Saelbeneth’s benevolent smile remained fixed. “Nelchior worries you have a scheme that requires thwarting. Have you breakfasted?”
Red spots appeared on Thabean’s pale cheeks. “We have, thank you.” He paused while a Caleisbahn officer entered, Gustave at his heels. The pirate had a new sword and fresh clothes. Bethniel’s nose twitched at Lillem’s stinking uniform, and she wished he had been able to change.
Saelbeneth said, “Commodore, thank you for joining us. Your counsel is always welcome.” She nodded at Bethniel. “Who have you brought before us, Thabean?”
Jaw bunched, he shot Bethniel a warning glance. “This is Lady Bethniel of the East Reach, a territory across the Senacna Kein. She and her sister Victoria led a force of two hundred warriors to assist us but were waylaid by Meylnara’s minions and wiped out. Only Lady Bethniel, her retainer, and this Caleisbahnin escaped. Meylnara holds her sister captive.”
“What nonsense is this?” Nelchior spat. “There are no territories on the other side of the Senacna Kein.”
“It is a colony established by my forebears and Semena steed herders,” Thabean replied.
Bethniel maintained her courtier’s mask, but her pulse thudded as she wondered why Thabean had concocted this lie. Still, if it meant he’d help Vic, she wouldn’t contradict him. “The East Reach is a distant place, known to few, madam,” she said. “My father is liege-bound to Sir Thabean and sent us to join your cause.”
Saelbeneth tilted her head sympathetically. “My condolences on your losses, my lady.”
“Madam, my sister—I came to beg your help rescuing her.”
“I’m afraid we cannot expend resources to rescue a single captive.”
Bethniel swallowed. Saelbeneth had to see value in rescuing Vic. A glance at Gustave gained her no counsel but a slight shake of his head. “Madam, Meylnara kept my sister but expelled the three of us for a reason: my sister is a wizard.”
“Treason!” Nelchior shot to his feet.
Saelbeneth’s gaze pierced Bethniel’s certainties. “Did the Purge miss the East Reach?”
Gustave’s head shake was more emphatic, and Bethniel feared she’d made a terrible miscalculation. What in Shrine was the Purge? “Not that I know of, madam.”
“The Reach was cleared forty-three years ago, in the last round of the Purge,” Thabean interjected.
“Then how did your retainer get the Elixir?” Nelchior snapped.
“I know not.” The red had drained from Thabean’s cheeks, leaving them white as cerrenil bark.
Victoria of Ourtown was on the Council, Bethniel reminded herself, trying to slow her breathing. They will rescue her. Shrine, why hadn’t she taken Ashel’s class on the Council? Now there was no way through this morass but to hew close to the truth. “Madam, Sir Thabean knew nothing of my sister’s powers. Neither does my father, or anyone else in the Reach. She acquired them on our journey here, from a tribe of friendly Kragnashians—”
“Preposterous!” Nelchior cried.
Thabean’s eyebrows shot up, his forehead creased.
“Quiet, Nelchior,” Saelbeneth ordered. “My lady, that story is absurd. There are no friendly Kragnashians. They all serve Meylnara. Do you as well? Have you concocted this ridiculous tale to sow discord among her enemies?”
Bethniel felt the wizard prying into her mind, a clumsy attempt at Listening that she might have laughed off if she weren’t desperate for the woman’s help. She dropped every bit of baffling she always held over her thoughts, allowing Saelbeneth to Hear the truth. “Madam, my sister Victoria obtained the Woern from Kragnashians who refer to Meylnara as the Oppressor, and these creatures claimed Victoria was prophesied to destroy her. But Meylnara’s forces killed our troops and captured her. My retainer and I, guided by this seaman, attempted to rescue her, but we failed and were expelled from Meylnara’s stronghold. We come to you with a sincere offer of aid in your war, if you will only help us free my sister.”
Saelbeneth narrowed her eyes, glancing between Bethniel and the other wizards. “I Hear no lies, but not the entire truth, I think.”
“We did not come to betray or harm you, I swear on the old mothers and Elesendar.”
“Since the Purge the world has had twelve wizards serving on the Council. Twelve wizards only. We have come to this place to execute Meylnara for being a rogue wizard. If your sister has the Woern, she is subject to the same fate.”
Bethniel’s skin pebbled as the blood drained from her face. “We did not know there could be only twelve, Madam.”
“Clearly you must remedy some educational deficiencies in the East Reach, Thabean.”
He glared at Bethniel. “I will indeed, madam.”
“In the meantime, we cannot risk Meylnara having another rogue wizard for an ally.”
“No wonder you wished to speak to Saelbeneth privately,” Nelchior said. “Did you think if you confessed your sins to her alone, you would dodge the consequences?”
Jaw bunching, Thabean placed a fist over his heart. “I will find and expunge the second rogue, madam. And if I can, I will kill Meylnara as well.”
Nelchior laughed, and Bethniel’s heart lurched. She looked desperately from Lillem to Gustave. The pirate whispered to the commodore, who bowed to Saelbeneth. “Madam, although twelve wizards sit on the Council, two are drained or nearly so. As your tactical advisor I suggest you consider the advantage of permitting this new rogue to live so long as she fights for your cause.”
Nelchior’s mocking laughter ceased, and Bethniel released a silent prayer of thanks. Saelbeneth raised an eyebrow. “The law is the law, commodore.”
“During wartime it is not uncommon to suspend laws that impede victory, madam.”
The Council leader’s gaze landed on Bethniel. “Perhaps we should give the accused a chance to defend herself before the full Council. Thabean, this situation is yours to remedy. Go to the Lair, find the rogue, and arrest her; do not kill her. However, if you have a chance to dispatch Meylnara, do so. I miss the Kiareinoll and would be happy to return.”
“Madam,” Bethniel interjected, “Victoria was severely injured by Meylnara’s minions and won’t be fit to defend herself in a tribunal. I beg you, let me speak for her, but give me time to prepare her case.”
“You have many requests, my lady. First, let Thabean find your sister. I promise you she will not face justice until she can bear the consequences.”
The Second Rogue
Thabean settled into the surveillance blind, fury steaming his blood. Glowing orbs flickered over the minions bustling in and out of the Lair, but Nelchior’s gloating sneer dominated his thoughts. Hatred seethed with each heartbeat, and he trembled with rage. At himself most of all. He’d claimed the self-proclaimed princess to keep Nelchior from building some scheme around her, and now he’d implicated himself in the emergence of a rogue wizard! A colossal blunder, all because he’d let a pretty face turn his head.
But another rogue wizard—the thought chilled his blood. For more than fifty years the Code had kept the world from chaos. If someone outside the Council had acquired the Elixir and was spreading it through the populace . . . Nelchior? No. The fiend was devious, but he wouldn’t unleash a power he couldn’t control. Yet if that scoundrel got his hands on the rogue? Thabean shook his head, tamping down his anger and shifting his focus to the mission. First, find the new rogue.
The night wore on, the milling creatures thinning until all but a few sentries disappeared into their hives. Keeping to the shadows, he drifted over the wall and released the Woern. Meylnara might sense his power, and her minions had proven remarkably resistant to direct assaults with wizardry. Crouching low, he crept to the dungeon. A rank stench of blood and excrement wafted from the pit—human odors, to be sure. The gigantic arthropods occupying this compound smelled good. Eyes darting for the creatures, he worked a puff of air into the lock, and the grate clicked open. Down inside, a broken chain clinked against scorched s
tone. Rusty stains reeked of iron. No captive wizard now, but someone with power had been held here no more than a day or two ago.
He climbed out and stole toward the hive, freezing at every noise. A pair of minions exited, clicking and rustling as they passed. Hunkered in the folds of a tree, he suppressed a chortle. Since he’d received the Elixir, he had mostly forgotten how to fear, but now his heart thumped in his ears like a boy on his first lupear hunt. He felt alive. Swallowing another chuckle, he slipped through the arched doorway.
Inside, spongy walls shimmered with a sallow light. He could see no lamps; the walls themselves glowed dimly. Ramps ascended to his right, descended to his left, and plunged straight inside. He froze, eyes closed, ears sharp for some sense of wizardry. Nothing. A small ripple of power altered the molecular structure of the dyes in his robe, and the color changed to match the pale walls. Taking the ascending ramp, he followed a smooth, featureless passage as it wound up and up to a bulbous dead end. There had to be chambers along the corridor, but he could see no doorways. Puzzled, he retraced his steps. A click and a rustle pricked his ears. Pulse thumping, he ducked under his cloak and pressed himself to the wall. A panel slid aside and a minion emerged, shut the door, and headed down the ramp. Thabean exhaled and stole to the hidden door. His fingers slid along the surface, discerning no seam until at last he found a serrated edge and a slight indentation. He pressed the surface, and a narrow gap clicked open. Very slowly, he slid the panel aside. He imagined the chamber might hold a laboring queen, with attendants to remove the eggs and put them in cells, or a room stacked high with maturing larvae, but he found only a large volume of webbing piled together into a nest. He exhaled, and his heartbeat slowed.
Back in the corridor, he searched for more doorways. They were slightly more yellow than the wall, a difference so subtle he wasn’t sure he found them all. Wary of traps, he strained his ears each time he cracked open a door. Inside the chambers, creatures lay curled into armored balls, slumbering atop the nests. The rooms provided a hiding place while minions shuffled past in the corridor. Sweat soaked his shirt as he searched, the fear of discovery rising with each chamber lacking a human occupant.
On the lowest level was a doorway streaked with faint, rust-colored smears. The chamber within reeked like a midden. Suppressing a cough, he swiped at watering eyes. Someone groaned softly, the sound dying to a whisper. Cautiously, he spun a light orb and sent it bouncing into the room. Upon coils of thick white webbing slept a woman, her face hidden beneath snarled red hair. Meylnara! Blood surging, he drew his dagger—then froze. Yellow pus and raw muscle ravaged her shoulder. The woman quivered in the grip of a chill; heat shimmered off filthy skin. “Rockfall,” he breathed. He knew such wounds. In the last assault on the Lair, the minions had rained their spit on the troops scaling the walls. Screams scorched the eardrums as soldiers fell, their flesh melting off their skulls. Sheathing his dagger, he brushed aside a clump of hair, exposing pale freckles scattered across the face of a woman much younger than Meylnara. He stretched his fingers over her arm, watched the hairs stand and bend toward his palm. The rogue, as grievously wounded as Bethniel claimed, and Woernsick too. His anger ground finer, thicker, leavened with sympathy.
The young woman’s eyes opened. Gasping, she clutched his arm. “You came! I knew you would.” She climbed to her knees, her eyes glazed. “I waited so long—I thought you’d abandoned me. Forgive me! Forgive me for doubting you!” Shushing her, he backed away, but she stumbled after him, her voice rising as she switched to the language of the Oreseekers. “I love you. You came; I love you—” As his shoulders butted the wall, she collapsed into his arms.
Ears twitching, he held his breath. Hers came in heavy gasps, her skin bleeding heat into him. He pushed the hair off her face and studied the delicate nose, the pointed chin. Her lips were thin, her face gaunt. Not a beauty like the princess. Not likely to be Bethniel’s blood sister either—from their complexions to their height and build, the women couldn’t differ more, but the world was full of fostered orphans. He scooped up her legs—she did have a fine figure: a body small and slight, but solid and strong. Shrine, get hold of yourself, he chided. Lust had gotten him into this mess and would only make things worse if he got the rogue back to camp.
A shriek pierced the air, and he ducked the silver fire crackling from the doorway. Clutching the rogue, Thabean slammed a wall of solidified air into Meylnara and zipped past her. The corridor teemed with rattling minions. Raising a shield, he sent an electric jolt through the floor, frying the feet of his enemies. Wizard and minions faltered, and he sheared up through fibrous walls to reach the stars.
A Myth of the Ancients
Ashel slapped a book shut, setting dust awhirl, a sparkling dance above the tomes scattered across the table. For years, he had taught the Council history to pimpled adolescents, and he’d laughed at himself for pining after a woman who bore the name of a Council member. She even had red hair, like the woman described in the accounts. But that didn’t signify a thing. Meylnara was described as having red hair too. Sashal had had red hair. A coincidence of name and coloration didn’t mean his wife was a thousand years in the past!
Grabbing another volume, he flipped to a dogeared chapter full of dates and events but not enough bloody detail to prove or disprove Lornk’s claims. This ridiculous story of another world was a myth fabricated to cover some deeper machination. Yet dread niggled as he thought of the damn rug in Vic’s room and its central motif: the duel between Victoria and Meylnara. The historical Victoria of Ourtown was an Oreseeker wizard who took the place of Darien, a Council member whose powers had faded. The War of the Council ended half a year later when Victoria met Meylnara in single combat, a battle so fierce it left the entire forest of Direiellene burned to ash and sand. Victoria disappeared afterward.
“My wife will not die there,” he swore aloud, fists clenched. “Elesendar, she will not die in Kragnash!” A vow, a promise, and a prayer, he meant each syllable, but what could he do to fulfill it? Vic in the past was preposterous, her true location and Bethniel’s a mystery. Not a single text even hinted at anyone resembling his sister, but that didn’t prove a thing either. Traveling thousands of miles in the wink of an eye was preposterous, yet Ashel had done it three times within the span of a day.
You should do it right now, Geram said. Why did you go back to Traine?
Because Lornk knows where they are. And Lornk’s library contained more volumes on the Council than Ashel had ever seen.
Those books are nothing but a madman’s obsession. Don’t fall into it.
Ashel rose and perused the shelves. Scanning spines, he strayed from history to mythology, where his finger paused on a title that was ancient to the Ancients: Orpheus. Orpheus and Eurydice was a favorite opera in the Guild, and a sacred one too. His heart leapt with sudden inspiration, and he rushed to another shelf and snatched a lexicon of Kragnashian signs to his chest. Hope flooded down his cheeks, into the beard she’d said she liked. By Elesendar’s grace, she’d see it soon.
Breath short and pulse rippling, he checked the Kragnashian dictionary. He was fluent in every language in Knownearth, except the one he needed now. Making certain of the necessary phrases, he descended to the Device and shoved the knob into the southwestern slot.
Cool air washed away the Device-borne itch. Rising, he found himself upon a stone pedestal. A ramp sloped toward a doorway set in a dome constructed out of hexagonal cells, rising several hundred feet from a sandy floor. Outside, the Desert People swarmed past, as intent on their business as merchants on the docks.
Whistling, a sentry whisked up the ramp, and Ashel clapped a greeting. “I am Ashel of Narath,” he spoke his name in his own voice, “and I come to trade.”
The Kragnashian clicked something; he asked it to repeat itself while he scrambled through the dictionary. The clicks and snaps slowed, and he caught the meaning: what did he wish to buy?
“I will bargain only with th
e Center.”
“All who enter Direiellene must pay the price.”
He’d expected that condition and had a ready answer. “I already possess the Woern.”
The sentry swept closer, antennae wheeling. It towered over him, its tattooed mandibles as long as he was tall. He breathed deeply, using his diaphragm, filling his chest with the creature’s benign springtime scent to control the quaking fear stirred by pinchers that could snap a man in half. Geram’s heartbeat raced alongside his, and his thigh muscles twitched as Geram knuckled his scarred limb. After a dozen long, slow breaths, the sentry ordered him to follow.
Outside, heat dug sweat out of Ashel’s pores. Beneath a scorching sun that squeezed his eyes to slits, he followed the sentry to a shaded fountain decorated with statues of pipers and harpists. With a parting order to wait there, the sentry merged into the stream of Kragnashians flowing toward three mountainous white domes. Hope bolstered by the granite renderings of musicians, he dipped cupped hands into the fountain, slaking a dry throat and splashing his hair and clothes. Look at the singer, Geram. It has to be a sign. They’re here in this city. I know it.
Maybe you’re right, Geram said. May Elesendar help you bring them home.
The sentry returned, dwarfed by another Kragnashian wearing a coppery stole draped over its thorax. The fabric rippled alongside thousands of feet as the Center swept up to the fountain. Ashel had to crane his neck to meet its sparkling gaze.
“Dealmaker’s Offspring,” it said. “All aims are to me. What do you seek?”
A breeze blasted his shirt dry. Orpheus, he thought. You have the power of Orpheus, and you will bring your love back from Hades. He took breath and sang:
If you were lovers
you would know for yourselves
the burning desire
which torments me,
which goes with me everywhere.
Not even in this
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