Cinders on the Wind

by Louis Emery

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The man has no index fingers. They were cut off, so he cannot cast spells.”

  Sho’s jaw slackened. “What?”

  “You didn’t know?” Orlute said. “Years ago he worked for some investors who lost quite a bit of funds in the exchange and they felt they got a bad deal, so they contracted Jaster to recover the money in an illegal manner, using his skills. Well, he was caught and it just so happens those funds were tied to the Prestonpan Treasury, so a royal mage-council at the time decided to enact the price for capital crimes of a spellcaster—off with his fingers.”

  Suddenly Sho remembered the silk gloves. She knew without his fingers, Jaster could only perform lesser spells, not enough to commit murders.

  “So you see,” Orlute continued, “that’s why Jaster encouraged his daughter to marry that caster noble from Phozanti. Seeing himself as no longer a legitimate sorcerer, he wanted to keep at least one true practitioner in the family.”

  Sho’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s one way to do it.”

  “So that’s everything I’ve gleaned from Penny. She keeps much to herself, a habit she’s learned from her employer. But she tells me things from time to time. Please don’t find an angle to implicate her. As I’ve said, she’s overworked as it is and she’s a loyalist originally from Em Regis. She’s no reason to kill royalist lords.”

  “Even those closest to us sometimes cannot be trusted,” Sho said.

  “You can trust her,” Orlute said meeting her eyes. He rubbed his face. “You know, it is peculiar the patterns around us.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got a friend, a trained Cylarnti who’s a sergeant at the fortress. He and I toast ale at a tavern nearby. He was telling me that the past year four of his masters in the islands have died. It seems, since the rebellion the Isles’ most powerful people have been dying. Cylarnti masters, Prestonpan and Backland lords. Hopefully they stay focused on the more important people. Keeps us insignificants alive—that is, if we don’t become soldiers.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

  Sho didn’t find it very amusing.

  27

  “Why would the dragonriders join Varick’s cause?” the King of Sydonya asked.

  From where Malcolm sat in the circle of tables in King Greenvale’s immense hall, he could see all the kings and lords of eastern and southern Retha. The first thing the members did when everyone assembled was discuss the plan to have Ser Gregan return Leora to Washfold.

  Now the talk switched to Varick’s dealings with wizards. Leora told the council her cousin had stayed in touch with the Remnants wizards, sending a letter here or there, but she didn’t think he’d dealt with Warlock Grundburr in particular. She said the warlock was a cantankerous old man, whose skills were diminishing. Despite this, she said, as with his tactics in battle strategy, Varick must have convinced even the stubbornest of old men to follow through with his plans. Malcolm thought it a dangerous thing when a man of power utilized persuasion skills with the wizards and their dragons.

  King Opalen of Sydonya continued his misgivings. “Dragons and wizards have been dormant for practically three hundred years. Even back then, they did not join in the fray on a mere whim. What reasons would they have to join Leora’s cousin and his Crowley bootlicks?”

  “Why not join them?” King Greenvale replied. He looked around the tables to make certain all eyes were on him. “Only when the kingdoms seethed with chaos and ill portents did the dragonriders interfere centuries ago. What difference is there now? There’s been just as much war of late as there was during the Plains Wars. To the west, Cintros fights the Rousers on one front while my cousin fights them on another.” Here the king gestured to the visiting Lord Staverly sitting across from him. “Phozanti invade the lesser kingdoms to their west, and the Gothveesi pillage their former allies. Liege lords throughout Retha are bickering amongst themselves, instead of honoring their common allegiances. For gods’ sakes, look at us! Hostilities with the Ballardians have magnified tenfold. From what I’ve heard of Varick, his powers of persuasion go beyond diplomacy to rallying cries. The state that Retha’s in gives the final push for Grundburr and the dragonriders to join a man bent on controlling half the map.”

  The council remained silent, absorbing King Greenvale’s words.

  King Opalen spoke again, “You say a Seer of yours saw the flames of the dragon before a spy reported it to you and that this Seer is the one who will convince the Gathered to aid our cause. How do we know this Seer can be trusted? How do we know the spy saw dragons use flames against men? They’ve been hiding in the mountains for hundreds of years, to avoid burning us on the ground. The pact after the Plains Wars banished them from such use unless a war warranted it.”

  “Lay your doubts to rest, King Opalen,” King Greenvale said, waving forth a hobbling man dressed in robes aided by two servant girls. “This was the spy who survived his trip to the Nor Mountains. A brave man met with foul treatment. It’s okay, Lester.” He gestured to the man to remove his hood.

  The man standing before the council was seared. The skin around his face shown red and peeling from the severest of burns. Save burning at the stake, only dragonfire could mutilate a victim such as this. Mouths dropped, and Malcolm heard Leora gasp.

  “This apprentice, Ethlin,” King Greenvale said as he gestured to her, sitting at one of the tables next to Mage Orbist. “She warned me of this man’s burning, well before he returned to me. She has connections with the dragons, a rarest of gifts according to the Dragonmother priests and Mage-Council. She will be our ambassador at Dragon Mount, and she will bring our much-needed allies to the table.”

  “My king,” Lord Staverly said as the robed Lester was being escorted away from the audience, “I’d like to make you an offer.” He stood for everyone to see. “I know the party to Dragon Mount is to be a small one, for logistic and inconspicuous reasons. But allow me to extend the service of two knights of Prestonpan.” Beside him were two men clad in armor, wearing navy blue trimmed with the yellow-orange. “Here are Ser Balliol and Ser Royce, two of my most trusted swords.”

  Malcolm noticed Ser Balliol to be a much older and more formidable-looking man than the late-teen youth of Ser Royce next to him.

  “Your grace,” Ser Balliol said, bowing. “Please allow me to accompany Ser Malcolm and Ethlin on this journey.” He turned to Ser Malcolm, “You, sir, saved the life of my lord at the king’s tournament. If not for your efforts, an assassin’s arrow would’ve dealt a fatal strike. In honor of Lord Staverly, my king and kingdom, I give you my sword.”

  Malcolm bowed in acknowledgment.

  “I too am grateful,” Ser Royce said. “It would be an honor to be counted amongst your party, and I swear my sword shan’t stay sheathed should any threat befall my companions.”

  “Very well,” King Greenvale said, “You honor me, Lord Staverly, with your champions.”

  “It’s the least I can do, your grace,” Staverly replied, “for the realm, and your Kingsguard.” He inclined his head to Malcolm.

  “I too, am honored, my lord,” Malcolm said.

  “It is settled then,” King Greenvale declared. “By ruling of the council, in agreement with the kings and lords in this hall, you six shall seek entrance at the Gatekeeper City and visit the Gathered, where Mage-Council Orbist and apprentice Ethlin will obtain the assistance we need.”

  Malcolm hoped beyond hope he and his companions could see Orbist and young Ethlin through. Not only did they journey to salvage the kingdoms of eastern and southern Retha, but to protect the Backlands from dragon destruction.

  Tables piled high with roasted hart, beef ribs, and cloud-like piles of mashed potatoes. Flagons brimmed with wine, ale, and cider. Chatter filled the hall, full of conversations of coming battles, the lament of fallen comrades, the anticipation of journeys home, and the ordering of refills from servants. The night of the council’s final feast was underway, and Malcolm mean
dered down and spotted the table seating Artemis and Ser Lambert. He slapped his companions on the back, and as soon as he sat, caught sight of Leora entering the hall. She wore a dress given to her by Prince Barnabas’s wife, Princess Cathereen.

  Malcolm noticed she was met with mean stares from fellow diners, and she was followed by a Nasant guard—for Ser Gregan was ordered to have her under watch at all times, at least while in Em Regis. Feeling pity for her, Malcolm lifted his great arm, motioning her over to their table. To offset the mounting disdain, he gave her a welcoming smile.

  “Didn’t expect to find you here,” Malcolm said as Leora took a seat, her guard sitting beside her.

  “A woman has to eat,” she replied. “And it wasn’t on my own accord. It was Ser Gregan who told me King Greenvale and King Lionel insisted I join.” Leora nodded to Artemis and Ser Lambert who were in conversation of their own.

  “Hospitality is never lost on the Backlands, nor Nasantium it appears,” Malcolm said. The guard next to her bowed before filling his plate with handfuls of meat.

  “I’ve been meaning to give you an apology, Ser Malcolm. I was wrong to not believe you, and I’m sorry for it.”

  “That’s all right, milady. From where you were on the battlefield, it would’ve been tough to tell precisely who it was that hit you from behind. Battlefields are disorienting places.”

  “Still, please accept my regrets for not having listened in the first place.”

  Malcolm bowed his head slightly.

  Leora continued, “I also wanted to thank you for my life. You and Artemis interfered with my killers, and for that, I owe you the utmost gratitude.”

  Artemis had listened in, and said, “We saw the treachery unfold before us. It’s what any honorable man would do.”

  “He’s right,” Malcolm said. “Though it caught me off guard, as you were swinging for my head, it seemed natural to defend you.” He gave her a wry look. “Not to mention, they interrupted a fair fight—well, not the fairest, with your special vial.”

  She smiled back at him. “Well, I shan’t be using it against you again, once I get it back. When Ser Gregan sees fit to return me my sword and vial, the only armor it’ll be splitting is that of Westers, Craggs, and Crowleys.”

  “Don’t count on getting it anytime soon, Lady Leora,” Ser Gregan said, eavesdropping. He tapped his guard, who slid over to make room for his better. Ser Gregan sat with a thump, a large mug of mead in hand. “We’re far from East Ballardia, and there’s plenty of ground to cover between here and there.”

  “Once you see me gaining the support of liege lords against Varick,” she said, coolly, “you have no choice but to return them to me. Those are your orders.”

  “Aye. Along those lines, yes.” He smiled mischievously, taking a hearty gulp from his drink. “Specifically, my king said to return your trinkets at the moment I see fit—which I will do all in good time.”

  Frustrated, Leora reached for her flagon, likely to keep from spouting an insult at the man who’d be her companion over the coming weeks.

  “I say, Ser Malcolm,” Ser Gregan said. “I wish you well on your journey. With you and Ser Balliol in the party, the two fiercest swords in the South, I daresay nothing ill should befall the expedition.”

  “You honor me, Ser Gregan,” Malcolm said in a nonchalant tone. “Pray, when was the last time we conversed?”

  “Why, I believe it was at the tournament feast a few months ago. The one where King Greenvale honored you and Artemis with the greatest portion of fowl at your table. It appears acts of heroism against hooded assassins make for a fine meal.” Ser Gregan smiled slyly.

  “Indeed, old friend.”

  “It’s a pity we’re to war,” Gregan continued. “Nasantium has delayed its own fall tournament, and I’d wished this time we’d spar in swords.”

  Malcolm smiled, downing the rest of his ale. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “There he is,” Gregan chuckled. “That’s the japing giant I know. Only after seven mugs will wit and whimsy appear from ole Longstride.”

  “Seven mugs’ll be good enough to fell you at tourney swords,” Malcolm quipped.

  “Oh, you think so?”

  “You may be reigning champion, but each time I’ve wanted to compete, I’ve been on campaign.”

  “Excuses, excuses,” Gregan said, pouring himself more ale then sliding the growler over to Malcolm. “Well, I must be back to my table. King Lionel may think it rude if I’m gone too long.” He stood, and bowed to Leora. “Milady, we leave soon, and I look forward to learning the manner of your company. Ser Malcolm, safe travels to you and your party.”

  “And yours,” Malcolm replied, lifting the mug to his lips.

  After the main courses and dessert pies were brought out, King Greenvale gave a short speech of goodbyes to the entourages, thanking them for their participation in the council. The eyelids of everyone at the table grew heavy. Before heading to her chambers, Leora said to Malcolm and Artemis, “Farewell, you two. May your journey be a success. In the meantime, I’ll do what I can to make certain House Reed works alongside House Greenvale against my tyrant cousin.”

  “You and yours are in my thoughts,” Artemis said, ever the man of few words.

  “May your path lead to what you seek, as well,” Malcolm said, woozy from copious ale. “Perhaps we will meet again on better terms.”

  “Perhaps.” Leora gave him a half smile. “Give my regards to the young Ethlin. She’s brave for doing this.”

  “Certainly.”

  Leora turned away from the hall. Malcolm watched her go and hoped it wasn’t the last time he’d ever see her.

  28

  As much as Ethlin wanted to sleep, she could not. These past months she’d become used to the comfort of her chambers in the Gray Keep. She knew the faces and some of the names of castle servants and guards, and they were kind to her. It was a pleasant and well-defended place. But now, she was called upon to protect the kingdom, to realize her full potential as a prophesized Seer. She didn’t know exactly what her potential was. Patrycias and Orbist had hinted at it—the ancient texts stated that a true Seer had some connection with dragons, but they were not specific as to what.

  She was comforted by the fact that Orbist would be by her side. He was indeed a kind and learned mentor. He knew many spells Ethlin had seen him perform through the recitation of incantations and the mixtures of potions. Yet, Ethlin felt reluctant to leave Patrycias behind. Orbist had let her visit with the priestess numerous times throughout these past months, and when Patrycias heard of Ethlin’s mission, she encouraged it despite Ethlin’s misgivings.

  Ethlin remembered the moment she truly felt valued again—the same day one of her visions of dragonfire almost met disaster.

  She and Patrycias were in the temple kitchens making large cauldrons of soup. In the adjoining rooms, other priestesses and their apprentices also cooked and prepared the meals for the food bank the following day.

  “I forgot to buy basil and parsley,” Patrycias had remarked, stirring the soup.

  “That’s okay,” Ethlin smiled. “I didn’t see any in your basket—so I bought some.” Ethlin walked over to the spices and brought them over to the sideboard.

  “What would I do without you, child?” Patrycias gave her a peck on the cheek.

  It was one of the first instances anyone gave her such a loving gesture—besides the time Patrycias hugged her as she sobbed the first two days she was rid of Mistress Fildred and Ashlira at the orphanage.

  Patrycias must have seen the tears welling in Ethlin’s eyes. “It’s all right, child. You deserve to be loved—you are a caring and smart girl. You don’t have to fear those lowlifes who control the orphanage any longer.”

  “It’s just that I’ve never been treated this way before.” Ethlin sprinkled parsley in the soup.

  “I know, child. Many of the apprentices of this temple come from similar places where you grew up, but you stand apart from all of
them. You have a special gift, and I see a great future for you because of it.”

  “I know I can see things … but what if my psychic powers are only limited? What if they are unreliable like so many others? I’ve heard of others, who say they see things that will happen, but they do not turn out exactly the way they envisioned as if their power is trying to paint a picture. Instead, it’s only a murky outline.”

  “Those types of psychics aren’t you, Ethlin. For you, the power has broken through. Your visions have come to fruition. Here, sit down.” Patrycias gestured to the chairs at the nearby table. Ethlin sat, and the priestess took a chair opposite.

  “I know you say fire tends to enhance your visions. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to, but I want you to try something.”

  “Try what?”

  “Look into the fire here, beneath the cauldron.” Patrycias pointed under the soup. “Tell me what you see.”

  “I don’t know …” Ethlin shook her head.

  “I understand, child. Don’t look if you don’t want to.” Patrycias stood. “Come. Shall we see if the other kitchens need any more spices or meats from the larder?”

  Ethlin bit her lip. “No, I want to connect with my visions. I want to try.”

  “You’re sure, child?” Patrycias rubbed Ethlin’s shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Very well.” Patrycias sat back down. “Take your time. The flames are low. The ancient texts say someone with your ability only needs to be patient and look upon them.”

  Ethlin leaned forward, staring at the low flames. They flickered and danced below the great weight of the iron cauldron. The smell of beef stew and intermingling spices calmed her nerves. Her eyes penetrated the flames until they weren’t there anymore. Instead, Ethlin saw Patrycias kneeling at someone’s bedside. Under the covers was an elderly priestess in ragged robes. She looked very ill, and there were tears in Patrycias’ eyes. The image changed to Patrycias standing at the threshold of the temple as a body wrapped in linen was carted away.