Novan paused, and Endric took over. “Then they came forth. First Coamdon. Then Lakeliis. Before long, Deshmahne were common throughout the entire south. Gaining influence. Little was done to slow it.” With the last, Endric looked briefly at Haerlin before glancing down at the troop locations. “Now, they move north. They have attacked us once before”—Jakob noted that Haerlin stared at Endric, his gaze hot—“and now they press their influence through Gom Aaldia and toward the Magi in Vasha. Toward the north. They have gained power quickly.”
“How so quickly?” Roelle asked.
“There are theories,” Novan began.
“They are just that,” Haerlin interrupted, scratching his bearded chin in irritation.
He remembered the helpless feeling that had come over him when he’d seen the High Priest, like a power pushed upon him. Cold eyes, glowing with reflected light of the night fires, had stared at him, and everything else drifted from his mind. Jakob shivered with just the memory. Could the Deshmahne affect a person’s feelings, their emotions?
“I would think the Magi understand they are more than theories,” Novan said. Haerlin met his gaze, and Jakob noted Roelle looked from one to the other, confusion on her face.
“There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Jakob asked.
Novan paced toward him, and a dark look flickered across his face before it was gone, replaced with a blank serenity.
Endric looked briefly from Haerlin to Novan before he turned his gaze upon Jakob and held him in his intense stare. “Novan claims you’ve seen the High Priest. There are few who can make that claim.”
All the eyes in the tent fell upon Jakob. Sweat moistened his hands, and he clapped them to his side. “I saw him once. At least, I think I did.” He glanced up to Novan who nodded. “In Chrysia during the Turning Festival. He passed near me wearing a dark cloak, and I felt a sense of hopelessness so vast...” He shook his head to clear it of the memory. “Remembering leaves me wondering if the Deshmahne can manipulate emotions.”
Haerlin chuckled and turned away, shaking his head. “Not even the Magi can perform that feat, boy,” he muttered, turning his attention back to Endric.
The general ignored the Mage, still staring at Jakob, his heavy gaze weighing him. “I have the same question,” Endric admitted. “I know the Magi think it impossible, but the Deshmahne have powers unlike the Magi. None, save the Deshmahne, know the extent of their abilities. The priests endowed by their dark arts have speed, strength. Men who face them feel fear they would not otherwise know, often laying down their swords without a fight.” His hard eyes bored into the Mage. “The gods only know what the High Priest can do. This would explain much.”
Jakob remembered the Deshmahne attack, how quickly the man had moved, how he was nearly the equal of Endric. The Deshmahne frightened him.
He glanced toward the corner of Endric’s tent, thinking of the other thing he’d seen that night at the Turning Festival. “What do they want?”
Novan stopped pacing and spoke. “The Deshmahne were once thought a cult, something to be dismissed. Little more than barbarians blaspheming the truth that is Urmahne. Yet they gained influence. With influence came credibility and something more.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. The others in the room waited, and Novan held them in anticipation, letting it build. “Doubt. What if the Urmahne isn’t the path to the gods? Could the Deshmahne speak the truth? These questions went unanswered.”
Novan stared at Haerlin. The Mage did not meet his gaze. “Silence held its own power, and soon, the south began to wonder. Had the gods abandoned those who followed the Urmahne? Once, the Urmahne faith was strong, demonstrated by its first followers. Now, few see the Urmahne faith in action, understand what strength there is in the peace the priests preach.” Novan’s eyes had not left Haerlin. “The Deshmahne demonstrated their strength. This was something men could see.”
Haerlin stood abruptly, his chair tipping. “Enough, historian.” There was a quiet heat to his words, and the hairs on the back of Jakob’s neck stood as the Mage spoke. “You will not criticize the Magi in such a manner.” Haerlin motioned briefly to Roelle who stood more carefully than her Elder, pausing a moment to eye Jakob, then Novan, before following Haerlin from the tent.
Novan watched them leave, a hint of amusement tugging the corners of his mouth before it turned into a frown. The tall historian scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed deeply as if collecting himself.
“You push too hard,” Endric said. He paused to whisper something to Pendin who nodded and followed the Magi from the tent. Rit stood waiting.
Novan nodded. “It was necessary.”
Endric tilted his head. “I am not sure it was. It changes nothing.”
“Why was it necessary?” Jakob asked. He wasn’t sure what had just happened or why the Mage had become so irate, but Endric seemed to know.
Novan righted the chair Haerlin had tipped over and sat down at the table. “Haerlin needed to be reminded of his past. One the Magi forget. Their religion has been weakened.”
“And there is another reason you press,” Endric suggested.
Novan nodded slightly, absently twisting the dark stone ring on his finger. “You know the urgency.”
Endric sniffed. “All too well, Novan. The search is not left only to us.”
Novan closed his eyes. “We are too few, Endric, and you know it.” He looked over the map, staring at the markings as he took a deep breath. “Yet the Deshmahne are here.” There was a hint of resignation in his tone. “These numbers are for something more than I had thought. This is not only about reclamation.”
He turned to Endric. The general stared at him, waiting, though his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “There can only be one purpose to this.”
Endric nodded. “I fear the same.”
“What purpose?” Jakob asked, feeling lost in their private conversation.
Novan shook his head, pointing at the map, at the markers indicating raider presence. And Deshmahne. “If I’m right, the High Priest has a far more dangerous plan than I had thought. And we might already be too late to stop him.”
Chapter Twelve
“You’ve come a long way,” Roelle offered. The Mage ran a hand through her still damp hair before pushing it behind her ears. She studied Jakob with an appraising gaze. “Faster than most.”
Jakob held the practice stave, the dancing flames giving light to the clearing. He wiped droplets of sweat from his brow as he caught his breath. “Still the same result.”
Even so, he took a measure of satisfaction from the fact that he’d been improving. There was something relaxing to holding the sword, wooden or otherwise, that he had never known or felt, a relief he couldn’t explain. Perhaps Scottan had understood—it was probably why his brother had pushed to have him learn the sword—or maybe Braden did.
They’d moved slowly today, scouts moving carefully to ensure safe passage, so they didn’t travel nearly as fast as they had been. Jakob hadn’t been certain Endric would even welcome him to practice, but once they settled in for the night, he had.
Working with him tonight had gone better. And worse. He’d lasted longer, somehow keeping up with the scarred old general longer than he had any other night. The slow throbbing that he now experienced with each practice had come quickly, sharpening his focus, and he wondered if the quickness of its onset was at all related to his experience with Roelle the time before. Yet it ended no differently than any previous encounter with the general—his body bruised and sore, only worse tonight because he’d lasted longer.
Roelle chuckled. “Best be prepared if ever you defeat him.”
Jakob eyed her, frowning. “Why?”
“It’s how one assumes command of the Denraen, at least a part of it. It’s how Endric assumed command from his father, Dendril.”
“I’m at little risk of challenging him anytime soon,” Jakob said.
“You keep improving as quickly as I’ve seen, and it may not be long.�
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Jakob laughed. It was cut short by a burst of pain in his side where one of Endric’s blows had struck a rib, and he reached for it as his laughter turned into a cough before dying out. Neither spoke for a time, the only sounds the smack of wooden staves behind them, the crackles of fires around the camp, and the occasional chirp of a nocturnal insect. It was Jakob who broke the silence.
“Why was Mage Haerlin so upset last evening?” He wasn’t sure he’d get an answer from Roelle, but asking Novan wasn’t the right approach. The historian would prefer he learned some things on his own.
Roelle sighed, tugging on her shirt. “Haerlin is an Elder. And he sits upon the Council of Elders. As such, he expects a certain level of respect. And it seems your master shared something he did not want shared. Even with me.”
“Novan speaks his mind.” Jakob had seen it before with the priests in Chrysia, the city council, and most recently with the Ur captain. “I don’t believe he ever means offense.”
The young Mage offered a half-smile. “Perhaps not. I think there’s some history between them, as well, though Haerlin doesn’t speak of it.” Roelle paused. “Why do you and the historian travel with us?”
“He says he comes to observe the delegation.” There must be more to it for Novan. The historian had many layers to everything he did.
“I think the delegates are not the reason the historian travels to the city.”
“Why else would he have us come?”
“I suspect he seeks the Council.” Seeing Jakob’s frown, she explained, “They are select Magi among the Elders who serve as keepers of the Urmahne. They are the Magi leaders, but they also serve the traditions of the Urmahne. Few not among the Council know the extent of what they keep and protect. The historian could learn much from the Council if he was allowed access.”
“More than he could learn from the priests?”
Roelle nodded. “The priests serve the Urmahne, but the Magi are the Urmahne.”
Jakob thought about the comment for a moment. Novan had mentioned something similar about the Magi, once. The priests taught that the Magi were the voice of the gods, touched with their abilities. If Urmahne was the path to the gods, then it would make sense for the Magi to claim that they were the Urmahne. Something about the thought troubled him.
“Why, then, do you learn the sword?” It was a question Novan had asked but hadn’t had any answers either.
Roelle considered for a while before answering. “How does one justify war with the Urmahne ideal of peace? The Magi have taken a hard line on this, stating that to the Urmahne, there are no just wars, that destruction cannot be tolerated, and that a peaceable solution must be found to every conflict.” The young Mage shook her head. “There are others who follow the Urmahne who believe differently.”
“The Denraen?” Jakob asked. “But they guard you.”
“Not directly,” Roelle started. She sighed and shook her head again. “I haven’t answered your question. How is it that I came to learn the sword? As far as I know, there have been few among the Magi who’ve ever bothered to learn something as barbaric as the sword or staff. It started with boredom, I suppose. There is only so much time I can spend sitting in a classroom and studying.” She flashed a smile. “I think I’ve already told you how difficult it was to convince Endric to allow me to work with him. But he saw that we wouldn’t be dissuaded, and I’ve discovered that we of the Magi have a specific knack for it. Somehow our abilities have granted us a certain physical prowess, a muscle memory if you will, and that allows rapid growth in our skills. This was surprising.”
“To who?” Jakob was surprised Roelle would share as much as she did.
“Myself and others. No Magi since the Founding has bothered to try. I only started it as a curiosity, a way to pass the time. Now... Now I worry it may be necessary for more than curiosity.”
“The Deshmahne,” Jakob said. He suppressed an urge to shiver as a brief memory of the High Priest threatened to overcome him.
“Yes, though I think there is more that I do not yet know.”
“Novan worries that whatever is in the north is worse than the Deshmahne. He would not say more.”
Roelle frowned, and the expression looked strange on her face. “If the historian worries about it, then there is even more than Haerlin knows or admits.”
Jakob glanced across the clearing. The general was tied in conversation with several of his officers and glanced up, as if sensing their attention, and Jakob turned away quickly. “Endric may know.”
“He may know, but I doubt he will share with me.” The Mage sniffed, a sound of frustration. “Share what you learn?”
Jakob thought about the request a moment. Roelle had opened up to him unexpectedly, so how could he refuse?
“Until later, then,” Roelle said, and turned and left the clearing.
Novan parted the tent flap and came in quickly, a slight gust of wind following him that was scented with an odor of rain and earth and fluttered the pages of the small book Jakob struggled through. The historian peered down at him before making a small sound in the back of his throat and sitting nearby. He pulled a small notebook from the pouch at his side and scribbled something inside.
“I spoke with Roelle last night,” Jakob said, choosing to break the silence. Novan would have let it draw on before asking a seemingly inane question.
The historian looked up, and there was a question in his eyes. He waited.
“She thinks you seek the Council of Elders.”
Novan’s smile didn’t spread to the rest of his face. “She’s correct.”
Jakob frowned, unaccustomed to Novan being so forthcoming. “I thought we traveled to observe the delegates.”
The historian tilted his head before thumbing his nose. “That’s one of the reasons we started the journey.”
“But now?” Jakob began, but the answer came to him. “Now you worry about the High Priest and what he’s after.”
“Roelle explained the Council serves as keeper of Urmahne artifacts?” Seeing Jakob nod, he continued. “Some artifacts are very old, perhaps older than even the Magi know and understand. There is one, an ancient text, valued beyond all else the Council possesses. I have only managed to see it once. It was not long enough to study it, to learn and understand it.” Novan shook his head as disappointment or frustration flashed across his face. Jakob could not tell which.
“Would the High Priest also look for this?”
Novan nodded carefully. “I doubt he cares much for the text, but there are other items that he failed to claim once before.”
Jakob waited, wondering if Novan would share anything about the trunk, but he didn’t. “What does he want?”
“Power. The artifacts are a way to power. Even the ancient text possessed a certain power within the words, within the language. Power, and something more, I suspect.”
“How can there be power within words?” Jakob had read many of the books Novan had asked of him, and none seemed capable of granting power. They were historical documents, analysis at times, but little more than that.
Novan seemed to track the line of his thoughts. “There’s some power to knowing what has happened, in understanding it so that it’s not repeated, in learning about a time long forgotten, but this is something different. The words themselves contain a certain amount of strength.” He nodded to the small book Jakob held.
Jakob stared at the book. “The ancient language?”
When Novan nodded, his eyes glittered.
“You said that when you gave me the book to read.”
“I said it because it’s true,” Novan agreed. “There are things written in the ancient language that are more powerful than others. And this text is different from any other.”
“Why?”
Novan shook his head. “It was written by those who knew the ancient language better than any know it now. There’s an insight into the language that could not be gained in any other way. Yet there is mor
e.” He turned toward the entrance to the tent, as if looking out into the night. “It may be part of the reason the Deshmahne push as they do now. Endric is out of the city. The Magi’s greatest defender in the open. The High Priest knows this and that the Deshmahne are finally strong enough to challenge the Magi.”
“You said part of the reason. What else?”
“There’s something he seeks, a reason for him to come himself rather than to send those beneath him. Something that will make him more powerful than he already is.”
The trunk he’d seen. It had to be. “You think he will attack us here?” Jakob’s heart started racing as he thought about getting caught in the middle of some attack. He might have gotten better with the sword, but not so much that he thought he could help in a war.
“If their numbers are as we saw in Endric’s tent, then that’s the only possibility I see.”
The following few days went quickly. Jakob grew increasingly tired of riding, and his evenings were spent working with Rit before seeking out the general to practice, a new urgency driving him to improve. He fell asleep exhausted each night, dreams barely more than memories in the morning, but still haunting him as he awoke. Dark shapes danced just outside his vision, and always there was someone he couldn’t see or reach calling to him.
The sense of being followed, being watched, was now with him day and night. During the day, it was barely more than a whisper at his senses, a tingle at the back of his mind that made the hairs on his neck stand up, and at night it was nothing more than dreams and visions. Jakob had not mentioned it to Novan again for fear of what it would mean. There was the constant fear that the madness had found him.
He couldn’t let that thought linger. There were other concerns he struggled with. He spent each night poring over the book Novan had lent him, now most of the way through it, but still barely any better at understanding the ancient language than he had been when he started. At least he recognized the lettering, but he still didn’t think he’d manage the inflection. The words felt strange to him, and his mouth struggled to pronounce them when he tried. Even the name of his sword, Neamiin, was a challenge to him. He couldn’t pronounce it nearly the same way he remembered Novan speaking the word.
The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1) Page 14