“Our business is our own,” Penhallow answered smoothly. “We have no quarrel with you. Let us pass, and we’ll be on our way. We want nothing from you or your village.”
The man who hailed them barked a laugh. “That’s right nice of you, but we be wanting something from you. Your gold and your horses, if you please, since you’ve got no wenches with you.”
“No.” Penhallow’s voice was toneless.
Connor saw the armed men raise their crossbows. In the split second before he could react, something swept him from his mount. Connor slid to the ground, grateful to have fallen on his good leg. Overhead, he heard the thud of crossbows. His mind registered the importance of the sound a second later. The brigands had drawn first, but Penhallow’s men had fired first, in the heartbeat between the brigands’ motion and when they could twitch their fingers to loose their arrows.
“You can get up now,” Penhallow said laconically.
Connor staggered to his feet and dusted himself off, then stared. Every one of the dark-clad men lay dead on the ground, quarrels protruding from their chests. Two of Penhallow’s guards bent to the task of rolling the huge tree trunk out of the roadway, something Connor bet had taken a dozen mortals to place. His heart was pounding although the battle had lasted mere seconds.
“What in Raka was that about?” Fear and unspent anger found vent in Connor’s voice.
The two men finished clearing away the tree and swung up to their mounts. Penhallow afforded Connor a glance. “Look around you. This is what the world is like without magic.”
“I don’t understand.”
Penhallow’s arm swung in a shallow arc to indicate the countryside around them. “At court, you saw only the great magics, though small magics were always around.”
“And now it’s gone.” Connor supplied, still at a loss to understand the ambush. He swung back up onto his horse.
“A year ago, these were fields, not marshlands. Magic drained the water away, and magic bound the dams and levees together that kept the land from flooding. When the magic died, the wardings and charms went with it. People and livestock died in such numbers, one might have thought a plague struck. In a way, it did. Nature came back with a vengeance, and there was no one to turn to for help.”
“Except the talishte?” Connor asked.
Penhallow’s expression was pained. “There are not enough of my kind to prevail against those odds, even if mortals would trust us enough to seek us out. And few of the vampire lords would bother to intervene in mortal affairs. They are content to sit back, watch the situation sort itself out, and adjust accordingly.”
“And you?” Connor’s tone was more of a challenge than he intended. Penhallow did not reply immediately, and Connor wondered if he had given offense.
“The last time the magic died, in another place long ago, I withdrew and waited to see what would come of it. The result was not to my liking. I will not make the same mistake again,” Penhallow said. There was steel in his voice, and Connor wondered just how badly wrong the last situation had gone. Bad enough, obviously, to stir Penhallow to hedge his bets this time around.
They rode on, leaving the corpses of the dead brigands where they lay. “I still don’t understand the highwaymen,” Connor said, anxious for a change of subject. “Were they from that village?”
Penhallow shrugged. “Probably. Without law, the survivors form armed camps. First, they loot the dead, and then they horde what they can steal from the living. Over time, the strongest and most ruthless men become warlords, and feud among themselves. After a few decades, or longer, a victor emerges and is crowned king.” Penhallow wasn’t looking at Connor as he spoke. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, but something in his gaze gave Connor to know that Penhallow looked out over centuries, and not at the road in front of them.
“I don’t understand how the magic played a role in that,” Connor said.
Penhallow seemed to return from wherever his thoughts had strayed. “Magic, large and small, kept the peace in a hundred little ways.” He chuckled at Connor’s look of amazement. “You weren’t supposed to be aware of it, but we could feel it in our blood. Magic assured decent crop yields, to keep the people from getting too hungry. Hungry people revolt. Mages also made sure there was enough wine and ale for all. Hedge witches and sorcerers alike could use a flicker of magic here and there to diffuse hot tempers, avert riots, make it impossible to raise an angry mob.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t a perfect system. But the Long Peace that spanned the reigns of King Merrill and his father was no accident, nor was it all due to wise and beneficent kings,” he said with a hint of bitterness.
“And no one noticed?” Connor asked, outraged. “The bloody mages were mucking around with our minds and no one objected?”
Penhallow’s smile was mirthless. “It was hardly a conspiracy, or at least it was an open conspiracy. Tell me truly; were you totally unaware of the small magics around you on a daily basis?”
Connor stopped to think. Anger shifted into confusion. “Not completely, although I don’t have a wink of magic myself. I knew the cooks used it to help cakes rise, nursemaids used it to soothe squalling babies, and farriers used a twitch of magic to steady the horses while they worked. I’d heard about the way farmers, shopkeepers, and tradesmen used a flicker of magic here and there, and I appreciated when the distillers, vintners, or brewers used it to keep us from running out of drinks.”
Penhallow nodded without looking at him. “Did you mind the magic, so long as it kept you from being inconvenienced?”
Chagrined, Connor let out a sigh. “No.” He paused. “And I had an inkling that there were more powerful mages who helped put down riots or scouted to help the war. Now I know more than I wanted to know about what a mage could do in battle.”
They rode in silence after that. Connor mulled over the conversation with Penhallow, disturbed by a perspective that, while unexpected, felt like the truth. I’ve been blind.
At Penhallow’s signal, they quickened their pace. Just as the horizon was growing lighter, Penhallow veered from the road, heading through a forest down a well-worn lane toward a large, walled house grand enough to be a lord’s manor and secure enough to be a fortress. “We’ve arrived,” Penhallow murmured.
Before Connor could ask any questions, a dozen men emerged from the forest. Even in the waning light, Connor could see that these men were well armed, and unlike their previous attackers, stayed far enough back to avoid being the target of arrows.
“Halt. State your business.”
“I’m here to see Traher Voss,” Penhallow said. “Tell him Lanyon is here, with a few friends.”
The leader of the guards conferred with one of the men, who went sprinting back toward the house. No one else moved. After a while, the runner returned and shared a message with the leader.
“You may proceed.” At that, the guards drew back, but remained in sight, forming a wide corridor through which Penhallow’s group passed. Connor fought the urge to glance over his shoulder, wondering whether Penhallow knew their host well enough to rule out the possibility of being shot in the back. When they reached the doors of the house without incident, Connor breathed a sigh of relief.
Connor noted that the manor house had been fortified, though not recently. The door was oak overlaid with iron straps. Bars covered the windows on the lower floors, and above them, the windows had been narrowed into archers’ slits by bricking up more than half of each opening.
Penhallow’s men kept their swords sheathed and their crossbows lowered. Connor did likewise, though he felt damnably vulnerable. The room into which they were ushered looked more appropriate to a high-ranking military commander than to a member of the nobility. Swords of every description hung from the walls in ornamental groupings that Connor guessed would not hinder their use if needed. Battle axes, long swords, pikes, and halberds were grouped on both walls and ceilings. A variety of maces and morning stars hung from sconces. Colorful batt
le pennants fluttered at intervals along the stairwell.
“My, my, my. What have we here?” A voice boomed from the large, curved staircase that graced the manor’s main entranceway. Traher Voss came down the steps, rubbing his hands together. He narrowed his gaze as he came closer, assessing them with a shrewd glance.
“Lanyon Penhallow and his pup, just before dawn?” Voss wondered aloud. “Best we get you and your people belowground, and answer questions when we’re out of the reach of the sun.” He led the way down another long, winding flight of stairs carved into the rock beneath the manor house. Connor did not miss the fact that three burly men from Voss’s household guard followed them, and to Connor’s eye, at least one of the guards also appeared to be talishte. While Penhallow undoubtedly knew about the guards, nothing in his manner suggested that he found the company objectionable.
The staircase descended to a large common room fitted with tables and chairs as if for a group. Rows of doors on either side opened off the room, reminding Connor of a barracks. Voss grinned broadly at Penhallow. “I’ve invited you to visit me for quite some time, Lanyon,” he said. “Now you come in the middle of the night, looking worse for the wear.”
Penhallow shrugged. “Reese’s men attacked us. Our party split in two. We’ll rejoin the others later, but before that, I need to find out what you’ve been hearing, my friend.”
Voss motioned them toward the tables and benches. One of the guards opened the door to what appeared to be a wine cellar and emerged with a flagon of brandy and pitcher of blood. A second guard found goblets enough for all of them. “Just brought a stag in earlier tonight.” He paused and poured brandy for himself and Connor, validating Connor’s guess that he and Voss were the only mortals in the room.
“Here. Drink this. You look like you could use a couple of fingers of brandy,” Voss said, setting Connor’s goblet in front of him with a thud.
Connor glanced to Penhallow, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod and took a sip from his own goblet, indicating it was safe for Connor to drink. Voss chuckled, catching the silent exchange. “He’s appropriately cautious. Gods above! You all look as if you’ve been ridden down by a small garrison.”
“Feels like it,” Penhallow replied. He finished his goblet of blood and poured another, passing the pitcher to the rest of the talishte who had traveled with them. Their evident hunger sent a shiver down Connor’s spine.
“What’s got Reese stirred up?” Voss asked, tenting his fingers in front of him.
“I was hoping you had some intelligence on that,” Penhallow replied, leaning back in his chair.
Voss stretched. He was portly, and he had the thick neck and broad shoulders to suggest a past military background. Even past his prime, Voss looked like he could hold his own in a fight, against mortals at least. He was dressed in a dark shirt and tunic, and though it bore no rank or insignia, something about it struck Connor as being the off-duty clothing of a military man.
“Pentreath Reese has been active since the Great Fire,” Voss mused. “Rumor has it he’s allied with Vedran Pollard.”
Penhallow frowned. “I thought all the nobility died in the war or the Great Fire.”
Voss drained his brandy. “Pollard’s like a cockroach. Nothing kills him. He’s his mother’s son, all right. Treacherous bastard. He’d been looking for a way to gain more power before the Fire, but I don’t think Merrill trusted him. Smart of Merrill. There’s a rumor that Pollard sent assassins against any nobles who didn’t die in the Cataclysm. No doubt on Reese’s orders.”
“There can be only one winner, and Reese is immortal. So why hasn’t Reese eliminated Pollard?” Penhallow asked.
Voss leaned forward. “You know the answer as well as I do. Reese needs mortals. He can’t go about by daylight, and not everything keeps until night. Pollard’s ruthless. He’s happy to be Reese’s enforcer, hoping for a bigger share of the pie in return for whatever passes with him for loyalty.”
“So why is Reese after me—this time? Why now? We’d left each other alone, more or less, of late.”
It was Voss’s turn to shrug. “If I knew anything about that, I’d have warned you.” Penhallow’s glance was skeptical, and Voss gave a crooked grin. “Yeah, I would have. You’re too good a client to lose, and too bad of an enemy to make. I may be mortal, but I’m not stupid.” He paused, and poured himself another brandy, refilling Connor’s goblet unasked.
“We’ve long suspected that Reese would like to be the real power on the Continent,” Voss speculated. “Oh, he’d have mortals fronting for him, but in Reese’s fantasy, he’d pull all the strings. He’s probably the one man on the entire Continent who rejoiced when magic died—and the one with the biggest stake in making sure it stays dead.”
Penhallow’s eyes glinted with interest. “How so?”
Voss’s gaze sharpened. “Magic also kept a balance of power between the living and the undead, didn’t it?” He interpreted Penhallow’s silence as agreement. “You have your own magic, in your blood. Don’t bother to try to deny it; I know these things. Yes? So when the common magic dies, what happens to that power balance? It tips, don’t it? And it tips to the side Reese favors.” He grinned smugly.
Penhallow shifted in his chair. “Uncomfortably insightful, as always,” he said, sipping from his goblet. “But there’s something Reese either doesn’t understand or refuses to see. The death of magic affects us as well, but differently.”
Voss frowned. “I thought you were immortal?”
Penhallow shrugged. “That’s a relative term. A much-elongated existence, yes, but truly immortal?” He shook his head. “That’s for the gods alone.” He took another sip of blood. “When the external magic dies, it doesn’t just ‘tip the balance,’ as you put it. It starts to affect those of us who have the old magic in our blood, the talishte and the other not-quite-humans. We seem stronger at first, because there isn’t external magic to counter us. But over time, if the magic doesn’t come back, the lack wears on us. We weaken, lose our focus. Some go mad. It gets very bad after that, for everyone.” Penhallow paused to finish the contents of his goblet. “Have you been hit by any of the magic storms?”
Voss thumped his fist on the table. “Damn right we’ve been hit. One struck out in the fields, where my cattle graze. Came out of nowhere. Lost ten head of cattle and two of my best herders to those storms.”
Voss’s voice dropped. “The magic changed things. After one of those storms came through, I saw one of my men step into a puddle—just a mud puddle—but he screamed and disappeared like something was dragging him down. When the rest of my men poked in a long branch to pull him out, they hit bottom just a hand’s breadth deep. But he was gone. Now, tell me how a grown man can disappear into a puddle?”
Traher Voss shook his head. “Heard of a man whose house was in the middle of one of those magic storms. He got out of a chair and went to walk from his sitting room into a bedroom. Only when he walked through the doorway, it didn’t go to his bedroom. It put him outside, on a hill a candlemark’s walk from where he lived. Swore up and down he wasn’t drunk when it happened, but that damned storm changed where the doorway took him.”
“What happened when he got back to his house?” Connor asked.
Voss gave him a predatory grin. “When he got up the nerve to try to walk into his bedroom again, everything was right as rain. Just a normal door. The storm had passed.”
Penhallow had been listening to the conversation with an expression Connor could not decipher. Now he leaned forward intently. “How often are the storms coming?”
Voss frowned. “Believe me, we’ve tried to find a pattern. No one wants to get caught out in one; might come back with two heads or six arms or some other freak thing. But there’s no rhyme nor reason to when they strike.”
“Have you mapped where they’ve struck? Perhaps it’s a ‘where,’ not a ‘when’ pattern,” Penhallow said quietly.
“You know something, Lanyon. Stop fishing around an
d tell me.”
Penhallow sat back in his chair. “I don’t know anything—but I do have some suspicions. Connor was successful in obtaining Valtyr’s map.”
Voss’s eyes lit up, but his face remained neutral. “Got the map on you?”
Penhallow chuckled. “Yes. As we thought, it marks the places where magic was strongest—and null—throughout Donderath.”
“Anything else?” Voss looked intrigued.
Penhallow’s eyes glinted, like a fisherman with a big bass on his hook. “Really. I’m wondering whether or not your ‘random’ magic storms would show a pattern if we put them on a map.”
Voss chewed his lip as he thought. “Maybe. ’Course, we only can mark the ones we’ve heard about. Could be others and we don’t know it.”
Penhallow shrugged. “Probably so. But even a handful of storms plotted on a map might prove interesting.”
Voss nodded. “I’ll put someone on it.” He paused and watched Penhallow closely. “I don’t think you came here in the middle of the night just to talk about maps.”
Penhallow shook his head. “Reese stormed my crypt. He and I had a truce—and he broke it. I’m interested in finding out why.”
Voss’s eyes narrowed. “I told you that I don’t know—and I don’t. But knowing Reese, he thought you either had something or knew something that he wanted. Like maybe the map—or, has he learned of the pendant?”
“Maybe,” Penhallow allowed. “But for something like that, even Reese is usually civilized enough to ask first.” He frowned. “No, Reese intended to kill me; I’m certain. And the odd thing is, I haven’t done anything to actively annoy him in months.”
Voss laughed. “The important word there is ‘actively,’ isn’t it? I’ve always thought that just your continued existence annoyed Reese.”
“I’m sure of it. But he’s put up with me until now. Why change?”
Voss’s rough guffaw made Connor jump. Traher Voss rocked his chair onto its back legs and shook his head. “Really, Lanyon. It’s Reese we’re talking about. If he’s trying to kill you, it’s because he thinks that you’ve got the edge on him, that you’re a threat.”
Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) Page 40