“Quintrel,” Connor murmured, and everyone turned to look at him. “A relation to Vigus Quintrel?”
Grimur nodded. “Vigus Quintrel would be a direct descendant—in name as well as in power.”
“Lanyon Penhallow told me to find Vigus Quintrel.” Connor paused. “But by that time, Quintrel had vanished.”
“Penhallow would have known about the link between Vigus and his great-great-grandfather,” Grimur replied. “What Archus Quintrel recorded in his journal tells me that the magic of the meridians was harnessed by an older, more powerful magic—blood.”
Kestel caught her breath. “Sacrifices?”
Grimur gave a disquieting smile. “No, m’lady. Not blood shed but blood bound and blood stirred by magic to become a greater magic. Archus Quintrel’s journal says that the rise of magic was part of a compact between Hougen and his most trusted nobles. They met at Mirdalur and made a blood oath, binding themselves and their descendants to defend the kingdom. Their blood was the crucible and the seal for whatever the mages did that night. And from that moment on, magic as we knew it stirred on the Continent.”
“If the magic was somehow bound to the blood of the old nobles and the king…” Verran began.
“And Meroven struck first at the noble houses, not knowing about the origin of magic,” Connor supplied, “then if they wiped out the old families, the magic died with them.”
Blaine felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Though he had heard Connor’s story about the fall of Donderath more than once, he had not allowed himself to think about what a strike by Meroven against the noble houses would have really meant. Now, his mind supplied the images that his heart did not want to see. His own home, Glenreith, in ruins, and his loved ones, Mari, Judith, and Carr, dead. Carensa’s home, Rhystorp, leveled, and Carensa among the dead.
Kestel laid a hand on his arm. “Mick? You’ve gone pale. Do you need to sit down?”
Blaine tried to catch his breath, and found his chest tight. “It’s just that… my family…”
Grimur’s expression softened. “The death of magic doesn’t mean that everyone was ‘wiped out,’ as Connor put it. King Hougen was clever. From what I’m able to piece together, the magic had two sources: the blood oath of the nobles, and anchors to the power that were set within the manor houses themselves, on the meridians.”
He paused. “The blood inheritance could have been growing weaker for generations. It wouldn’t be surprising if several of the old houses failed to produce male heirs or saw their heirs die in battle without a suitable successor. That might be enough to break the bond. The combined bond between the manor houses and the blood oath might have been enough to sustain the magic, but when Meroven struck at the manors, it could have been the tipping point.”
Grimur looked at Blaine. “The blood oath would have passed down through the oldest surviving son, the inheritor of the title. We must be willing to consider the idea that all of the blood heirs may be dead, except for one.”
Everyone was staring at Blaine. “Except for you, Mick,” Piran said quietly.
Blaine still felt the shock of Grimur’s announcement. He struggled to clear his thoughts. “But… I lost the title when I was condemned. Merrill himself stripped me of it. It would have passed to my brother, Carr, when he came of age.”
“I doubt the magic would have been concerned with technicalities,” Grimur said. “Legalities don’t change blood. To the magic, you would have remained the heir, since you are still alive.”
“Meroven might have struck at the noble houses without even knowing about the magic.” Dawe snorted. “They probably didn’t have any idea about where the magic came from.”
“But it would explain the backlash, wouldn’t it?” Kestel murmured. “If they struck at a target that was bound up in the source of their magic itself.”
“It means there’s a chance that you could set it right,” Grimur said. “The fact that the magic ‘died’ tells us that something has broken the old bonds. To do that, from what this book suggests, it would take a combination of destroying the manor houses and having the original pure bloodlines die out to the point where the power of the oath was weakened.”
Grimur stared down at the book in his hands. “Unfortunately, bloodlines are more fragile than you might imagine. Infidelity, a barren wife, or an impotent husband can mean that the ‘heir’ is not the real heir of the blood. A round of plague or pox can wipe out entire families.” He shook his head. “You may well be the last surviving Lord of the Blood from the original thirteen houses.”
“This is crazy!” Blaine protested. “My magic was no good except in a brawl. I don’t know about blood and oaths and meridians.”
“It may require nothing more than your presence to reactivate the magic,” Grimur replied. “Or perhaps, a token of your blood. The kruvgaldur, or blood bond, has not been weakened by the ‘death’ of magic. It was the kruvgaldur that spoke to me of Connor’s bond with Penhallow,” he said with a nod toward Connor. “And I suspect that through the kruvgaldur, Penhallow may yet speak with Connor, even at this distance.”
They all turned to look at Connor, who reddened.
“Is that true? Can you communicate with Penhallow, even from here?” Piran demanded.
“It’s not what I’d call ‘communication,’ ” Connor said awkwardly. “I get dreams that… aren’t my own. On the edge of waking and sleeping, sometimes I think I can hear his voice. I had convinced myself I was imagining it,” he said with a sour look toward Grimur.
“And what does your master tell you?” Piran said with an edge in his voice.
Connor reddened further. “Penhallow was not my ‘master.’ I served Lord Garnoc, who was a fine master. Garnoc had long been Penhallow’s eyes and ears at court.”
“You mean, his spy,” Piran said.
Connor hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes, his spy. When Garnoc got too old to move easily back and forth to Rodestead House, I went in his place.”
Kestel smiled at him encouragingly. “Court wouldn’t exist without spies,” she said, and turned a withering glance on Piran, who shrugged.
“What do you see in these ‘dreams’?” Grimur asked.
“I see castle ruins,” Connor said slowly, struggling to recall. “Very old.” He gave a nervous smile. “I assumed Penhallow was giving me a way to find him if I ever came back.”
“Tell me about the ruins,” Grimur replied.
“It had broken walls, and walls inside of walls. The ruins stand on a rocky hill. There’s a forest, and a deep valley with a river. The base of the tower has an odd shape—like a five-pointed star.”
Grimur nodded. “You’ve seen what’s left of Mirdalur. It was rebuilt after the first time it fell, and then was destroyed again. Over the years, mages held their rituals there, sensing the power. For a while, they preserved the site as best they could. Over time, they abandoned the place. No one’s used it for decades. I would say that Penhallow knows the site is important. Perhaps he’s come to the same suspicions that we have, and if so, he knows exactly where to find a living Lord of the Blood.” He met Blaine’s gaze.
“I’ve been tracking the magic storms,” Grimur continued. “They’re getting stronger, and coming closer together. I believe they’re moving along the meridians here in Edgeland. Bay-town lies at the nexus of several meridians. How many storms like the one that hit you out on the ice would it take to wipe out the Edgeland colony?”
Not many, Blaine thought. Maybe just one if it were big enough. And the bastard knows it. He’s forcing my hand, damn him. “I’d rather not find out,” Blaine replied.
“You may be the only one who can fix it, Lord McFadden,” Grimur said, and Blaine did not pick up any hint of irony in his use of Blaine’s long-discarded title. “You could return to Donderath on the salvaged ‘ghost’ ship. Go to Mirdalur. If we’re right, you might be able to set the magic right, stop the storms.”
“Donderath? Who said anything about going to Donde
rath?” Blaine protested.
Grimur shrugged. “We don’t know much about how the blood-oath magic worked. But we do know it was done at Mirdalur. That seems like the logical place to attempt to bring the magic back.” Grimur met his eyes. “But be careful. If our guess is right and you are the last Lord of the Blood, if you die, the magic may die with you—permanently.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BLAINE THRASHED AWAKE AS THE POUNDING ON his door grew louder. It took a moment to shake himself clear of the nightmares from Velant. In the near-darkness, another moment passed before he could orient himself. He took a deep breath as he recognized his surroundings as one of the guest rooms at the Crooked House.
“Mick, we need you out here. By the gods, wake up!” Ifrem’s voice was insistent, and from his tone, Blaine gathered that the innkeeper had been shouting for him for a while without result.
Groggily, Blaine swung his legs out of bed. It was cold enough that he had slept in his clothes; good thing, since he had thrown the thin blankets to the floor during his dream-induced thrashing. He made his way to the door and slid back the bolt.
“If it hadn’t been my own door, I’d have been of a mind to break it down,” Ifrem greeted him ill-humoredly. “For all the noise you make, you’re damnably hard to rouse.”
Blaine grunted, still blinking to wake up. “What can possibly be important enough for this?” he grumbled. “If the inn were on fire, I’d smell smoke.”
“Get your cloak,” Ifrem said, pushing Blaine back into his room and toward the peg on the wall that held his coat. “There are riots in Bay-town, and we need every man we’ve got to settle them.”
Blaine splashed cold water on his face from a basin near the door and wiped off the water with a rough towel. In the distance, he could hear muffled shouts. “It’s damn cold and the middle of the night. What in Torven’s name is important enough to fight about that it can’t wait until morning?”
Ifrem shrugged. He looked tired, and his short-trimmed beard seemed grayer than before. The Council had been meeting daily since the herring crews sailed the ghost ship Nomad back into port, and the decision was made for a colonist crew to steer the ship back to Donderath. “Piran didn’t say. He just stopped long enough to make a request for able-bodied men to help keep the peace.” He snorted. “Since that sure didn’t mean me, I figured he was looking for you.”
The meetings had kept Blaine in Bay-town much of the last few weeks, and while he was grateful for Ifrem’s hospitality, he missed his own bed at the homestead. He took his sword belt down from where it hung next to his cloak and belted it on, then swung his cloak across his shoulders. “All right. I’m awake. Where am I supposed to go?”
“Piran was rallying men out back near the stable. Said the trouble was down near the Green.”
Muttering curses under his breath, Blaine headed down the back stairs. The winter wind was like a slap in the face as he opened the door, driving clear any lingering sleepiness. Men were streaming toward the open area by the stable, coming between the buildings and through the alleyways. From the rolling gait of more than a few of the men, Blaine guessed that many of Ifrem’s patrons had also heeded Piran’s call to arms.
Blaine joined the crowd, standing near the back. By now a group of about fifty men were assembled, and Piran stood on top of a wooden cask to address them.
“We’ve got trouble down on the Green, and we need to put an end to it,” shouted Piran, his breath clouding in the freezing air. “Not sure what started it, but we’ve got to keep it from getting worse. You on the right,” he said to a group of men standing a bit apart from the crowd. “Form a line along the storefronts. We’ll have scarce supplies enough without any looting going on.” He looked to the others. “The rest of you, break up fights, and try not to get pulled into them. The Town Guards are already on their way, but they may need backup. Let’s go!”
Blaine could tell Piran had spotted him, and sure enough, when Piran jumped down from the cask, he made a straight line over to Blaine. “Since when are you the constable?” Blaine asked as they began to run toward the village green.
“I guess you could say the constable deputized me. He was heading toward the Green with the Guards, and told me to round up dependable men to even the odds.”
“And so you went to the Crooked House? That’s your idea of dependable men?”
Piran grinned. “I know the regulars, and I depend on them to have my back in a fight. Hence, ‘dependable.’ ”
They rounded a corner, and found that the fight had moved from the Green and was sprawling down the main street in Bay-town and spilling into its alleys. Blaine and Piran had kept the peace in the Crooked House enough nights to have experience breaking up fights, and with a glance and a shrug, they parted ways, wading into the nearest altercations to separate the brawlers.
“Hey, now! Break it up!” Blaine shouted, shouldering between two men who were trading punches. Before he’d even gotten close, he could smell the whiskey on their breath. A punch grazed Blaine’s jaw, and he ducked, landing a blow of his own that sent the man down on his ass in the snow. Rounding on the other man just in time to block a punch meant for his nose, Blaine socked the second man in the gut, doubling him over.
“What in Raka is this about?” Blaine asked, striding over to yank the first man out of the snow. He could hear the second fighter retching in the gutter.
“It ain’t right for the ones who are taking that bleedin’ ship back home to clean us out of food when things are scarce,” the man snapped, unrepentant even though the fight had left him with a bloody gash above one eyebrow and a rapidly blackening eye.
“Who told you that?” Blaine demanded.
The man shrugged. “Heard it around town,” he said with a baleful glare.
Blaine shook him free, and stepped back from both of them. “That’s what this whole thing is about?”
Another shrug. “There’s been talk. The way I figure it, sending people away on the ship might mean fewer mouths to feed here, but what about all the food they’ll take with them? What happens if there’s naught for the ones left behind? We won’t be getting no more ships from Donderath, that’s for sure.” He wiped his split lip with the sleeve of his sweater.
Blaine sighed. This was an issue the Council itself had already debated and thought was concluded. The Nomad had been abandoned early enough in its journey that it was nearly completely stocked, even when the damaged grain was destroyed. Since the wheat rot had only affected a few barrels, replacing them would cause no shortage in Edgeland. Barrels of fresh water and casks of salted herring, something the colonists could easily replace, would be all that was needed to supply the Nomad for its journey home. Simple enough, he thought, but probably not something the brawler and his sparring partner wanted to hear.
“All they’ll be taking from here is water and herring, and Bay-town isn’t running short of either,” Blaine replied. “Now, get out of here before the Town Guards get here and start knocking heads together.”
The two men limped off in separate directions, and with a sigh, Blaine headed into another nearby fray. He spotted Piran across the way. Piran was scuffling with a broad-shouldered man, trying to pull him off a lanky fellow Blaine recognized as one of the colonists who had successfully applied for passage on the Nomad. The ship had room to carry four hundred passengers and crew, and Blaine had wondered how many colonists would jump for a chance to return to Donderath. To his surprise, they barely had enough applicants to fill the ship. Apparently, he thought, he wasn’t the only colonist who had finally come to terms with Edgeland being home.
From what Blaine could see, a few hundred men and women were surging their way. Shouting and catcalling, they were in an ugly mood, and although the Town Guards were breaking up fights, the crowd showed no interest in breaking up.
Blaine grabbed a tin bucket and a ladle and scrambled atop the roof of a small shed. He began to bang the bucket with the ladle and shout until the mob quieted
and everyone had turned to stare at the madman on the roof.
“You’ll not be losing anything except herring and water when the Nomad sails for Donderath,” Blaine shouted. His throat constricted at the freezing-cold air, and he fought the urge to cough. “If that’s what you’re fighting about, go home.”
“Fine for you to say,” shouted a young man from the front of the crowd. “You’re one of them goin’ on the boat. Takin’ all the food—what about them that’s stayin’ behind?”
Piran had walked up behind the speaker and smacked the man in the back of the head. “Didn’t you hear the man? Naught but herring and water—you think you’ll miss any of that?” The young man spun to strike back, then thought better of it as he got a look at Piran’s size and ready fist.
“Herring and water, folks,” Blaine repeated. “And a long, cold voyage back to gods only knows what. You didn’t want to be on the boat, and the passengers aren’t taking anything you can’t replace. Go home.”
There were a few shouts from the rear of the crowd, and widespread muttering, but with the combination of Blaine’s interruption and the heavy-handed tactics of the Town Guards cracking down on brawlers, the riot’s momentum had dwindled to nothing. Under the watchful eyes of the Guards, the colonists began to disperse. Piran fell in with the Guards, rooting out stragglers and encouraging the dawdlers to be on their way, herding them down the street and breaking up the crowd. Gradually, they disappeared around a corner.
Blaine tossed the bucket and ladle down to the ground and started to climb down. He had just turned to let himself down from the shed’s roof when he heard a rush of air and felt something hard and heavy slam into his right temple. He fell backward into the drifted snow, and before he could clear his head, a black-robed man came at him, brandishing a wicked-looking knife.
Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) Page 33