Niklas left the healers’ tent and stepped into the cold wind. He headed up the path to what remained of Arengarte, his family home. His father had made his own way in the world, turning what began as a small bit of land into a thriving farm. Lars Theilsson had been a clever man, and he had developed arrangements with the nearby miller to gain a preferred price for his own wheat and barley. He had employed spinners, weavers, and dyers to turn the wool from his herds of sheep into sought-after yarn and cloth. The farm’s kitchen had produced jams, pies, and breads that were quite popular with the nearby town folk. Over time, the Theilsson family had prospered despite their lack of a noble title.
Now, Niklas thought sadly, most of what his father had built was gone. Arengarte’s roof had been damaged by winds and weather, but thankfully, it had been spared from the Great Fire. The large farmhouse, built of fieldstone, had withstood the elements fairly well. A tree had fallen on one corner of the house, the chimney had collapsed, and the wind had torn off the shutters. The smaller dependency buildings had been made of wood, and most had been severely damaged. Those were all problems Niklas intended to rectify, now that he had returned with a ready-made workforce that badly needed a self-sufficient home.
“Copper for your thoughts,” Ordel said, following him outside.
Niklas shrugged. “In spite of everything, it’s good to be back.”
Ordel nodded. “I overheard some of the men talking. The soldiers who bartered for ale at the last tavern we passed mentioned something you need to warn your friend about. There was talk at the pub about strangers who’d been through, asking questions. They were looking for Blaine McFadden.”
Niklas sobered quickly. “What cause did they have to be looking for Blaine?”
Ordel shook his head. “They never said, but the barkeeper told me they were flashing coins around, willing to pay for information.”
“Pollard’s men?”
Ordel shrugged. “These men were talishte.”
“Pentreath Reese,” Niklas muttered. “That means trouble.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“F
or what it’s worth, I really don’t like this.” Bevin Connor followed Lanyon Penhallow through the debris-strewn streets of Castle Reach.
“Liking has nothing to do with it,” Penhallow murmured. “Necessity does.”
Connor kept his hand close to the pommel of his sword, though he knew his skill as a fighter was no match against a serious opponent. He and Penhallow had left the relative safety of Quillarth Castle nearly a candlemark ago, on an errand Penhallow had deemed ‘urgent.’ It was not so urgent that it required Treven Lowrey to accompany them, Connor thought sourly. The former mage-scholar had insisted he was better left behind to study the books they had found in the hidden vaults of the Knights of Esthrane.
Before the Great Fire, Connor had always enjoyed the errands that took him into the palace city. Now he watched uneasily as they made their way through the darkened streets.
“We’re almost there,” Penhallow said.
“How can you be sure the shop is still standing?” Connor argued, nervousness getting the best of him. “Everything’s changed.”
“I’d had some dealings with them just before that unfortunate incident in the crypt,” Penhallow replied. Connor shuddered, remembering. Pentreath Reese’s men had stormed Penhallow’s hiding place. Blaine and the others had narrowly escaped, and Connor had nearly died. “Granted, it’s been a few weeks, but the odds are good —”
Penhallow stopped in his tracks and looked at the row of storefronts. “And here we are,” he said.
Connor eyed the building warily. Most of the shops were deserted, their windows broken, their signs charred and askew. Several of the adjacent buildings’ roofs had burned in the Great Fire, and the walls of the remaining buildings were dark with soot.
trinkets, the sign read, and three balls, the symbol of a pawnbroker, hung beneath the sign. The window was cracked and smudged, but the dim light of a lantern shone from within. A variety of old keepsakes were haphazardly displayed in the window: A carved ivory statue, a large, ornate snuffbox, and an old, red battle flag were the items that caught Connor’s eye. “Not much to look at, is it?” he muttered.
Penhallow smiled. “Looks can be deceiving.”
Connor followed Penhallow into the shop. It smelled of dust and smoke and was cluttered with everything imaginable. Jewelry, weapons, books, and decorative objects of all sorts crowded into every corner and shelf. “How does this shop get left alone?” Connor wondered. “Everything else has been looted clean.”
“Most shops don’t have a talishte as a proprietor.”
Connor startled at the voice. He was half-hidden by shadows so that in the lantern light, Connor saw only part of his face. The man appeared to be in his fourth decade. He had black hair shot through with gray, which he wore back in a queue. His waistcoat was of good brocade, now shabby with wear.
“Ambrose, it’s good to see you,” Penhallow said warmly and clapped the man on the shoulder. “This is my associate, Bevin Connor, until recently in the service of the late Lord Garnoc.”
“Come here, boy. Let me get a look at you,” Ambrose said, his voice gravelly. Connor shot a concerned glance toward Penhallow, who nodded. Ambrose caught the movement and chuckled. “That’s all right. I won’t bite… this time.”
“Ambrose has agreed to keep an eye out for things that might pertain to our problem,” Penhallow said.
“Meaning that I watch out for magical items that have been looted from their rightful owners, things taken from the old manors when they were destroyed, things that shouldn’t be in circulation,” Ambrose said, sparing Connor a glance.
“And what have you heard?” Penhallow asked. “People who come to pawn stolen goods often carry tales.”
Ambrose nodded and motioned for them to follow him into the rear of the crowded shop. A large black mastiff growled menacingly as Penhallow approached, only to be silenced by a slight movement of Ambrose’s hand. “I let Farod bare his teeth so I don’t have to bare mine,” Ambrose said.
Ambrose had fashioned a small, shabby parlor in the store’s back room. A fire burned in the fireplace, taking the chill from the space. Above the mantel hung four swords against a battered family crest. On the mantel, a variety of blackened silver objects lay on haphazard display: candlesticks, goblets, and teapots. On either end of the mantel, old battle flags hung from staves flush against the walls. Two tapestries, stained and ragged along the edges, hung against the walls, one beside the door, and the other to the right of the fireplace. The worn furniture looked as if the pieces might have been among Ambrose’s inventory of distressed items. A velvet couch, its pile rubbed thin in places and faded along the back from long-ago sun, sat facing the fireplace. Two armchairs covered in a dowdy brocade were nearest the fire. Ambrose sat in an armchair and motioned for them to take their seats. Connor sat, but Penhallow walked closer to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.
“You asked what I’ve heard,” Ambrose said. “The usual half-truths, gossip, and lies. The kind of people who come to trade with me don’t frequent the better parts of town.”
“There aren’t any better parts left,” Connor muttered under his breath.
Ambrose chuckled. “Quite true, m’lad. But beneath the prattle, I hear dark rumors. It’s said that the Knights of Esthrane are stirring.”
Penhallow frowned. “The Knights? Why now?”
Ambrose leaned back in his chair. “The king is dead. The king’s soldiers are dead. There’s no law for them to fear in Donderath. Perhaps their return would not be a bad thing. It’s often the fear that a guardsman is about that gives the thief pause.”
“The Knights never bothered themselves with petty issues like keeping the peace,” Penhallow replied. “They were as likely to hunt talishte as humans. They did as the king bid.”
“Until the king himself grew to fear them,” Ambrose replied. “I remember those days as w
ell as you do. Yet I tell you, I have heard rumors that the Knights are taking an interest in affairs. Tread carefully.”
“What else do you hear?” Penhallow pressed.
Ambrose’s face grew somber. “The outbreaks of madness are growing worse.”
Penhallow frowned. “How so?”
Ambrose watched the fire as he answered. “The last time we talked, it was just a few cases.” He shook his head sadly. “But there have been more incidents. As I hear about it, I track it,” he said. “Best I can tally, there’ve been about a thousand cases in the city proper.” He met Penhallow’s gaze. “It’s starting again.”
“What’s starting? And what do you mean, ‘again’?” Connor asked.
Ambrose turned his gaze on Connor. “Magic isn’t just convenient, m’boy. It’s necessary. Without it, bad things happen.”
“Like crop failures and floods and plague,” Connor supplied.
Ambrose replied, “The magic has ‘broken’ before over the millennia. We know that, from what our oldest talishte have seen themselves. Each time, when the magic failed, it was a period of great hardship.” His eyes transfixed Connor. “Without tamed magic, men go mad.”
“What do you mean?”
Ambrose’s gaze had a faraway look. “No one really knows why it happens, but each time, the records show an outbreak of madness. A few at first, then more. If it’s not put right quickly, thousands of people go raving mad.” He drew his eyes back to meet Connor’s. “Can you imagine? I hear about more cases of madness each day.” Ambrose shook his head. “I don’t know how bad it is outside the city, but it will get worse.”
Connor stole a glance toward Penhallow, who nodded in confirmation. He looked back to Ambrose and leaned forward. “As I said, magic has failed before.”
Ambrose nodded.
“And each time, society fell apart, chaos and madness ensued. Then someone put the magic right once more. It must be possible.”
Ambrose’s expression grew cold, and he leaned back in his chair. “Such things are best not discussed.”
Before Connor could reply, Penhallow shifted his position, taking a step nearer the fireplace. Something had changed in his posture, and Connor sensed a new tension in the room.
“What of Reese?” Penhallow asked.
Ambrose leaned back, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Pentreath Reese is a slippery fellow,” he said. “I understand he has a new obsession: finding a man named Blaine McFadden.”
Connor looked sharply toward Penhallow, but Penhallow’s expression gave him no clue as to his thoughts, and Connor remained silent. “Why is Reese interested in McFadden?”
“His real reason? Who knows? I remember the name. Killed his father in cold blood. Should have hanged for murder, but King Merrill went soft and sent him to Velant instead.”
“Some might say hanging is preferable to exile to the arctic,” Penhallow noted.
“Perhaps,” Ambrose allowed. “Still, it would be like Reese to want the services of a murderer. He has enough of them in his employ.”
“If so, what does he want with McFadden?” Penhallow asked, his face giving nothing away.
“Well, that’s where it gets interesting,” Ambrose said. “Reese’s men say one thing, and the word on the street says something else. Rumor has it there’s a bounty on McFadden’s head, a dozen gold pieces to the man who brings McFadden in alive. That’s enough money to make quite a few men sell their souls. Word on the street is that Reese says McFadden double-crossed him, and he wants to make an example of him.”
“Interesting theory,” Penhallow said. “Is that all Reese’s men are saying?”
Ambrose straightened. “No. It’s not. A couple of them came by here. Would have turned the place upside down looking for something.”
“For what?” Penhallow asked, and Ambrose smiled like a fisherman with a taut line.
“I imagine they were looking for this.” Ambrose held up a slim obsidian disk by a silken cord. “Same as you.”
Penhallow smiled. “How did you keep it from them?”
Ambrose’s expression grew melancholy. “I didn’t.”
“Nobody move.” A fighter dressed all in black stood in the doorway, and behind him, Connor could see more men. Connor had not heard the fighters approach, which likely meant they were talishte. Farod, seated beside Ambrose’s chair, stood, his hackles raised, and gave a low growl.
“They got here two days ago,” Ambrose said. “Bloody poor houseguests, the lot of them.”
Connor looked around the small parlor. There were no windows, and no other door. Trapped.
The lead fighter stepped into the room and drew his sword. “You are the prisoners of Lord Reese. You will come with us.” He turned to Ambrose. “And now that we have Penhallow, you will surrender the disk.”
Penhallow’s motion was a blur. In the blink of an eye, the swords above the mantel were in his hands. There was a glint of silver, and then one of the swords was in Ambrose’s grip. Connor caught the second sword an instant before the fighter moved toward him. Penhallow stood with a sword in each hand.
Connor ducked the fighter’s swing, and the man’s sword sank into the back of the couch behind where Connor had been standing. Two more fighters swarmed into the small room, blocking their exit. Connor shoved the couch toward his attacker, stumbling out of the way of another killing stroke. He parried the next swing, holding his sword with both hands, but the talishte’s greater strength sent a shock down his arms strong enough that he feared his bones would snap.
Penhallow and his attacker were moving so quickly that Connor could scarcely trace their motions. Ambrose, too, was holding his opponent at bay. The talishte who advanced on Connor smiled, and Connor knew the man realized he had the weakest prey.
The talishte swung again, and Connor dove and rolled. His attacker’s blade came down hard on a small table, cracking it down the middle, momentarily jamming the blade. Connor reached the fireplace and snatched one of the short, heavy candlesticks from the mantel. He lobbed it at the talishte’s head with all his strength as the fighter’s attention was on freeing his blade. The candlestick hit the talishte’s temple with a satisfying thunk, but though the man staggered, he did not fall.
“I’m going to kill you very slowly for that,” the talishte snarled as his blade came clear.
Connor tore one of the flags from its mooring above the mantel and let it drag through the fire. The old fabric caught immediately, and with a battle cry that was more an exclamation of terror than of bravado, Connor lunged toward the talishte, swinging the burning flag.
The flag caught the talishte as he moved, setting his clothes and hair ablaze. Connor pivoted, coming at Ambrose’s opponent, who was the closest of the enemy talishte. Caught between Ambrose’s sword and the blazing pennant, the talishte fighter gave a roar of anger. Ambrose dove forward, sinking his blade into the fighter’s chest as Connor dipped the fiery flag to pull it across the fighter, who burst into flame.
“Mind where you wave that thing!” Ambrose cried, jumping back.
Penhallow had backed his opponent to the wall, and in one stroke he ripped the sword from the fighter’s hands. The fighter sank to his knees. Penhallow brought his blades down and across each other, scissoring the talishte’s head from his body.
More fighters poured through the doorway, but the narrow entrance and the small room limited their numbers. Penhallow seized the nearest armchair and grabbed the other flag from the wall. He thrust the flag into the fire, then stabbed the flagpole into the back of the armchair. In the instant before the entire chair went up in flames, he kicked it toward the fighters in the doorway. They shrieked as the flames caught them, and Connor watched in horror as the fire spread rapidly through the tawdry collection of papers and maps piled on the floor and the threadbare tapestry that hung against one wall.
“We’ll burn with them!” Connor shouted.
“Not yet we won’t,” Ambrose said. Smoke was rapidly
filling the room, tinged with the acrid smell of burnt flesh and the tang of blood. Connor could barely make out the shadow of Ambrose’s form as the shop’s proprietor moved along the fireplace wall.
Choking and gasping for breath, his eyes tearing too hard to see, Connor fell to his knees. He felt a viselike grip on his arm, and Penhallow hauled him to his feet. “Come on.”
Stumbling as Penhallow dragged him forward, Connor could see Ambrose feeling his way down the wall. There was the snick of a catch releasing, and then a narrow, dark opening appeared as a panel slid back. Ambrose stepped into the darkness with Farod bounding behind him.
“After you,” Penhallow said, giving Connor a shove.
The air in the tunnel was cold and clear, and as Connor stumbled and ran, he gasped for breath, his eyes and lungs stinging from the smoke. Penhallow came last. They had barely started down the passageway when flames billowed through the doorway, and they heard a mighty crash.
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