Talandra turned towards Hyram. “And you?”
“You are calm where I am rash. You ask for counsel from all and listen to advice when it’s given, whatever quarter it comes from. I have little patience, and have even been known to brood on occasion.”
“On occasion?” said Talandra, earning a smile from both of her brothers.
“Your mind is far more agile than mine as well. I put my strength in my arm, in the Generals who lead, and in the Maker,” said Hyram. “It was never going to be me.”
“But I’m no General, or battlefield tactician. Father could read a battle and predict its movements with only a glance.”
“It wasn’t always that way,” said Graegor from the doorway. None of them had heard his approach, but he’d obviously heard enough to understand what they were talking about. He came striding into the room, a spectre of death, dressed as ever in black mail and armed for battle with axe and sword. If time was taking its toll on him beyond a few lines on his face, Talandra couldn’t see it. He still moved like a man twenty, even thirty, years his junior.
Graegor came around the table to stand at Talandra’s left shoulder, just as he’d done for their father for years as his bodyguard and then advisor.
“He learned over time. He was coached by his elders until he surpassed them and saw what even they missed. It will come to you as well, but until then, the Generals will guide you.”
“You have no qualms about this decision?” Talandra asked the grizzled General.
Graegor had been a surrogate uncle all her life, an unwavering constant, and like some family members, he wasn’t someone she would’ve picked if there’d been a choice. There were times when she couldn’t stand the sight of him. He was rude, blunt, racist, always angry and they had little in common. Their longest conversations had taken place in the last few months, and all of them had revolved around the war. Graegor was a valuable ally in a conflict, but without a war, Talandra wondered what he would become. She wondered if he even knew who he was without an enemy to fight.
“You’ve never been one to hold your tongue, so don’t start now,” said Talandra.
“I see your father’s strength in you,” said Graegor, briefly gripping her shoulder. “He was decent with a sword. He couldn’t best me of course, but he was good enough. You wouldn’t last an hour on the front line compared to your brothers.”
“Well thank you for pointing out the—”
“But,” interrupted Graegor, holding up a meaty hand. “It was never your father’s skill with a blade that helped this nation prosper. He didn’t cut his neighbours into chunks and force them to bend their knee. He brokered peace between nations in the west, arranged marriages, exchanged ambassadors and a hundred other political games I’ve no patience for. What you lack in experience on the battlefield, you make up for in other areas.”
Talandra wasn’t sure what to say. It was the closest thing she’d ever heard to a compliment from the old General.
“One day, this war will end,” promised Graegor, “and my job will be over until the next one, but yours will begin in earnest. You will have to build something better from the ashes. That’s not something I envy, but I know you can do it.”
Never one for labouring a point, Graegor turned on his heel and was walking away before Talandra could thank him.
“We’ll always be here to help you,” said Thias, “however we can.”
“Do you accept?” asked Hyram.
Talandra’s thoughts whirled and were slow to settle. She struggled for an answer, but in truth she’d already made her choice.
She poured two mugs of ale and they drank to the memory of their father. They told stories about his life, crying and laughing until the flagon of ale was empty. Hyram fetched two more, and much later Talandra was surprised to see both of those were empty too.
The ale dulled some of the shock and took the edges off their shared grief, but always in the back of her mind was the mountain. The weight of responsibility that came with governing a nation. For one more night she was able to put it to one side, and all of the problems that came with it. And for a time, they were just three siblings enjoying each other’s company.
A strong gust of wind made the tavern walls shudder as another heavy blast of rain hammered against the tent canvas. None of the patrons paid it much attention. They were too busy celebrating, drowning their sorrows and mourning friends lost in the day’s fighting. The air was filled with a steady hum of conversation, and clouds of blue and grey smoke from cigarettes and pipes. Buckets of sand and water sat in three corners of the tent, just in case there were a fire.
In the fourth corner sat a pair of musicians playing jaunty tunes on a fiddle and drums. They were trying hard to raise people’s spirits and lift the depressed mood hanging in the air. Working girls and boys circled throughout the crowd looking for business and free drinks, but they weren’t having much luck because of the storm. Most were happy to stay indoors and flirt where it was warm and dry.
Staring into the bottom of her empty glass, Eloise wondered if she could have done more to prevent Ecko’s death. On the other side of the table Darius looked equally glum, sipping the last of his ale and grimacing.
“Still hate the taste?”
“It seems to be the only thing to drink around here, and tonight I need something.”
Silence settled on their table for a while.
“It was my idea. I should have remained outside the Link,” said Eloise.
“I cannot even begin to imagine that,” said Darius, gripping her right hand in both of his. “So do not make me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wish he were here with us, but we cannot change the past.”
“I just keep seeing it in my head,” said Eloise, gulping down some more ale in a desperate attempt to blur the images in her mind. The column of white fire descending from the sky. The terrible echo of pain filtering through the Source and her connection to Ecko.
“The Warlock is more powerful than we imagined,” said Darius, but then he laughed and slapped the table. “Despite everything, Ecko nearly killed him. I wish I’d known him better.”
“A few more seconds and Ecko would have succeeded. Then all of this would all be over,” muttered Eloise, struggling to throw off her melancholy. “I wonder how he did it?”
“Who?”
“The Warlock. How did he become so powerful? I don’t believe he did it by himself.”
“Who could have helped him, and why did they do it?”
They sat in silence for a while, each pondering the questions. Long before she’d travelled to the desert and been tutored by the Jhanidi, she’d been a student at the Red Tower. It was there she’d first seen Balfruss, already well known among the students and teachers. They’d never spoken of course. The oldest students, those almost ready to go out into the world, did not socialise with the youngest.
But even then she’d seen how members of the Grey Council had looked at him. With a mix of awe and possibly a hint of fear.
Perhaps the mystery surrounding their disappearance wasn’t as complex as some claimed. Perhaps they’d gone in search of their Chosen One, but instead they’d found the Warlock, who squeezed them for every bit of information then cast them aside. Worse still, perhaps some of the Splinters were all that remained of the Grey Council. A shiver ran through her at the thought.
“It doesn’t matter who helped him,” said Eloise, a flush of anger rushing through her. “It only matters that we kill him.”
“That is not all that matters. I would not see you consumed by hate. Let the anger fuel you, but do not let it be your master.”
Similar words had been spoken during one of her first lessons with the Jhanidi, where she had been educated for a second time about her power. Taking a deep breath she pushed the anger away, but let a small coal of it remain, burning in the back of her mind for when it was needed.
“Let’s go to bed,” said Eloise. “I want to celebr
ate life, because tomorrow could be our last.”
She thought Darius would wince and tell her that everything would be all right, but he remained silent. He’d mastered his emotions a long time ago, but she could read him easily and knew how deep his worry travelled. Instead he smiled, pulled her into his embrace then kissed her fiercely. Tonight was for the living. They would worry about tomorrow with the dawn.
The royal apothecary woke Balfruss a short time before he was due to guard the royal family. The sleeping draught had mercifully allowed him to sleep without dreams, but now that he was awake the pain of Ecko’s loss hit him anew. More than anything Balfruss needed to speak to someone about this who would understand, but all of the other Battlemages were hours away with the army. He thought about talking to Vann, but knew his old friend wouldn’t truly comprehend the loss, as he had no concept of the Source.
“You are not alone,” said Thule’s voice, as crisp as ever in Balfruss’s mind despite the distance. “I am here.”
“I should have been there with you,” said Balfruss, moving to the window.
“If you had, the royal family would have been defenceless.”
“I could have stopped the Warlock,” persisted Balfruss.
“How?” asked Thule.
Balfruss stared at the uniform streets of Charas below him for inspiration. “I don’t know, but if I’d been there, two of us could have left the Link to fight him. The Warlock wouldn’t have stood a chance against two Battlemages.”
“True, but we both know the Warlock is extremely cautious, even in his private meetings with you.”
Balfruss was stunned. “How long have you known?”
“Since the first time he approached you by the fire.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” asked Balfruss, as fresh waves of guilt washed over him.
“Normally I would never have known, if not for this joining. So I was waiting for you to tell us.”
He shook his head. “How do I tell the others? What do I tell them?”
“Balfruss, I’ve heard every word of your conversations with him. If I had any concerns I would have told them myself by now. Just be honest.”
“Thank you, Thule.”
“You’re welcome, my friend. I am always here if you need to talk.”
Thule’s presence faded from his mind and Balfruss rushed to get ready for his nightshift. He may not have been able to stop the Warlock from killing Ecko, but Balfruss wouldn’t let him touch the royal family. He would die before he let the Warlock hurt them or another of his brethren.
CHAPTER 27
The vast banqueting hall was cold and featureless one moment, then welcoming and familiar the next. The bare stone walls became huge slabs of white marble veined with gold which glowed and were warm to the touch. At intervals along the walls were huge fireplaces and a roaring blaze in each heated and lit the room, creating long shadows that pooled in the corners. The wood crackled and snapped, and yet no ash littered the immaculate red carpet. Above each fireplace was an ancient tapestry depicting battles from centuries ago. Every detail and thread was impeccable, the colours impossibly bright, as if they’d been perfectly restored or woven only days ago.
At the far end of the room sat a loom, a collection of flags from nations long turned to dust, and a battered wooden chest strapped with black iron. Vargus didn’t approach it and couldn’t bear to think about what lay inside. Mementos from previous lives and all the memories that came with them. Names and faces of countless people, all of whom were now dead.
All of the furnishings seemed too good to be true, which they were. The room had been empty until his arrival. The only feature not of his making was the long black wooden table and chairs. None of the seats were marked, and yet he instinctively knew which belonged to him.
The others began to arrive soon after and Kai was one of the first. Vargus didn’t want to know what he saw when he looked around the room. To his surprise Kai still looked in good health, but it was probably an act. What he had done would not sustain him for very long. No one wanted to show weakness in this place. Mercy might be asked for, but rarely was it given. And one person’s mercy was murder to another. Vargus shied away from that particular memory and concentrated on the present.
The others arrived in ones and twos, each looking so ordinary and everyday in their robes, leather armour and gowns of silk or wool. Some were dressed for war, others looked as if they’d just woken up, and one or two wore almost nothing at all. Some resembled farmers daubed with dirt, while others were slathered with oil until their skin shone like polished metal. No two people were the same and their facial features didn’t belong to any one nation.
Nethun slapped Vargus on the back in greeting as he moved towards his chair. The big man’s bald head shone in the firelight and damp impressions showed on the carpet in the wake of his bare feet. The old sailor swayed from side to side as he went, bellowing greetings, clasping hands and waving at others. Those who found him uncouth smiled and pretended it didn’t bother them. Nethun was practically eternal, and it didn’t pay to offend him.
Kai put on a good act but was clearly nervous. He politely returned any greetings from others, but stayed close to Vargus, just in case.
A barefoot woman with pale white skin and long black hair down to her waist swept past leaving a rich aroma in her wake. Vargus smelled wild flowers, fresh grass, ripe berries and a hundred other scents he couldn’t name, and yet all were tantalisingly familiar.
As ever there were a few new faces in the crowd and it was they he surreptitiously studied, while pretending not to be interested. In return the newcomers tried not to gawp and point at some of the others, including him. Just as they all knew Nethun, Vargus was old enough to warrant a few stares.
One of the newcomers almost dropped to his knees when Nethun walked past. The wiry youth was pulled to his feet by his companion, a lithe woman dressed in leather and armed to the teeth with knives.
“We don’t need to bow,” she hissed. Her companion nodded but didn’t look convinced. The woman’s bravado wavered when Nethun looked in her direction. She took an involuntarily step back, but he just smiled and moved on.
The last few were arriving and as anticipated some were waiting to make a grand entrance. Not far away, a large cluster of people stood around the loveliest woman Vargus had ever seen in all his long years. There were a dozen beautiful women in the hall, but underneath they were all something else. In this place everyone hid their true face, except her. She was radiant and glowed with an inner fire that made her more desirable than any other woman. Vargus also felt incredibly protective of her, and somehow he was also comforted by her presence, as if she were his elder. All of the emotions were jumbled, but at their core they were all feelings of love in different guises. The Blessed Mother was almost as old as the Maker and twice as lovely.
Somewhere a bell started to toll. A small crisp note that sounded so pure. Vargus didn’t smile or feel cleansed by it. No bells existed in his version of this place. He knew the others must have heard it too, and no doubt they were also feeling a violation of their space. A few muttered quietly, some simply bit their lip while others pretended it didn’t bother them.
The Lady of Light came into the room first, moving slowly as if walking to a death march, trying to draw every eye in the hall. The white gown was supposed to be demure, and yet was so tight around her breasts and hips it was almost transparent. Something that resembled a nun’s wimple was tied around her head like a scarf, bright golden hair spilling down her back. In one hand she held a white lantern that burned so bright every shadow in the hall receded. A few people twitched and winced in discomfort. There were some who thrived in the dark.
Nethun’s only complaint was to raise an eyebrow and sit down, which prompted everyone else to follow suit. Vargus moved to his seat, beside Nethun and opposite the Blessed Mother. The Lord of Light hurried into the room looking flustered and annoyed. His attempt at making an entrance had b
een ruined and no one paid him any attention. The hood of his robe fell over his face as he scrambled into his seat and he threw it back with an annoyed flick.
At the head of the table sat an empty chair much larger than the others. Vargus had never it seen occupied. Nethun inclined his head towards the empty seat before standing to address the crowd. As one of the eldest it was his right to conduct the meeting.
“I probably don’t need to ask, but who called us here?” asked Nethun. He was used to shouting orders and his voice easily carried to the far end of the long table.
The Lord of Light stood up and started to thank the others for being there, scattering around praise and compliments like grains of rice. Vargus found his nasal voice annoying and blocked out the words until he saw only the gaping of his mouth. It flapped open and closed, reminding him of a drowning fish on a river bank. It was the only way he knew to make the tedious speech a little more bearable.
Tired of seeing the mask of a handsome young man, Vargus looked deeper into the Lord of Light. The room shuddered and everyone’s true faces were revealed. The man in white was replaced by a boy with a candle, trying not to draw attention to himself and yet remain useful to his elders. Beside him sat a girl in rags whose face was smeared with soot. The Blessed Mother looked the same and yet her appearance constantly wavered between lover, mother, sister and crone. Summer resembled a collection of golden crops and berries wrapped around the constantly shifting bodies of brown, grey and red furry mammals. Nethun became a vast crustacean wrapped in chains of seaweed, a saw-toothed monster gobbling down ships like minnows in his whirlpool mouth, a school of purple, red and blue fish swimming in perfect unison. The images kept changing and there were so many it started to make Vargus’s head spin.
The room flickered again and returned to normal just as the boy finished talking. It was only then that Vargus realised the others were looking at him expectantly.
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