Jeremilan looked relieved to have the pressure taken off him for a moment, especially by a woman.
Silence followed her pronouncement. Saviar could think of many things to say, but none of them would do anything other than incite them to violence. They would have an answer for any question he asked, one that would only irritate him. Any condemnation he made would only prolong the conversation, only make them more defensive.
With a casual air more suitable to a courtroom than a standoff, Weile flicked back an edge of his cloak to reveal a round object the size of a woman’s head. Brilliant azure, it seemed to color the entire room, as if the ceiling had melted away to admit the open sky. Every stray beam of light rushed to the stone, as if pulled, and the mages drifted toward it as unconsciously as moths to a flame. Every one of their mouths fell open. In tandem, their eyes widened. Wordless sounds escaped, too random and short to be coherent magic, at least in Saviar’s meager experience.
Weile closed his cloak, and the enormous gemstone disappeared from sight, but clearly not from mind. Still acting as one, the Mages of Myrcidë stared at the air, exactly where the stone had been exposed.
Jeremilan found his voice first. “That’s the Pica.” He seemed incapable of dragging his gaze from the spot, not even to meet Weile’s eyes. “The Pica Stone. That’s . . .” An inappropriately long silence ensued again, before he spat out the last word, “. . . ours.” His fingers twitched into fists, and he finally managed to look into Weile’s face.
“No.” Though softly spoken, the word was solid and sincere. Weile had no doubts about the proper dispensation of the item. “Once, long ago, it belonged to the Mages of Myrcidë. History shows the Renshai took it as a spoil of war and venerated it as a symbol of their own tribe for many years.”
A frown formed on Jeremilan’s features, but he did not interrupt. Apparently, he wanted to know what happened next, perhaps even needed to hear it. He made a gesture for Weile to continue.
“In time, the Renshai were also defeated and, presumably, extinguished by the combined forces of the North. The Pica was sold several times, its trail lost to antiquity. It’s said a steep and imprudent bet on a gladiator battle put the Pica in the hands of General Santagithi. He passed it off as a bauble to his only daughter. She, in turn, used it as payment for a magical sword crafted by the Eastern Wizard, putting the Pica, once again, in Myrcidian hands.”
“Which makes it ours,” Jeremilan pointed out. “Because there’s no way any Myrcidian, especially one as powerful as a Cardinal Wizard, released it.”
Saviar realized Weile had come to the part of the story he had already elucidated to the mages and hoped the repetition would encourage them to see it as truth.
“Right.” Weile seemed to be contradicting himself. “But Shadimar did do something unexpected. It’s well documented that the last Myrcidian and the last Renshai . . .” He let out a friendly snort as he glanced over the current assemblage, now all standing. “Let’s change that to what was believed to be the last Myrcidian and the last of the Renshai. In any case, the two met on the battlefield after the Great War, having served on the same side.”
Saviar knew enough military history to realize Weile’s Eastern ancestors had lost that war to the West, while Shadimar and Colbey had fought for the winning side.
“Colbey Calistinsson recorded the following exchange: He reportedly said, ‘If we both claim the Pica Stone for our peoples, then our peoples must become one and you my brother. You may keep the Pica.’ To which, the last Myrcidian responded, ‘I’ll join this union and consider it an honor.’ They then clasped hands to seal the bargain.” Weile pursed his lips. “Now, it seems to me that it serves no purpose for the last Renshai to lie about this matter, especially since he admits to giving up any rights to the most valuable object in the history of Midgard.”
Saviar did not know what to consider first: Weile’s knowledge, his ability to quote details verbatim, or the sudden realization that the Renshai shared not only a truce, but a tribe, with these mages. Most people considered a blood brotherhood stronger than any accidental kinship of birth, and the decision to combine peoples made it all the more significant. It rendered every Myrcidian a blood brother to every Renshai.
Several of the mages seemed stuck on the same realization, muttering amongst themselves, but Jeremilan stayed on point. “All interesting and worthy of consideration, but the point remains. The Pica Stone belongs to the Mages of Myrcidë.”
Weile raised a hand. “I’m not finished. History is not wholly clear on what happened next, but the Cardinal Wizards recorded that, while using the Pica Stone to test one of their own, it shattered beyond repair. It would appear this is an accurate chronicling, vague as it is, because the Pica does not return to the annals of history until centuries later when, at the direction of the elves, a group that included both of Saviar’s parents retrieved the largest pieces of the Pica Stone. The combined magic of the elves restored it and, after using it for a worthy purpose, the elves presented the Pica to the king of Béarn for use as the deciding factor in who becomes his heir.”
Every eye remained on Weile. Several of the Myrcidians retook their seats, and the others hovered on the verge. “The Cardinal Wizards, including the last known Myrcidian, declared the Pica Stone a total loss. And, as the elves went to extraordinary lengths to find and repair it, no one could possibly dispute that it became their possession to keep or bestow on whomever they pleased.”
Though clearly unhappy, Jeremilan did not try to argue. To do so would not disprove Weile, only display the ignorance of the mages’ leader. “Assuming you’re telling the truth, the Pica Stone currently belongs to Béarn. How did it come into your hands?”
“I’m borrowing it by the grace of King Griff. Without it, I might never have found this place, built, as it is, on the ruins of the Western Wizard’s lair.”
Jeremilan reeled back as if struck, then tried to convert the movement into an awkward attempt to sit. He settled back onto his chair, though he clearly would have preferred to stand. “Is there nothing you don’t know, Weile Kahn?”
Weile ignored the hypothetical question. “Without the Pica, I would have had difficulty finding you, but mark my words, I would have found you. I knew where to look, and so do all my men. You, on the other hand, have a limited number of places to hide. The lair of the Northern Wizard was on Alfheim and no longer exists. That of the Southern Wizard was unknowingly incorporated into the bustling Eastland cities. And the Eastern Wizard’s lair . . .” He shrugged. “. . . a possibility but not nearly as well-situated as this.” He made a gesture to indicate the compound.
Saviar wondered if Weile had even needed the information he had supplied about the mages. The man had already done more extensive research than Saviar would have known existed. He had always admired Weile Kahn, had always known him to be a man of power and influence, but his respect for the Easterner grew at that moment. It was not just inexplicable charisma that made Subikahn’s grandfather special; he probably worked a lot harder at it than anyone would have suspected. Saviar realized that leadership had less to do with prowess or appearance, less to do with flowery vocabulary or a booming voice or presence and everything to do with intelligence, wisdom, and the ability to read and anticipate others. At least, that seemed so in Weile’s case.
Jeremilan, too, appeared to realize he had been outplayed. His voice went quiet, almost meek. “Is there any way . . . we could see it . . . again? Touch it? Know it?”
Though long past its antecedent, even Saviar knew Jeremilan referred to the Pica Stone.
“I’m sorry.” Weile sounded truly apologetic, though nothing obvious kept him from revealing the sapphire again. “If you study it, you will want it. Enough that you may resort to tactics I can’t stop. If you touch it, you may draw power from it that Saviar and I cannot resist.” He added carefully, “However . . .”
Saviar had a feeling
that no matter how it seemed, everything had led up to this precise moment.
No one spoke or moved, sifting the hush for Weile’s next words.
“If you came to Béarn, if you helped to save the kingdom and its people, even if only from a safe distance, King Griff would be truly grateful. He was chosen by the Pica Stone itself as the worthy successor to the previous king, and by definition he’s the essence of neutrality. He’s also a benevolent and generous man, in my experience. I can’t help but think he would understand your attachment to the Pica and would find a reasonable way to reward you, as well as ascertain that the Pica was used to its best and fullest potential.”
Saviar could almost visualize Jeremilan’s brain swirling, racing, wheeling with considerations, with images of what might be. Saviar had appealed to Jeremilan’s humanity, morality, even to his greed. He had tried to wheedle, to barter, to convince. Weile, however, had trapped the Mages of Myrcidë in a way Saviar never could have done. He had cornered them with his knowledge and resources. Subikahn had guessed the mages chose their compound’s location for a magical reason, and even Saviar had considered the possibility it sat on the site of a previous Wizard’s fortress. But Weile had taken it one step further. He had done the necessary research.
Exposed to the world, the mages had only three real choices. They could attempt to hide in a much less comfortable location, remain forever on the run to avoid interacting with the other peoples of the continent, or they could find their place in the current society. As heroes of the war, their magic would be venerated rather than reviled, hopefully enough so that the king of Béarn would give them special status and access to the greatest treasure of their people and the world. As allies or wards of Béarn, the Mages of Myrcidë would be safe, at least until they rebuilt their numbers and power.
There was still the matter of Chymmerlee’s rape, of the innocent life growing inside her, of the misconceptions she still carried about Saviar and Subikahn. Saviar no longer saw her as a potential mate, not because the mages had despoiled her, but because she had so quickly come to hate him. If she truly had loved him, as she claimed to Subikahn, if they had ever had a chance of building a life together, she could never have believed he would harm her in any way. She would not have trusted ancient superstition over his word. Things could not have gone so wholly wrong. Still, she did not deserve the fate her fellow mages had inflicted upon her; no one did. She had every right to know the truth and to make her own informed decisions based upon it.
Now, however, was not the time to insist.
Those who appease our enemies cannot remain our friends.
—Thialnir Thrudazisson
THE BEACHES OF THE TINY ELVES’ ISLAND gave way to a single tangled forest that took up the entirety of the central area and expanded as far as the sandy edges allowed. The trees looked strange to Ra-khir: some had long bumpy trunks and enormous drooping leaves like withered crowns, others stood squat with serrated fringes of foliage, while a few resembled the more familiar trees of the southern westlands. Between them, plants of myriad varieties grew in thick copses, and vines twined through the foliage, enwrapping the many trunks like lines on a ship. It did not appear as if anyone had come through this area in years, perhaps decades.
Ra-khir looked askance at Tem’aree’ay, only to find nearly every member of the party doing the same. Marisole proved the only exception. The bard’s heir seemed more captivated by the scenery than who might, or might not, dwell within it. Even the Béarnian sailors were attentive to the one elf among them, although the details of tending the ship should have wholly consumed them. Ivana clutched her mother’s hand, mercifully silent. Darby stood quietly beside Ra-khir. Calistin crouched at the edge of the forest, a hand resting on each hilt. Though every other member of the party stood between them, Valr Magnus struck a remarkably similar pose to Calistin’s, watching Tem’aree’ay and the area behind her simultaneously.
Tem’aree’ay did not seem to notice the scrutiny. She looked into the trees and brush, head cocked in a gesture that appeared more curious than concerned or puzzled. In no clear hurry to make her thoughts known, she remained silent, and Ra-khir found his mind wandering to the same concerns that plagued him during the day and even disrupted sleep. He knew he had not handled every situation with appropriate aplomb since leaving Béarn. He worried he had allowed too much of his own emotions to taint his dealings with Magnus and Calistin, not wholly maintaining the professional dignity and distance appropriate for a Knight of Erythane.
Magnus spoke the words on every mind. “There’s no sign of life. Is it even possible the elves are still here?”
“There’s life everywhere,” Tem’aree’ay whispered, though Ra-khir, standing right beside her, heard her clearly. He knew she meant the trees and plants, the animals that inhabited them, the birds quietly perched in the branches. She seemed awed beyond conversation, and Ra-khir thought he understood. After so many years in the company of humans, she enjoyed the simple pleasures of wind in her hair, the mingled aromas of budding plants and pollen, the faint lingering musk of animals. They had blundered into elfin bliss, and he supposed that boded well for finding the elves here.
Ra-khir shook his head, divesting it of his last wishful thought. Unrestricted natural growth might please elves, but it also defined the absence of them. With or without the elves, the island flora would continue to grow unfettered, and the wildness of the land bore no relation to the presence or absence of Tem’aree’ay’s people.
Ivana let out a bray of excitement that startled Ra-khir, sent a nearby bird fluttering into the air, and seemed to echo across the island.
Calistin stood up. “Well, they definitely know we’re here now.” He said it with no intonation, stating a simple fact.
Tem’aree’ay finally spoke, “If they’re here, they already knew. They could sense our approach disrupting the water.”
Valr Magnus also rose to his full height, towering over everyone except Ra-khir himself. The similarities between his son and the Northern warrior still grated on Ra-khir, though far less now that he had self-analyzed his irritation. “So what do we do now? Look for them in there?” Magnus pointed into the forest.
Though willing, Ra-khir hoped they would not have to negotiate the dense growth. He did not relish the stuffy confines, nettles stinging exposed flesh, sticks stabbing his limbs and eyes, tearing his clothing, and the crush of leaves and vines tripping and grasping, filling his mouth with bits of greenery and bugs.
Tem’aree’ay turned to answer the general, then stiffened. Apparently, she had finally realized the intensity of her companions’ concentration on her. “We’re not going to find them by searching randomly, if that’s what you’re asking. I do think we should move away from the ships. The fewer humans, the less intimidating.”
“You want us to split up?” Calistin guessed.
Ra-khir frowned. That was rarely the correct action, especially when the propensity of the ones they sought was not certain.
“I’m not leaving my charge,” Marisole announced with unusual fortitude. “The rest of you can do whatever damn fool thing men do in dangerous situations.” She did not elaborate. To do so, she would have to switch to song, and that gave Ra-khir an idea.
“Come.” Ra-khir led the group along the shore, away from the waiting Béarnian ship and its crew. Still outside the thickly grown forest, but beyond sight or sound of the Béarnides, he addressed Marisole. “Can you play something . . .” He did not know how to put it. He had heard Darris play so many times, so sweetly and evocatively it could bring tears to the hardest eyes, smiles to the dourest faces. “. . . something . . . that might draw them to us? Something irresistible?”
Tem’aree’ay caught Marisole’s arm before she could unsling the gittern. “Wait, let me try first.” The elf lowered her head and sent out a khohlar every one of them could hear.
More concept than words, it floated ou
t over the forest like a shout, silencing the birds and filling Ra-khir’s mind with images he could not quite compartmentalize. They spoke of loyalty, but in a looser sense than what he knew for the knights or for his family. They evoked images of group morality that did not allow for individuality, a need so raw it required an answer, and a plea for tolerance if not understanding. Other ideas came with it as well, ones Ra-khir did not understand well enough to qualify, sketches of notions for which he had no basis for comprehension. Then, the khohlar died away, leaving silence in its wake.
Ra-khir waited for a response that never came. Gradually, the birdsong returned, but nothing more. If anyone replied to Tem’aree’ay’s plea, they did so with direct khohlar sent to her and no one else. “Well?” he asked carefully.
Tem’aree’ay shook her head in sad frustration. “Nothing yet. Perhaps in time.”
Ra-khir sighed. Time for elves had little meaning. For warriors such as Magnus and Calistin, patience came with great difficulty. He did not want to deal with flaring tempers again, including his own. The knight had spent the last several nights considering his behavior and felt justified in every action except one. Pitting Calistin against Magnus, even unintentionally had not been wise. The Renshai desperately needed a strong Northern ally, no matter his history, and Ra-khir had no right to jeopardize that relationship. “Would you mind if Marisole tries now?”
Tem’aree’ay made a graceful gesture that Ra-khir could not fathom.
Marisole strummed a few full, sweet chords on the gittern, then gradually added melodic riffs. Her voice became a third layer, woven magnificently between the chords and individual notes, complementing them without taking anything from their splendor. Darris’ playing had dragged Ra-khir’s emotions in every direction, driving him to tears or fury or elation at a whim. Yet, Marisole’s dulcet tones had a natural beauty that threatened to surpass her father’s once she mastered the more complicated music, memorized the ancient songs.
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