He nodded. “They would not. Richard has planned long for this invasion, been secretive about the whole affair. It would surprise many.”
“Richard might have, but I doubt he anticipated the rebellion in Gom Aaldia. Yet, we still need to offer proof. Proof of the High King’s intent. Proof of our own intent,” Lonn reminded him. Locken needed no reminder.
“We will tell them we are declaring ourselves free,” he decided. Lonn did not seem surprised. “Tell them that we would ask their aid in obtaining our independence, that they will have ours when Richard moves forward. It is inevitable.”
Lonn studied him carefully. He knew the man was counting casualties. “We cannot win, my friend.” The words were soft. The tone sad. “We are few to the many of Gom Aaldia. Even joining forces with Thealon, they cannot offer support or strength enough to help win this battle.”
“I know. But our treason has already begun. We have little choice but to follow through.”
He knew his friend understood. He prayed his people would.
“Thealon will wait to get involved. They cannot risk helping a lost cause. Their strength now lies in the Tower itself and in the gods they house. We should pray for their help.”
Locken smiled. He knew his friend joked, but replied anyway. “I have.” He paused a moment. “Besides, Richard has two possible courses of action. He can fight his way through, risking the commoners and the loss of support from some of the other kings…” An arched eyebrow from Lonn caused him to reconsider. “Well, at least from Robden. His is an honorable house.” Lonn nodded. “Or he can loop around us, slowing his travel but avoiding the loss of troops. Something tells me that he is more concerned with the Tower and Thealon than he is with us. At least, to begin with.”
He saw Lonn nod slowly. It was a difficult choice. “Once he attacks Thealon?” It wasn’t much of a question. He could see from Lonn’s eyes the man knew what he would do.
“We will get their support. We will aid them.”
The room was silent for a long time as the two men sat. Theresa rested her hand on his, and Locken found himself staring, few thoughts coming to his head. It seemed so hopeless. But the alternative was unthinkable.
“We may find we are not alone in our discontent. We may find hidden support,” he told his friend, his quiet voice seeming a yell after the long moments of silence.
A questioning glance came from Lonn.
“Robden will not tolerate this attack for long. What he fights now is his respect for tradition. I think we need to wait and see.” He prayed he was not misguided. Either way, war was coming.
The light of Alriyn’s small outer office seemed dimmer than it should, though likely only because he had a few candles lit. The thin light cast strange shadows about the walls, lending to dark thoughts.
The others watched him as they waited.
Where was he?
The seventh was to have joined them today. Daguin had been harder to convince than Crayn, though just as essential to their success. Alriyn had gently reminded him of all the strange things that seemed to be converging at the same time. He still wasn’t certain he’d convinced him.
“I don’t know what happened to him,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Could we have been compromised?” Bothar asked. “You said you’re worried about the Deshmahne. What if they have infiltrated more than the city?”
The implication meant the Denraen. It could even mean the Magi.
“There is likely a perfectly understandable explanation,” Karrin said.
Alriyn nodded, though he had his doubts. He had been careful, perhaps more careful than with Crayn, in selecting the Mage. “There must be an explanation. But we will keep this meeting short nonetheless. Has anyone heard from Isandra?”
Karrin shook her head. Alriyn thought she hadn’t. His sources had been silent as well.
“I had hoped that one of you,” Karrin began, nodding toward Alriyn and Crayn, “would have heard more than I. The north is silent to me.” They all knew that strange, given the time she’d served in Rondalin.
“Perhaps it means nothing,” he told her. “Isandra is a capable woman. It may mean—”
“I know what it means, Alriyn,” she said. There was a finality to her voice. The room was quiet for a while. “We need to find her. I will go north this time.”
Alriyn rested his hands on the table in front of him. “No.”
“I can see if I can—”
“No,” he said again. “We must trust Isandra, and must trust that she can succeed, that she can bring the delegates together and stop war from coming.” He softened his tone. “Besides, we need you here.”
Her nod of assent came slowly, but it came.
Alriyn repressed a sigh. They could not afford to lose one more of them. They needed everyone there to convince the rest of the Magi.
“What other news do we have?” he asked, tearing his gaze from Karrin.
“The Gomald army nears Thealon. King Locken does not join the others.”
“What does it mean?” Crayn asked.
“The Deshmahne,” Alriyn answered. “It is as Endric said. They spread discord. They have converted Gom Aaldia as they intended. They seek to disrupt the mahne. And now armies march on Thealon. They grow stronger, bolder.” What did it mean? And what next?
There was only one thing they could do, but they would need to either convince Jostephon—or override him. The delegates had failed. Any hope of using them to restore the Magi influence had failed.
It was why they needed the seventh. With a majority, they could summon the tradition, and choose the Uniter.
“We will need to return to tradition,” he said. “It is time we make a stand. The Urmahne must stand.”
“We have failed every time we have tried,” Haerlin said. “The prophecy is incomplete.”
“Then we will examine what we know and try again,” he said. What other choice did they have? The balance was failing, and he did not know what would happen if it did.
No one had a chance to answer.
The door to the small room pushed open quickly and then banged shut. Faces around the table all looked toward the door, each visibly startled and some scared.
Endric stood before them again, panting. Sweat dripped from his brow. The historian stood with him, a look of focused concentration on his face but no sign of sweat.
“What is this?” Karrin started.
“There is no time,” Endric answered, his voice breathy. “You have been discovered. Your last was captured by Deshmahne. War has come to Vasha. We must move. Now.”
There was urgency to his voice that carried them quickly out of their seats. Standing, the Magi Councilors looked to Alriyn. Deshmahne attacking the Magi Council? How was that even possible?
“Where do we go?” Haerlin asked.
“Somewhere else,” Endric answered. “Now.”
Alriyn was not sure where they needed to go. Safety was his first thought. He did not dare to think what might have forced Endric to find them as he had.
He motioned toward the door. He knew where they needed to go. The mahne, he knew. “The library. The mahne must be preserved.”
They moved quickly through the door and out into the corridor. The light was dim, darker than it should be.
“We must move,” Endric urged, his voice hushed.
It was too late.
Rendrem strode down the hall, a dozen with him. “What is this?” he demanded.
Alriyn looked to the others Rendrem had brought with him. One he knew to be still an apprentice. Not with Roelle, though. The thought came unbidden. He wondered what it meant. Another was a fully trained Mage. He did not recognize the rest.
“It is nothing to concern you, Rendrem Lifst. Be on your way,” Alriyn commanded. He would see if his rank and authority still had any influence over that one but did not think it would.
Could he have been converted? Not the Magi, and surely none of the Council!
&
nbsp; And then another fear entered his heart. If the Magi had converted—if one of the Council had been converted—then the mahne itself truly was in danger. Was that what the goddess had wanted of him? To physically guard it?
He glanced at Endric then to Novan. Both seemed to know what he was thinking.
“It is safe,” the historian whispered, pitched only for his ears. “For now.”
Alriyn felt a strange tingle course through him and he looked at Novan. The historian did not meet his gaze, but there was a strange look to him, a concentration that he recognized.
Rendrem interrupted his thought. “You think to direct me? You think any of you can direct me while you plot against the Council?”
Alriyn had to handle this just right. “They should not be a part of this,” he motioned to the others standing with Rendrem.
“They are with me,” Rendrem answered firmly. A flicker of worry crossed his face before it was gone.
“You have it wrong, Rendrem. You are being used.” Someone behind him gasped, and Alriyn was not sure who it was. “It must be protected.”
“There is nothing to that ancient document that applies anymore,” Rendrem said quietly. “The Eldest has instructed me to bring you to him.”
So Jostephon was a part of this.
Alriyn felt a surge of panic as he realized he could no longer deny the truth. They needed to reach the mahne to secure it. The goddess had been clear on that. “You have no authority over those of the Council, Rendrem.”
“It is with the authority of the Eldest that I speak.” There was a slight uncertainty to him now.
Alriyn heard a moan behind him. Bothar he supposed. The man was weaker than he would have imagined. Alriyn would be forced to travel a path he had not thought necessary. He had thought it would be safer and easier to get the majority of the Council, and the body of the Magi would decide the issue. It was not to be.
Alriyn closed his eyes for but a moment, realizing there was only one way for him to do this. “I do not recognize his authority,” he said softly.
Rendrem took a step back, as did the two Magi with him.
“I challenge the authority of the Eldest,” Alriyn continued, drawing himself up. Though a part of their ancient law, it had never been exercised. The Eldest had always been the most respected, the most revered, and the price of failure of the challenge was too great.
Alriyn knew their need was greater.
Protect the mahne.
He heard Karrin breath in harshly. Haerlin muttered a surprised, “Oh.” The others were silent behind him.
“Careful,” he heard whispered to him. Was it the historian? How could he know what it was that Alriyn risked by doing this?
“I cannot answer the challenge,” Rendrem stuttered.
“The challenge must be answered, Rendrem,” Alriyn reminded. He no longer cared that this Mage before him did not know how far over his head he was.
Rendrem cocked his head, seeming to listen to a voice only he heard, before shaking it. “You will come with me to the Eldest.”
“Enough!” Alriyn said. The sound seemed to thunder down the hall. He threw his mind open wide as he reached for the ability the gods gifted to him. He pushed it open wider, almost too wide.
Push.
It was a soft voice in the back of his mind and Alriyn listened, pushing as instructed. It was more than he had ever pushed before. He pushed again, harder, opening his mind as much as possible.
He felt a tear within his head.
An old memory, something read once in an ancient text, came back to him. Could he push his mind further?
He’d never tried, never had the need, but now he stretched his consciousness, his being, and filled the void he had created. He pushed again, and felt his mind fill even more. It was much farther than he had ever attempted, but in his fear and frustration he didn’t care.
Through the pain, his senses heightened. Everything around him intensified.
Rendrem looked at Alriyn nervously before raising his hand and motioning to the men behind him. As they moved forward, Alriyn saw the dark shadow of a tattoo upon one man’s neck.
Alriyn almost lost control then. “You’re willing to defile the palace?”
The man smiled and slid forward, a sword suddenly in his hand. Nearly a dozen others—all Deshmahne, Alriyn realized—did the same and moved toward him.
Alriyn reacted, and reached out with his mind, feeling the tiny manehlin floating around all of those opposing him. He probed farther, something he had never tried before, had never thought possible. With his even wider connection, it was possible.
He reached his awareness inside them and felt the manehlin comprising them.
He pulled, dragging with him that which gave them life.
Rendrem screamed. The Deshmahne froze in place. Someone behind him gasped.
“We must go,” Endric urged.
“Hold the manehlin for now,” Novan whispered to him.
Alriyn heard the words but did not see the historian’s mouth move.
To complete the challenge to Jostephon’s authority, Alriyn would have to confront him, but a part of him didn’t want to confront his old friend. It was almost too much to believe that their most senior Mage could be a part of the Deshmahne in the palace, but what other answer was there? Rendrem had intended to take Alriyn and the others to Jostephon.
Could he really have done this? Could Jostephon have betrayed the Magi?
Rendrem would have answers, but Alriyn would have to somehow pull them from him. He turned back to the man, intending to find out, when Endric laid a hand on his arm.
“Much longer, and you lose the advantage. They’ve surprised us once. Do not allow them to do it a second time,” the general said.
Alriyn gave a curt nod, and followed Endric as they started off.
When they neared the end of the hall to turn onto the stairs, a booming voice from the opposite end forced him to turn.
“What is this?” a voice thundered.
The Eldest strolled toward them.
Tower of the Gods
Prologue
The overcast sky carried with it the scent of rain. Allay Lansington tore his gaze from the clouds, and from the distant rumble of thunder, and sighed. It had been nearly a week that he’d been in the saddle since leaving Vasha, the road taking them ever more southerly as they wound down the mountain and toward the flatter lands that would eventually lead them into Gom Aaldia. With each passing day, Allay struggled to remember what it had been like when he’d been in Vasha, and what it had been like when he’d felt the freedom to simply be with Mendi.
She rode next to him, her horse a step behind his so that he had to twist in the saddle to see her. The wind caught her black hair, sending it flying behind her, and he smiled to himself. When he reached Gomald, he vowed to make certain that things would be different between them. They had to be. After the time they’d spent together in Vasha, time when there had been nothing but a comfort between them, he owed it to her… and to himself.
Riding in the lead was the Mage assigned to them, a serious man by the name of Rosahd. He had said little along the way, though Allay had expected him to insist on continuing with the lessons the delegates had been receiving in Vasha. Instead, the man preferred silence, as if he was annoyed by the fact that he’d been sent from the city in the first place. And perhaps he was. Few Magi ever left Vasha any more. Maybe Rosahd would have preferred to remain in his comfortable quarters within the palace, nothing but his studies—and whatever else the Magi did to pass time—to keep him company.
The others on the road with him were Denraen. Five soldiers tasked to him; quite a difference from the one hundred or so that had come to Gomald to escort him to Vasha. He hadn’t given it much thought since they departed, focusing more on what he would say to his father—if anything. The Magi expected him to somehow encourage the King toward peace. Allay wasn’t certain that he knew how, and he doubted his father had any intention
to listen to him.
Allay slowed his horse so that he could speak to Mendi. When he’d done that before, she’d slowed hers even more, forcing him to keep riding ahead, preventing him from speaking with her while riding. Already since leaving Vasha, she’d begun modifying her behavior to keep up appearances.
This time, he didn’t let her, reaching for her reins to keep her horse near his. When she shot him a questioning look, he shrugged and asked, “Why do you think so few Denraen were sent with us this time?”
Mendi glanced at the five soldiers with them. She had known two of them before they were assigned to ride south with them, and Allay had tried not to let that trouble him. Why should it, when they were supposed to be nothing more than master and servant? Since leaving Vasha, she had been the one to place the distance between them. He didn’t know if it came from her concern about how he would treat her when they reached the city or if there was another reason.
“Do you think you need more now that you’re the crown prince?” she asked.
Allay laughed. “I don’t know why they would think I need less.”
“You’re returning home. There won’t be any trouble where we’re going,” Mendi said.
“Endric said there were rumors of an attack in Gomald.” Allay knew Mendi had heard the same rumors of rebellion through her sources within the Denraen, but did she know more? If there had been a rebellion, it would make returning home that much more difficult… and unsafe.
“I don’t know any more than what I’ve shared,” she answered, apparently sensing the unasked question.
One of the Denraen riding near them, a compact man named Yongar, with a rough scrabble of a brown beard, leaned toward Allay. “We can move faster this way,” he said. “Coming north, we had to move slowly. A large caravan like that would draw attention, and we wouldn’t be able to ride quickly enough to keep you safe.”
“A large caravan was the only reason I was safe,” he said. The Deshmahne had nearly killed him. Had there not been the size of party that they had sent, he would have died. Didn’t the Denraen worry about the Deshmahne? They had been the reason that they’d nearly perished on the ride to Vasha.
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