Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Connor?” Penhallow said quietly. Connor ignored him, intent on the book. He began digging among the stacks of books and scrolls, tossing things aside in his urgency.

  “Connor!” This time, Penhallow’s voice carried compulsion, but for once, it had no effect. Connor kept digging. Penhallow took a step toward him, but Lowrey laid a hand on Penhallow’s arm and shook his head, watching Connor with a thoughtful expression.

  Just then, Connor’s right hand touched the binding on a small leather journal. Its worn cover was unadorned, and it was of a size to fit easily into a pouch or beneath a vest without attracting attention. By comparison to the illuminated manuscripts and fancy scrolls around it, the journal was utterly unremarkable, easily overlooked.

  Connor turned to the others, holding the journal aloft, brandishing it in triumph.

  “Connor—” Penhallow ventured again. Lowrey hushed him, watching owlishly as Connor carried the journal to a table and opened it.

  Inside, the pages were filled with a tight, neat script in symbols Connor had never seen before. He remembered opening the journal to its first page, and then everything went black.

  “Connor?” Penhallow’s voice was soothing. Connor found himself lying on the small sofa in the parlor, a cold cloth across his forehead. Both Lowrey and Penhallow were regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

  “Oh, gods,” Connor moaned, and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Connor—”

  “I tried to tell Garnoc. I meant to. Then he sent me to the library to find the map and the Great Fire came, and he sent me away. Oh, gods. I never meant to betray anyone. I’m so sorry.”

  “Connor.” This time, the voice sounded with compulsion, cutting through Connor’s panic and the blinding headache that throbbed behind his temples. “What makes you think you’ve betrayed anyone?”

  Connor did not open his eyes. Shame overwhelmed him, and he struggled to find his voice. “I kept blacking out. At least three times, either on my way back to Garnoc from seeing you, or when I was on an errand for Garnoc, I’d be on the road and then suddenly wake up in a ditch candlemarks later, with no memory of what happened. And I swear, I had nothing to drink. You’ve got to believe me,” he said desperately. He opened his eyes and clutched at Penhallow’s sleeve.

  “No memory at all. I was so afraid that I’d been bewitched by someone who wanted to know Lord Garnoc’s business. I knew I should tell him, but I was ashamed—and afraid.”

  “You were bewitched all right, by a master,” Lowrey said, and to Connor’s amazement, the mage chuckled. “I haven’t seen a ‘buried treasure’ spell for a long time, and I’m betting this is a powerful one.”

  “Buried treasure?” Penhallow raised one eyebrow inquiringly.

  “Oh, it has a fancy magical name, but that’s what we called it. It’s a memory charm wrapped in a forget spell. The good ones are quite complex, and this one would need to be if you never noticed anything amiss through the kruvgaldur.”

  “What in Raka are you talking about?” Connor tried to sit up, but Penhallow pressed him gently back into the cushions.

  Lowrey grinned. “Do you remember anything about the passage you just read from that journal for us?”

  “Read?” Connor looked from Lowrey to Penhallow as if he expected a bad joke. “I couldn’t read a word of it. It was nothing but symbols and nonsense.” Lowrey and Penhallow exchanged glances. “What?”

  “I figured as much from the vacant look in your eyes when you were reading. Fact is, you scanned through that mage’s book without a hitch, even though that script is only known to master mages. Then you read a portion out loud to us.” Lowrey looked at Penhallow and grinned. “I’ve got a good idea who set this up.”

  Penhallow looked at him nonplussed. “If you don’t stop teasing the boy, Treven, I shall be forced to extract your main point myself,” he said, giving a flash of his eyeteeth.

  Lowrey grimaced. “No need to be a bully. I thought it was plain. Vigus Quintrel left us a trail of bread crumbs to find him—and he hid the trail in here,” he said, reaching over to tap Connor’s forehead.

  “Explain,” Penhallow said, regarding Connor with a worried glance.

  “Vigus obviously feared Meroven would make some kind of major magical strike. He planned his disappearance carefully. But he also knew that you and Garnoc would need a way to find him,” Lowrey replied, warming to the topic. “And if he’d been paying attention, he’d have realized Conroy here was your courier.”

  “Connor,” Connor corrected under his breath.

  Lowrey dismissed his objection with a gesture. “It would have been easy for a mage like Quintrel to use magic on Connor, put him into a deep sleep, plant information in his head that wouldn’t be remembered without a trigger, and then erase any memory of the event. Connor would have a ‘blackout,’ as he calls it. There would be nothing for your kruvgaldur to find, and no one would be the wiser until the triggers Quintrel set made Connor remember part of the message.”

  “Part of the message?” Penhallow looked sharply at Lowrey.

  Lowrey nodded. “I’m quite sure that if there were multiple blackouts, Quintrel took the opportunity to hide all the information he thought we’d need where no one would find it—until it was time.”

  “So I didn’t betray anyone?” Connor asked, feeling hopeful for the first time in months.

  Lowrey chuckled. “Doubtful. You’re the key Quintrel hid in plain sight.” He looked at Penhallow. “Which makes him a pawn in a very dangerous game, Lanyon. If Reese ever suspected—”

  Penhallow nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

  Connor’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. I didn’t ask for some mage to go mucking around in my mind, shifting my memories around. Reese will try to kill me, won’t he?”

  Lowrey shrugged. “Only if he finds out. And he won’t kill you right away—he’ll try to find out what you know, even if he has to cut your—”

  Penhallow cleared his throat loudly. “That’s quite enough, Treven. Connor’s already had a fright. You’re not helping.” He looked at Connor, and Connor saw a flicker of worry in the talishte’s blue eyes. “I will protect you, Connor. I’ve bested Reese for several hundred years, and I’m not about to lose to him now. You have my word.”

  Lowrey snorted. “Did you forget we’re bottled up under siege?”

  “Safe for the moment,” Penhallow muttered.

  “What… what did I say? When I read from the book?” Connor asked. His headache was easing, and he managed to sit up.

  “You said, ‘A remnant remains. I have hidden hope. When the light returns, so will the lanterns and their keepers.’ ”

  “That’s it?” Connor said incredulously. “That’s all I repeated, out of that whole journal? That bit of rubbish is what’s had me scared out of my head these last few months?”

  Lowrey grinned. “If there’s one thing a mage likes better than a complicated spell, it’s a riddle. Quintrel’s hidden away mages with potential, spirited them out of the city before the Great Fire. That’s his remnant. When the light—magic—comes back, there will be mages with the potential to wield great power—the lantern keepers—to use the magic. That’s his ‘hidden hope.’ ”

  “So Quintrel thought that magic could return,” Penhallow pressed.

  Lowrey nodded. “Apparently so.”

  “You think there’s more hidden in my head?” Connor asked. He was proud that his voice sounded reasonably calm, although his heart was still thudding.

  “I’m sure of it. Probably triggered by some other item of Quintrel’s he’s left lying around. Like that journal. Meaningless to anyone else, but with the key,” Lowrey said with a meaningful look at Connor, “everything is clear.” He met Penhallow’s gaze. “I suggest you hang on tight to that journal,” he added. “There may be more you need later.”

  Connor frowned. “If Treven’s right and it takes timing as well as the special objects to raise the m
agic, then we’ve got to tell Blaine. He could get to Mirdalur and have nothing happen.”

  “Or he could find Reese and Pollard waiting for him,” Penhallow said grimly.

  Lowrey sat up in alarm. “Blaine? Blaine McFadden is still alive? Is he still in Velant?”

  Connor shook his head. “No. He came back to Donderath to see if he could raise the magic.”

  Lowrey looked distressed. “That’s bad. He can’t go to Mirdalur, not without the proper preparations.”

  “Why not?” Penhallow asked, concerned. “What’s the risk? Without the other elements, nothing will happen.”

  Lowrey shook his head. “No, that was one of the pieces I discovered from the journals and notes Lady Alarian shared with me. The first lords set a trap. They were afraid that someone would try to undo what they had done. For those who aren’t of the blood, Mirdalur is just a ruin. But if a Lord of the Blood returns without the proper elements, the energies will protect themselves.”

  “How?” Connor pressed.

  “I’m not sure exactly, but the warning was unmistakable,” Lowrey said. He looked from Connor to Penhallow. “Of course, that was when the tame magic, the hasithara, still worked. Without it, who knows? Mirdalur is a place of power—a place where the visithara, wild magic, is strong. That magic is feral now. It makes Mirdalur a very dangerous place. We’ve got to stop Blaine McFadden from going to Mirdalur until we know what Quintrel had in mind.”

  “Because if anything happens to Blaine, the ability to fix the magic may die with him,” Connor murmured.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WHERE DID YOU GET THE HORSES?” BLAINE stared at Geir and the six horses that stood waiting for them.

  “Since the Great Fire, finding a horse isn’t really a problem,” Geir replied. “So many of the manors were destroyed that some of the best horseflesh in the Ascendant Kingdoms is wandering around riderless—if you’re fast enough to catch them,” he said with a smile that showed the tips of his long eyeteeth.

  “You stole them?” Piran asked incredulously.

  Kestel elbowed him. “No king. No soldiers. Remember? We’re not likely to hang as horse thieves.”

  “It’s just a touchy subject with me,” Piran said, misgiving clear in his face. “It was one of the things that landed me in Velant.”

  Blaine chuckled, knowing that brawling while on duty, disorderly conduct, and behavior unbecoming to an officer were likewise among the charges that got Piran a one-way ticket to Velant, but he did not mention it. “I think they’re the most beautiful things I’ve seen since we landed,” Blaine replied. “I was trying to figure out how long it would take to walk home, and I didn’t like the answer.”

  The horses had no tack, promising an uncomfortable three-day ride to Glenreith. “If you were going to steal horses, couldn’t you have managed a few saddles as well?” Piran grumbled good-naturedly.

  Blaine and the others fell silent as they rode across the moonlit landscape. They rode cross-country, avoiding the roads to elude Reese and the highwaymen Geir assured them lay in wait around nearly every bend. Their route also gave them their clearest view yet of just what Donderath’s fall had cost. When they had landed in the ruined city of Castle Reach, Blaine had prepared himself for the devastation. This was worse.

  Once-fertile farm fields were scorched black. Stone fences and cottages were nothing more than blackened heaps. Of the houses made from sod, wood, or thatch, nothing but charred posts remained. None of them spoke as they rode across untended farm fields grown high with weeds. Here and there, they spotted pigs and chickens, cows and mules, wandering free, mute survivors of the Cataclysm.

  “The fire did so much damage,” Dawe murmured.

  “It was worse by harvest,” Geir said. “Without their small magics, farmers were beset by locusts. They had relied on the magic for so long, many forgot the old ways to drive away pests. Magic helped them drain fields or redirect streams in ways that fought nature. Without the magic, the low places flooded. Rot and blight made for a slim harvest.

  “Tradesmen who cut corners building fences and barns and who had used a flicker of magic to cover their lapses were caught out when their buildings and hedgerows collapsed,” Geir went on. “And without the midwives’ magic, animals and people alike suffered.”

  Blaine glanced at Geir, surprised at the sorrow in his voice and the pained expression on his face. “It was much worse than even the talishte could remember,” Geir said quietly. “Even most of the old ones can’t remember a time before magic. Many of us still have descendants living in Donderath, and while they may be distant relatives, we are aware of how they fare. So very many died,” he murmured. “Most mortals no longer know the way things were done before the magic. There are few aside from the talishte to teach them, but most scorn our help.”

  The night was cold, and a thin dusting of fresh snow lay across the ground. Kestel shivered, pulling her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, but Blaine wondered whether it was due to the chill or to the awful realization of what had befallen their homeland. Finally Verran broke the silence. “There’s naught left to steal,” he said in a hushed voice. The others turned to him with a questioning look.

  “On the way back aboard the ship, I had a picture in my mind what it might be like. I’d figured all the strange lights and such that Connor told us about would have scared off the locals and left a bounty to pick through.” Verran sighed. “I’d fancied myself sifting through the leavings, gathering a small fortune in pilfered goods.” His expression grew serious. “But there’s nothing left, and nowhere to sell it, is there?” Grief was clear in his voice. “I guess I didn’t want to understand what Connor was telling us. I can’t believe that it’s all gone.”

  Blaine listened numbly, fear growing as he wondered what they would find when they reached Glenreith. Growing up under the harsh discipline of his father, Blaine had often dreamed that lightning would strike the old manor, collapsing it around the old man. Now that the possibility appeared very real, grief and fear filled him. All the years in Velant, and after that, as a “free” man in Edgeland, Blaine had kept alive the hope that his sacrifice had enabled Mari, Carr, and Judith to live a better life. In dreams, he had seen himself reunited with his family, walking the familiar pathways on the manor’s large grounds. Glenreith had always remained a constant. He did not want to come so far to find that only rubble remained.

  At Geir’s request, they rode with swords and crossbows at the ready, visibly armed. To Blaine’s eye, they appeared to be the very highwaymen they sought to elude. They passed few other travelers on the rutted roads, and their group outnumbered all of the small clutches of wayfarers who were unlucky enough to be about by night. Blaine was relieved when the first night was uneventful.

  They took shelter just before dawn in the ruins of an old stone barn. “If it hasn’t fallen down by now, it’s not likely to do so tonight,” Geir said, offering scant comfort as Blaine eyed the rubble of the barn’s old walls and lofts. “If it’s still standing, we’ll be safe enough for one day.”

  Dawe poked among the wreckage as the others found places to sleep. Blaine saw Dawe stoop and sift through the leaf-strewn rubble, pocketing items as he went. Curious, Blaine walked over. “I thought Verran was the thief in our bunch,” Blaine said with as much lightness as he could manage.

  Dawe stretched his lanky frame and ran a hand back through his hair. “Can’t steal from the dead, Mick,” he said with a lopsided smile. “You know me. Always tinkering. I’m just gathering up bits of metal. Got an idea for a special kind of crossbow that could fire faster and get off more arrows than an archer can shoot. Might come in handy if Reese’s talishte come at us, or if Pollard’s men outnumber us.”

  Blaine eyed the collection of iron bits Dawe had gathered in a rag. “You think you can make something like that?”

  Dawe’s eyes sparked with the first enthusiasm Blaine had seen in several days. “I’d sure like to give it a try. I’m guessing Glenre
ith had a blacksmith, didn’t it? If so, I can get the forge going, see what I can do.”

  Blaine sighed. “It used to. Had to make repairs to the farm tools, shoe the horses, fix the wagons. That’s assuming that there’s anything standing at all,” he added.

  Dawe seemed to sense his mood, and he nodded. “So that’s what’s had you so quiet. Should have figured as much.”

  “I might drag everyone out here only to find that there’s nothing left,” Blaine replied, trying to keep his voice from giving away just how much he feared that outcome.

  “Might be,” Dawe allowed. “Then again, maybe it got off easy, on account of there not being a Lord of the Blood in residence. We might show up on the doorstep and have your aunt decide she doesn’t want a bunch of criminals as houseguests.”

  Blaine pictured his aunt Judith, a thin, quiet woman who had withstood heartache and loss. She had married well as a young woman, to a man she had actually loved. First, there had been miscarriages, several of them. Finally, two treasured children were born, only to die before their tenth birthdays. Then her husband broke his neck in a riding accident. Grief-stricken and alone, Judith took on a new cause, doing her best to protect her sister by marriage from the brutality of Blaine’s father. She had not succeeded, nor had she been able to protect Blaine, Mari, or Carr from Ian McFadden’s wrath, although she did the best she could to offer comfort and healing. If anyone could have survived the Cataclysm, it would be Judith McFadden Ainsworth.

  “In the old days, she might have been scandalized if a pack of ruffians showed up,” Blaine said. “That was before she knew what a monster her brother was, and before I became a murderer,” he added ruefully. “Aunt Judith is a survivor. If anyone’s managed to keep a household together, it would be Judith, and if I know her, she’s cared for the servants and the hired help as if they were family.”