by T. A. Miles
The house itself was quite similar to Irslan’s—a proud four stories with grand amounts of space, except in the air between itself and the buildings to either side of it. Well-dressed men and some women entered through a tall, arching doorway of dark wooden panels, greeted by a man whose elbow Irslan had scarcely drifted from since their arrival.
The man with skin a shade darker than what was common even for Edrinor’s south-eastern coast had been introduced as one Konlan Ossai. He stood a head taller than Irslan, perhaps taller than Merran or Korsten, had either of them been present. The man’s posture was relaxed, but dignified, as was his expression, which also revealed traces of his years at the corners of his mixed dark eyes—a blend of brown, gray and green—and along the edges of his mouth. Black hair was cropped very short and being slowly invaded by flecks of silver here and there.
Vlas watched him with interest he didn’t try to hide, but that was duly ignored by the current subject regardless. That was all fine and good, since Vlas was only assessing and had others to assess as well.
The few ladies present were also of an older age, though not particularly, barring one white-haired matron wearing well-tailored black trousers, knee-tall green boots with golden embroidery around the cuffs and a matching jacket that closely fit her remarkably kept shape. The men appeared more varied in age, from Irslan and Konlan’s forties or fifties, down to perhaps early twenties. There were no adolescents present and no true elders, again barring the white-haired woman.
“Do you suppose the governor is among them?” Vlas asked Cayri, leaning slightly to put the words into her ear.
“No,” was her ready reply.
Vlas kept his eyes on the others in the room. “Do you suppose an agent of the governor is among them?”
“I do.”
He took that response and walked it around to the other side of Cayri, returning it with another question. “Do you suppose the governor might be among them, disguised as one of his agents?”
“I…” Cayri turned her head to look at him now. Her light green eyes flashed with slight traces of exasperation that filtered into a look of consideration as they made their way back to the guests. “I honestly don’t have an answer to that.”
Vlas didn’t either, but he would rule nothing out. The governor of a city like this would be interested not only in what its resident activists were doing, but in what priests—presuming he knew of their presence—were doing and how it might weigh in favor of, or against, the relative peace in his city. Relative, in that there weren’t soldiers breaking across their defenses yet. Right now, they had a subtler invasion to deal with, one that not everyone who’d been set this comfortably away from the worst of the battling wanted to acknowledge. In the last twenty-five years the Vadryn had been reintroduced into the diet of the average citizen of Edrinor, either perforce or through the more delicate ministrations of the priests and those who had never lost track of their beliefs in such things as demons.
While pondering the matter, Vlas became aware of the white mantis tapping her grasping front legs on his shoulder, in plain sight and yet unobserved by the average individual. Zesyl was as eager to get on with things as Vlas. Whether or not the insect agreed with that assessment, she made a path across Vlas’ shoulder and into his hair.
Cayri’s Myrr had settled his spectacularly thin scarlet form along her greater lengths of darker blond. Her connection to red and green along the Spectrum made Cayri more attuned to people. Vlas understood that and he tried to concede to her instincts during diplomatic affairs, but he couldn’t help that there were times he wanted to simply do away with formalities altogether.
“If everyone is comfortably arrived,” Konlan Ossai said, none too soon for Vlas’ patience.
“I believe we are,” Irslan confirmed as both men ushered the guests toward an arrangement of chairs and small tables. A draped row of windows stood behind them and the wall adjacent to the deep blue fabric housed a tall stone hearth. The fire within provided a healthy glow, assisted by overhead lamps.
Vlas went with Cayri over to the chairs and selected one beside her. He counted fourteen guests, leaving out only their host, Master Ossai. Of them, only three were women, excluding Cayri.
“Everyone here represents what I prefer to consider Edrinor’s best interests,” Konlan said to all of them and received various gestures or sounds of agreement from several of the others. “Trade masters and merchants…scholars…politicians…and priests.”
The man’s dark hand gestured in Vlas and Cayri’s direction with that last word, but Vlas’ eyes had immediately begun travelling across the faces of the others with the mention of politicians to see who responded. He discerned some recognition in the eyes and posture of both an older and a younger man before he took notice of the fact that all eyes had come to rest on the priests in their presence.
Cayri took that for an opening. “We’ve come on behalf of Patriarch Ceth, who has long been in contact with Master Treir. Two others of the Vassenleigh Order have also come…two hunters.”
The mention of Merran and Korsten’s specialty inspired an exchange of curious and, in some cases, uncomfortable looks among the guests.
“As we all know,” Konlan said, “a curfew has been in effect. Not a strict one, but something many of us have taken under serious advisement. We’re aware of the disappearances and the murders within the last months; seven murders, that we’re aware of and four disappearances. These are occurrences not to be included with what a city our size can expect in a year. While we don’t know whether the disappearances are related, they seem to share a common trait with the murders, which is illness. Three of the four missing individuals were said to have been ill before their disappearance and of the seven killed—all of their bodies emaciated and colorless—three were claimed to have been unwell while they were alive by their relatives, who also felt that a sickness had descended onto their houses.”
While the man spoke, Vlas detected a slight accent to his words, something not distinctly northern or southern.
“We now know,” Konlan continued, making sure to meet each of their gazes, “that the killings are the work of the Vadryn. We cannot question it; the hunters tracked and dealt with one of them just last night. The victim was a young girl, who survived.”
A general air of relief settled on the guests. Vlas didn’t allow it to settle too decidedly, however.
“We believe there may be others of the Vadryn in the city,” he announced.
This drew everyone’s attention to him, including Cayri’s. Vlas ignored the look of reproach in her eyes.
“We also believe that they are harbingers of the war that’s been overtaking our northern and western borders, bringing that conflict here now, finally.”
“What do you mean by that?” a man with deep brown hair and eyes asked. He looked to have lately escaped his twenties if he wasn’t still lingering in the latter half of his second decade.
Cayri answered. “We’ve been observing the behavior of the Vadryn in relation to the advancing Morennish armies for many decades now. Patriarchs Ceth and Ashwin both believe that there is an alliance between them. Not one of happenstance or convenience, but a firm one. The Vadryn are alert to strategy and assignment and willing to perform.”
“But I thought they were nothing more than beasts,” another man said—this one a gray-haired elder—looking around at the others for confirmation and receiving looks and nods that had Vlas helplessly rolling his eyes.
“Some of them, yes,” Vlas said. “There are also archdemons, demons as ancient as our Superiors, some of whom have found willing hosts in power-mad men and women who are already in league with Morenne. These ancients are not stupid and far from simple instinct-driven creatures. They’re capable of devising strategy as cunning and clever as any experienced general. They’ve done it; we’ve seen evidence of it.”
While some of
the guests held genuine looks of interest, others were yet to be convinced.
“At the battle of Eastmark,” Cayri said, “an archdemon was present, leading a regiment of men onto the field with a cruel blood thirst beyond what even the most savage mortal killer demonstrates. One of our own priests heard confirmation of this archdemon’s existence while imprisoned in an enemy stronghold after the battle at Lilende.”
“Eastmark has long since fallen,” Vlas continued. “Sarily will follow. As we speak, the city is being invaded. We’ve not enough troops, nor enough priests present to turn the enemy back. Once the city has been taken, Morenne will have access to the sea and two points from which to strike at Vynndoran.”
“Indhovan will be next.”
While Vlas meant to say it, the words actually came from Irslan. Vlas issued him a nod to acknowledge the statement.
“We’re all wondering what we can do, I’m sure,” Konlan said next, having settled back into his deep chair, arms folded across his chest. “The Vassenleigh Order has assured us that they will maintain the presence of their priests as long as the danger remains. That means we must not hinder them, and we should aid them, if we can.”
“How?” asked the brown-haired younger man who’d spoken earlier.
“Governor Tahrsel must be made aware of the threat the city faces,” Konlan replied, which drew a look of impatience from the brown-haired man. And now Vlas had his agent of the governor marked, he was certain. A name followed as Konlan continued. “Deitir, we cannot sit idle while our country is overtaken by demons and madmen.”
The younger man stiffened in his chair.
“Deitir,” the woman beside him said—the white-haired matron in green. She placed a hand upon the young man’s arm, which seemed a gentle reproach, one which quieted the argument that may have been rising within him.
“We know that Vassenleigh survived the siege that threatened to strike it from the face of this world a century ago,” Irslan said, directing his words to all of them. “This gentleman and lady are evidence enough of that. For those who still are not convinced, the two hunters and the young victim they spared a miserable living death are further proof. My uncle’s letters…and now my letters to Patriarchs Ashwin and Ceth, of the Vassenleigh Order, are also proof. The priests are yet with us, my friends…and we cannot deny that the demons they’ve long opposed are as well.”
Looks of agreement and resignation were passed about. Vlas watched everyone murmuring amongst themselves and knew that some steps forward had been made, and that Master Deitir was going to help carry those steps even further, whether he knew it presently or not.
Four
Indhovan at night was as impressive as Indhovan during the day. The many roads and walkways wending up and through the terraced city were lit with rows of lamps. They and the moonlight caught threads of the water that coursed toward the sea, creating a glittering tapestry beneath the cliff face.
This was like a cache of riches for Edrinor; rich in beauty, rich in population, and rich in resources. According to Vlas and Cayri, along with Irslan, it was not impoverished where soldiers were concerned either. Ashwin and Ceth were right in sending them here; Korsten felt assured of that. This city was as strategically valuable as Haddowyn had been considered three decades ago—as Lilende still was—representing a new border that they hadn’t felt was necessary to seriously consider before. But now Morenne’s encroachment had rendered an approach by sea all the more imminent. The Morennish were not a sea faring people, coming from deep inland and the heavily wooded terrain Haddowyn had shared with them along the northwest border. They would learn, though. They would learn from those they conquered and if not from them, then undoubtedly with the help of the Vadryn, some of which held ancient intellects.
Korsten couldn’t help but to wonder how different things might have turned out had Haddowyn been as alert as Indhovan seemed to be politically. People in Haddowyn had been—and people elsewhere seemed to also be—firmly mired in their disillusionment, to the point that people rejected not only the role of priests in Edrinor, but also their very existence, along with the existence of the Vadryn.
Failure a century ago that resulted in the loss of their king and all of his immediate family had also resulted in disenchantment and denial that became an inborn ignorance. Thinking back, Cenily seemed no different. While he’d been raised with tales of magic and demons in the world, they were only tales to Korsten. No one impressed upon him their dangerous or essential reality. People were coming back around, though. The Vassenleigh Order had held onto some support and now it was beginning to flourish again, like a forest recovering after a catastrophic fire. They could save themselves…all of them. The people of Edrinor could be united once again and push back their attackers, human and not.
Even as the thoughts formed, Korsten couldn’t help but to wonder if he truly believed this, or if it was a desperate hope. The Vadryn were here already.
It was in the midst of his swaying optimism that Korsten felt Merran’s eyes on him. He slanted his fellow priest a glance in return, looking away again before ultimately meeting his partner’s gaze fully. “My thoughts would not be anywhere near so loud if you would have unruly thoughts yourself.”
Merran drew to a stop and held an arm out, prompting Korsten to do the same.
“What is it?” Korsten asked him.
Merran’s gaze slid toward a section of close doorways along their route. Two of them had peculiar lights, or etchings of light upon the timber. After closer study, it was evident that the light was a refraction, as the glow of night passed through crystals hung above the entryway. It was in precisely the same manner the Cambir home had displayed such adornments.
“I wonder what their purpose is,” Korsten said, his thoughts again returning to the posts that had enhanced spells cast by a magic user in league with the Vadryn.
Merran continued forward. “Tell me about Ersana Cambir again.”
Falling into step with his partner, Korsten took a moment to reconsider the woman, to search his memory for any bits he might have left out in his earlier account. “She seemed cold, but in attitude mainly. Her overall nature felt—I wonder how I should word it…”
“Precisely as it felt,” Merran helped.
Well, it didn’t actually help all that much. Still, Korsten summoned the most relatable word to the front of his mind regarding the feeling Ersana inspired and let it out into the open for his partner to analyze. “She felt plain.”
Naturally, Merran questioned the choice. He once again drew to a halt, this time nearer the wall that separated the walkway from the waterway. “Plain?”
Korsten felt settled on that description and nodded. “Yes. Not lacking, necessarily, but…simple…hmm, that’s really no better.” He took a few paces to contemplate further, then said, “Like a twig, or a leaf…or the earth…in essence an uncontrived element that you wouldn’t give a second thought to. It’s simply there…a bit of plain, ordinary nature that has not a solitary care whether or not you exist.”
Merran tucked his hands into his coat pockets as he put his back to the wall. The barrier rose above both of their heads but was carved out in fanciful oval shapes periodically, offering a view of the water rushing past. Merran seemed to consider this at some length before giving an eventual nod. “I see,” he murmured.
Korsten took a position beside Merran along the wall, his hand coming to rest within one of the oval windows. “I hope so, because I’m not certain how else to explain the woman.” As it occurred to him, he added, “It was as if she had nothing at all to hide, but as if I had no hope of understanding what was directly in front of me. On reflection, I felt rather ignorant in her presence.”
Merran looked down at the stone beneath their feet, his brow furrowing in consideration.
Korsten left him to organize his thoughts on the matter, peering through the open space in t
he wall at the water. The cool breeze so near the water brushed across Korsten’s exposed arms, setting a chill across his skin. Merran’s voice accompanied the sensation and brought his attention back to him.
“Witches are not common in Edrinor,” he said. “Since the establishment of the Vassenleigh Order they’ve been almost unheard of, in the organized sense.”
“Why is that?” Korsten asked, though the majority of his attention was caught on the term ‘witches’. Those were stories he’d heard more abundantly in the north. People had placed witches and demons into the same basket, a basket that especially got brought out when it was time to entertain the children.
Merran paused as if he hadn’t anticipated being asked ‘why’. But then he said, “One theory is that the Vassenleigh Order provided a sense of purpose…a lure for some that negated a rogue lifestyle. There’s also the notion that those with the Essence strong in them who weren’t drawn to the Vassenleigh Order were from or recruited by Morenne…and potentially in league with the Vadryn.”
“Such a stark division between us and them.” Korsten’s gaze had drifted back to the water while he considered all of that, but was coaxed toward Merran once again while his partner watched him steadily. “What started this war with Morenne? Do any of us remember?”
“Does it matter at this point?” Merran asked in return, perhaps because he could not recall even at his age, which was not as ancient as any of the Superiors, but well beyond Korsten, who’d yet to even eclipse a century.
Korsten just began to shake his head when a sound nearby drew his attention; a clacking against stone. He and Merran looked toward it simultaneously.
“We may not be the only souls out beyond sensible curfew,” Korsten said.
Merran stepped away from the wall. “You saw Dacia Cambir home. I’ll assume it’s not her.”