“Permanent,” Captain Seiryn repeated carefully. Then, realizing he had spoken aloud, he added, “What do you mean by permanent?”
“I mean constructed chaos. Structured objects instilled with magic.” Captain shook his head, the common tongue failing him. “Examples might prove easier. The gods have a few things you’ve probably all heard about: Thor’s hammer, Mjollnir, that only he, while alive, and now only his sons, can lift; Freya’s necklace; and the Staves of Law and Chaos, Odin’s contribution.”
All of these Matrinka knew of from stories.
“Over the millennia, the Wizards created exactly nine ‘items’ that I know of. Each Wizard had a home or lair with some sort of permanent warding. That’s four. Odin dismantled those, and they no longer exist. There were three Swords of Power: the evil, the good, and the neutral. During the fall of the Cardinal Wizards, those became conjoined; and Colbey wields them now as a single weapon. That’s seven. The last Eastern Wizard crafted a sword with minor powers that the Renshai keep as a curiosity.”
Thialnir made an inquiring noise. “The Sword of Mitrian?”
Captain nodded. “Its powers are likely spent by now, the only magic remaining that which keeps it from corroding.”
*The ninth is the one that matters,* Mior guessed.
*Surely.*
Captain did not disappoint. “The ninth is the most significant. At only one point in time, all four of the Cardinal Wizards originated in Myrcidë, and they magicked a hand-sized sapphire called the Pica into a scrying stone. They used it to watch apprentices as they struggled through the Tasks of Wizardry. The Pica changed hands many times, and not always among the Wizards. In fact, for centuries after the Renshai destroyed Myrcidë, they kept it as a symbol of their own prowess.”
Thialnir frowned, daring anyone to condemn the Renshai’s savagery. Wisely, no one did.
“When the Wizards had the Pica, they used it. When they didn’t, they simply waited for apprentices to return from the tasks, without knowing details. The last Eastern Wizard, also the last Myrcidian, Shadimar, took the Pica in payment for crafting the Sword of Mitrian. When Colbey underwent the Tasks of Wizardry to become the last Western Wizard, Shadimar had the Pica. The Wizards used it to track Colbey’s progress.” Captain shook his head, his expression stricken as he considered details that he would not share. “As the result of some action of Colbey’s, the Pica shattered. The consequences went far beyond the destruction of the most powerful item currently in existence. Colbey lost the symbol of his people, and Shadimar of his. The blood brotherhood they had entered because of the Pica expired, too; and they eventually became bitter enemies.”
Richar lost patience first. “And this affects the sterility spell?”
Captain had a ready answer. “Our research suggests that if we collected every shard of the Pica Stone, we may have the power to lift the svartalf’s magic.”
“That’s it?” Griff asked innocently.
No one challenged the words, though Aerean rolled her eyes and Franstaine’s lips framed a careful smile. The latter, the minister of household affairs, said, “How would we go about finding it?”
Saxanar added with narrowed eyes, “Would we need every splinter scattered over centuries? Every speck?”
“Every one,” Captain confirmed. “But that’s not as impossible as it sounds. I think we can draw them with magic.”
Darris visibly trembled with the excitement of participating in something so historical, but he had to ask. “Is it dangerous?”
Captain’s gemlike, amber eyes fixed on the bard. “Not per se. What I can’t predict is what might happen when the Pica comes together again. Likely, it contains little, if any, magic anymore. But this is unprecedented.”
Matrinka looked at Darris who pursed his lips. Finally, he turned his attention to the king. “Sire?”
Griff blinked slowly and deliberately, then fastened his dark gaze back on Darris. “Are you asking me if we should do this thing?”
“Your Majesty, it’s your decision.”
Griff shook his head, and his coarse hair and beard flew like a lion’s mane. “No decision here.” He swiveled his head toward the elf. “Captain, what do you need?”
“Not much, Sire.” The long-fingered, elfin hands fluttered over the tabletop. “A room no larger than this one. It just needs to fit all the lysalf. A flat surface. The floor would do, but I’d find a table more comfortable.”
“You’ll have those,” Griff promised.
Darris contained his agitation admirably. Matrinka suspected she alone noticed him clutching his hands in his lap. “With your permission, Sire. And yours, Captain.” He inclined his head toward the opposite end of the table. “I’d like to attend.”
Griff gave the floor to Captain with a mild gesture.
The ancient elf obliged. “Spectators would not bother the process.”
“I’d like to be there, too,” Captain Seiryn stated, though whether to assure Béarn’s security or from curiosity, Matrinka could not guess.
“And I,” Saxanar asserted.
Several others nodded. Griff raised his hands, and the group dropped to silence. “Who would like to go?” he asked. He flicked the fingers of his right hand and held it out to demonstrate the proper display. Every other person in the room mimicked the motion, including Matrinka. When Griff remained in place while the others revealed their interest, it became clear that the King of Béarn also intended to observe.
Darris’ brow furrowed, and sweat beaded the hand still moving nervously in his lap. “I didn’t mean to start . . . I mean, maybe . . .” He fell back on a previous question. “Is it safe?”
The king dropped his hand, and the others followed his lead.
Captain tilted his head, lantern light catching white hairs amid the mahogany. The aging little resembled the temple-area graying of humans.
Before Captain could speak, Darris made a throwaway gesture to show he recalled the answer the elf had already given. “Which room shall I have them prepare, Your Majesty?”
“I trust your judgment, Darris,” Griff replied.
“Good,” Darris muttered so softly that Matrinka believed she alone heard him, “then you’ll understand what I’m about to do.” Walking to the exit, he opened it suddenly. Torch-light from the corridor funneled in, cutting sharp shadows from the panel that mingled strangely with the ones the lanterns struck inside.
A pair of guards in on-duty leathers and mail stood at rigid attention, heads jerking toward the door. Obviously startled, a young servant scrambled from his chair. “Sir! What can I do for you, sir?” Though he addressed Darris, his wild, dark gaze went beyond to the king and his ministers. “Sir?”
“Fetch Kevral and Rantire to the red strategy room. We’ll be moving there shortly, too. See no one bothers us.”
Griff closed his eyes at the first command but nodded slightly. Matrinka saw the significance of Darris’ decision. If anything dangerous went wrong with the elves’ summoning, it would involve chaos. She could think of no warriors she would rather have at her side if threatened than the Renshai. More importantly, only those two had the means to effectively battle chaos. Rantire wielded a sword given to her by Ravn, and Kevral one of Colbey’s weapons. Apparently, just being owned by a god at one time granted them some magic, because both had proved effective against demons, the personification of chaos, when all else had failed.
“Yes, sir.” The servant bowed, straightening his wrinkled tunic with jerks on the fabric before hurrying away.
Darris returned to Griff’s side. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”
Griff drew in his features and made a sharp cut with his hand. “Don’t apologize for knowing your limits nor assuring my safety. That’s your job.” He looked out over the group once more. “Captain, gather your elves. We’ll reconvene in the red strategy room.”
As propriety demanded, Griff, Matrinka, and Darris filed from the meeting room first. The king wore a grin, and excitement lit his face. He t
rusted the lysalf enough to believe the problem already solved. Matrinka knew better, yet she could not keep hope from sparking a fire in her belly. Soon, she hoped, the evil that held the human kingdoms hostage would disappear. And babies younger than her own would fill Béarn again.
CHAPTER 3
The Summoning
I’m no demon. And neither were my people, so I am no prince among demons.
—Colbey Calistinsson
A sensation of suffocation closed over Kevral as she entered a strategy room packed with more than fifty elves and humans, and the urge to flee rose in ever more troublesome increments. Elves lined the walls, their strangely smooth eyes and array of hair colors odd contrast to the black-haired, swarthy Béarnides who shared the table with Captain. Only a few people stood out as foreigners: Knight-Captain Kedrin with his soft red locks and striking eyes; Darris with his lighter hair and features and the sparer proportions of the civilized plains folk; the Renshai’s chieftain, Thialnir; and Rantire crouched like a hungry predator beside the king’s chair. Though from the farthest origin, Tae fit in well where the others had not. Despite his smaller size and lack of facial hair, his Eastern coloring matched the Béarnides’ perfectly. Mior perched on Matrinka’s shoulders.
Kevral also remained standing, though less for purposes of guarding. She trusted herself to rise and strike before anyone or thing could harm Matrinka. Simply, the position eased her tension, reminding her that she could leave at any moment. She had no intention of doing so, at least not without taking her charge; yet the simple knowledge that she could lessened the claustrophobia she had never experienced before the elves had taken her and Ra-khir prisoner. Time locked in Pudar’s dungeon had worsened the affliction.
Captain’s head sank toward the table, his eyes closed. He raised partially curled fingers above the surface, then sent a mental question, *Ready?*
Kevral heard no reply. The elves’ odd form of communication, which they called khohlar, allowed them to transfer concepts either to an individual or to everyone in the area. She guessed the others had answered only directly to Captain and, of course, the humans could only respond verbally. None chose to do so, though she detected a few nods. They could not assist in the magic.
*Start jovinay arythanik,* Captain sent, the elfin term for a shared spell.
A low murmur rose from the elves along the walls, more vibration than sound. Gradually, it increased, and a harmonic emerged. Memory stirred by the familiar sound, Kevral dropped into a crouch as tense as Rantire’s. Both Renshai had suffered the elves’ jovinay arythanik and the sleep spell that had arisen from it. The only survivor of the envoy sent to fetch King Griff, Rantire had spent months as a prisoner of the elves, tortured for information. Kevral had fallen prey to elfin magic three times, the last when the lysalf used it against the Easterners who ambushed those on the roads, the second when the svartalf used it to capture herself and Ra-khir. The first time she faced it, she and her companions were fighting the then-unified elves to free Rantire and Griff. Then, Darris had played and sung, his loud melodies interfering with the elves’ chant. When they silenced him, the elves might have captured and killed them all if not for Captain’s call for those elves who also desired peace to withdraw from the magic. The lysalf were “born” that day.
Most of the humans in Béarn’s strategy room listened with quiet curiosity and interest. Darris strained to catch every nuance, the bardic curse more driving than unpleasant remembrances. Griff rocked, the movement an attempt to relieve the discomfort his gritted teeth revealed. He, too, had endured elfin magic before his capture. Matrinka and her cat seemed wholly unaffected, too busy worrying about the situation and the comfort of her companions, Kevral guessed.
The chant rose and fell in an irregular cadence, the sound as beautiful as studied human song. Suddenly, Captain’s head snapped upward. He huffed out harsher syllables that sank like leaden objects amid the golden wave of sound. His fingers undulated, beckoning. Gradually, the air between his hands and the table shimmered with a bluish hue. Sweat wound along a strand of reddish hair, beading the tip into a point. Tension accentuated the high, sharp cheekbones and canted eyes. The color forming between his hands intensified, and Kevral could make out defining cracks and lines. The lopsided object growing between Captain’s fingers and the table consisted of pieces, some as large as her elbows and others more like glistening sprinkles of powder. Captain’s ample lips bowed. The delighted smile, though commonplace, jarred with the usually hard to read elfin expressions.
“It’s working,” Matrinka whispered.
Kevral only nodded, desperately concentrating not only on the proceedings but on any movement that seemed out of place. Even more than most, she prayed for an end to the sterilization affecting humankind. She had dwelt in Pudar when the svartalf had worked their evil magic; she was fulfilling a promise to the king of the great trading city. She had battled the demon the dark elves had summoned to distract the populace while working their spell, and it had nearly killed her. Only the sword Colbey had given her, now at her left hip, had allowed her to harm the creature that otherwise would have ravaged the world. Soon after, the king had discovered that pregnant women could remain fertile after delivery if bred before their next bleeding cycle. He had imprisoned her and forced her to lie with Prince Leondis, a gentle man nearly as much a victim of the situation as she. Colbey had rescued her the only way he could, by sending another to the prison with whom she willingly lay, a Renshai she now believed was Ravn. Ra-khir had discovered Kevral’s predicament and rescued her, but not without cost. They had had to vow never to speak of the situation; and, before knowing the details, Ra-khir had promised to surrender the baby to Pudar upon its birth.
The thought roused a rage that Kevral battered down from need. She had spent many hours raving, wishing she had handled things differently. King or not, I should have killed the pompous bastard. Yet the situation had not allowed her to do it. Beaten down by exhaustion, blood loss, and thirst, Kevral had had little choice but to comply. Otherwise, she might still sprawl in chains in Pudar’s dungeon, carrying the prince’s babies until it killed her or a cycle started, at which point they would have had to take her life. She stood by the vow she had made as she rode back to Béarn with Ra-khir, Mior, the twins, and half a dozen Knights of Erythane: She had agreed that what belonged to Pudar would return there. But Ravn, not Leondis, had sired the child; and she would battle an army rather than turn him or her over to King Cymion of Pudar.
Resolved, Kevral forced her full attention back to the current proceedings. Less than four months along, the baby inside her did not yet show, though she carried more of the weight from the twins than she otherwise would have. Her visual sweep of the room brought her gaze regularly back to Matrinka who, until this day, faced a difficult decision. Before lifting the svartalf’s spell became a definite possibility, she confronted the choice of losing her fertility or risking another pregnancy so soon after the first. The queen had an obligation to supply Béarn with heirs; yet, as a healer, she knew the medical perils all too well. Statistics, Kevral now knew, gave her a one-eighth to one-quarter chance of dying during the pregnancy or delivery.
Captain’s face contorted. His voice coarsened and increased in volume, and the syllables turned sibilant. His fingers stiffened and gestured fiercely. The disproportionate ball of blue light in front of him remained, ill-balanced and incomplete. His hands dropped to the table with a dull thud. “Damn,” he said clearly.
Though soft, the expletive startled Kevral. She had never heard him, or any elf, swear.
The chanting died. The glow dissipated, though the grotesquely shaped sapphire on the table remained, more solid but no more whole.
“Captain?” the king prodded softly.
The elfin ancient shook his head. “The rest won’t come, Sire.” His regard leaped to a small, ruby-eyed female near the far corner. “Marrih?”
Kevral knew Captain used a shortened form of the elf’s name. Until the
y came to Midgard, the long-lived creatures traditionally used names hopelessly impossible for humans to memorize, usually spanning twelve to twenty syllables. Their khohlar allowed them to squeeze any name to an instantaneous concept in situations of danger. His own calling, Captain, came of his millennia of piloting the Cardinal Wizards across the sea; and he claimed to have long ago lost any name his parents might have given him. The lysalf called him Arak’bar Tulamii Dhor, meaning Elder Who Has Forgotten His Name. The svartalf referred to him as Lav’rintir, Destroyer of the Peace and to the lysalf as lav’rintii, followers of Lav’rintir. Rather than svartalf, they called themselves dwar’frey’tii or the chosen of Frey, the god who had created elves.
Marrih’s bright red eyes flicked nervously over the crowd. She nodded acknowledgment with a head movement so tiny Kevral wasn’t certain she saw it.
*Pieces I can’t reach.* Though surely sent for Marrih, Captain kept his khohlar general, to include all in the room. The rest emerged as a concept Kevral could not comprehend in word form. She understood vast frustration, a full-force magical aspiration unrealized, then incomprehensible details communicated in an instant. Captain followed this with a plea for suggestions.
A nonverbal hubbub ensued. Unused to khohlar, Kevral could not sort it out. Then, gradually, voices withdrew, leaving only Marrih. *You’re using the best way.* She addressed a few details, assigning names to the suggestions, then shooting them down. She clasped her tiny hands in front of her, black hair dribbling down her long forehead.
Captain huffed out a sigh. *You try?*
Marrih’s ivory skin paled still more, but she came to Captain without need for further convincing. The ancient moved aside, and the younger elf took his place.
A few mental communications shot through the ranks, none explicable to Kevral, then the throb of the jovinay arythanik began again. Marrih leaned over the misshapen stone, thin fingers caressing it. She spoke the words of the spell explicitly, though the syllables resembled no human language. They did not seem elfin either, as the light singsong crispness of their usual speech resembled the Northern tongue, and many words overlapped. Even as the chant swelled to song, Marrih waved them silent. *Unreachable,* she concluded that quickly.
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