“We should kill her,” said Morigna.
Mara blinked. “That’s a little…drastic.”
“She is one of the Enlightened,” said Morigna in a low voice, watching Imaria. The woman’s green eyes were fixed on Ridmark, but the old man was watching Morigna. He seemed…amused, somehow, as if privy to a secret joke. She did not like the expression. “If we do not stop her now, there is no telling the harm she could wreak.”
“Perhaps I can provoke her,” said Calliande.
“How are you going to do that?” said Morigna.
To her surprise, Calliande grinned. “You always found me annoying. I should have had some practice, no?”
Before Morigna could reply, Calliande strode forward and struck the end of her staff against the edge of the dais. There was a loud crack, and Imaria stopped talking, startled.
“Imaria of the Licinii, Magistria of the Order,” said Calliande, pointing the staff of the Keeper at the Magistria. Morigna had to admit Calliande looked impressive, even commanding. “You leveled these accusations at Ridmark Arban before the Comes of Coldinium. To prove their veracity, you accepted a Challenge of Magistri, a challenge that you lost.”
Imaria’s eyes narrowed. “You are not a Magistria. You are the Keeper. Therefore…”
“Therefore she has authority over all Magistri,” said Arandar. He offered Imaria a thin smile. “Including you, my lady Magistria.”
“There is no proof this…woman is the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Imaria. “For all we know she is a prostitute Ridmark collected during his travels.”
“I can promise you that I’m not,” said Calliande.
“You’re not?” said Imaria. For a moment she seemed confused, and then she looked at Morigna. “Ah. Then she is the one. Behold the virtue of the Gray Knight, Father. After he got Aelia killed, he has taken up with some barbarian wench from the Wilderland.”
“Come closer and say that,” said Morigna.
“I have a better idea,” said Calliande. “If you wish to push these accusations, Imaria, then let us submit to another Challenge of Magistri. If your accusations are true, no doubt God will give you the victory.” Her cold smile appeared again. “And since I am not really a Magistria, no doubt you will defeat me easily.”
Imaria said nothing. Whatever powers the Enlightened had given her, it seemed Imaria knew that she could not overcome the Keeper in a direct confrontation.
“Enough, Imaria,” said Gareth, his voice tired. “I’ve indulged these…fits of yours, but it stops now. The Northerland is in deadly danger. We cannot waste time upon this hysteria.”
“Hysteria?” said Imaria, her voice soft. “This man took your daughter from you. I tell you the truth, and…”
“I did not,” said Ridmark. His voice was just as quiet as Imaria’s, but unyielding. “I did everything I could to save her. I failed. If I had been better, if I had been smarter, perhaps I could have saved her. But I was not. I failed to save her…but I did not kill her. And I know the truth about you now.”
“And what truth is that, murderer?” said Imaria.
“Tarrabus Carhaine wanted me gone,” said Ridmark, “because he was the chief of the Enlightened of Incariel, the leader of their cult. He knew I might oppose him. He used Aelia’s death to banish me, and he used your grief to his ends. It is time someone told you the truth.”
“The truth, Ridmark Arban?” said Imaria. “I know the truth. I know far more of the truth than you ever will…”
“And what truth is this?” said Ridmark.
She hesitated, her frame trembling with fury. For a moment Morigna was sure that Ridmark and Calliande had pushed Imaria too far, that she was about to explode with rage. Then her face twitched, and cold arrogance fell over her features once more.
“So be it,” said Imaria. “You will learn the truth in time,” She looked at Morigna and smirked. “She will learn the truth in time.”
Morigna wondered what that meant.
Imaria stalked away towards the inn overlooking the forum.
“Do forgive my student, honored sirs,” said the old man in the white robe in a voice as thin as his face. “She is prone to…such fits of emotion.” He looked at Calliande. “Especially when meeting a personage as honored as the Keeper of Andomhaim herself.”
Calliande said nothing, her face blank as she considered the old man.
“Just who are you, anyway?” said Ridmark.
The old man smiled. “I am called the Weaver.”
“The Weaver?” said Jager. “What, are you here to sell cloth?”
“I like to think of myself as a priest,” said the Weaver.
“There are no orders of priests in Andomhaim,” said Caius, “that wear robes of that cut.”
“Perhaps more precisely,” said the Weaver, “I think of myself as a weaver of souls. For are not all priests weavers of souls?”
“Enough,” said Gareth. “I have given you too much indulgence, priest, for the sake of my daughter. Unless you have something useful to say, be gone.”
The Weaver bowed and then left in silence, following Imaria to the inn.
“You should banish that man, my lord,” said Joram. “I fear he has poisoned your daughter’s mind.”
“Her mind has been poisoned for a long time,” said Gareth, scowling. “I have failed her. Well, there will be time to deal with her later. Ridmark, my lady Keeper, accompany me, please. We have a battle to plan, and your knowledge shall be useful.”
Chapter 9: Reunions
Calliande walked into the courtyard of the keep.
Most of the courtyard had been transformed into a makeshift stable, with rows of horses tethered before wooden troughs of water, the air heavy with the smell of manure and sweat. Squires and pages tended to the horses, and halfling servants in the colors of Dux Gareth went back and forth on their duties. A few of them cast odd looks at Jager as they passed. Likely they were surprised to see a halfling not wearing servant’s livery. Jager, for his part, all but swaggered into the courtyard. Calliande was impressed that he had not mouthed off to the Dux, but Gareth Licinius had an aura of command that even Morigna had not challenged.
“Take a moment to refresh yourselves,” said Gareth, pausing at the doors to the keep. “You’ve had a long journey, and hard fighting besides. Constantine, have the pages summon my vassals and chief knights to the great hall. We must discuss our strategy. Joram, find rooms for Ridmark and his followers.”
“Of course, my lord,” said Joram. Gareth nodded and disappeared into the keep’s great hall, while Constantine strode to recruit some of the pages as messengers. Joram turned to Ridmark and raised an eyebrow. “The last time you turned up on my doorstep you brought an army of Mhalekites down upon my head, you know.”
Ridmark snorted. “As I recall, you asked me to find Brother Caius. The Dux would have been upset if he had been killed. It was not my fault the Mhalekites decided to follow us back to Dun Licinia.” Ridmark’s tone was light, but his eyes were hard and cold. The confrontation with Imaria had upset him more than he wanted to let on.
“Actually,” said Calliande, “I suppose it was mine. Shadowbearer wanted me alive, and he wanted that empty soulstone.”
“Given that you were the Keeper of Andomhaim, my lady,” said Joram, “it only makes sense Shadowbearer wished to kill you before you regained your full strength. Better to face an enemy when he is weak than when he is strong.”
“Truly,” said Ridmark, gazing at the forum.
“Well, we have some rooms left atop the keep, so I assume my seneschal will wish to settle you there,” said Joram. He caught one of the pages. “Go find Dagma and tell her to prepare the last of the guest rooms. The Keeper of Andomhaim will be staying with us.”
“My lord,” said the boy. He bowed and sprinted away.
“Wait,” said Jager, blinking. “What did you say? What was your seneschal’s name?”
Joram frowned. Calliande suspected he was not used to having halflin
gs address him so frankly. Then he looked at Ridmark, shrugged, and looked back at Jager. “Dagma. A halfling woman. Very diligent in her work.”
Mara lifted a hand to her mouth. “Jager…”
“Where did she come from?” said Jager.
Joram shrugged. “I do not know. She was a cook in Castra Marcaine when I served the Dux. Her work was diligent, and when the Dux sent me to serve as Comes in Dun Licinia, the Dux’s seneschal recommended her to become the seneschal here. Her husband is a carpenter, and believe she has…three children? Yes, three children. Beyond that I could not say. You know her, Master Jager?”
“My sister had that name,” said Jager.
Ridmark frowned. “Your sister? You never mentioned a sister.”
“Well, not to you,” said Jager. “My father left us quite a bit of money after Sir Alan murdered him. I gave it all to Dagma and told her to go to Westhold, to start over there. I thought she would go to Cintarra or Tarlion. I looked for her there. I never thought…I never dreamed she would go to the Northerland. Why would she go here? The Northerland is a howling wilderness.”
“Perhaps she does not share your taste for luxury,” said Morigna.
Jager didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem to notice that she had spoken. The news had indeed shaken him.
“Dagma is a common enough name for halfling women,” said Calliande.
“You will know soon enough, Master Jager,” said Joram. “Perhaps…I will withdraw and let you speak with her. Lady Calliande, Ridmark, we can await the others in the great hall.”
“A moment,” said Mara, and she hurried to join Calliande. “I need to ask you something.” Her voice was low, urgent, and she led Calliande and Morigna a few paces away, far enough that the sound of the horses would drown out their words.
“Of course,” said Calliande, wondering what was wrong.
“How does my hair look?” said Mara.
“What?” said Morigna, incredulous.
“Fine,” said Calliande, blinking. “Your hair looks fine. It could use a wash, but we’ve spent the last two months in the Wilderland.”
“Why do you care about your hair?” said Morigna.
“I’m about to meet my husband’s sister,” said Mara.
Morigna blinked. “You were an assassin of the Red Family. You defied the Artificer and the Warden of Urd Morlemoch. You killed the Traveler, and you are the Queen of Nightmane Forest…and you care what some halfling serving woman thinks of your hair?”
“She’s Jager’s sister!” said Mara. “Of course I care what she thinks of me. No lectures upon the matter, please. You have a sharp word for everyone…but when you saw that Ridmark respected the old Dux, you were nothing but polite to him.”
Morigna opened her mouth to argue, closed it, opened it again, and settled upon a scowl. Her expression looked so absurd that it took all of Calliande’s self-control not to laugh aloud.
“You look fine,” said Calliande. “If Jager’s sister has any sense, she’ll be proud to have you as a sister-in-law. Think about how she must feel. She sees her brother again after ten years, and he’s married to this strange and beautiful woman. She’ll probably be more nervous than you are.”
“Oh,” said Mara. “I hadn’t thought of that. I…well, I’ve never done this before.”
“If it makes you feel better,” said Calliande, “neither have I.” She supposed that was one consolation of the burden of the Keeper’s mantle. She might never have a husband, but then she would never have to put up with her husband’s relatives.
Actually, that thought wasn’t nearly as consoling as she would have liked.
“That does,” said Mara, looking to where Jager stood staring at the keep. “I suppose Brother Caius can smooth things over if matters become heated.”
“He is not that good at it,” said Morigna.
Mara smiled. “You and Arandar haven’t killed each other yet, have you?”
“Speaking of that,” said Calliande, turning her mind from Jager’s sister, “Ridmark and I should take Arandar and Gavin with us. Their testimony will be useful.”
“One doubts that Gavin can put together more than four words in front of that many pompous lords,” said Morigna.
“Perhaps, but even four words will be useful,” said Calliande. “Young or not, eloquent or not, Gavin is a Swordbearer, and those lords will put greater trust in the words of a Swordbearer.”
“My lady Keeper?” called Joram from the steps. “The other lords have arrived. They wish to hear your counsel.”
“Of course, Sir Joram,” said Calliande. She smiled at Mara. “Introduce Dagma to me when I get back, will you? If she really is Jager’s sister, then I am frankly curious to discover what Jager was like as a child.”
Mara blinked in surprise, and then laughed. “Truly, so I am.”
Calliande wove her way through the crowded courtyard, joining Ridmark and Sir Joram upon the steps.
###
The keep’s great hall had changed little since Ridmark’s last visit.
A dais sat against the far wall, holding the curule chair where Joram sat and issued formal judgments as the Comes of Dun Licinia. Tapestries on the wall displayed scenes from the court of the first High King on Old Earth, of Lancelot and Galahad questing for the cup that had held the Dominus Christus’s blood. Others showed more recent wars, the High King fighting against the urdmordar, or the Dragon Knight leading the armies of the High King against the Frostborn.
Odd to think that Calliande had known Kalomarus the Dragon Knight personally. But Ridmark supposed she was a figure of legend herself.
The chief vassals of Gareth Licinius had assembled in the hall, Comites and knights both. Ridmark knew them all, had in fact commanded some of them during the battle against Mhalek five years past. Some seemed glad to see him, some hostile, and some indifferent.
For now, that didn’t matter. The Keeper of Andomhaim held their full attention.
Calliande addressed them in a ringing voice, lapsing into the archaic Latin she had used more and more since recovering her memory from Dragonfall. She told the tale from beginning to end, starting with her discovery of the incipient rise of the Eternalists and the Enlightened, her long sleep beneath the Tower of Vigilance, the quest to Urd Morlemoch and Khald Azalar, and their race back to the Northerland once they realized what Shadowbearer planned. Arandar, Gavin, and Antenora stood with Ridmark, watching the Keeper. Calliande, Ridmark realized, was an excellent orator. Likely she had rallied and convinced the nobles many times before as the Keeper during the war of the Frostborn.
“So we stand before you now,” said Calliande. “We have come through many dangers, but there is still time left. My lord Dux, my lords of the Northerland, we must act at once.”
Silence answered her.
“A fantastical tale, truly,” said Gareth at last, “but the proof stands before us in the flesh.”
“I would not believe it otherwise,” said a bald keg of a man with a perpetual scowl. Sir Tagrimn Volarus was the lord of Mourning Keep, a benefice lying along the northern shore of the Lake of Mourning. He was sour, unpleasant, and generally disliked. He had also ridden in every campaign of the Dux and the High King for the last forty years, and was respected for his unyielding ferocity in battle. Even at his advanced age, Sir Tagrimn still wielded his massive war hammer as if it were a light willow branch. “Yet all our Magistri swear that you are the Keeper. Magistrius Kolband just about wet his britches when he looked at you. Magistrius Camorak is a drunk, but he knows his business when it comes to magic.”
“There is also the matter of the Mhorites skulking around Black Mountain,” said Joram.
“Mhorites!” spat Tagrimn. “Never thought to see those dogs in the Northerland. The Mhalekites were bad enough.” He glared at Ridmark, as if holding him responsible for Mhalek’s rampage. “Fought the Mhorites as a boy with old Dux Kors, before my father went to the Dominus Christus and I inherited Mourning Keep. I was glad that I would
never see Mhorites in the Northerland. Suppose I spoke too soon.”
“That should be proof enough of my claims, my lord knight,” said Calliande, regarding the old warrior. “Why else would the Mhorites travel so far from their homeland of Kothluusk, especially when there are richer targets closer to their homes? Shadowbearer has deluded them, and they will follow him to the death.”
“I remind my lords that we received letters from Dux Kors in Durandis,” said Joram. “He warned that a large number of warriors had left Kothluusk and headed into the Wilderland for reasons unknown. Even if you doubt it, my lords, the presence of Mhorite warbands at the base of the Black Mountain is proof enough.”
“As astonishing as this tale is,” said Gareth, “I believe it. The Keeper returned from the distant past to contest against Shadowbearer? The Traveler of Nightmane Forest overthrown? As fantastical as it seems, the things have happened before our eyes. As Dux of the Northerland, I intend to heed the Keeper’s counsel in the days to come. Does anyone dissent?”
No one did. A few of the southern lords of the Northerland, especially those whose lands bordered upon those held by Tarrabus Carhaine, looked displeased, but none voiced opposite to Calliande.
“Very well,” said Gareth. “How shall we proceed? The fate of the realm, once again, has fallen to the men of the Northerland, my friends. The outcome shall rest upon our courage and our steel.”
“The answer is plain,” said Tagrimn. “We ride out, find the Mhorites, and give them a sound thrashing. We teach this cringing dog Mournacht that he should have stayed in Kothluusk, and we show Shadowbearer that he should have stayed hidden in his precious shadows.”
“A valiant plan,” said Calliande without a trace of condescension. “But Shadowbearer has worked towards this moment for two hundred years, my lords. He will not be overcome easily. In his place, I would send a small force to pin your men in Dun Licinia, while I slipped past to claim the Black Mountain.” She looked at each of the lords of the Northerland in turn. “Mhalek thought to make himself a god-king over Andomhaim. The other foes you have fought sought riches or slaves or lands for themselves. Shadowbearer’s goal is different, and we must therefore fight him differently. He desires to seize the standing circle upon the slopes of the Black Mountain, and to hold it long enough to open the gate to the world of the Frostborn. If he has to slaughter every fighting man in Andomhaim and sacrifice every orcish warrior in Kothluusk to do it, he will do so gladly.”
Frostborn: The World Gate Page 14