by Jack Massa
“If I may voice a different opinion.” Shay-Ni Pheng spoke up.
The Duke suppressed a frown. His nephew, he knew, was anxious that the campaign continue. Shay-Ni had been in the capital for over two months. As soon as it became clear that the witches of the House of the Deepmind would not bring charges against him, the Admiral had requested a new command. The Duke had held back, not wanting to undermine Admiral K’un’s position. His nephew was known as a firebrand. Worse, his debacle in the South Polar Sea had damaged his reputation among his fellow officers. Giving him a new command so soon would certainly have been unwise. Predictably, Shay-Ni had fretted, bridling against the enforced inactivity, venting his frustration with whoring and drinking. The Duke had warned him more than once that excessive vulgarity would only mar his reputation further.
“Of course, Admiral Pheng.” The Duke saw no choice but to let the man speak. “All comments are welcome.”
The Admiral thrust himself to his feet. “I believe that, instead of retreating, we must enlarge the campaign. In the shipyards of Hanjapore, seven new warships are nearing completion …”
“Respectfully,” Admiral K’un interrupted, “speaking as one just returned from Gon Fu, seven new ships will not alter the balance.”
“Not if we continue the same failed tactics,” Shay-Ni retorted. “No. My suggestion is to confront the Tathians at sea: sink their freighters, attack their war squadrons, even launch surprise attacks on their naval bases.”
“All with seven galleons?” another navy commander asked.
“Those seven, plus others peeled off from the blockade,” Shay Ni said. “I propose a new flotilla be formed to take the fight to the Tathian princes.”
“Under your command, no doubt,” K’un remarked.
Shay-Ni grew furious. “And why not under my command? Who has a better right? Or do you question my fitness for command?”
“Enough!” Standing, the Duke slapped the table with both hands. “This council is no place for emotional outbursts. Sit down, Admiral Pheng.”
Reluctantly, Shay-Ni sank into his chair, his complexion flushed and bitter. Around the table, faces regarded him grimly.
“My nephew has voiced a proposal for revising the campaign,” the Duke said quietly. “We will hear discussion of its merits.”
The debate did not last long, and Shay-Ni’s suggestion found little favor. This was due in large part, the Duke saw, to the loss of face Shay-Ni had suffered—both because of the events at the South Pole and his behavior since returning to Minhang. Now he listened with a surly expression, fighting back the urge to argue as his proposal sank into obscurity.
The Duke sighed. More and more, Shay-Ni was becoming a problem—one the Duke had neither the time nor patience for dealing with.
In the end, the warlords agreed to end the blockade of Gon Fu but to continue to supply the expeditionary force—leaving the small piece of the island they had conquered in Larthangan hands. Duke Pheng favored this as both a face-saving solution and a means of holding a launching point for future, better-planned campaigns.
After the group adjourned, the Duke climbed the stairs to his study at the top of the keep. His mind weighed down by many concerns, he looked forward to an hour or two of contemplation and perhaps summoning his seer to read the oracle.
So, when a steward informed him of a visitor, the surprise was unwelcome. But on hearing the identity of the visitor, the Duke agreed to the audience. After all, he must be kept informed about events in the House of the Deepmind.
Clorodice awaited him on the threshold of the terrace, staring down at the long view of the river below Minhang. She seemed lost in reverie, and when he approached she turned, a startled look on her face.
“Good afternoon, my lady. Will you sit.” He gestured at a chair.
“No, thank you. I prefer to stand. But please sit if you wish.” She stared at him with wide, alert eyes. Her manner impressed him as both excited and ill-at-ease.
“The attempt to eliminate Amlina failed,” she said.
“Yes.” The Duke settled himself into a seat. “Word reached me this morning. The news, it seems, is much discussed at the palace.”
“Of course. All attempts to keep such news within the walls of Ting Ta Roo were bound to fail.” She began to pace in front of his writing table. “However, my circle’s involvement is not suspected. So, for the moment, we are safe.”
“That is well.” The Duke waited for her to disclose the reason for this unexpected visit. The silence lasted while the witch paced back and forth twice more.
“I have not given up on my resolve that Amlina be thwarted, that my apprentice Elani should not win the Keepership of the Cloak. But for now I must move with more deliberation, lest I risk suspicions turning upon me.”
Duke Pheng pursed his lips. “You indicated that Amlina’s next hurdle would be to attain the rank of the gray mantle.”
“Yes, but that is almost a foregone conclusion.” Clorodice waved a dismissive hand. “In any case, that will be decided by the Academy, where I have little influence.”
“So then. Amlina will likely qualify as a candidate. And there will surely be others. Do you have any further word on how the Inner Council will decide the matter?”
Clorodice shook her head. “Nothing has been decided. But from my reading of the currents, I expect the Tournament of Witches will be used to select the winner. This will please the Tuan, since it was his suggestion. More importantly, it will avoid a vote that would likely divide the Council. Lady Drusdegarde likes to avert such conflicts.”
“So. Then what is your plan?”
Clorodice responded to the blunt question by stopping, setting both hands on the table, and leaning toward his face.
“I must summon more power.”
Pheng was taken aback: a strange statement for a high witch to bring to him. He turned up both hands in a shrug. “How can I assist you in this?”
Clorodice paced again. “First, I wish you to understand I do not take this path lightly. It is purely because of my dedication to virtue, to the moral order necessary for the good of the Land.”
“Of course. That is the driving force for both of us, and the reason we are allies.”
“Indeed. My alliance with you has … convinced me to take certain steps, to invoke elder arts that I would never have otherwise considered. But now I contemplate going even farther …”
Again, Pheng deemed it wise to listen patiently until the witch arrived at her point.
“Of old, those who practiced these arts augmented their power by seducing other minds, using them as sources and conduits.”
“You speak of thralls?”
“That is one type of servant that these arts can procure. But now I speak of something more potent by far. A thrall is simply one whose mind is disabled and the body controlled by another. But the old books describe another kind of servant, sometimes called an anti-self, sometimes a phingarr.”
“Phingarr? Isn’t that an archaic term for ‘ogre’?” The Duke was a man of considerable learning.
“Indeed. I believe that connation came later. Anti-self is the more meaningful term. Such a creature is derived from a human. This human is carefully selected because it is a complete psychic opposite of the mage who will fabricate the anti-self. Through this very opposition, this imbalance, enormous power can be drawn.”
The Duke’s mouth went slack. He was not often intimated by the workings of witches, but this discussion had taken a morbid, rather appalling turn.
“These practices have their risks,” Clorodice said. “Because an ongoing opposition is necessary, the human’s mind must remain intact, even as their souls are sliced open to allow vast energies to rise up from the Deepmind. And since some part of the will survives, such creatures can be difficult to control. But to the degree I can keep this anti-self confined and under my control, I will gain tremendous power—power I will use to further our mutual goals, the first of whi
ch being to defeat Amlina and assure my apprentice is awarded the Cloak of the Two Winds.”
She ended, leaning close to the Duke again. Trem-Dou swallowed and stroked his neat beard.
“My lady, I congratulate you, on both your scholarship and your willingness to take bold action. And I thank you for keeping me informed of your admirable plans. Is there any way in which I can assist.”
A grim smile spread over the witch’s face. “There is indeed, Lord Duke. I need you to supply the human whom I will transform.”
Pheng shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I am more than happy to help, of course. But surely, you have it in your power to acquire any number of … persons.”
“Ah, but not just any person will do.” Clorodice’s expression was alight with eagerness. “Remember, the anti-self must be my precise opposite. Where I am female, it must be a male. Where I am strict, self-controlled, abstemious, he must be the opposite. I have already done preparatory work on this project, including searching in the Deepmind for a likely candidate. That is why I come to you today.”
Duke Pheng leaned back, now actually frightened. Clorodice’s smile grew wide and feral.
“No, I do not mean you, my lord. But … perhaps another man comes to mind? Someone reckless, impulsive, rapacious in his appetites? Someone who might have proven troublesome lately?”
The realization made Pheng’s belly freeze. He stared at the witch for a long moment, taking hold of his feelings, pondering the repercussions. To deliver his nephew Shay-Ni into the hands of these witches to be murdered—No, rather transformed into some sort of ogre …? A heinous act, to be sure, to betray a member of one’s own family. Still, sometimes the game required the sacrifice of favored pieces. And Shay-Ni had grown more and more bothersome.
“I will need to think it over,” he finally said. “I might have someone for you.”
Twenty-Three
When the day came for the Iruks to visit the Chrysalis warriors, Eben was disappointed to learn that their headquarters was not within the House of the Deepmind. Instead, the Castle of the Chrysalis stood on the outskirts of Minhang, across the northern canal.
Eben had been hoping he might catch a glimpse of Trippany. He had not seen the winged lady since their enchanting night in the garden when he had seduced her—or she had seduced him—he scarcely knew which. She hadn’t said anything after their lovemaking, only rearranged her clothing, kissed him tenderly, and flown away. That was twelve days ago, more than a small-month. Eben had attended palace parties and performances in the interim, but though he had spotted the Drell ambassador on two occasions, Trippany had not been in the Prince’s entourage. Eben had no access to the House of the Deepmind, and so there was no way to get in touch with the lady. He considered it indiscrete to mention the drell to Amlina. In any case, the witch was much absorbed in her studies—dividing her time between the Academy and the study halls of the House of the Deepmind.
Still, memories of his night with Trippany occupied him constantly. Eben consoled himself with planning what he might say when next he saw her, with composing poems to her in his mind, and with drinking an excess of wine to ease the melancholy.
It was a fine, warm morning as the Iruks rode a ferry across the choppy water of the canal. They were accompanied by Ting Fo, the tutor who still attended them as guide— and as interpreter when needed, although all of the Iruks now spoke enough Larthangan for most occasions. Also in the party was Kizier who, as always, brought a writing book, pens, and ink to make notes.
The mates wore their leather harnesses, with swords and knives in their belts, and they had brought along one quiver of throwing spears in order to demonstrate Iruk fighting techniques. Below the harnesses, most of the klarn wore linen shirts and trousers cut and sewn for them by palace tailors. Only Karrol had resisted adopting Larthangan clothing and still wore her deerskins.
Disembarking from the ferry, Ting Fo dispatched a runner to inform the Castle of their imminent arrival. The group marched for another quarter mile up an avenue bordered by walled houses and gardens. The Castle of the Chrysalis was a wide enclosure set behind walls of yellow and gold. The figure of a broad-winged butterfly adorned the archway over the entrance.
The visitors arrived to find a squadron of warriors in the familiar blue-scaled armor waiting before open gates. Most carried pikes hung with streaming pennons. A tall, broad-shouldered woman with a curved sword in her belt stepped forward as the Iruks drew near.
She gave a stiff bow. “Esteemed warriors and guests of the Tuan, it is my great honor to welcome you to the Castle of the Chrysalis.”
Ting Fo, who carried a parasol for shade, returned the bow. He introduced the woman as Shen Volana, Mistress Warrior and Commander of the Order. Ting Fo then introduced Kizier and the Iruks by name. The mates offered bows as they had been schooled to do in polite Larthangan company.
The Mistress Warrior led the way into the compound. For the next several hours the visitors toured the castle. They strolled through barracks, classrooms, and meditation chambers, and visited a sacred chapel high in the castle keep.
Then, in a broad tiled courtyard, they watched drills and combat practice. Duels were conducted with swords and shields, pikes and axes. Archers stood in rows and showed their skill with the crossbow by downing feathered targets at fifty paces.
Afterward, by invitation, the Iruks demonstrated their own fighting techniques. They fenced with swords and knives, first in pairs and then three against three. Next, they flung their hunting spears at the same small targets the bowmen had used. Though their accuracy was far from perfect, they did score several hits. All the while, Kizier sat in the shade writing notes, while Ting Fo sipped fruit punch.
The Iruks found Shen Volana a most amiable hostess. When they had finished with their weapons exhibition, Eben ventured to ask her if anything more had been learned about the assassin who attacked Amlina at the House of the Deepmind.
The face of the Warrior Mistress grew somber. “I fear not. The man in question was a member of our order for nine years, and in all that time his record was without blemish. True, he hailed from outside the borders of Larthang, but that is not uncommon. The alatee have always welcomed worthy candidates from foreign lands. Our order has served the Witches of Larthang since the Reign of the Eleventh Tuan, over 2500 years. Such incidents as this are extremely rare, and we take them very seriously.”
“But the warrior was enthralled,” Kizier pointed out. “Surely no blame can fall on your order in such a case.”
“Nevertheless, it is a stain on our honor. Rest assured, we are carefully examining all of our warriors for any hint of unwarranted influence, as well as conducting our own investigation into the affair.”
“Your order is most noble, from all we have seen today,” Glyssa said. “And your hospitality to us has been most gracious.”
“Indeed, your warriors are impressive,” Lonn added.
“Still, there is one thing we have not learned about,” Eben said, prompted by curiosity. “The Chrysalis process itself—this transformation that your warriors experience—is most intriguing to an outsider. Is it permitted for you to tell us more of how that works?”
The lady answered with a ready smile. “Of course. I can show you, if you like.”
She led them back inside the keep, explaining as she went. “The Chrysalis transformation was devised by witches under the 19th Tuan, and has been revised and improved over the centuries. When a candidate has completed their training and made the final decision to commit to our order, the initiation can begin. For one small-month, they fast and meditate, and chant certain verses to invoke power from the Deepmind. All of these activities are focused on a single goal: to call into being the individual warrior’s highest ideal.”
They filed down a stairway and entered a long, lamp-lit passage. Every few paces, doors gave access to side chambers.
“Within these cells,” Shen Volana said, “you can observe the actual cocoons. After the smal
l-month of preparation, the warrior enters a cell and the cocoon is spun around their body. This ritual takes many hours and involves secret magical formulations. The warrior then sleeps within the cocoon as their ideal takes shape.”
She directed the visitors to look through the opening in one of the doors. Within, a single man-sized cocoon hung from a beam, a dark shape like a shroud blanketing the warrior within.
“How long do they sleep?” Draven asked in a whisper.
“That varies with the amount of change. Normally one to two months, longer in some cases.”
“And when the warrior emerges, they are changed,” Brinda remarked.
“Oh, indeed. Sometimes the changes are small—sleeker bodies, or stronger and more muscular forms. Sometimes the changes are more pronounced. Changes in gender are not uncommon. I myself was a man before my cocooning.”
“Most remarkable,” Eben said, glancing at the faces of his mates to gauge their reactions.
Later, as the party walked back to the ferry, the Iruks discussed their experience.
“It was worthwhile, I think,” Lonn suggested, “to see the Chrysalis warriors in action.”
“Agreed,” Draven said. “I picked up a trick or two from their sword craft.”
“They are skillful,” Karrol allowed. “But I was not intimidated. We have faced tougher foes.”
“True enough,” Lonn said. “The one advantage they might have in a fight would be the crossbows. At distance, they would be hard to match.”
“Perhaps we should take up the weapon,” Draven replied. “Something to consider if we are to stay in Larthang as Amlina’s retainers.”
They discussed this for a bit. When the talk ran out without reaching a consensus, Brinda changed the subject.
“What did you think of the cocoons?” she asked. “Would any of you ever consider undertaking such a change?”
“Not I,” Eben laughed.
“Why not?” Karrol said. “It might make you into a better warrior.”
Eben scoffed. “Well, I know they say one is changed into a form closer to their ideal, but what does that really mean? I, for one, cannot imagine myself changing into a woman.”