“I’ll keep my side of it. Make sure you keep yours. I want my son safe,” Hennoch agreed in a rough voice. He gave Pollard a baleful look.
A thin smile touched Pollard’s lips. “You have my word.”
A candlemark later, long after Hennoch had been escorted from the manor house, Pollard was seated at the desk in the parlor he had claimed as his office. He had taken the ruins of Lord Arvo’s manor at Solsiden for his headquarters. The Battle of Valshoa had forced Pollard to flee Reese’s manor at Westbain. But Lord Arvo, unlike Reese, had been a Lord of the Blood, and the mage strike by enemy mages that killed most of Donderath’s nobility had severely damaged much of the once-great home.
Half of the old mansion survived, as well as an underground maze of cells and storage areas, enough to set up a functional camp. Any luxuries that could be stolen or scavenged had gone into making the parlor and meeting room as impressive as possible, suitable to the aspirations Lord Reese held for the future.
Pollard sat at his desk with his cloak around him, since the fire struggled to heat the damaged room. Broken windows were difficult to replace, but boarding up every cracked pane blocked out light, so the rooms were drafty, even at night when the heavy draperies were closed. It was as bad as being on campaign, Pollard thought, only without any hope of it getting better once the army came home.
A light knock at the door made Pollard raise his head. Kerr, his assistant, stuck his head into the room. “Shall I bring your dinner and a pot of tea now, sir?” Unflappable, organized even amid the chaos of postwar Donderath, Kerr kept Pollard’s world functioning smoothly. The last several months had sprinkled gray in Kerr’s dark hair, and lean times had given Kerr, who had always been slender, a more gaunt appearance, but his brown eyes held the same shrewdness as always.
“If there’s food and tea to be had, I’m ready for it,” Pollard replied, and leaned back in his chair.
Kerr chuckled. “It’s not as good as the best we’ve had in times past, and not as bad as the worst we’ve eaten to make do. Cabbage and leek stew with a few stray bits of venison if you’re lucky, some cheese, and a hard roll from the flour the men found at the mill.”
“I’m so damn cold I don’t care what’s in the bowl so long as it’s warm,” Pollard replied.
“I’ll bring it right away,” Kerr said. “And Captain Nilo asked me to let you know he’ll come by as you requested after sixth bells.”
“Show him in when he gets here,” Pollard said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Kerr inclined his head in acknowledgment. “As you wish, sir.”
Pollard let out a long breath after Kerr left the room and sat staring at the closed door for a few moments, lost in thought. Bending Hennoch to Reese’s will was a small but necessary victory. It would take more than that, much more, to achieve their goals, especially after the rout at the Valshoan foothills.
Kerr brought the stew along with a pot of steaming tea, and hungry as he was, Pollard ate slowly to savor the warmth as it thawed his numbed fingers and brought heat to his extremities. Is that what taking blood does for Reese? Pollard wondered. Does it warm him like soup warms a mortal, or is there more to it than just sustenance? He was as unlikely to get an answer to his musing as he was to ask the question.
When the bowl was empty and the pot of tea finished, Kerr returned to clean away the dishes. “Captain Nilo is waiting outside,” he said as he gathered the napkin and dishes onto a tray and replaced them with a bottle of brandy and two glasses.
“Show him in,” Pollard replied. He removed the stopper from the bottle and poured a generous amount into each glass. Before the war, Pollard had prided himself on having brandy that rivaled the king’s for quality. Now he was grateful to get the awful rotgut that his men distilled whenever they could scrape together something to ferment. Calling it ‘brandy’ was an undeserved compliment, Pollard thought, but it reminded him of better days.
Captain Nilo entered after a brisk knock, and strode across the room. He was ten years Pollard’s junior, with dark hair and wary blue eyes. Nilo was also Pollard’s best strategist, and his only confidant.
“I take it Hennoch agreed to terms?” Nilo said in greeting.
Pollard nodded and gestured for Nilo to sit in one of the two chairs near the fire. Pollard took the glasses of brandy and came around the desk, offering one to Nilo and taking the other for himself as he settled into the remaining chair. It was only a bit warmer this close to the fire, not enough for Pollard to immediately set aside his cloak.
“He’s with us, for now at least,” Pollard replied. “Though we’ll need to make sure we have spies among his men. He wasn’t quite as upset about his son as I expected. There may come a point where he decides to sacrifice the boy to achieve other goals. I want him to know we’re watching.”
“Done.” Nilo took a sip of the brandy and tried not to make a face at the taste. “What have you heard from Reese?”
Pollard stared at the fire without answering for a moment. “Very little. I don’t know where he’s gone to ground. He was badly damaged, even for a talishte. There’s no way to tell how long it will take him to recover.” He paused. “So here we are, licking our wounds, trying to recover enough strength to own a piece of the new Donderath.” His frustration was clear in his voice.
In the Battle of Valshoa, Blaine McFadden’s forces had their own talishte fighters, both the Knights of Esthrane and volunteers from Lanyon Penhallow’s brood. Reese had held his own, only to be badly burned when one of the catapults lobbed a flaming pitcher of oil that exploded close to him. A younger talishte would have been immolated, but Reese’s age enabled him to survive, though he was severely injured. Since then Reese had gone into hiding to heal.
“What can you sense through the kruvgaldur?” Nilo asked, with a glance toward where Pollard’s long sleeves covered the many scars on his forearms made by Reese’s fangs. Few outside Pollard’s inner circle knew for sure that part of Pollard’s fealty to Reese demanded that he offer up his blood to be read by the talishte lord, though many had heard rumors that talishte could read memories from the blood of a living person. That was enough to spark rumors and speculation among the troops. Reese could see Pollard’s memories in his blood, providing an efficient way to make a detailed report and an effective means to reinforce the chain of command. The blood taking also created a bond between talishte and mortal, the kruvgaldur, which could allow for a level of telepathic connection.
“Not much,” Pollard replied. “It’s been months since he’s taken blood, and the bond weakens over time.”
“Does it weaken for him, too?” Nilo asked. “If so, that means you may have a bit more freedom than usual.”
Pollard shrugged. “No way to know. I suspect we would each sense if the other died. I’ve felt a light touch in my dreams, but nothing coherent.”
“And if he doesn’t recover?” Nilo asked with an expression inviting Pollard to speculate.
“We lose an ally—and a liability,” Pollard replied, and took a sip of his drink. “There are rumors that Reese may have angered the Elders. If so, his survival may be more precarious than we thought.” The fact that, even now, Pollard was unwilling to speak freely was evidence of just how wary he was of his talishte master.
“Elders?”
Pollard let out a long breath. “It’s not something talishte speak of directly around mortals. It’s a ruling body as well as a tribunal formed long ago to protect the talishte by punishing flagrant crimes against mortals. The idea was that if the talishte policed themselves, dealing with anyone who drew attention by, say, wiping out a village, it would avoid persecution by the king, like what happened in King Merrill’s grandfather’s time. They’re the oldest and strongest of their kind, and their word is law. I gather that attracting their attention is never a good thing.”
“Why would they be angered at Reese?”
Pollard grimaced. “Before the battle, Reese challenged Penhallow in the presence of th
e Wraith Lord. He entered the Wraith Lord’s lands without invitation and attacked his brood.”
“Are they angry that he lost at Valshoa?” Nilo asked.
Pollard shook his head. “Some of them, perhaps. Reese had supporters among the Elders, although so did Penhallow. But remember, the Wraith Lord helped McFadden, and Reese brought an army against McFadden’s forces. I’d lay money on the odds that Reese didn’t win any favor for his involvement.”
“Reese and his talishte are assets,” Nilo said, speaking slowly as he thought through his words. “But if we lose him, does it change the objectives?”
Pollard sighed. “No. But it’s going to take time to rebuild. Right now we’re at a disadvantage. We’re hemmed in to the south by Penhallow’s allies, our troop strength is still depleted after Valshoa, and with Reese still recovering…” His voice trailed off.
“We’ve got Hennoch’s allegiance. I’ve sent a courier with an invitation to Karstan Lysander to meet about an alliance. With Hennoch and Lysander, our armies will easily replace what we lost at Valshoa, perhaps more.” Pollard was certain Nilo could read the anger in his voice. “If we consolidate our power, we’ll be ready to strike when the moment is right.”
“We’ll want to move as soon as we can,” Nilo said, setting his drink aside and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’ve heard from our spies. McFadden didn’t lose nearly as many soldiers as we did, and he’s gathered enough new men to make up for what he lost. And one more thing—McFadden is recruiting mages.”
Pollard turned to look at Nilo. “Oh, really?”
Nilo shrugged. “They seem to be finding him one or two at a time. They’ve probably been in hiding.”
Pollard drummed his fingers as he thought. “Reese wanted to keep McFadden from restoring the magic,” he said after a long pause. “He failed.”
“McFadden had help,” Nilo replied drily. “Penhallow, Voss, the Knights of Esthrane. He wouldn’t have survived alone.”
Pollard shook his head. “Even Quintrel helped him, though no doubt I’m sure he had his own agenda. So what is Quintrel up to now that the magic is restored?”
“I imagine he wants what everyone wants these days—control over what Donderath becomes,” Nilo replied.
Pollard licked his lips as he thought. “That creates an opportunity.”
“How so?”
Pollard finished his brandy and rose, pacing the room as he spoke. “The new magic may eventually favor a different kind of mage than before,” he said. “Surely mages can also adapt.”
“I doubt very much they’ll adapt to catching on fire.”
Pollard grimaced. “No, but there may be a particular type of mage or a level of skill that can work with the new magic as it now exists. That’s what we want to find, and recruit mages of that type before anyone else has found the key.”
“That would give us control of the magic,” Nilo said, a slow smile spreading across his features. “Which could gain us Lord Reese’s objective by a different means. What we control, we don’t have to reckon with as a force against us.”
“At least, not for a while,” Pollard replied. “Military secrets are the most fleeting of all.”
A hesitant tap at the door silenced their conversation. Pollard turned as Kerr leaned into the doorway. “Sir,” he said, “something has been left on the doorstep. We saw no one arrive or leave. Perhaps you’ll know what to make of it.”
Pollard frowned and exchanged a glance with Nilo. “What is it?” he asked.
Kerr stepped into the room, carrying a tray with a single, white mask, the kind lords and ladies donned for masquerades at the palace. Yet this mask had none of the festivity of those party favors. The mask on Kerr’s tray would cover the full face, leaving no features to tease onlookers into guessing its wearer’s identity. The expression was grim, even intimidating.
Pollard went cold at the sight, and caught his breath sharply.
“Sir, do you recognize it?” Kerr asked with concern. Nilo stood and walked over, staring at the mask in confusion.
“The party season ended in Donderath a long time ago,” Nilo joked nervously.
Pollard shook his head, struggling to regain his composure. “It’s no joke,” he said in a hushed voice. “Reese mentioned that the Elders are always masked, each one a different color. This is a warning, and a message. Reese has been taken by the Elders for trial.”
“And what does that mean for us?” Nilo asked.
Pollard imagined that he could feel the bite scars tingling on his forearms. “It means,” he said, “that either we are free of our mercurial master or the Elders decide that our fate hangs in the balance with his.”
CHAPTER
SIX
SO MANY PEOPLE DEAD, FOR A FEW BOXES OF TRINKETS.” Bevin Connor looked at a trunk full of magical items and shook his head. Connor brushed his dark-blond hair from his eyes. He was of average height and build, although the last year had added muscle as he learned to hold his own with a sword. He was passing fair in looks, though hardly the first to be noticed in a room. Curiosity and a quick wit were easy to see in his blue-green eyes.
“Worthless trinkets, for the most part,” Lanyon Penhallow agreed. “Not too different from the way many wars go, unfortunately.”
Just a few days before, Connor and Penhallow had been among the armed force that besieged and won Westbain from Reese’s loyalists. With Traher Voss’s mercenary army in support of Penhallow’s troops, Reese’s men could not hope to hold the manor without risking that it might burn around them. The cost in lives had been significant, especially for Reese’s soldiers. Connor had almost felt sorry for the troops inside the walls, outnumbered, under siege, and trapped by fire, men who had almost certainly been abandoned by their lord and whose lives were considered forfeit for Reese’s strategic advantage.
One look at the miserable captives in the dungeon ended Connor’s sympathy for their captors.
“Any idea where Reese is hiding?” Connor asked.
Penhallow shook his head. “We know he was badly injured at the Battle of Valshoa. That kind of injury takes a long time to heal—even for a talishte.”
They stood in the manor house at Westbain that used to belong to Reese’s family. Before the Great War, back when King Merrill presided over a thriving kingdom, Westbain had been one of the old homes, its stern façade and thick walls making a statement about its owner’s wealth and power.
The mage fire that fell from the heavens on the night Donderath was destroyed took its toll. One wing had burned, leaving a central structure with four fairly habitable floors, plus cellars and a dungeon below. It was obvious, as soon as Penhallow’s forces had taken possession of the building, that Reese’s priorities had been the crypt and dungeons.
Connor pushed a strand of hair back from his face. “Do you think that the items can be cleansed, now that magic works again?” Connor asked, eyeing the trunk warily. He had been present at Valshoa when Blaine McFadden harnessed the wild magic and made it possible for men to bend that power to their will. And he had seen firsthand, in the months since then, that the magic had returned broken and dangerous.
“Perhaps,” Penhallow replied. The talishte lord appeared no more than a decade older than Connor, in his late thirties at most, yet he had existed for centuries, long enough to see magic rise and fall and rise again. Dark hair and dark eyes were accentuated by his pale skin, and his angular features and confident bearing gave him an aristocratic appearance even when dressed, as they both were this day, in functional tunic and trews.
“I guess I should take comfort in the fact that you’ve seen this kind of thing happen before,” Connor said.
A trace of a sad smile touched the corners of Penhallow’s lips. “If it pleases you,” he replied, “although ‘comfort’ isn’t the word I might have chosen.”
Just in the last year, Connor had seen enough that he had a hint of what Penhallow meant. Connor had witnessed the death of his mortal master and t
he king, and fled for his life as the kingdom burned. His life as an assistant to Lord Garnoc seemed like a half-forgotten dream.
When the mage strike on Donderath brought the kingdom to its knees, Garnoc had charged Connor with the task of protecting two items—an obsidian disk and a map. That task had taken Connor to the frozen top of the world, to Edgeland, where he had met Blaine McFadden and returned with McFadden and his friends to put things right. Becoming Penhallow’s mortal servant had been unexpected, as had discovering his own ability as a medium. That talent for allowing the spirits of the dead to speak through him made Connor the perfect sometime host for the Wraith Lord.
“What of the mages down below?” Connor asked, forcing himself back to the unpleasant reality at hand.
“There’s little we can do for them,” Penhallow replied, an undercurrent of anger in his voice. “Several are near death. Voss’s healers can’t do anything except give them drugs for the pain and speed them on their way to the gods.” He shook his head. “Those who went mad are beyond our help.”
“Can any of them be saved?” Connor asked, horrified.
“Doubtful,” Penhallow replied, though he appeared to take no satisfaction in the statement. “I imagine the mages were either lured here with promises of wealth and power, or captured. Probably the latter.” He paused.
“Which brings up an interesting question: I wonder what Quintrel and his mages are making of the fact that the ‘new’ magic can be deadly?”
Connor quelled a shudder. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I didn’t trust Quintrel, and neither did Blaine.” He grimaced.
Penhallow frowned. “Unfortunately, the magic is taking a toll on Blaine. I can feel it through the kruvgaldur.”
“What do you mean, ‘taking a toll’?” Connor asked, worried.
“The magic was never meant to be anchored by just one man,” Penhallow replied. “Out of necessity, when Blaine brought back the magic at Valshoa, he unintentionally channeled the full strain of anchoring the power through himself.” Penhallow shook his head. “I worry that it’s too great a strain. I can tell from our bond that it’s depleting him, burning him out.”
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 10