“The servants here are children?”
“Not servants, Shawna. They’re initiates, in their First Four. They’re made to wait on full wizards.”
“First Four?” Shawna echoed, pushing herself to a standing position. She’d bathed since he’d last seen her and the firelight shone through her hair, making it appear to be aflame. Dormael noticed the way her body moved as she stood, then he remembered how she’d felt against him on that night in his family’s homestead.
Then he noticed that he was naked underneath the sheets. He forced his thoughts under control.
“Ah…the first four years of Conclave training. They’re restricted to regular schooling and only basic magic use. They also have chores and study hours. Just grab one at random and tell him that Warlock Harlun needs two plates of food. He’ll jump.” Dormael pushed himself up farther and pulled the sheets down around his waist to hide his nudity as he tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. His chest hurt every time he moved, and his head fogged for a moment, but he got it under control.
“Dormael…,” Shawna breathed, staring at him in surprise and something like horror.
“It isn’t as if you haven’t seen this much before, Shawna. I seem to remember you stealing my clothes.”
Shawna seemed not to hear him, “Your chest…there’s….something wrong with it.” Dormael looked down.
Across the left side of his chest, covering the muscle was a mean purple bruise. It was shaped like a giant, three fingered hand. Dormael’s breath caught in his throat.
“The wails…they pushed me…” he said.
“What pushed you? That wasn’t there before!” Shawna was horrified. Dormael didn’t feel much better.
“Tell an initiate to find D’Jenn and Victus!” Dormael said, looking up at Shawna.
“Dormael, what’s going on?”
“Go, Shawna!”
She fled. Dormael sat for a bit, remembering the sounds of the screams in the darkness, and the feeling of the push he’d received that had banished him from the nightmare. Was it even a nightmare?
Dormael wasn’t so sure.
****
“The only possible explanation is Mind Flight,” said Victus, scowling down at the mahogany table that dominated the Warlock’s council chambers.
Victus was a large man, taller than average and with the build of a dockworker or perhaps a lumberjack. Dormael had always thought that he seemed a bit out of place at the Conclave. Victus had a wild mass of black hair that seemed to stick out in all directions no matter what he did, and it flowed almost seamlessly into a short, black beard that left his upper lip bare. It gave the man the appearance of some wild beast. He was swathed in a heavy, dark blue robe that Dormael was sure concealed a knife or two, and his meaty hands rested upon the dark wood of the table, spread wide and tapping out a nervous rhythm on its surface. His single golden ring of office, two sinuous bands woven together, wound around his right ring finger in contrast to the sun-browned skin underneath.
Despite his wild appearance, Victus had a conniving, astute and analytical mind. The man was one of the smartest people that Dormael had ever known, and he was widely regarded as the next in line for the office of the Mekai. He had a different demeanor than most of his colleagues, an almost military bearing and dedication to his station and the Conclave. Dormael held an unshakable respect for the man.
The large room, lovingly referred to as the “war room” by many Warlocks and other disciplines, was paneled in white plaster and hung with multiple tapestries that depicted victories by Warlocks in the past. Dormael looked up and saw a larger and more detailed version of Gimmael facing down Morvlund the Mad than his own. He winced at the pain that the movement of his neck caused him, and slumped once again into his large, padded chair. A derisive snort brought his attention back to the speakers in the room.
Victus sat to Dormael and D’Jenn’s right, at the end of the long, dark table. On Victus’s right, and across from Dormael and D’Jenn, sat Victus’s greatest rival in the Conclave, and the source of the mocking snort.
Lacelle was a tall and willowy woman, with the features of someone in their early thirties but with eyes that held much more wisdom than anyone in their thirties could ever have. She had long and straight blonde hair that cascaded down her narrow shoulders like pale wheat, framing a soft, rounded face. Her eyes were a disquieting shade of blue, so light that they seemed frosted somehow.
She sat with her slender arms crossed under her modest breasts, and the filmy white dress she wore had a neckline that showed a good amount of pale, smooth skin. Her own ring of office glittered on her finger, seeming to complement her appearance rather than contrast it, and currently her pale blue eyes were fixed on Victus as if they would suddenly start shooting icicles at the man. Her lips pursed in stubborn resentment and contrariness.
“Not the only possible explanation,” piped Lacelle in argument, “We have to consider the possibility that young Dormael’s mind was in an advanced state of sleep, and the entire episode was created by his Kai.”
Dormael winced. Lacelle could indeed be right, but her comment made him feel somehow guilty, as if he’d done it all to create some sort of sympathy or drama. He listened to Victus’s reply.
“I know my Warlocks, Lacelle,” Victus grumbled at the Deacon of Philosophers, “and Dormael’s head is as fine as it ever was. You tested his lucidity yourself. The simple fact that he woke up discounts the theory that his mind was broken or that his magic was wild. There were no occurrences of wild magic reported either by him, or his companions.”
“One of them being his cousin, the other his brother, and another his concubine – those aren’t exactly reliable witnesses,” Lacelle replied, the disdain clear in her voice.
“What exactly is your problem, Lacelle?” Victus growled, staring daggers at the Philosopher. The two of them faced each other down, Victus with his wild, black hair and neatly trimmed beard and Lacelle with her willowy blonde loveliness. Dormael had always thought that Lacelle was pretty enough, if a little snappish. The two of them hated each other, but rumor had it that they had once been lovers. Perhaps that was why they hated each other now.
Dormael and D’Jenn sat quietly in the room with the two Deacons, letting the two of them argue the point into the ground. They’d been over their own story more times than either cared to repeat, but the Deacons had to hear it from many different points of view, concentrating on miniscule details that Dormael thought were more insignificant that the color of the sky. He wondered for a second why the Mekai had invited Lacelle to the meeting. In his mind, this was Warlock business.
But then, the Warlocks were close-mouthed about most things. It was their nature. The simple fact that one had to be selected and pass certain tests to which other students were not subjected made the Warlocks feel a little above the rest of the Conclave. Dormael resisted the urge to dismiss everything that Lacelle was saying. The Mekai must have his reasons, and he was the Mekai for a reason.
And even though he didn’t like her very much, Dormael had to admit that Lacelle brought up a few good points.
“My problem,” Lacelle continued, “is that you Warlocks always watch out for your own. If it were a Philosopher that suddenly came down with a case of temporary insanity, then he would be scrutinized and eventually ostracized. But, since Dormael is one of your Warlocks, he must be telling the truth.”
“I’m simply looking at the problem from an objective point of view, instead of dismissing it because I don’t like where it’s coming from,” Victus retorted, pointing all four fingers at Lacelle as if to drive the point home physically.
“Don’t like where it’s coming from? Oh, Eindor’s Eye, Victus – now you’re just being childish.”
“Being childish? By all the Gods, woman, look at Dormael’s chest! Did his Kai cause the bruising there as well?” Victus shot back, indicating Dormael with his left hand. Dormael could feel Victus’s anger ringing through the magic, and
he was sure everyone else could as well. Lacelle, however, was as calm as an iceberg.
“It is possible, dear Victus. There have been documented cases of magic causing physical harm to those who’ve wielded it negligently. I could show you the records sometime if you’d like to come over into the Philosopher’s Tower, but you’d have to learn to read first, of course,” Lacelle said in the most condescending tone she could muster. Dormael winced, D’Jenn hid his face, and Victus made to stand from the table and took a deep breath to reply, his eyes growing wide with the insult.
“Silence,” spoke a quiet voice from the doorway. Everyone turned to look in the direction of the soft spoken command.
The Mekai stood in the doorway. He was an older man, perhaps in his seventies, though as with many wizards his true age was probably much greater. He wore a simple white robe of wool trimmed with black along the edges, and his amulet of office, the Eye of Eindor entwined with a depiction of the Conclave Tower, hung from shoulders that appeared thin with age, but still held straight like those of a younger man. His long hair was white as snow, and his long, braided beard was the same color but shot through with silver. He carried nothing in his hands, and as he walked slowly to the head of the table all eyes followed him. He sat slowly, as if he were only seating himself for a meal or to read a book.
The room practically pulsed with his magical power. Dormael could feel its touch even as he watched.
“First, let us dispense with greetings,” the Mekai said in a quiet voice, as if he hadn’t walked in on a heated argument between two of the most respected Deacons in the Conclave. The Mekai always spoke softly, but his words carried the weight of mountains. If he chose to ignore something, then everyone else did their best to act like it didn’t exist. “It is good to have you two home again, Dormael. I’ll want to hear first hand of your travels so far. You’ll take supper with me?”
“Of course we will, Mekai,” Dormael replied, inclining his head in respect. The Mekai smiled at this, and Victus seemed to lose some of his anger. Lacelle leveled her pretty blue eyes at Dormael, but they were eyes full of cold disdain. Dormael shivered.
“Good. Now. I believe the most urgent matter at hand is this armlet that young D’Jenn has described to us. We’ll worry about our young Dormael’s mind later. Please, let us discuss this, instead of prattling on like children” the Mekai said, putting the slightest questioning tone in his voice to offer a chance for someone to oppose him. No one objected. He waited the slightest of moments, and then continued, “You recovered the armlet from the girl, this Shawna?”
“Not exactly recovered it, Wise One,” Dormael replied, “The armlet is still in Shawna’s possession. It is a family heirloom, and she will not part with it. We thought it better to bring her here with the armlet than to try and take it from her.”
“Yes,” the Mekai nodded, “that was a good decision. We are not in the business of thievery. The girl wasn’t using the thing to do any harm to anyone. I’ve talked with the young lady just this morning, and I grieve with her for her family. I believe as you, Dormael – we should try to help the young Cambrellian.”
Dormael and D’Jenn glanced at each other, relieved that the Mekai was sympathetic to their cause. Lacelle softened at the mention of Shawna, and it seemed that her battle with Victus was over, at least for the moment.
“The poor girl,” Lacelle said, “You said, Dormael, that she believes that it was the Galanian Red Swords who perpetuated the murder of her family?”
“Yes,” Dormael replied, keeping his voice respectful, “and we also encountered them ourselves in Ferolan. If they weren’t Red Swords, then they did a powerful job of faking it.”
“They were led,” D’Jenn said, “by a man named Grant.”
“Rengard Grant, the Galanian Colonel?” Victus interjected, his eyebrows rising.
“We assume. We were…interrupted during our search,” Dormael explained, moving his left shoulder to try and loosen the bruised muscles there. It hurt fiercely.
“If it is the Colonel Grant that I’m thinking of, then you two have kicked over a hornet’s nest for sure. He’s the commander of the Red Swords, and a trusted friend of Dargorin. Colonel Grant would only be involved if this were a sensitive matter,” Victus said.
“The Galanian involvement warrants further discussion, indeed,” the Mekai mused, making a steeple of his long fingers and placing them under his nose. His brows furrowed. “We can only assume that since King Dargorin sent his personal knights to the Llewan manor that he’s keeping his pursuit of the girl as…misdirected…as he can.”
“How do you mean, Wise One?” Victus asked, turning his wild, dark face on the Mekai.
“Well, one cannot just hide a battalion of knights who are chasing a young noble. Undoubtedly even his vassals back in Galania have noticed their absence, and are most likely beginning to wonder at their whereabouts - especially given the situation with his invasion of Thardin. So, he most likely had to come up with some story to cover his tracks.”
“The Red Swords were circulating a story that Shawna was a Galanian criminal, escaped from justice,” Dormael said, wincing at the pain in his left chest muscle.
“Simple and effective, if unimaginative,” the Mekai said, furrowing his brows even deeper, “Still, my biggest worry is how he found out about the relic. Where did he learn of such a thing and its power? Where did it come from? He’d certainly have to have advisors of a magical nature to even care about such a thing. Unless he is Blessed himself.”
“Ah, Wise One,” D’Jenn said after clearing his throat, “We’ve encountered, or at least seen from a distance, what we suspect to be such an ally.”
“You mean the Necromancer’s shade at the campsite. The dark one that this Jureus had been answering to,” Victus grumbled. His tone said that he thought it doubtful.
“Yes, Deacon,” D’Jenn answered, “We think it is too great a coincidence for both King Dargorin and some rogue Vilth to both be searching for Shawna and her armlet. They are somehow connected, whether they are allies or enemies. We believe that it was most likely this Vilth who learned of the relic in the first place, and tracked it down. Since the Red Swords have so far been unsuccessful in apprehending Shawna and taking the armlet, we think that Dargorin sent this Necromancer to ensure the success of the mission. It seems, however, that they are not working together.”
“This is a possibility,” the Mekai mused, “though it goes against the nature of the Vilthinum to serve another. One does not amass so much power simply to use it in the service of a King. It could be that Dargorin discovered the Necromancer’s plan, and dispatched his knights to try and take the armlet before the Vilth. They could be working against each other, instead of in concert.”
“With respect, Wise One, why is it then that the Necromancer was nowhere to be found while we were in Ferolan? It seems plausible that he would have been more successful in taking the armlet and murdering the family than a squad of Red Swords would have been. Why have we only seen his shade, so far?” D’Jenn said.
“That line of thought brings up an entire set of questions,” Lacelle said, leaning back in her chair and pushing golden hair back from her head, “If this Vilth is indeed powerful enough to have gained apprentices of his own, such as Jureus, then why have we not discovered him or learned of incidents of his usage of Necromancy? Logic does indicate that the Necromancer and Dargorin are connected, but how? In order for the Vilth to be in service to the King, then Dargorin would have to have some sort of hold over him. Such things are almost impossible to come by. How could such a thing be accomplished?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Victus rumbled, “It could be a plausible explanation. Dargorin is holding something over this Necromancer’s head, and so the Necromancer is pressed into service. He could be the King’s slave, for all we know.”
“Yes, but what possible thing could be held against a Vilth? People of that sort usually don’t have anything that can be used as leve
rage against them. History has shown that they regularly sever ties to everything that makes them human. The only thing that Dargorin could give him would be power, and that is something that their dark God usually traffics in more successfully. Why serve the King?” Lacelle said.
Victus shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his temples through his wild hair, “Perhaps Dargorin is a means to an end for this Vilth. He could be using the King to secure a position of power within the Empire.”
“This warrants an investigation. I suspect that you already have agents in Old Galan?” the Mekai asked Victus.
“Of course, Wise One,” Victus replied, smiling.
“Good. Activate them. Have one or two of them dig for answers in this matter. Also, Lacelle, send a delegation of Philosophers to the School of Magical Arts in Lesmira. Ask them to search through their records and see if you can find anything regarding rogue wizards cast out of the Tower within the last fifty years.”
“The last fifty years, Wise One?” Lacelle asked, her eyebrows raising a little.
“Indeed. Our scant research of Necromancy indicates that the Vilth can sometimes prolong their lives through the use of their art. It never hurts to be thorough. In fact, go back seventy years.”
“It will be done, Honored Mekai,” Lacelle intoned formally.
“Very well. For my own part, I will look through the Secret Archives to see if I can find any mention of a relic with power such as this armlet. It would behoove us to find out everything we can about this strange artifact. I would like to see it, as well, if that can be arranged,” the Mekai said.
“Of course, Wise One,” Dormael nodded.
“Good. Then let us adjourn this meeting, and rest a bit before dinner. I am ever tired, these days,” the Mekai said.
“Ah, Honored Mekai, there is one more matter that needs discussing,” Victus said, placing his big hands on the table.
“Do go on then, Deacon Victus,” the Mekai said, settling back into his seat.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 55