War of Shadows: Book Three of the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga

by Gail Z. Martin

  Going into the labyrinth ‘winds’ the magic up, Blaine thought. We have to walk the rest of the maze to release the power, or we’ll die here.

  “Get up!” His voice was a harsh rasp. He managed to reach his knees, and then stood, swaying. “We’ve got to get out, or the magic will eat us alive.”

  One by one, the others stirred. Penhallow and Dolan were the first to regain their footing, followed by Connor. When Blaine was certain the thirteen men were conscious and able to move, they began the careful trek back to the outside of the labyrinth.

  When they had gone in, the power had not fought them, but the return journey felt to Blaine as if they struggled against a headwind. He was utterly exhausted, and the half-healed battle wounds ached anew from the strain of the magic. Sheer willpower kept him moving, careful to stay inside the labyrinth path, one foot in front of the other. Yet with each step, the power captured in the maze dissipated, and Blaine felt the oppressive weight lift.

  Outside the maze, the mages kept up the chant and drumbeat as Blaine staggered from the warded circle. Kestel was waiting for him, and he leaned hard on her as he stumbled. Mages and guards cleared out of their way as Blaine made his way to the rock wall, unwilling to collapse until he was certain the others made it out.

  “When the power struck you, I thought you were going to die,” Kestel admitted. Although Blaine leaned back against the wall, she stayed under his arm to keep him on his feet. The new Lords of the Blood looked as hard used as Blaine felt, even the talishte.

  “So did I,” Blaine replied. “But not this time. Not tonight.” He smiled. “Tonight, we won.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE NOT ALL EITHER DEAD OR barking mad,” Piran said.

  “Who says we’re not?” Connor replied.

  A small group gathered in one of the underground rooms beneath Mirdalur after the ritual was over. The Knights had provided food and drink for the mortals and flagons of fresh deer blood for the talishte, as well as pallets where the participants in the night’s working could rest.

  Blaine agreed with Connor, though at the moment, he was too utterly spent to make a flippant remark.

  “Here. Eat this. You’ll feel better,” Kestel said, bringing bread, smoked meat, and cheese to Blaine and Piran, along with hot cups of fet.

  Blaine shook his head to clear it, and immediately regretted the action. “I really don’t remember much after the lightning,” he said. His voice was raspy, and his entire body ached. Still, he eyed the food hungrily, feeling as if he had fasted for days. Zaryae looked after Borya, Verran, and Dawe, and across the cramped room, the other mages brought food, drink, or blood to the rest of the weary participants.

  “It was a lot like the last time,” Kestel said, trying to keep her tone light. Blaine could hear the concern she tried to hide. “We were all on the outside of that curtain of power, totally helpless, and there was nothing even the mages could do except watch you twist and scream in pain.” Her voice was steady, but Blaine saw the worry in her eyes.

  “We had no idea whether when it was all done, you’d all survive, or whether there would be nothing left but ashes,” she added, brushing a strand of red hair out of her eyes. “Dammit, Blaine! Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

  “And did I worry you awfully, Kestel?” Piran asked with exaggerated concern. Kestel rolled her eyes and punched him in the shoulder.

  “You, not really,” Kestel said with a forced chuckle. She sighed. “Honestly, it was awful. I didn’t see how anyone could live through that.”

  “Neither did I,” Blaine admitted, sipping his hot cup of fet.

  “Good to see you awake, if not exactly up and around,” Nidhud said, walking among the pallets to get to Blaine.

  “Did it work?” Blaine asked, looking up.

  “Mostly,” Nidhud replied. “Dagur, Rikard, and the others are testing that now.”

  “What do you mean, ‘mostly’?” Piran asked with a dangerous note in his voice.

  Nidhud shrugged. “The magic appears to be stable. We’ll have to test to see if that’s really the case and whether it’s temporary or permanent.”

  “Is the magic what it used to be?”

  “Probably not,” Nidhud said, and held up his hands to forestall argument. “Hear me out! You intend to rebuild much of what was destroyed in the Cataclysm, right?” he asked, and the others nodded. “But no one would claim that what is rebuilt would be exactly as it was before. For a lot of reasons, it can never be exactly as before, but it might be just as good, perhaps even better.”

  Blaine was silent for a few moments, thinking as he ate. To no one’s surprise, Penhallow and Dolan were back on their feet the quickest. They were followed by Connor, the first of the mortals to recover. Blaine watched Connor with worried interest, wondering just how much his bond with Penhallow had changed him.

  And how has it changed me, really? Blaine wondered. Even now, he could feel a hint of the kruvgaldur bond active in the back of his mind. He was too tired to argue about it, fearing that without Penhallow’s assistance, he might collapse. Bits and pieces of memories came back to him from the ritual, of visions and nightmares, and of the underlying bond that held fast beneath them, like a lifeline.

  Later, I’m really going to have to have a long talk with both Penhallow and Connor, he promised himself.

  “What about the others?” Blaine asked, glancing around the crowded room. He had expected Piran and Niklas to recover rapidly since they did not have magic, and he guessed that the same might be true of Folville, Voss, and Birgen Verner. None of those men looked to have rebounded yet. Dolan and Penhallow walked over to join them, as did Connor.

  “Do you remember the Wraith Lord telling you that the last time magic was anchored successfully at Mirdalur, the Lords of the Blood found themselves changed?” Dolan asked, having heard Blaine’s question.

  Blaine nodded uneasily. “Yes.”

  “Well, we think something similar happened today as well, but we’re not sure just what,” Dolan replied.

  Piran looked at him as if daring him to make a response. “You’re trying to tell me that because I got hit by lightning, now I can throw fire from my fingertips?”

  Dolan chuckled. “Probably not. I think you’re safe from that,” he said. “But if the anchoring works as it did in the past, each of you now has some new magically enhanced ability, or a previous ability has been strengthened. It may take you each a while to figure out what that ability is, and how to use it.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s magic’s way of assuring your survival, making you harder to kill.”

  Piran snorted. “After it did its best to kill us itself,” he countered.

  “The last time, how did the ritual change you?” Kestel asked Connor, addressing the Wraith Lord. He hesitated, and they could see a change come over his manner as the Wraith Lord took possession.

  Vandholt looked thoughtful. “It was quite a long time ago,” he said. “I have been trying to remember.” He looked at Piran. “One thing I am certain of: It did not change the participants into mages.”

  “King Merrill could truth-sense, though he tried to keep that a secret,” Kestel mused. “Were the abilities gained or enhanced on that level of magic?”

  Vandholt nodded. “I agree with Dolan that the… alterations… were protective, but not of full mage strength.” He frowned, thinking. “Foresight, touch magic to read the history of an object, the ability to talk with spirits—but not to summon them. Divination with fire and water. An ability to ‘see’ magic and supernatural power and thus evade traps. Being able to read another person’s thoughts, heightened intuition, and in one case, as I recall, dreaming that enabled the person’s spirit to travel the astral paths without his body. All abilities that were valuable for rulers. And all of the mortals gained an extended life span—not unlike the effect of the kruvgaldur.”

  “I don’t feel any different,” Blaine said. But upon reflection, he r
ealized that was not entirely true. His senses seemed sharper, and his awareness keener than normal. Colors looked brighter, sounds carried farther, and his eyesight seemed to note details he might not have even been aware of before the ritual. Perhaps that’s also why I’m now so aware of the kruvgaldur with Penhallow, he thought. Usually, it’s forgotten unless it’s needed.

  “What about Solveig?” Blaine asked, noticing that of all of them, Tormod Solveig seemed to be taking the longest to rally.

  “The Wraith Lord, Dolan, and Tormod were the only true mages among those within the circle,” Penhallow replied, “and Dolan had his talishte strength to rely on. Solveig’s magic is quite powerful, so I suspect that the ritual took a greater toll on him than on the rest of you.”

  “Will he retain his magic?” Kestel asked, frowning in concern.

  “With luck,” Nidhud replied. “The thing is, we don’t know whether the changes from the ritual happen immediately, or manifest over time. It could be days—even months—before all of you truly realize how the ritual has changed you.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not get into a battle to test the theory,” Blaine said with a tired half smile. He fell silent, searching his thoughts. “And yet…”

  “Oh?” Kestel said.

  Blaine concentrated, listening for the magic he had learned to sense when he was its sole anchor. “I think the ritual changed my ability to know when magic is being worked nearby from a problem to a benefit. It doesn’t drain me anymore, but I still know where magic’s being used—a handy thing, especially in battle,” he said finally, meeting Nidhud’s gaze.

  Nidhud nodded. “A change that might have some protective benefits, if it becomes permanent,” he replied.

  “What about the storms? If the magic’s anchored, will the storms lessen?” Kestel asked.

  The Wraith Lord, speaking through Connor, grimaced. “Not sure. That’s one of the things it will take us some time to figure out. In fact, magic itself is going to require some refiguring, to see exactly what has changed with this new binding,” he said.

  “This upends everything, just as the Cataclysm did originally,” the Wraith Lord continued. “We know we can’t go back to what we had before, but what we have now remains to be seen.” He gave an enigmatic smile that belonged to Kierken Vandholt, not to Bevin Connor. “These next few months are going to be very interesting.”

  Their speculation ended as Nidhud was called away by one of the mages, while a talishte guard beckoned to Penhallow and Connor.

  “Should we be worried?” Kestel murmured, watching Penhallow and Connor in close conference with the guard.

  “Probably,” Blaine replied. “But right now, I want to go outside,” he added, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. “I need some air.”

  Blaine and Kestel wound their way through the tunnels beneath Mirdalur until a set of stone stairs led upward into the night. Outside, the cold air was fresh and bracing, and for once, the sky was clear, filled with bright stars.

  “How many days were we in there?” Blaine asked, leaning against one of the ruined stone walls.

  “Three,” Kestel replied. “You were all either unconscious or barely able to move for a long time,” she said tiredly. She let out a long breath. “It seemed to take forever.”

  Soldiers patrolled the ruined grounds of the old manor. Beyond the tumbledown stone walls, troops from each of the victorious warlords’ armies stood guard to assure they would not be ambushed. Blaine’s own men, along with those loyal to Traher Voss, the Solveigs, and Verner, presented a large, united force against anyone who might seek to interfere. Add to that talishte belonging to Penhallow and the Wraith Lord, and Blaine felt like he could rest easy, at least for a night.

  Rinka Solveig spotted him as she gave orders to one of her commanders. When the soldiers were dismissed, she strode over with an expression of worry and anger.

  “There you are!” she said, looking him up and down. “You survived? Good. What of my brother?”

  Blaine told her what he knew, watched her dark eyes narrow as she considered his report. “But he still sleeps?” she questioned.

  Blaine nodded. “Yes. Those with strong magic are taking longer to recover. And he may come away from the ritual with even more magic than he had before.”

  “Maybe a good thing,” she replied, her face unreadable. “Maybe not.”

  “What happened up here during the ritual?” Kestel asked. “Any problems?”

  Rinka gave a cold chuckle. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  Her red armor showed cuts and gashes from the battle on the northern plains, dark stains and splatter that did not beg close examination. Her skin was streaked with dirt and blood, and her hair was wet with sweat, despite the cold. It was obvious that she and the soldiers had fought a battle while the others were in the underground chamber. Rinka looked more haggard and gaunt than Blaine remembered, and he wondered if the twins shared a bond of their own, magical or not, that connected her to her brother’s distress.

  “What happened?” Blaine asked.

  Rinka’s smile was the expression of a predator. “Hennoch made an attempt to disrupt what we were doing. We did not permit that.”

  “Did he survive?” Kestel’s interest matched Rinka’s for deadly focus.

  Rinka gave a contemptuous look. “That depends on how much blood he loses on his way home,” she said. “We sent his troops running with their tails between their legs, like curs. I stopped the commanders from pursuing them because they weren’t our priority, and I had no desire to be led into a trap.”

  “Lysander’s survivors have scattered, and so have Rostivan’s,” Blaine replied. “They know they won’t be welcome among our allies, which leaves Hennoch and Pollard—unless another warlord comes to the fore.”

  Rinka made a dismissive gesture. “There will always be men happy to snap up the scraps and cobble them back together.” She shrugged. “No matter to us. If another power arises, it’ll have to challenge us.” She smiled, baring her teeth. “And we will kill them, like we’ve killed the others.” They might have asked her more questions, but a captain called for her, and with a nod, she returned to her troops.

  “Could it be that simple?” Kestel murmured as Blaine slipped an arm around her shoulders, partly in affection and partly because he was feeling the strain of standing.

  Blaine sighed. “Probably not,” he admitted, watching as the soldiers bustled around the courtyard and the perimeter. “Pollard’s the power behind Hennoch, and Pollard won’t give up until one of us is dead.”

  He let his gaze rise to the black night sky and the stars, which seemed even brighter and closer than usual. “Pentreath Reese was bound, but not destroyed. Until he’s dust, I’m not counting him out. I don’t think Penhallow and the Wraith Lord have forgotten about him, either.”

  Kestel leaned into him. “True. And if the survivors from Lysander and Rostivan join up with Hennoch, he might be ready to field an army a lot sooner than we’d like to think.”

  Blaine nodded wearily. “That’s certainly possible. Probable, even. And we’ll face the threat when it comes.”

  Donderath’s harrowing was not over; not yet, but perhaps soon. And during it all, there were crops to plant and harvest, walls to rebuild, ale to brew, and a Continent to reclaim.

  “It’s time to be a lord for a while, instead of a warlord,” Blaine said, pulling Kestel close, enjoying her nearness. “I’m ready to go home to Glenreith. There’s work to be done.”

  EPILOGUE

  Two weeks later

  IF REESE IS STILL IMPRISONED, WHY DO WE NEED to see the Elders again?” Connor was seated across the table from Penhallow, and he was aware that the Wraith Lord’s spirit hovered nearby. It was just a fortnight after the ritual at Mirdalur, and even though Connor knew that his strengthened bond with Penhallow would change him, he was amazed at how quickly his body had healed.

  From having been a breath away from the Sea of Souls, Connor
now felt healthy and strong. Even the memory of the horror of that night seemed to have dimmed. Connor fought to remember, unwilling to allow the event to recede in his mind.

  “Because matters are not yet settled.” The Wraith Lord’s voice was a rough whisper, and Connor knew that Vandholt was doing him a kindness by refraining from possessing him until absolutely necessary. “Reese’s maker has returned.”

  Connor could not repress a shiver. “Reese’s maker still exists?”

  Penhallow nodded soberly. “Thrane is as old as I am—perhaps a bit older. He was a ruthless and violent man when he was alive, and centuries of undeath haven’t improved him.”

  “Is Thrane an Elder? Or a lord?” Connor searched his memory, but he could not remember ever having heard that name at court.

  “Perhaps you know him by his war name: Hemlock,” the Wraith Lord replied.

  Connor’s eyes widened. “I thought Hemlock was a superstition, like Red Mariah—the witch who appears in mirrors if called thrice, and steals souls.”

  A look passed between Penhallow and the Wraith Lord, and Connor drew back. “Oh no, don’t do it. You’re going to tell me that Red Mariah isn’t entirely a superstition either, aren’t you? I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Red Mariah was an insane—and bloodthirsty—conjurer who was cursed to wander the Unseen Realm for her crimes,” Vandholt replied. “And as you’ll recall, I, too, inhabit the Unseen Realm. I have seen her, unfortunately. She is no myth.”

  “Red Mariah is the least of our worries,” Penhallow said. “But Thrane—Hemlock—is another matter. The fact that there are rumors that he’s returned are worrisome, especially given how fragile the consensus of the Elders is right now.”

  “Returned from where?” Connor leaned forward.