“What choice does he have?” Connor replied.
Penhallow shrugged. “None, at the moment. But it’s not an idle concern. Blaine won’t be able to sustain the magic alone for long. As we gather mages, finding a new anchor needs to be a primary concern. We dare not wait too long.”
Connor looked out the cracked windowpane across the courtyard of the fortified manor. By the torchlight, he could see Voss’s soldiers bustling about their work, taking inventory of the items being seized from Reese’s storage buildings and triaging the wounded.
Reese had not only prepared for a siege, he was laying in provisions for a war. Storage areas above- and belowground were filled with weapons, supplies, and foodstuffs that Reese, a talishte, did not require but that would be necessary for a human army. Other areas, like this workroom, were full of stolen manuscripts and scrolls, pilfered magical items, and looted treasures.
“You know, I thought Lowrey was awful when he admitted to having stolen a few dozen books from the University and the noble houses that hosted him before the Great Fire,” Connor said. “He had nothing on Reese.” Connor shook his head in amazement as he looked around the room.
“I doubt Treven killed for any of his treasures,” Penhallow replied. “And we already know that Reese felt no such limitations.”
“Lanyon, a word with you?” Traher Voss stood in the doorway, a burly man in his middle years whose broad shoulders nearly spanned the door frame. Connor had heard his heavy tread coming down the hallway. To sensitive talishte hearing, it probably sounded like stampeding elk.
“What do you need, Traher?” Penhallow asked as he turned and gestured for Voss to join them.
Before the Cataclysm, Traher Voss was someone Connor had heard of, but never in his life expected to meet. Renowned in some circles for his military prowess, infamous in others for his well-known preference for fighting in support of the highest bidder, Voss was legendary, if not notorious. He was also a longtime associate of Penhallow’s, and someone to whom Connor owed his life, indirectly, twice over.
“What do you want us to do with Reese’s soldiers?” Voss asked. He was a commanding figure, even though his uniform was stained with blood and dirt from the battle and there was a streak of soot across one cheek. A fringe of close-cropped graying hair ringed a balding pate, and piercing dark eyes seemed to catch and analyze every movement.
“The Wraith Lord will handle the talishte soldiers,” Penhallow replied. As if anticipating Connor’s concern, Penhallow turned and met Connor’s gaze. “Don’t worry. He won’t require your assistance for that.”
Connor felt a surge of relief. Allowing the disembodied Wraith Lord to possess his body was one of the unpleasant tasks of being a medium. He did not relish the idea of being the mortal host of an immortal and angry Elder passing judgment on renegade talishte fighters.
“And the others?” Voss asked. Connor knew Voss meant the mortal soldiers Reese had gathered for his army.
“How many are there?” Penhallow asked.
“Too many to glamour,” Voss replied matter-of-factly. “The good news is, most of them aren’t bonded by the kruvgaldur. We checked for that.”
Penhallow ran a hand back through his dark hair, a mortal gesture that death did not erase. “Dozens or hundreds?”
“There were thirty-six survivors when we accepted their surrender,” Voss replied. “They were all that remained of the garrison Reese abandoned when he went into hiding. Some of them realize they were set up to take the fall for their lord, and they say they’re willing to change their allegiance.”
“What about the rest?”
Voss shrugged. “Some men can’t admit when they’re wrong, or when they’ve been played for a fool. There are a handful who are snarling insults from their cells, telling us what Reese is going to do to us when he comes back for them.” He shook his head. “Poor, dumb bastards.”
Connor had witnessed Penhallow’s compassion, and his cunning. He had glimpsed ruthlessness and remorse. Now a shadow seemed to fall across Penhallow’s features, and his eyes took on a hard light.
“Accept surrender from those who will swear fealty. Have a talishte read their blood to make sure they’re telling the truth. Those who won’t swear fealty need to understand that we don’t have the manpower to guard prisoners or the supplies to feed them.” He paused. “Give them time to reconsider, and then hang the holdouts.”
Voss’s face showed no emotion. “Those were my thoughts, but I wanted to check with you first.”
“Unfortunate, but necessary,” Penhallow said. “Anything else?”
“We’ve confiscated a nice cache of weapons and supplies, which always come in handy, especially the food. There were horses in the stables, good ones, so we’ll take them and the wagons. I wish I could say we also found a large number of full casks of brandy, but unfortunately, that’s not the case,” Voss replied.
Penhallow nodded. “Very well. Carry on.”
It was silent for a few moments after Voss left the room. Connor’s thoughts churned. Voss and Penhallow were men who had seen more than their share of war. Their decision to deal with Reese’s soldiers was well within military tradition, he knew. They didn’t have to offer the chance to switch sides, and had they not been able to assure a change in loyalty by reading the blood of the captives, such grace might not have been extended at all. When he served Lord Garnoc, he had been present at enough of King Merrill’s council meetings to have heard the lives of thousands of soldiers decided after heated debate.
Intellectually, he knew the decision was sound. Yet he hated hangings, and had gone out of his way to avoid the public executions that were held before the Cataclysm in Castle Reach’s main square, events many others regarded as entertainment.
“Death is a necessary part of war, Bevin,” Penhallow said quietly.
Whether the talishte read his thoughts through the kruvgaldur, or guessed them from Connor’s expression, did not matter. The comment still made Connor wince. “I know,” he said. “I don’t fault the logic. It just all seemed much more distant and… academic… when I served Lord Garnoc.”
“And yet, the men who died as a result of those council meetings are just as dead,” Penhallow replied.
Connor nodded. “I know. But I don’t have to like it.”
Penhallow regarded him for a moment, and there was a sadness in his eyes Connor had rarely glimpsed before. “No. That speaks well of you. And know this—the decision never gets easier to make.”
Penhallow’s words only partly allayed the concern Connor felt. He knew that his real fear centered on the meeting to which he and Penhallow had been summoned later that night.
“Has the Wraith Lord told you more about what we’re to do tonight?” Connor asked, knowing that Penhallow could easily read his worries.
Penhallow shook his head. “No. My role is as a witness. You will play a much more pivotal role if he needs you as his host.”
Kierken Vandholt had been a talishte mage for six hundred years when he used his magic to save the life of King Hougen, Donderath’s king four centuries past. His loyalty cost him his soul. By exchanging his own soul for that of the king’s at the instant of Reaping, he cheated Etelscurion, the Taker of Souls, master of the Sea of Souls. The goddess refused Vandholt eternal rest, but Esthrane, a more powerful goddess, took pity, giving Vandholt sanctuary in the Unseen Realm, dooming him to a half-life existence as a wraith, neither living, dead, nor truly undead. King Hougen’s heirs grew to fear Vandholt’s power, murdering his living descendants and sending Vandholt into exile. Now nearly one thousand years old, Kierken Vandholt was better known as the Wraith Lord.
“That’s what makes me nervous,” Connor replied. “I get to be the Wraith Lord’s borrowed body while he plays prosecutor for Pentreath Reese in front of the oldest and most powerful talishte on the Continent. I can’t help worrying that the Elders will be wondering how I’d taste as a snack.”
“There are valid reasons to be co
ncerned over tonight’s event,” Penhallow replied. “Fearing that you will become a ‘snack,’ as you put it, is not one of them.”
“I’m the one with warm blood,” Connor said, not feeling reassured.
“Possessed by one of the most powerful talishte the Continent has ever seen,” Penhallow reminded him. “I know that hosting Kierken takes a toll on you. But you know better than anyone that he has always protected you in exchange.”
Even when it was his own presence inside me that nearly burned me up and dried me to a husk, Connor thought, indulging what he considered a moment of well-deserved pique. “That’s true,” he conceded. “But you have no idea how frightening it is on this end of the bargain.”
Penhallow’s expression softened. “Actually, Bevin, I do. Or did you forget that the kruvgaldur is a two-way bond?”
Connor felt his cheeks color at the reminder. “I understand that what is being asked of you is difficult, even unreasonable,” Penhallow continued. “You have shown uncommon courage, above and beyond what ought to be asked of you. And I regret that we must ask too much of you yet again.”
“It’s not really like there’s a choice, is there?” Connor replied quietly. “There isn’t anyone else who can do the job. I can, so it falls to me. That’s how it works.”
“I know it’s scant consolation,” Penhallow said, “but you will be privy to something no living mortal has ever seen: the convocation of the Elders and their judgment on a powerful talishte.”
“What if they decide they don’t like the idea of having a mortal witness?” Connor asked, finally getting up the nerve to voice the question that had bothered him all day. “You and the Wraith Lord are very powerful, but if they came after me, could you really promise me I’d make it out alive?”
Penhallow’s gaze met his, and Connor saw just how seriously the talishte took his question. “I will protect you with all my power, Connor. Even if I cease to exist. The Wraith Lord, I believe, has made you a similar oath. It’s the most we can promise.”
Connor let out a long breath. “I know, and I’m not ungrateful. I’m just—”
“Frightened,” Penhallow finished for him, placing a firm hand on Connor’s shoulder. “You would hardly be sane or reasonable were you not.”
“The Elders are going to determine Reese’s fate, aren’t they?” Connor asked. The ride to the Wraith Lord’s manor at Lundmyhre would have taken two candlemarks in good weather. In the sleeting rain, it took considerably more. Connor was chilled to the bone.
Penhallow frowned. “The Elders have authority to punish Reese for crimes against immortals. That includes waging war against the Wraith Lord at Valshoa, and attacking my brood on several occasions.”
“I was there,” Connor replied, doing his best to keep his teeth from chattering.
The fact that Reese might be punished for putting the talishte in danger rather than for the loss of mortal life was not lost on Connor. “They’ve called him to be sentenced, but they haven’t declared a verdict yet. So there’s the chance that Reese might not be punished at all, isn’t there? Where would that leave us?”
The tightness around Penhallow’s mouth told Connor the talishte was far from certain of the outcome. “If the Elders refuse to pass judgment, they might also refuse to place special protection over Reese. Other talishte would still be able to destroy him—without fearing the Elders’ wrath.”
They rode with an escort of Penhallow’s talishte soldiers and Traher Voss’s mortal fighters until they reached the borders of the Wraith Lord’s lands. Connor followed Penhallow through the tangled undergrowth to Lundmyhre, once a grand manor and now an overgrown ruin.
Cold mist coalesced into the shape of a man. Connor recognized the sense of presence even before the features became distinct. This was Kierken Vandholt, talishte, warrior, and Wraith Lord.
To Connor’s surprise, General Dolan and Nidhud of the Knights of Esthrane moved out of the shadows to stand with the Wraith Lord. If Penhallow was surprised, he did not show it.
“Welcome,” the Wraith Lord said. He was of medium height, broad-shouldered, with the stance of a warrior, clad in clothing out of fashion centuries ago. The mist made his features indistinct, but Connor had no problem calling Kierken Vandholt’s face to mind. After all, Vandholt had inhabited his thoughts and possessed his body on more than one occasion.
“Gentlemen,” Penhallow said with a nod to Dolan and Nidhud. He looked back to the Wraith Lord. “To what do we owe the reinforcements?”
The Wraith Lord’s chuckle held little mirth. “Not exactly ‘reinforcements,’ ” he said.
“I’ve withdrawn my soldiers from Valshoa,” Dolan replied, meeting Penhallow’s gaze. “The situation has grown undesirable.”
“I don’t imagine Quintrel was happy about that,” Penhallow said.
Dolan’s mouth tightened. “No. He wasn’t. And I suspect he was even less happy after we left,” he added, withdrawing a black bag from beneath his cloak. “Quintrel used old Valshoan manuscripts to figure out a way to anchor the magic outside of Blaine McFadden. These,” he said with a nod toward the bag, “are what he called ‘presence-crystals,’ artifacts he needed to work the magic necessary to shift the anchor.”
Connor let out a low whistle, then realized he had been audible and fell abruptly silent. Penhallow chuckled. “Eloquently put, Connor.” He looked to Dolan. “Quintrel hadn’t had a chance to do the working yet?”
Dolan shook his head. “He would have needed to kidnap McFadden to make that happen.” He paused. “Anchoring the magic is a strain no one man was meant to bear. If the anchor doesn’t shift, it will eventually kill McFadden.”
Penhallow eyed the bag. “Do you think it’s possible to work the ritual somewhere besides Valshoa? Could you and mages loyal to McFadden create that new anchor?”
“I believe it’s possible,” Dolan replied. “But we would need the right place to make the working, a place of power. Perhaps the crypts beneath Quillarth Castle, or even better, Mirdalur.”
“Blaine tried to bring the magic back at Mirdalur and it nearly killed him,” Connor objected before he could stop himself.
Dolan nodded. “True. But the magic was wild then, and McFadden was unprepared for the working. The crystals, together with the obsidian disks and the restored magic, might yield a very different outcome.”
Dolan returned his attention to Penhallow. “I believe that Quintrel has fallen under the sway of a corrupted artifact,” he said. “A globe with a bound divi.”
The Wraith Lord looked up sharply. “A divi? What in Raka is Quintrel doing with a divi?”
“Nothing good, that’s for certain,” Penhallow replied. “You say it’s affected him?”
Dolan’s expression was grave. “It’s making him unstable and volatile. If he persists—and I think he will—it will drive him mad.”
Penhallow frowned. “What brings you here?”
Dolan looked from Penhallow to the Wraith Lord. “Nidhud told me about what McFadden has done since Valshoa. He would seem to be an honorable contender for power.” He paused. “I would like to propose a deal to McFadden. I will ally my Knights with those Nidhud leads and support him—on one condition.”
“Say on,” the Wraith Lord said warily.
“I will not allow the Knights to be exiled again,” Dolan said. “So in exchange for our support, I would ask that one of the new Lords of the Blood be chosen from among the Knights of Esthrane, and that the Knights hold seats on McFadden’s senior council.”
Penhallow and the Wraith Lord exchanged a glance. “We aren’t the ones who can make that decision, but if Blaine agrees, we’ll support you,” the Wraith Lord replied.
Dolan nodded. “In that case, I will send Nidhud to Glenreith to make our offer. And I will go to Mirdalur.”
“Why Mirdalur?” Connor could not contain his curiosity. Dolan looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Is your servant always so forthright?” he asked Penhallow drolly.<
br />
“Always,” Penhallow replied. Connor blushed, but held his ground.
Dolan regarded Connor with amusement. “Mirdalur is an exceptionally powerful place. I am not convinced that its usefulness is over.”
“I’ll send Geir to let Niklas Theilsson know there may be new allies,” Penhallow said. “Once we finish securing Westbain, Connor and I are due to travel to Glenreith.”
“Nidhud will bring word,” Dolan replied. “Travel safely. Donderath is a dangerous place.” With that, he and Nidhud were gone. Connor could not suppress a shiver. If a talishte mage-warrior considers travel dangerous, what does that say for the mortals?
Penhallow turned his attention back to the Wraith Lord. “What should we expect tonight among the Elders?”
“The Elders are assembling at the Circle. Talishte loyal to me will bring Reese to us there.” The insubstantial figure turned toward Connor. “I may need to ask to use your form once again,” he said. “I will need you only if we are attacked, and I will do my best to return the form to you unharmed.”
Not far beyond the ruins of the Wraith Lord’s fortress stood an ancient circle of large stones in the center of a forest clearing. Connor had not quite decided whether the stones themselves were magic, but he feared venturing close to them, and hesitated to step within their circle.
The Wraith Lord led them directly into the center of the stones. It was clear they were no accident of nature. The spaces between the huge stone rectangles were even, and their width was uniform. The moon hung directly above one of the tallest stone rectangles, illuminating cryptic carvings.
They waited in the darkness. Connor blinked, and twelve black-robed figures appeared, each wearing a different color satin mask. The masks hid the entire face, and the color of the masks was duplicated in the gemstone pendants each wore at the throat of their robes.
War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga Page 11