by Lee Dunning
Too late, he remembered Historian’s words to him. Ancestors, keep her safe from whatever he has in store for W’rath.
Chapter 17
After the meeting adjourned, W’rath slipped from the proceedings, walking the shadows to appear in the dwindling shade of the trees lining the path to the council chambers. Kela waited for him there, rubbing her temples. “For someone who talks with their mind, you’re quite loud.”
“I forget the majority of you no longer practice the disciplines required to put a buffer around your minds,” he replied.
Kela waved an impatient hand. “I don’t speak whatever language you’re babbling in. Point me at something to shoot or stab.”
W’rath chuckled. “That’s more or less what I wish to discuss with you. How did you plan to deploy your people in light of our battle strategy?”
The Wood Elf’s face fell and she hunkered down to poke at the growing spread of fall leaves. “Everyone else has their commands full of big warriors and magic users. You’re the only one interested in how the Wood Elves fit in.” Her shoulders hunched over as she pretended interest in an empty snail shell. “I’m not sure I have an answer. I guess it’s obvious we don’t know anything about demons—or devils.”
W’rath leaned back against the pale bark of a silver pine. “Despite the impression K’hul attempted to project, I doubt most elves understand the difference between a demon and a devil. As inexperienced as he is, he probably knows far less than he’d like you to believe.”
“I think you meant that to make me feel better but I’m not sure it does,” Kela said. She pushed back to her feet and brushed most of the plant debris from her hands. “I take it you have some suggestions and not just kind words.”
W’rath smiled at Kela’s bluntness. Unlike K’hul, she didn’t intend to offend. She simply preferred to get straight to the point. “I want you and your people to hold yourselves in reserve.”
“So, stay back with Culna’mo and Swiftbrook’s combined force?” she asked.
“No,” W’rath said, “I want you to hold yourselves back beyond that. Do not enter the fray unless I send you a psychic message telling you where you’re needed.”
“Huh.” Kela studied W’rath for several heartbeats. “You think the whole thing’s going to go to shit.”
“I may be overthinking the entire situation,” W’rath said, “crediting our enemy with far too much cunning but my gut says otherwise.”
“Huh,” Kela said again. “Your psychic gut?”
W’rath shook his head. “No, I have no skill with foreseeing the future. This is entirely mundane intuition, fed by some small amount of experience with the denizens of the Abyss and the Nine Hells.”
Kela let loose one of her snorts. “Why do I think that means you know more about demons and devils than the entire population of First Home combined?”
“I admit nothing,” W’rath said, “however, make sure your people are armed with those magic bows Lady Stormchaser gave you. You’ll need them.”
Kela laughed and ambled off through the trees, kicking up leaves and needles as she went. W’rath called after her. “Thank you for looking after the lads.”
“They entertain me,” she replied and slipped off into the uncertain light of the forest.
W’rath turned in time to tilt his head in greeting as Raven joined him. Her gaze flickered in the direction Kela had taken. “Leaving me out of your plots?”
Her words had a lighthearted lilt to them but W’rath saw through to the frustration she tried to hide. “We’ve already had this discussion, lass. You agreed to indulge me,” he said.
“That was before we knew about the demons marching on Teresland. I know I don’t have any troops but at the very least, I should join Lady Culna’mo’s reserve command.” The young warrior’s raised chin dared W’rath to find fault with her logic.
W’rath took Raven’s elbow and guided her back to the main path and toward House of Memories. “Have you bonded with your weapon yet?”
“I sparred with Lady Culna’mo yesterday.”
“So … you’ve used it exactly once?” W’rath shook his head. “Lass, magic weapons have egos. They may not speak, spit fire, or possess sentience as we know it but they have to learn to respect you. You won’t work as a team until you’ve grown to know one another.”
Raven scowled. “You’re not going to budge on this?”
W’rath restrained himself from patting her arm. No point in adding to the growing list of sins he suspected his young friend tallied up against him. “I am not. Curse me all you like, preferably out of earshot, but I will not have you caught up in the mess we’re about to face—not with you half trained. I told you when you first joined the council, Lady Swiftbrook and I would support you. That includes keeping you from jumping into a rushing river dressed in full plate armor. I failed in that regard once already. I have no intention of repeating my folly.”
“And what folly are you conspiring with Kela?”
Clever lass. “I’ll tell you if you confess to me why these past few days you’ve had me translate every bit we can find in the journals concerning gryphons.”
Raven’s mouth worked like a beached trout, no doubt trying in vain to come up with a logical sounding lie. Of course, she failed. “It’s a surprise,” Raven said at last with a cringe.
This time W’rath did pat her arm. “Of course it is, lass. So are my plans involving Kela. We can gasp in appreciation of one another’s cleverness when our schemes unfold.”
Raven hung her head. “Gods, we are so doomed.”
Historian paced around the quartet of young males Itarillë had adopted into the family for the purpose of her ridiculous breeding program. Fortunately, her idiocy had provided him an opportunity to do what his weak-willed nephew couldn’t manage.
Historian stopped his purposeful intimidation of the boys and gave them what he intended as an approving nod. In truth, the only one of them who stood out was the fellow on the end with black hair, and only then because no proper full blood First Born bore such midnight locks. He obviously had Sky Elf blood polluting his family line but Itarillë had missed such an obvious flaw because of her blindness to anything other than height and brawn.
“Hold out your left hands,” Historian instructed the boys. When they hesitated, he had to swallow his temper. “I don’t plan to harm you.”
At least the four had enough pride to flush at his words. As one, they thrust out their hands. Historian passed down the line, slipping a gold and sapphire ring onto each hand. “Everyone in the family wears one of these,” Historian explained. He paused to raise his hand to show off his own ring. “Welcome to the House of K’hul. Now get out of my study.”
The boy’s elation turned to confusion, with a measure of panic. They made a rush for the door. “Not you, Lord Cinder,” Historian called to the black-haired youth.
The other three shot their companion a look of sympathy but hurried from the display-filled study anyway. Lord Cinder turned back toward Historian with the slow, reluctant posture of the doomed. He and Historian silently regarded one another until the click of the study door announced the others had fled. Historian let a friendly smile replace his scowl. “Now that we’re free of those ingrates, let me welcome you properly to the family,” he said. He gave the boy a bow, not too deep, but low enough to show respect for a fellow K’hul.
Lord Cinder’s returned bow showed he at least had the sense to go a notch lower in deference to Historian’s greater age and authority. “I thought maybe I’d done something wrong,” the boy said.
Historian waved Lord Cinder’s concern away. “Just the opposite. You caught my attention. It’s not often folk of our mixed blood find ourselves among the anointed.” He paused to see if the boy understood and nodded when Lord Cinder flushed. The Cinders boasted a long history of strong ties to the K’hul family. The unfortunate lapse of some ancestor, probably forgotten, made itself known the minute young Lord Cinder’s dark hea
d escaped his mother’s womb.
Historian indicated his own slim build, emphasizing his message: See? I’m just like you.
Historian held his pose for a moment, giving Lord Cinder a moment to consider things. The boy’s mouth turned into a confused but hopeful smile and Historian slapped him on the shoulder. “I admit to some bias but perhaps you’ll agree. We should do what we can to support one another?”
“You flatter me, Lord K’hul,” the youth said.
“Please, call me Historian. No one has called me by the family name in over three thousand years. Yes, I know, an obvious ploy to help hide the family’s shame at my father’s indiscretion but I’m used to it now and take pride in it to spite them.”
Lord Cinder pushed a stray lock of midnight-colored hair behind his ear. “My parents, they told me how much this binding of our families means to them. I think they’re just relieved to get rid of me.”
The disappointment in his voice told Historian he’d chosen wisely. The boy would jump at the chance to ingratiate himself. Historian gave the boy an understanding smile. “They’ll mourn their loss in time,” he said. “But take heart, Lady K’hul obviously saw your worth and I do too.” He swung around to fully face Lord Cinder and clasped the boy’s shoulders. “That is why I kept you here while the others went about their empty-headed way. I have an assignment for you. I admit, it won’t sound like much. Simply keep in mind it servers a greater purpose and will ensure you’re seen and acknowledged as a scion of the K’hul family. Do I have your attention?”
“Yes sir,” Lord Cinder said. His eyes had dilated with anticipation. Historian could imagine how the boy must think himself supremely lucky to gain such a powerful sponsor.
Historian released his grip on the younger elf’s shoulders and marched back to his desk to retrieve a vial. He gestured for Lord Cinder to approach. Historian started to present the vial to the boy and then drew it back. “How magically adept are you?”
Lord Cinder’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t have much of a mind for it,” he admitted, gazing at the vial, probably certain he’d just lost out on the chance to shine among his fellows.
“Excellent,” Historian said and practically thrust the vial into Lord Cinder’s hands. “The dust within this vessel holds potent magic. It responds to power. The more attuned to magic you are, the more likely it will have unpleasant side effects.”
Lord Cinder lifted the vial and scrutinized its pearlescent glass. “What does it do?”
“It saves lives, actually,” Historian said. He laughed. “I probably exaggerate, but then again … Have you ever traveled to the mainland?”
Historian’s unexpected question brought a puzzled frown to the boy’s face. “No sir. I’ve always wanted to go but the chance has never come up.”
“Now it has,” Historian said. “As you know, a good many of our people died during the attack on Second Home. We lost five councilors. As such, we’ve made some policy changes.”
Lord Cinder nodded as if he understood. “Of course, that makes sense,” he said.
“These policies,” Historian continued, “include precautions concerning the number of councilors we allow to gather in the same place outside of First Home. We cannot risk putting our leadership at such risk again. That is where you come in.”
“Whatever I can do, sir.”
Historian drew closer as if to impart an important secret. “Lord Icewind has resided at Castle Teres for weeks. Tomorrow, Lady Swiftbrook and Lord W’rath will join him. While all capable in their own way, they lack the superior strength and fortitude of Lord K’hul. However, due to the new provisions, he cannot travel there to lend support—four members of the High Council within the confines of an enemy state—unthinkable. However, we need a K’hul presence there. I have chosen you to represent us.”
Lord Cinder’s mouth formed a little ‘O’ and he backed away. “I can’t possibly fill the shoes of Lord K’hul,” he said. “You’ve only just met me, sir, how could you put so much trust in me?”
Historian tapped the side of his nose. “We’ve already discussed this. I have a desire to see a kindred soul excel within these halls. Truly, it is just a little thing, but it shall bring you the attention you deserve. However, remember, if you embarrass yourself, you also embarrass me. Do not let me down.”
Lord Cinder drew his shoulders square. “No sir, I will strive to make you proud of me.”
“I have no doubt. Now, the vial.”
The younger elf held up the little bottle again. “Do you need me to deliver it to someone?”
“Not at all,” Historian said. “No need to interact with those who currently view our family with contempt. However, we must aid them despite their misplaced disdain. Lord Icewind and his covey of diviners have spent these past several days raising protective shields around Castle Teres. They’ve worked, to the best of their ability …” Historian allowed his words to trail off so their significance might have a better chance of sinking in to Lord Cinder’s naïve head.
“They’re not up to the task?”
Historian sighed and gave a grave nod. “Lord Icewind, while a competent scholar, lacks the tactical mind needed to thwart demons.”
“Demons!” Lord Cinder went pale and took a couple of startled steps back.
Historian stalked after the boy. “So you see!” he said, pretending to misunderstand his guest’s outburst. “This is too important to leave to a mere reader of tea leaves and interpreter of vague visions. But politics, well, you know—egos, ridiculous formalities, tradition—they all get in the way of doing what’s best. No, Lord K’hul understands this but circumstances tie his hands. You shall act in his stead, and in so doing gain his favor.”
“What must I do?” The possibility of ingratiating himself to the Voice of the First filled Lord Cinder’s eyes with a fervent light and stiffened his spine.
“You’ll laugh,” Historian said and ducked his head in feigned embarrassment. “Lord Icewind believes in the old tales which claim demons cannot cross running water, therefore he’s focused his magic on the upper portion of the castle. He’s ignored the castle’s lower areas because the humans diverted a branch of the river to flow beneath it as part of their sewage system. He considers that protection enough.”
“But we know different,” Lord Cinder said with a grin.
Historian nearly forgot himself but managed to resist slapping the presumptuous mixed-blood. “Yes, we do,” he said through a false smile. “You’re to see to bolstering the castle’s defenses by sprinkling this protective dust along the grating in the downstairs’ sewer area. None outside the family will realize how many lives you’ve saved but those who matter shall.”
Historian led the young elf to the exit. “There is a rotation of the guard tomorrow at dawn. A portal will open to let soldiers currently stationed in Teresland come home while a new batch takes their place. Join them. Once in Castle Teres, immediately see to completing your task.” He opened the door and shooed his guest out, waving at him with all the good humor he could muster.
When Lord Cinder finally disappeared up the stairs, Historian pushed the door to his sanctuary closed. Of late, far too many people had intruded upon his privacy. Just to be safe, he barred the door with a quick spell.
Alone at last, Historian hurried to the far end of the room. He slid around his desk to the back bookcase. He chuckled, as he often did, when he pulled out a book and a door flipped open to reveal a secret room. He loved the cliché. The trick was so obvious, no one would dream it truly existed. He slipped into the cool darkness and drew up to the only source of light in the room. A crystal ball the size of an ogre’s head perched atop a black marble pedestal.
Historian ran his hands over the luminescent orb. His disparagement of his own magical art, divination, had been easy enough to feign. Even those with generous magical talent often curled their lips at the branch of magical learning least understood. Having the likes of poor, spineless Kiat Icewind serving as divin
ation’s ambassador only made it easier for the average elf, especially a non-talented twit like Lord Cinder, to underestimate divination’s possibilities.
The crystal ball flared and Historian’s touch and a few words from him coaxed forth an image. Despite his never stepping foot off First Home, Historian’s studies allowed him to learn the layout of Castle Teres as easily as those born there. The scene shifted and settled on a place of darkness and damp. A soft direction from Historian stabilized the image and he tilted his head as he tried to make out details in the black. A sputter of light illuminated the view, briefly silhouetting the bars of an iron grate. Something had tested the magical shielding and found itself repulsed.
Historian stifled a sigh of exasperation. As usual, Kiat’s spell worked perfectly. Even without standing in the room where he could feel and smell the magic, Historian knew from experience the demons trying to break through the shielding couldn’t hope to succeed. Kiat had too much skill and power.
First Father how he hated that quivering excuse of a mage.
Before his mood could sour too much, Historian cheered himself with the knowledge Kiat would suffer the same fate as the dangerous Lord W’rath. Lord Cinder, fool and unwitting accomplice, would see to that. An innocent sprinkling of powder and death would pour out of the sewers, consume Itarillë’s ill-chosen lover and then finish off everyone else in Castle Teres.
Many elves would die, including K’hul’s precious Lady Swiftbrook, which was why Historian couldn’t leave such an important task in his nephew’s hands. The boy didn’t understand what it meant to make hard choices. He would rather let a true threat like Lord W’rath walk among them than sacrifice a few soldiers and the female who spurned him.
The shielding flared again. “Soon,” Historian murmured. “Just a little more patience. He sent a thread of magic through the link of his crystal ball to the sewer and added a layer of his own magic. He didn’t have the power to disable the ward from this distance but he could help hide the creatures sniffing around the castle. Until now, the demons had done well to keep themselves hidden from scrying spells but their unsubtle probing of the castle’s defenses would alert Kiat and the others if he didn’t help cloak the monster’s latest activity. His spell in place, he drew a silk covering over the crystal ball, snuffing out its light.