The Wizards' War

by Angela Holder

  “Vigorre said the Faithful and Purifiers were going to alert Marvanna to attack while the Armada was gone so the Matriarch would recall them. If we can keep fighting until then…”

  Josiah finished what Elkan didn’t want to say. “It will take months for the message to reach them, even if she sends it today. We can’t hold out that long.”

  “It might be on its way already.” But Elkan didn’t sound confident.

  “And then the Faithful will show up, and we’ll have to fight them off. At least they won’t have those weapons. Probably. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d learned about the blasting powder, no matter how fanatic the Armada is about keeping it secret.”

  Elkan tightened his fingers in Tobi’s fur. “We don’t have any choice but to keep fighting as long as we can and hope we last until the Armada leaves. Then we can worry about the Faithful.”

  But something in what he’d just said sparked an idea. Josiah held up a hand. “Wait. The Faithful might not know the secret. But we do.”

  Elkan blinked at him. “We do?”

  “Master Noadiah’s blasting powder, that you helped him use in the mine. That caused—” Josiah broke off at the closed look on Elkan’s face. “It’s got to be the same stuff.”

  “Master Noadiah was the only one who knew how to make it, and he’s dead.” Guilt for that death haunted Elkan’s eyes and sharpened his voice.

  “But Meira has his notes.” Even deeper guilt and grief darkened his master’s expression, but Josiah plowed on. “Remember? Master Sakel didn’t want them, so she said she’d keep them. If we get them and learn how to make it, we can fight the Armada with its own weapon. The Smiths’ Guild ought to be able to figure out how to build those tubes. Then we’ll have just as long a range as they do.”

  Hope sparked in Elkan’s eyes, but he shook it away. “That would take time. Far more than we’ve got.”

  “I know. Months, at least. But I’ve got an idea for how to buy us enough.” Josiah poured out his plan, watching the despair on his master’s face gradually transform to agonized hope.

  Four

  Commander Kesolla peered through the window-glass. “Blast it! What’s Noshorre doing, taking us so close?”

  Tenorran looked past him out the hatch. The biggest of the Tevenaran ships was closer than any of the enemy had yet approached the Sinvanna. It looked like a fishing boat, but it was the one the Commodore’s ship had been firing on when its powder room blew.

  Tenorran still felt the horror of watching, helpless, as the other ship exploded. Those Tevenaran wizards really were demons. He’d pitied them at first, when he’d seen how hopelessly overmatched they were. Even if they never used the Secret, the ragtag fleet would crumble before the Armada’s disciplined might. But that was before the wizards had reached across the waves with their travesty of the Mother’s power and set five hundred barrels of Secret alight.

  Lieutenant Orram, Kesolla’s second-in-command, frowned through the hatch. “The wind’s shifted. He can’t let us be blown aground.”

  “He can’t let us be blown to pieces by those demons, either!” Kesolla shoved the window-glass into his belt and returned to the breech of the weapon. “We’ll have to destroy them before they get the chance. Load!”

  Tenorran braced himself, ready to help haul the heavy weapon into firing position. But as the loading team set to work, Kesolla’s sharp gaze sought him out. “Lieutenant Fovarre. Go astern and tell the men in the Secret room to douse the lantern. If what these demons do really is an imitation of the Mother’s power, they can’t make fire, only move things around. We’ve got bags enough to last until the captain takes us out of their range.” He handed Tenorran his ring of keys.

  Tenorran swallowed. He’d practiced on a set of dummy keyholes for hours on end, but he’d never yet opened one of the entrapped doors.

  He moved to the door leading to the passage, unlocked its single lock with the proper key, shut it behind him and relocked it, then took the stairs two at a time and ran down the dim corridor.

  At the far end, his heart pounded as he worked the locks, but his fingers easily identified the subtly different shapes of the three correct keys. The lock slid open on his first try. The Secrets officer laboring at the workbench looked up as he burst in. “What—”

  “Commander Kesolla’s orders, sir,” Tenorran blurted. “We’re to douse the lantern.” He strode to the center of the room as he explained. “He thinks the Tevenarans used their powers to throw the fire into—”

  As he turned the key to extinguish the wick, the room plunged into darkness. But a faint golden glow came from a tendril of light snaking along the ceiling. Tenorran stared at it, horrified at the nearness of their escape. It groped for the now useless lantern, then paused, its tip wavering. Searching.

  “Get out.” The other man shoved Tenorran toward the door.

  Tenorran stumbled through and fumbled with his key ring. The other officer pushed him aside. “Run!” he ordered Tenorran, as he turned to lock the door.

  Tenorran raced down the corridor toward the front of the ship. Footsteps pounded behind him. He unlocked the weapon room, held the door for the other officer, then slammed it shut. “Commander Kesolla, the wizards are—”

  Light and sound slammed into his body. He flew forward as if slapped by a giant hand, hurtling through the air surrounded by splintered wood. Other men cried out, but Tenorran had no breath. His mouth opened in a silent scream.

  Water swallowed him, dark and cold. He tumbled, unable to fight his way to the surface or even to tell which direction was up. His shocked diaphragm finally relaxed and sucked liquid into his lungs.

  His last thought as consciousness deserted him was that at least he would be spared capture and the need to put his Secrets insignia to use.

  * * *

  Warm golden light enveloped him. Tenorran opened his eyes, expecting to find the Mother waiting to greet him, but instead he saw booted feet and the wooden boards of a deck. Something squeezed his chest, sending water gushing from his mouth. Air burned his lungs and he coughed violently.

  “This one’s just stunned from the blast.” It had been a long time since Tenorran’s University courses in Ancient Marvannan, but he understood the gist. The voice sounded young, and it pronounced the words with an odd accent that must be Tevenaran. Hands pushed back the sleeve from his left wrist. “No dagger.”

  “Move him out of the way and get back to the rail,” said another voice, weary but with an unmistakable air of command. “He’s the last of the Ramunnans, but another Tevenaran ship just went down.”

  Tenorran tucked his right wrist close to his body as something shoved him across the deck. He bumped into a barrier and the golden glow died. Footsteps hurried away and the voices receded.

  Shivering, Tenorran pushed himself up to sit leaning against the rough wooden wall of a shed. He drew his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and panted until his nose and throat no longer stung. He peered around in the gloom. By the rail a commotion of bodies, voices, and brilliant gold flashes raged, but here all was quiet.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Tenorran raised his right arm and rested it on his knees. He stared at the diamond peeking from the edge of his sleeve as it caught and refracted the bursts of light.

  He’d been captured by the enemy. His oath required him to carry out his final duty.

  In theory, Tenorran had accepted the requirement to take his own life, confident he’d be equal to the task. Faced with the reality, it became a far more horrifying proposition. He’d barely escaped death. Life seemed more precious than ever before.

  Panic welled up in his chest. He glanced frantically around, then returned his gaze to the dagger, swallowing convulsively. If he hurled the blade overboard, he could say the Tevenarans had taken it. He fumbled with his sleeve.

  A shocked gasp sounded in his ear. He jerked around. Just over his shoulder, a dark slot pierced the wall. Eyes peered through it. A strained voice said, “Wait
!”

  He ducked to meet the man’s gaze. “What?”

  “You’ve still got your dagger. Thank the Mother. Can you pass it—no, then you’d be without. Can you make it in here without them seeing you?”

  Tenorran wanted to refuse, but the man’s eyes roamed over him. It must be obvious he wasn’t bound, and no Tevenaran was nearby. “I’ll try.”

  He climbed to his feet and slipped around the little shed. The door on the far side was unlocked. Tenorran cracked it open and stepped inside.

  A dozen desperate faces stared at him. One, an older man, nodded at the door. “Close it, son, so they don’t stop us.”

  Tenorran obeyed. The older man couldn’t salute, because his arms and legs were bound, but he inclined his head. “I’m Commander Shillon, of the Yehanna. Who are you, son?”

  “Lieutenant Tenorran Fovarre, of the Sinvanna, sir.”

  “Lieutenant, they took our daggers. I don’t know how you managed to keep yours, but it’s the answer to our prayers. Now our families will be safe.”

  Tenorran pressed his back to the door, longing to rip it open and flee. His pulse pounded in his ears and his stomach churned. These were his fellow Secrets officers. They intended to use his dagger to carry out their final duty. And they expected him to do the same.

  He fought to keep his voice steady, but it quavered. “Are you sure we—I mean, they’re not Marvannans—”

  Shillon shook his head, his expression grim. “We heard them talking. Apparently some backwoods miner of theirs discovered the Secret, or something like it. They’re full of plans to build their own weapons.”

  Another officer chimed in. “The Matriarch will never believe they created it for themselves. She’ll be sure one of us turned traitor.”

  Gruff with dread, another added, “We’ve pledged the lives of our wives and children on our loyalty. If we can’t carry out our final duty, she’ll kill them.”

  Shillon spoke again, quietly. “Son, your dagger is the greatest blessing we could hope for. The Matriarch will know we were faithful to the end.” He hesitated. “If it’s too hard for you, I’ll help. Remember your loved ones. It will give you courage.”

  Tenorran fought back hysterical laughter. “What makes you think they’ll be safe, even if we die? You’re right; the Matriarch will never believe the Tevenarans discovered the Secret without help. She’ll need someone to blame.” Frantic, shameful hope flooded him. He grabbed at it, almost babbling in his need to make them believe what he said. “I can do it. You can carry out your final duty, and I’ll stay. I’ll pretend to go over to their side. I can act like I’m helping them figure out how to use the Secret while I really sabotage their efforts. She’ll know it was my fault, that none of you betrayed her.”

  “But, son, your family—” Shillon sounded deeply shocked.

  Tenorran did laugh at that, wildly. “The Matriarch is my family. My only family. I’m her son. There’s no one for her to hurt if I live.”

  After a moment of shocked silence, Shillon spoke gently. “You’re willing to do that, Lieutenant? To sacrifice your honor for our sakes, and the sake of our families? To allow your mother to believe you betrayed her and bear the brunt of her fury and hatred?”

  Deep in his bones Tenorran knew he had no honor left to sacrifice, only a frantic need to survive. “It’s the least I can do.”

  The compassion in Shillon’s voice suggested he suspected the real reason for Tenorran’s offer, but he spoke with warm approval anyway. “If she ever learns the truth, she’ll be proud of you. Thank you.”

  The rest chimed in, expressing their admiration and gratitude. Sickened, Tenorran dragged his dagger out of its sheath. He clutched it, breathing hard. He could drop it, say it was an accident, pretend not to be able to find it in the dimness. They wouldn’t have to die.

  And back in Ramunna, the Matriarch would find out they still lived, in violation of their oath, and the people they loved would pay the price. His mother was ruthless. She’d carry out the penalty without a qualm.

  He held the dagger out. It glinted in the light coming through the slits. The other Secrets officers sighed when they saw it. He stumbled over to Shillon and sawed through his bonds, then freed each of the rest in turn.

  When he finished he dropped to his knees beside Shillon, staring down at the dagger in his hand and around at the ring of dead men.

  Shillon wrapped warm hands around his cold one. “May the Mother be with you, son.” He pried the dagger from Tenorran’s stiff fingers, took a deep breath, and raised it to his throat.

  Tenorran turned away, closing his eyes and pressing his hands to his ears.

  Five

  After they destroyed the third Armada ship the rest stayed well back, despite the wind that kept trying to push them closer. Tobi developed a sure touch at nudging aside the heavy projectiles. It let them and the other four ships he’d chosen stay close enough to keep the Ramunnan ships from advancing on Elathir.

  But as dusk descended, the balance shifted. Elkan could no longer see the balls, only the flash of fire when the weapons discharged. The Mother’s light, which he’d hoped would help them see to attack, made them a target for the Armada’s weapons. After three balls in a row evaded them and struck the hull, he knew it was time to retreat.

  He dropped his hands and turned to Josiah. “Go tell the captain to head back to the docks. Have him pass word to the other ships to do the same.”

  Josiah glowered at the window over his palm. “Just a minute. They’re being slow to turn; I think they might—” He focused hard for a few more moments, then sighed. “Of course not. They’re too good.” He removed his hand from Sar’s back and the window vanished. “All right, master. On to the next stage of the plan.” He flashed Elkan a quick smile and headed aft, Sar clopping at his heels.

  Elkan was glad he’d insisted that he and Tobi set off the explosion that had destroyed the last ship, though Josiah had been the one to spot the clever spring-driven device embedded in the door. His apprentice didn’t need more burdens than he already bore. He seemed to be coping well with the events of the day, but Elkan knew Josiah used cheerfulness to conceal his darker emotions.

  He closed his eyes briefly. He’d have given almost anything to spare his apprentice from having to kill. Josiah was only sixteen. Not that it was easier when you were older. And using the Mother’s power made it worse, not better. Even when it was permissible under the Law, death felt like a perversion of her gifts. Even though it was your familiar, not you, actually committing the act. You had to consent. You had to press your hand into your familiar’s warm fur and keep it there while power poured through you. He still woke in the middle of the night sometimes, heart pounding, feeling the sensation of Nedon’s breath slowing to a stop beneath his hand.

  He grabbed the rail as the ship lurched. The sails swung overhead as it came around. He watched until he was sure the other Tevenaran ships were following, then moved toward the stern, keeping his attention on the Ramunnan ships. He wasn’t sure if the plan Josiah had come up with would work, but it was the best chance they had. They wouldn’t be any worse off if it failed than if they dug in and fought until the Ramunnans inevitably defeated them. That had been the only path he’d been able to see.

  The Armada was quick to pursue but careful to remain out of range of the Mother’s power. It was even more formidable a foe than he’d expected. He’d dismissed Vigorre’s warning about a secret weapon. How could he have been so foolish? Setting out this afternoon he’d been confident, determined. Now he was just tired. Much of that was because he was drained from extensive use of the Mother’s power and would go away once he’d eaten and slept. But the thought of months of hard work and struggle seemed more than he could bear.

  If only Josiah had let Sar sink Ozor’s ship before the bandit fled from Tevenar, none of this would have happened. The Verinna would have wandered around the archipelago for a while, then given up and returned home. The Matriarch would have turned to o
ther schemes to retain her power. Tevenar would have remained in the happy isolation it had enjoyed for a thousand years. Master Dabiel would still be alive, and Buttons, too, unless he’d died peacefully of old age by now, secure in control of the Wizards’ Guild as they’d been for Elkan’s whole life.

  And starvation would be claiming more lives every day as Tevenar’s famine worsened. Thousands of people in Ramunna would be dead or still in pain. Three young people with wizards’ hearts would never have gotten the chance to serve the Mother. Countless numbers of diabetic children, who would now survive because of the insulin Nalini would make and Ozor would sell, would have died the way Bethiav had. How many more generations would have passed before the Mother decided the time had finally come for all of her children to receive the blessing of her power, not just a fortunate handful?

  Worrying about what might have been was useless. He had to deal with the situation as it was. For now that meant holding off the Armada long enough to put Josiah’s plan into action. He scratched Tobi’s ears and concentrated on watching for telltale spurts of flame.

  The Ramunnan ships weren’t shooting, though, only tagging along just out of the wizards’ range. They were probably saving ammunition, assuming they’d won and Tevenar was about to surrender.

  Good. That’s what they were supposed to believe.

  As they approached the dock he went to join Josiah and Sar at the rail, ready to leap ashore and hurry to put the final elements of the plan in place. If Hanion had followed the hastily scrawled instructions Elkan had sent with the retreating ships, they’d be able to finish before the Armada ships reached the docks and Ramunnan soldiers swarmed the city. If he hadn’t, they’d be in trouble.

  Encouragingly, the dock was empty of watchers and volunteers. Josiah grinned at Elkan when they got close enough to be sure. “Looks like Master Hanion cooperated, after all.”

  Tobi swiped her rough tongue across his fingers. Maybe old pooper-scooper isn’t as dumb as I thought.