardians.
One of the men turned to Justinius with a raised eyebrow. With a resigned sigh, the old man waved his hand, telling his guard to let the obnoxious twit through.
Justinius intercepted him before he reached us. I was grateful. I’d barely slept and was in no mood for Aeron Corantine. One side of Tam’s upper lip twitched in a snarl, exposing a fang. I already knew Tam was not a morning person.
“Disappointed Justinius got to him first?” I asked.
“Some people are not worth the effort. Ambassador Corantine is one such individual. I was merely expressing my distaste at his presence.”
“You really don’t like him.”
“And you do?”
An answer using words wouldn’t suffice. I went with a snort.
“Precisely,” Tam said. “The Nebian king would be better served by appointing another representative. A good ambassador shouldn’t tempt other kingdoms to cut diplomatic ties.”
Justinius raised his voice to address everyone in the room, but his eyes were on the ambassadors. “Once the rift is open, whoever is on the other side may be able to see and hear us, so no movement or talking.”
The Caesolian ambassador blanched.
The old man might want to include no screaming.
“Or noise of any kind,” Justinius added. “It’s imperative that we remain quiet and still. Do you understand?”
The ambassadors nodded or verbally affirmed that they got the message, including Aeron Corantine.
The old man didn’t bother with the Guardians or the rest of us. We’d had ample experience seeing, hearing, and experiencing things that’d turn your hair white.
My father moved into position on one side of where the rift would open. Cuinn stood ready on the other. Earlier, Mychael and Cuinn had positioned a spy gem to record everything for later analysis.
There were no words, no incantations, only the perfectly controlled manifestation of magic between the two powerful elf mages.
The rift opened, and I gazed in wonder on another world. I wanted a better vantage point, but I didn’t dare move.
It appeared to be just before sundown on Timurus. Eamaliel and Cuinn had perfectly positioned the rift, giving us a clear view from the Table of Iron down to the snow-covered valley and the ruins of Astava.
A view filled with things we did not want to see.
Campfires dotted the valley floor, surrounding what was supposed to be an empty city. A city that wasn’t empty any longer.
The glow of the setting sun striking the snow illuminated the valley, putting into sharp relief the tents, horses, and men that extended as far as our eyes could see and the rift’s borders would allow. I blinked and focused intently on one of the “horses.” The distance was too great for detail, but not for what froze the breath in my throat. The creature was taller than the men; that was expected. What wasn’t expected or wanted was that the thing was taller than the tent closest to it. It wasn’t a distortion due to distance; it was sheer size. The creature had four legs, but there was no way it was a horse. And there were so many of them, even in my limited viewpoint, that I couldn’t count them.
I wasn’t a general, and I’d never seen an army massing for an attack, but I knew that was what I was seeing.
Mychael’s hand found mine and gripped it, confirming my fears.
Justinius didn’t need to worry about any of the ambassadors talking. No one in the room was making a sound. No one needed to tell them what they were seeing. I’d known, and so did they.
A pair of flags flew from the top of what remained of the city’s walls. I didn’t recognize one, but I knew the other. The flags were large, and the distance great, but I’d seen the insignia on one of the flags often enough that I didn’t need a close-up. The wind must have been blowing hard in the valley because both flags were standing out, making the insignia on each all too clear.
Two red serpents twining around each other on a field of black, battling for dominance.
The insignia of the Khrynsani.
Sound definitely carried through the rift. We all heard the wind roaring across the Table of Iron.
Smell carried, too. Or more accurately, stench.
I’d smelled it before, in the caves beneath the Khrynsani temple that had been the home of a family of sea dragons.
This was no sea dragon.
The rift window was three feet tall and five feet wide. The side of the massive head that now filled it was covered in armored scales, its red eye was as big as my head, and the interior of its nostril glowed deep orange with banked fire. The nostril flared as it took our scent, the slit pupil narrowed, and a growl shook the stone floor beneath our feet.
Oh unholy hell.
The rift vanished—or more to the point, Eamaliel and Cuinn slammed it shut.
Chapter 29
It was a good thing that silence was no longer needed.
The room erupted.
“Battle dragon,” I heard Eamaliel tell Cuinn through the chaos. “Just as big and ugly as I remembered.”
That battle dragon was on the Table of Iron for the same reason the launch pad for the Guardians’ sky dragons was on a cliff overlooking Mid’s harbor. Dragon eyes were sharp. They were more than fighters, they were lookouts. And that one had seen us. Fortunately for us, dragons couldn’t talk.
At least dragons on our world couldn’t.
The battle dragon was gone, but its stench remained.
Justinius Valerian stood motionless directly in front of the closed rift, where less than a minute before, the massive head of a battle dragon would have been close enough to touch. He had to have heard the noise around him, but gave no sign, continuing to stare fixedly at the now empty air. The archmagus closed his eyes for a moment, and his shoulders sagged.
I knew Justinius was exhausted—in body, mind, and spirit. He had been battling to clean the Conclave of corruption since he’d first taken office. The Saghred had brought that corruption—and the traitors who fed it—out into the open. The stone itself was gone, but the corruption remained, and Justinius’s efforts to clean the organization he so believed in had severely weakened it.
And now, an invasion.
To look at him, no one would have realized the toll it had taken, not unless they knew Justinius.
Tarsilia Rivalin knew him.
She went to stand beside him, and silently reached down and took his hand in hers, fiercely entwining her fingers with his. Justinius opened his eyes, his gaze searching her face as he solemnly raised her hand to his lips.
Mychael’s command cut through the panicked voices. “I need your attention.”
He didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. He let his spellsinger voice do the work, and it did it well. The room went silent; all eyes were on him.
“What we just saw confirms Sandrina Ghalfari’s threat,” Mychael said. “We have not seen our defeat. Fear and panic serve no purpose, and it only helps our enemy.” He paused, his blue eyes coolly meeting the gaze of each ambassador. “And there is no doubt now that we have an enemy. Sandrina left that message to be found. She wants us to know that they’re coming. She wants us to be afraid.” He smiled the slow confident smile of a man who has seen his opponent—and sees them as a challenge to be met and overcome. “She forfeited their element of surprise to sow fear on top of the distrust the Khrynsani already planted. In the past months, your kingdoms had begun preparing for war against Sarad Nukpana, who had planned to use the Saghred’s power to open a Gate large enough to drive the army under his command into any part of any kingdom at any time. Sarad Nukpana is gone. The goblin army he would have forced to do his bidding is now under the control of a king who will be eager to extinguish this last threat to what he wants for his people—peace.” There was a calm, absolute certainty to his words. “Your kingdoms were preparing for a war against Sarad Nukpana. Now we will be protecting and defendin
g our people against Sandrina Ghalfari and a largely unknown ally. We will continue to prepare; but I strongly suggest that instead of arguing with and fighting each other, that we come together to defeat a foe who wants nothing less than our complete destruction.”
Aeron Corantine stepped forward. “Under your leadership, Tamnais Nathrach summoned the demon that carried her son to Hell, and Raine Benares destroyed the Saghred. So now all of us will be made to pay for your ill-advised actions?”
Silence.
I knew what Mychael wanted to do to Aeron Corantine. Tam wanted pretty much the same thing except with more violence, and his chilling smile said he was entertaining himself at this very moment imagining it in all its gory detail. I knew Tam well enough to know precisely what he was thinking and I approved wholeheartedly.
“Sarad Nukpana wanted the goblin throne and the Seven Kingdoms under his complete control.” Mychael’s voice was ice cold, but perfectly composed. “His mother would have been a power behind the throne, but make no mistake, she would have been a force to contend with. If Tamnais Nathrach had not summoned that demon, and Raine Benares not destroyed the Saghred, none of us would be alive right now having this discussion. All highly placed government officials would have been killed outright; or if they had magical talent, they would have been imprisoned to await their turn on the Khrynsani temple altar as Saghred sacrifices. Tam and Raine risked their lives and their very souls to prevent Sarad Nukpana from taking control of the Saghred and, in the reign of terror that would have followed, having every man, woman, and child in the Seven Kingdoms at his mercy. Gratitude is called for, Ambassador Corantine, not self-preserving, misdirected blame.”
“The ambassador is from the Nebian coast where there is much sand,” the Myloran ambassador rumbled into the tense silence that followed. “Perhaps for the past few months, he has had his head buried in it.” Herryk Geirleif addressed his next words directly to Aeron Corantine. “This ‘ill-advised action,’ as you called it, would not have kept Nukpana from killing you first, since you don’t have any magic to have made yourself even remotely useful to him. With your head in the sand, you simply wouldn’t have known about your death until it happened.”