The Queen of Mages

by Benjamin Clayborne

Mason Iris walked over a field of ash, his black cloak sweeping the dust behind him. A day ago, this had all been buildings, homes, shops. Valjödl, the town had been called, according to a survivor Mason had found. Not that his knowledge of the Vaslander tongue was of any real use. King Edon didn’t care what the towns were called. The Garovan soldiers gave each one names like “Speartop” or “Brownwall,” whatever convenient appellation let them distinguish this smoking ruin from the last.

  There was nothing left here but blackened timbers and burned corpses. Edon hadn’t even sent a demand of surrender. He just rode up, his knights and Wardens around him, and began blasting away. It had taken him perhaps ten minutes to level half the town, and by then fires had started, from upended candles, hearthfires, cookpots, forges. The flames took care of the rest. A few Vaslanders made it out, running and screaming, cut down by Garovan outriders if they were unlucky enough to flee toward the invading army.

  Edon and his army had been in Vasland more than a week. Against the thousands of dead Vaslanders, the Garovans had lost no more than a handful of men. The fortresses in the high passes of the Black Mountains had fallen first, their colossal stone walls crumbling before Edon’s wrath. Once they passed into Vasland proper, they’d found a morass of Vaslanders who’d come together for some sort of convocation. The other men all agreed with Edon that the Vaslanders were obviously preparing to invade Garova, but to Mason they seemed disorganized—it was more like some sort of communal gathering. There were too many women, too many children and old souls for it to be a proper army.

  But they’d seen the Garovans approaching and massed together by tribe, screaming for blood. One by one the tribes fell, their warriors thrown screaming into the air by the colossal thunderclaps that Edon could summon. The more observant Vaslanders turned and scattered into the forests and plains beyond. Edon marched after them, annihilating every village or holdfast he came across, in case Vaslander warriors had taken refuge there.

  There were four Wardens with the Garovan army, and Edon kept them close. Mason was the least senior of the four. His counsel was not sought by the other Wardens, the king’s knights, or the king himself. So he found himself with little to do, and after each battle—if such one-sided massacres could be called battles—he rode through the ruins of whatever town or village it had been, wondering who had lived there, what ordinary business they had been engaged in before the unstoppable Garovans destroyed them.

  Edon had more than made his point, Mason thought. At least Mason hadn’t been ordered to murder helpless villagers himself, but this whole journey was an insult to the very purpose of Wardens. Wardens were defenders, holy guardians, bringers of justice. This was nothing more than brute slaughter.

  He kept his anger confined in a dark ember, counting the bodies by rote until the stench of death drove him back to his horse. Hawthorn snuffled and bumped him with his muzzle as he came close, and he scratched the white stallion behind the ears for a while.

  He rode out of the smoldering town, back to where the main body of Edon’s host was camped. The men were in good spirits; despite the frisson of terror that rippled through them whenever Edon used his power, they were all glad to be on the winning side. Many of them waved and cheered at Mason as he passed, even though he’d done nothing but sit by Edon’s side and watch as the king single-handedly wiped out their enemies.

  Wardens of Aendavar were, among other things, supposed to inspire the rank and file soldiers, and so he waved and saluted back as he passed. Wardens sometimes joked that you could put a scarecrow in a Warden’s armor, and every garrison for a hundred miles around would burst with pride. Mason’s first days in Vasland had been exciting by virtue of their strangeness, but now he felt as hollow as a scarecrow.

  Hawthorn’s meandering brought Mason across the eldest of the Wardens with the army: Harlan Carver, a bitter gray crag of a man who was easily twice Mason’s age. He had nothing but contempt for Mason, and after he’d chewed Mason out twice in as many days—for daring to offer his opinion in councils—Mason worked hard to stay away from the man.

  “What’re ye about?” Carver growled at him, reining his own horse to a halt. The beast snuffled in the cold air, and seemed to eye Hawthorn with as much distaste as Carver did Mason.

  “Nothing in particular. Am I needed?” Mason kept his tone even. He longed to snarl back at Carver, but kept it reined in.

  “Stay away from th’ king’s tent. He’s in a mood, an’ I don’t need yer foolishness givin’ ’im fits.” Carver spat at the ground and wheeled his stallion away.

  Mason had been generally drifting toward the command tent and was glad for the excuse to avoid it. It certainly made it harder to gather information on the king’s doings, as he’d been commanded to do, but he could not feel anything besides pleasure in avoiding Edon. The fire-breather.

  Even the men who adored Edon still whispered worriedly in the night about him. This strange power of his unnerved many stout men. Mason was perhaps more intrigued than terrified, but even he felt torn between obedience to his king, and a strong desire to destroy what was clearly a power not of this earthly realm.

  But who could stand against Edon? Could Mason’s master, the Warden-Commander of the Order? Jeremiah Ebersbach had been Warden-Commander longer than Mason had been alive and had not survived so long by taking bold risks. When Edon’s grandfather, Viktor I, had ordered the Wardens into battle against the Vaslander invaders, Ebersbach had refused. Wardens were not soldiers; they had a higher purpose. Viktor had nearly had his head, but somehow Ebersbach stood his ground and prevented the Wardens from being sent to die en masse.

  When Edon had brought blood and fire to Callaston and seized the crown, no one had been surprised that Ebersbach had ordered every Warden in the city to retreat to the Bastion. Ebersbach would not let them get caught up in the madness of the succession.

  That matter had barely been settled when the king departed the city again, at the head of a small force, only a few hundred men. He’d returned a while later, followed by rumors of some sort of battle in Hedenham County.

  Upon his arrival, Edon had sent for a pair of Wardens to serve as his new bodyguards. Apparently even great knights like Gaelan Thoriss would not suffice to protect the king now. Ebersbach had dispatched Mason and one other to attend the king. But before they left, he brought them into his study at the Bastion of Spirit, and told them in quiet, firm tones that they were to report back to him on the king’s actions.

  The Warden-Commander reported to the Army Council, and the Army Council reported to the king, so to have individual Wardens spying like this was something an unkind king might construe as treason. Ebersbach knew the value of intelligence, and deemed it worth the risk. Mason was not comfortable with it, but he would not disobey his lawful commander.

  The other Warden so dispatched was Eben Ogden, a middle-aged man who affected calm at all times, even when that vein in his temple pulsed angrily. And by chance here he came, walking along a muddy row of tents, sword at his side and a thick walking staff in his hand. He waved up at Mason.

  There was no need to ride here, deep in the camp. Mason dismounted and fell in alongside Ogden, drawing Hawthorn along by the reins. The two Wardens chatted amiably for a few moments, but then Ogden came to a stop and eyed Mason. “Something is on your mind.”

  Mason looked south over the rows of tents. He could see the Black Mountains as a shimmering gray band on the distant horizon. “Is our service to the king, or the Caretaker?”

  Ogden paused before responding. He always did that; Mason envied him and had been trying to emulate him, trying to squash his habit of blurting out his thoughts. “I believe our service is to the Caretaker, through obedience to our king.”

  Mason frowned. That was not what he’d expected. “I do not understand why the Caretaker would countenance the slaughter of so many innocents.”

  Ogden shrugged a little and went a few more steps before answering. “The Vaslanders do not share our gods. Ev
en the Caretaker cannot attend to all things.”

  “Maybe he has ceded the world to Edon and his like,” Mason bit out.

  Ogden came to a stop and caught Mason’s eye. “Your tone suggests something.”

  “I suggest nothing,” Mason snapped, feeling himself flush. He’d grown to feel a kinship with other Wardens, even those he did not like, and was more open with them. “Edon’s power is unnatural. Why does the Caretaker allow it?”

  “It is enough that he does allow it,” Ogden said evenly. He put a hand on Mason’s shoulder, which was probably supposed to be reassuring or supportive, but Mason found it patronizing. He barely managed to keep himself from shrugging it off. “Take solace in that the Caretaker has put you and Edon on the same side. Else you might be dead, and what good can the dead do?”

  Mason waited, chagrined, until Ogden took his hand away and strode off. The older Warden stopped after a few steps. “His majesty has decreed that the army will return to Garova tomorrow at first light, by way of Thorncross. Perhaps the Aspect of Despair has heard your prayers.”

  Despair. Mason wondered again what madness had made him choose that Aspect when he took his holy vows. Each Warden chose an Aspect to represent him; it focused one’s approach to serving in the Order. Most Wardens chose Courage or Sacrifice; others, Wrath or Chaos. Ardor and Joy were too feminine, and Wardens choosing those would be mocked. Terror was seen as cowardly.

  Despair, to Mason, was realism. Death stalks us all, and even the luckiest men witness it no less than once in their lives. Hope and beauty were all well and good, but it would never do to forget the sorrow that could be wrought upon the world.

  His thoughts returned to Valjödl. It seemed that Mason’s only use on this campaign was to give silent prayers for the innocent dead.

  ———

  Several nights later, the army camped off the road in Cold Hills County. The men were thrilled to be back in Garova, and even King Edon did not seem to mind the boisterous singing that sprang up after supper each evening.

  It would be another two or three days to Thorncross. Mason had never been there, but he’d studied. He knew that House Arkhail had ruled it for centuries, since even before they’d raised the unyielding fortress of Thornstar on the hill above the town. He also knew that Duke Loram Arkhail was dead, killed in the fighting that had followed Edon’s return to Callaston.

  What did Edon want in Thorncross? Did he mean to eradicate the rest of House Arkhail? The thought chilled Mason’s blood. Whatever perfidy Duke Loram might have committed in the days after Edon’s coup, surely the Arkhails in Thorncross could not have had anything to do with it. They couldn’t even have learned of Edon’s return by the time Loram died.

  Mason absently walked the camp perimeter as he contemplated this. Sitting in his tent held no appeal for him; the canvas walls closed in on his mind, and he had already seen enough of despair on the chill plains of Vasland.

  A shape loomed up out of the darkness and grunted at him. “Majesty wants us. All o’ us.” It was Harlan Carver. He spun on his heel and stalked away without even waiting for Mason to reply.

  Mason found his way to the king’s tent. He seemed to be the last to arrive; the other Wardens were all there, along with every other knight and noble who’d come along. One of those was Sir Edvan Eltasi of the Army Council. Edvan was one of the three knights responsible for the whole of the king’s army, and a grandson of the Eltasi clan; quite well-placed. Even Mason understood that his presence wasn’t needed to oversee a force of just a few thousand men. His majesty had clearly wanted his highest-ranking soldiers to witness exactly what his power could do.

  Edon was reading something, and after a moment he tossed the parchment down onto a table. He stared around at them, eyes flicking from man to man. Mason could almost taste the tension in the air. “We’ll be at Thorncross soon, and then off to Callaston. Now that Vasland is dealt with, I must turn my attention to my next task. You are all aware of the power I wield. You may not be aware that I am not the only one who has it.”

  Murmurs swept the room, but Mason kept quiet. There had been endless speculation; no one really thought that Edon would be the only man with this strange power of his. He must have learned it from somewhere, which meant someone else had it too.

  Mason glanced around. Sir Edvan stared silently at the table. Harlan Carver glowered suspiciously, as if there might be others in that very tent who could cause explosions like the king could. Most of the men in the room did not look at their king.

  Edon gave the mutterings a moment to subside, and went on. “It is obvious that those with such power cannot be left to their own devices. They must be gathered, and brought under my aegis in Callaston. To that end, I will be dispatching parties to seek and gather such folk.”

  Mason gasped, saved only by the fact that several others did also. Some of them tried to cover it up with sudden coughing fits, which would have made Mason laugh… if what Edon was suggesting wasn’t so appalling. To gather more like him all in one place? Mason could not think of a worse idea.

  Edon seemed annoyed at having to wait for conversation to die down again. “Tomorrow the first such party will travel east, along the foot of the Black Mountains, toward the coast. Their activities will not be secret. Instead they will advertise their purpose, so as to attract those who share my power. Tell them that the king wishes them to come to Callaston to be treated as honored guests, and to help us both better understand our power. Tell them also that we will put them up in the palace or nearby, and that their families should come as well. We will find space for them all in Callaston.”

  Edon’s head dipped a little as he leaned forward, looking like a bird of prey about to descend from its perch. “If they refuse, kill them.”

  There were no murmurs this time, just a collective holding of breath. Mason was glad he was back against the wall, or he might have staggered. Those Edon sought would not all be amenable to his invitation. Mason did not envy whoever would be sent to confront them. He could not imagine trying to kill someone who could do what Edon could.

  “Wardens Carver and Ogden, you will lead the first party and leave at dawn. Take a score of soldiers with you. Anyone you find who has power like mine should be dispatched to Elibarran at once, with an escort. You may pull men from garrisons to replenish your own escort.” He waved dismissal, and sat down in his chair. Sir Edvan crept close to the king and whispered fiercely, but Mason dove through the crowd toward where Carver and Eben Ogden already had their heads together.

  Carver, for once, did not glare at Mason’s approach. Instead he jerked his head toward the door. Mason and Ogden followed him outside, and Mason began to speak, but Carver held up a finger and led the two younger Wardens well away from the king’s tent and the crowd of perplexed knights and nobles who now milled in a confused mass before it.

  When they were clear, Carver faced them. “Mad, this is,” he said.

  “I agree, but our path is set,” Ogden said. “I suppose I should pick out the men.”

  “And I suppose that leaves Veldis in charge,” Mason said. Adam Veldis was the fourth and final Warden the king had brought along. He spoke little and did less, preferring to drink and gamble with the rank-and-file soldiers. He’d chosen Chaos. His impiety irritated Mason every time he thought of him.

  “Aye, Veldis. Not that he’ll have a damn bit o’ interest in what ye do, so ye’re on yer own,” Carver said.

  Ogden thumbed his chin thoughtfully. “If this plan of his majesty’s works, I’d wager he’s planning to turn these… people… into their own force. They’ll have their own organizational structure, their own resources, their own political power base. Ebersbach isn’t going to like that.”

  “Fer once I’d agree with th’ old bastard,” Carver said. “Come on. We won’t be gettin’ much sleep t’night.” He tromped away.

  Ogden waited a moment, then whispered urgently to Mason. “You’ll be on your own, lad,” he said, not unkindly. “Watch.
Listen. And make damned sure Ebersbach hears every word of this when you get back to Callaston.”

  Mason had already known to do just that, but he nodded anyway. “I will see to it, I swear. May the Caretaker protect you,” he said.

  “All of us,” Ogden said, and trod away.

  ———

  Mason Iris and Adam Veldis stood stiffly behind Edon. They watched as he was greeted by Duke Gulhin Arkhail, barely a man, and son of the late, traitorous Loram Arkhail. The king and the duke exchanged formalities, then sat facing each other across a long, narrow table in the duke’s receiving room in the castle Thornstar.

  They listened as the duke reaffirmed his house’s fealty to the king. In turn the king reminded the young duke that as long as House Arkhail remained obedient, he would forgive them the late duke’s crime, and hold no grudge. Gulhin seemed immensely relieved by this; Mason thought he saw the boy shaking in his chair.

  House Arkhail’s ancient seneschal, a man named Elmer Brahim, had joined them, wobbling even with his cane to help him along. He sat next to his duke, bowing slightly to both duke and king. There were a few moments of polite chatter, and then Lord Brahim said that the Dowager Duchess wanted to speak with her son. Duke Gulhin excused himself and left the old seneschal with the king.

  When Gulhin was gone, Edon’s aspect changed. He’d worn a mask of cold formality, but now he leaned forward and his voice became more urgent. “I received your message about Lord Tarian and Lady Estaile.”

  Mason glanced sidelong at the king. What was this about?

  “Indeed?” Brahim said. “I had feared my courier might have missed you.”

  “The courier met us on the road just after we left Callaston. Why did you not detain Tarian and Estaile, if you knew I was after them, as you said in your message?”

  Brahim shrugged. “Call it an old man’s instinct, sire. Something about them struck me as odd. I determined it would be better to be rid of them than to try to hang onto them. If that was the wrong choice, well, I’m the only one to blame. Neither his grace nor the Dowager ever knew they were here.”

  “Have you heard anything of them since?” Edon demanded.

  “I had word not three days ago that they visited Tyndam Town, making no effort to conceal themselves. I couldn’t say what mischief they got up to there, sire.”

  Edon nodded, considering, and changed the subject. The meeting wound down after that, with discussion of more mundane matters that drifted past Mason’s ears. Instead he thought about the odd conversation about this lord, Tarian. Tarian… that was the ruling house of Hedenham County, was it not? And Edon had gone to Hedenham, shortly after his return from Gravensford. And there was that rumor, about a lady…

  Eventually the king stood and took his leave. As they were about to go, the old seneschal called out again.

  “Your majesty, forgive me, but there is one last thing. One of your Wardens dropped in for a visit a few days past. We’ve been honored to put him up, of course, but, er, he’s scaring the children, you see…”

  Edon actually laughed at this. What he found funny, Mason had no idea. “Send him to us. I can find a use for him.”

  There were several hundred Wardens scattered across the breadth of Garova. It took a dozen clerks at the Bastion just to keep track of them. Mason wondered which of his brother Wardens this man might be.

  ———

  He was disturbed to learn, an hour later as the sun sank toward the horizon, that the Warden in question was Jack Penrose. They met in the castle’s entry hall; Penrose waited there, spine straight and eyes searching. Mason had been sent to fetch the man and bring him to Edon, as if a page couldn’t have done the job just as well.

  Mason nodded as he came to a halt a few yards away. “Warden Penrose.”

  “Who are you?” Penrose asked suspiciously, as if Mason might have stolen his Warden’s armor from someone else.

  This annoyed Mason further, and he puffed out his chest for the introduction. “Mason Iris, Warden of Aendavar. Aspect of Despair,” he added, daring Penrose to make some crack about his choice of Aspect.

  Penrose said nothing, his dark eyes boring into Mason, so Mason went on. “His majesty requests your presence.” He spun on his heel and strode off through the halls.

  Penrose was famous among Wardens—or rather, notorious. Rumor said he’d become a Warden under suspicious circumstances—fleeing some crime in the southwest, supposedly—and he had not endeared himself to other Wardens with his brusque attitude and suspicious nature. But he was also famed for his relentlessness, which had been put to great use in hunting down bandits and criminals.

  Some said he was a shade too relentless. The man could not come up in conversation without someone mentioning the stories about suspected criminals that had died in his custody before Penrose could bring them to trial. Jack Penrose seemed to be a law unto himself.

  They came to where Edon sat ensconced with Sir Edvan and his other knights. They had taken over the castle’s formal dining hall, and though they occupied only a fraction of it, the duke and his family wouldn’t dare use it while Edon was present. The king was at the head of the duke’s table, with his advisors on either side, finishing a light meal while they looked over parchments. Mason led the way down the long, cold hall, and came to a stop just as Edon raised his eyes. Mason introduced Penrose to the knights and nobles.

  “Your majesty,” Warden Penrose said, sounding very much like he found nothing majestic at all.

  If it bothered Edon, he didn’t show it. “Warden Penrose. I have a task for you.” The king explained the purpose and method of the recruitment party he’d sent out from Cold Hills County. “You will lead the next such party. And I have an additional task. A lord and lady went east from here, more than a month ago. The lady has the same power I do, so be cautious, as she bears no love for me. I want her brought to Callaston by whatever means are necessary. Alive.”

  Penrose nodded. “It will be done, sire.”

  “And take Warden Iris here with you. I mean for the Wardens to lead this effort, for now. Warden Veldis will accompany me back to Callaston. Sir Edvan,” he added, his eyes flicking to the knight, who stiffened suddenly to have the king’s gaze on him. “See that the Wardens have all the resources and men they need for this task.” He waved dismissal and went back to his parchment.

  Harlan Carver was not here, so Mason made a venture. “Sire, what crime has this lady committed?”

  Edon paused in his reading and turned to look up at Mason. “Disobeying her king,” he said in a tone as cold as a glacier. Mason said no more. He bowed and turned to follow Penrose and Edvan from the hall.

  He cursed silently as he went. There was so much he had to tell Warden-Commander Ebersbach, and now that would be delayed. Weeks, months. Could he send a letter with Adam Veldis? He didn’t know the man well enough to trust him. The things Mason had to say to Ebersbach would not please the king, and Veldis might let slip that such a detailed report was making its way to the Bastion of Spirit.

  As they emerged into the day’s failing light and headed for the army’s camp outside Thorncross, Mason prayed that Ebersbach had other sources of information. The Warden-Commander wasn’t going to hear from Mason for a long time.

  CHAPTER 26

  AMIRA