War of Shadows (11 page)

“And if he doesn’t recover?” Nilo asked with an expression inviting Pollard to speculate.

“We lose an ally—and a liability,” Pollard replied, and took a sip of his drink. “There are rumors that Reese may have angered the Elders. If so, his survival may be more precarious than we thought.” The fact that, even now, Pollard was unwilling to speak freely was evidence of just how wary he was of his
talishte
master.

“Elders?”

Pollard let out a long breath. “It’s not something
talishte
speak of directly around mortals. It’s a ruling body as well as a tribunal formed long ago to protect the
talishte
by punishing flagrant crimes against mortals. The idea was that if the
talishte
policed themselves, dealing with anyone who drew attention by, say, wiping out a village, it would avoid persecution by the king, like what happened in King Merrill’s grandfather’s time. They’re the oldest and strongest of their kind, and their word is law. I gather that attracting their attention is never a good thing.”

“Why would they be angered at Reese?”

Pollard grimaced. “Before the battle, Reese challenged Penhallow in the presence of the Wraith Lord. He entered the Wraith Lord’s lands without invitation and attacked his brood.”

“Are they angry that he lost at Valshoa?” Nilo asked.

Pollard shook his head. “Some of them, perhaps. Reese had supporters among the Elders, although so did Penhallow. But remember, the Wraith Lord helped McFadden, and Reese brought an army against McFadden’s forces. I’d lay money on the odds that Reese didn’t win any favor for his involvement.”

“Reese and his
talishte
are assets,” Nilo said, speaking slowly as he thought through his words. “But if we lose him, does it change the objectives?”

Pollard sighed. “No. But it’s going to take time to rebuild. Right now we’re at a disadvantage. We’re hemmed in to the south by Penhallow’s allies, our troop strength is still depleted after Valshoa, and with Reese still recovering…” His voice trailed off.

“We’ve got Hennoch’s allegiance. I’ve sent a courier with an invitation to Karstan Lysander to meet about an alliance. With Hennoch and Lysander, our armies will easily replace what we lost at Valshoa, perhaps more.” Pollard was certain Nilo could read the anger in his voice. “If we consolidate our power, we’ll be ready to strike when the moment is right.”

“We’ll want to move as soon as we can,” Nilo said, setting his drink aside and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’ve heard from our spies. McFadden didn’t lose nearly as many soldiers as we did, and he’s gathered enough new men to make up for what he lost. And one more thing—McFadden is recruiting mages.”

Pollard turned to look at Nilo. “Oh, really?”

Nilo shrugged. “They seem to be finding him one or two at a time. They’ve probably been in hiding.”

Pollard drummed his fingers as he thought. “Reese wanted to keep McFadden from restoring the magic,” he said after a long pause. “He failed.”

“McFadden had help,” Nilo replied drily. “Penhallow, Voss, the Knights of Esthrane. He wouldn’t have survived alone.”

Pollard shook his head. “Even Quintrel helped him, though no doubt I’m sure he had his own agenda. So what is Quintrel up to now that the magic is restored?”

“I imagine he wants what everyone wants these days—control over what Donderath becomes,” Nilo replied.

Pollard licked his lips as he thought. “That creates an opportunity.”

“How so?”

Pollard finished his brandy and rose, pacing the room as he spoke. “The new magic may eventually favor a different kind of mage than before,” he said. “Surely mages can also adapt.”

“I doubt very much they’ll adapt to catching on fire.”

Pollard grimaced. “No, but there may be a particular type of mage or a level of skill that can work with the new magic as it now exists. That’s what we want to find, and recruit mages of that type before anyone else has found the key.”

“That would give us control of the magic,” Nilo said, a slow smile spreading across his features. “Which could gain us Lord Reese’s objective by a different means. What we control, we don’t have to reckon with as a force against us.”

“At least, not for a while,” Pollard replied. “Military secrets are the most fleeting of all.”

A hesitant tap at the door silenced their conversation. Pollard turned as Kerr leaned into the doorway. “Sir,” he said, “something has been left on the doorstep. We saw no one arrive or leave. Perhaps you’ll know what to make of it.”

Pollard frowned and exchanged a glance with Nilo. “What is it?” he asked.

Kerr stepped into the room, carrying a tray with a single, white mask, the kind lords and ladies donned for masquerades at the palace. Yet this mask had none of the festivity of those party favors. The mask on Kerr’s tray would cover the full face, leaving no features to tease onlookers into guessing its wearer’s identity. The expression was grim, even intimidating.

Pollard went cold at the sight, and caught his breath sharply.

“Sir, do you recognize it?” Kerr asked with concern. Nilo stood and walked over, staring at the mask in confusion.

“The party season ended in Donderath a long time ago,” Nilo joked nervously.

Pollard shook his head, struggling to regain his composure. “It’s no joke,” he said in a hushed voice. “Reese mentioned that the Elders are always masked, each one a different color. This is a warning, and a message. Reese has been taken by the Elders for trial.”

“And what does that mean for us?” Nilo asked.

Pollard imagined that he could feel the bite scars tingling on his forearms. “It means,” he said, “that either we are free of our mercurial master or the Elders decide that our fate hangs in the balance with his.”

S
O MANY PEOPLE DEAD, FOR A FEW BOXES OF TRINKETS.
” Bevin Connor looked at a trunk full of magical items and shook his head. Connor brushed his dark-blond hair from his eyes. He was of average height and build, although the last year had added muscle as he learned to hold his own with a sword. He was passing fair in looks, though hardly the first to be noticed in a room. Curiosity and a quick wit were easy to see in his blue-green eyes.

“Worthless trinkets, for the most part,” Lanyon Penhallow agreed. “Not too different from the way many wars go, unfortunately.”

Just a few days before, Connor and Penhallow had been among the armed force that besieged and won Westbain from Reese’s loyalists. With Traher Voss’s mercenary army in support of Penhallow’s troops, Reese’s men could not hope to hold the manor without risking that it might burn around them. The cost in lives had been significant, especially for Reese’s soldiers. Connor had almost felt sorry for the troops inside the walls, outnumbered, under siege, and trapped by fire, men who
had almost certainly been abandoned by their lord and whose lives were considered forfeit for Reese’s strategic advantage.

One look at the miserable captives in the dungeon ended Connor’s sympathy for their captors.

“Any idea where Reese is hiding?” Connor asked.

Penhallow shook his head. “We know he was badly injured at the Battle of Valshoa. That kind of injury takes a long time to heal—even for a
talishte
.”

They stood in the manor house at Westbain that used to belong to Reese’s family. Before the Great War, back when King Merrill presided over a thriving kingdom, Westbain had been one of the old homes, its stern façade and thick walls making a statement about its owner’s wealth and power.

The mage fire that fell from the heavens on the night Donderath was destroyed took its toll. One wing had burned, leaving a central structure with four fairly habitable floors, plus cellars and a dungeon below. It was obvious, as soon as Penhallow’s forces had taken possession of the building, that Reese’s priorities had been the crypt and dungeons.

Connor pushed a strand of hair back from his face. “Do you think that the items can be cleansed, now that magic works again?” Connor asked, eyeing the trunk warily. He had been present at Valshoa when Blaine McFadden harnessed the wild magic and made it possible for men to bend that power to their will. And he had seen firsthand, in the months since then, that the magic had returned broken and dangerous.

“Perhaps,” Penhallow replied. The
talishte
lord appeared no more than a decade older than Connor, in his late thirties at most, yet he had existed for centuries, long enough to see magic rise and fall and rise again. Dark hair and dark eyes were accentuated by his pale skin, and his angular features and confident
bearing gave him an aristocratic appearance even when dressed, as they both were this day, in functional tunic and trews.

“I guess I should take comfort in the fact that you’ve seen this kind of thing happen before,” Connor said.

A trace of a sad smile touched the corners of Penhallow’s lips. “If it pleases you,” he replied, “although ‘comfort’ isn’t the word I might have chosen.”

Just in the last year, Connor had seen enough that he had a hint of what Penhallow meant. Connor had witnessed the death of his mortal master and the king, and fled for his life as the kingdom burned. His life as an assistant to Lord Garnoc seemed like a half-forgotten dream.

When the mage strike on Donderath brought the kingdom to its knees, Garnoc had charged Connor with the task of protecting two items—an obsidian disk and a map. That task had taken Connor to the frozen top of the world, to Edgeland, where he had met Blaine McFadden and returned with McFadden and his friends to put things right. Becoming Penhallow’s mortal servant had been unexpected, as had discovering his own ability as a medium. That talent for allowing the spirits of the dead to speak through him made Connor the perfect sometime host for the Wraith Lord.

“What of the mages down below?” Connor asked, forcing himself back to the unpleasant reality at hand.

“There’s little we can do for them,” Penhallow replied, an undercurrent of anger in his voice. “Several are near death. Voss’s healers can’t do anything except give them drugs for the pain and speed them on their way to the gods.” He shook his head. “Those who went mad are beyond our help.”

“Can any of them be saved?” Connor asked, horrified.

“Doubtful,” Penhallow replied, though he appeared to take no satisfaction in the statement. “I imagine the mages were
either lured here with promises of wealth and power, or captured. Probably the latter.” He paused.

“Which brings up an interesting question: I wonder what Quintrel and his mages are making of the fact that the ‘new’ magic can be deadly?”

Connor quelled a shudder. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I didn’t trust Quintrel, and neither did Blaine.” He grimaced.

Penhallow frowned. “Unfortunately, the magic is taking a toll on Blaine. I can feel it through the
kruvgaldur
.”

“What do you mean, ‘taking a toll’?” Connor asked, worried.

“The magic was never meant to be anchored by just one man,” Penhallow replied. “Out of necessity, when Blaine brought back the magic at Valshoa, he unintentionally channeled the full strain of anchoring the power through himself.” Penhallow shook his head. “I worry that it’s too great a strain. I can tell from our bond that it’s depleting him, burning him out.”

“What choice does he have?” Connor replied.

Penhallow shrugged. “None, at the moment. But it’s not an idle concern. Blaine won’t be able to sustain the magic alone for long. As we gather mages, finding a new anchor needs to be a primary concern. We dare not wait too long.”

Connor looked out the cracked windowpane across the courtyard of the fortified manor. By the torchlight, he could see Voss’s soldiers bustling about their work, taking inventory of the items being seized from Reese’s storage buildings and triaging the wounded.

Reese had not only prepared for a siege, he was laying in provisions for a war. Storage areas above- and belowground were filled with weapons, supplies, and foodstuffs that Reese, a
talishte
, did not require but that would be necessary for a human army. Other areas, like this workroom, were full of stolen
manuscripts and scrolls, pilfered magical items, and looted treasures.

“You know, I thought Lowrey was awful when he admitted to having stolen a few dozen books from the University and the noble houses that hosted him before the Great Fire,” Connor said. “He had nothing on Reese.” Connor shook his head in amazement as he looked around the room.

“I doubt Treven killed for any of his treasures,” Penhallow replied. “And we already know that Reese felt no such limitations.”

“Lanyon, a word with you?” Traher Voss stood in the doorway, a burly man in his middle years whose broad shoulders nearly spanned the door frame. Connor had heard his heavy tread coming down the hallway. To sensitive
talishte
hearing, it probably sounded like stampeding elk.

“What do you need, Traher?” Penhallow asked as he turned and gestured for Voss to join them.

Before the Cataclysm, Traher Voss was someone Connor had heard of, but never in his life expected to meet. Renowned in some circles for his military prowess, infamous in others for his well-known preference for fighting in support of the highest bidder, Voss was legendary, if not notorious. He was also a longtime associate of Penhallow’s, and someone to whom Connor owed his life, indirectly, twice over.

“What do you want us to do with Reese’s soldiers?” Voss asked. He was a commanding figure, even though his uniform was stained with blood and dirt from the battle and there was a streak of soot across one cheek. A fringe of close-cropped graying hair ringed a balding pate, and piercing dark eyes seemed to catch and analyze every movement.

“The Wraith Lord will handle the
talishte
soldiers,” Penhallow replied. As if anticipating Connor’s concern, Penhallow
turned and met Connor’s gaze. “Don’t worry. He won’t require your assistance for that.”

Connor felt a surge of relief. Allowing the disembodied Wraith Lord to possess his body was one of the unpleasant tasks of being a medium. He did not relish the idea of being the mortal host of an immortal and angry Elder passing judgment on renegade
talishte
fighters.

“And the others?” Voss asked. Connor knew Voss meant the mortal soldiers Reese had gathered for his army.

“How many are there?” Penhallow asked.

“Too many to glamour,” Voss replied matter-of-factly. “The good news is, most of them aren’t bonded by the
kruvgaldur
. We checked for that.”

Penhallow ran a hand back through his dark hair, a mortal gesture that death did not erase. “Dozens or hundreds?”

“There were thirty-six survivors when we accepted their surrender,” Voss replied. “They were all that remained of the garrison Reese abandoned when he went into hiding. Some of them realize they were set up to take the fall for their lord, and they say they’re willing to change their allegiance.”

“What about the rest?”

Voss shrugged. “Some men can’t admit when they’re wrong, or when they’ve been played for a fool. There are a handful who are snarling insults from their cells, telling us what Reese is going to do to us when he comes back for them.” He shook his head. “Poor, dumb bastards.”

Connor had witnessed Penhallow’s compassion, and his cunning. He had glimpsed ruthlessness and remorse. Now a shadow seemed to fall across Penhallow’s features, and his eyes took on a hard light.

“Accept surrender from those who will swear fealty. Have a
talishte
read their blood to make sure they’re telling the truth.
Those who won’t swear fealty need to understand that we don’t have the manpower to guard prisoners or the supplies to feed them.” He paused. “Give them time to reconsider, and then hang the holdouts.”

Voss’s face showed no emotion. “Those were my thoughts, but I wanted to check with you first.”

“Unfortunate, but necessary,” Penhallow said. “Anything else?”

“We’ve confiscated a nice cache of weapons and supplies, which always come in handy, especially the food. There were horses in the stables, good ones, so we’ll take them and the wagons. I wish I could say we also found a large number of full casks of brandy, but unfortunately, that’s not the case,” Voss replied.

Penhallow nodded. “Very well. Carry on.”

It was silent for a few moments after Voss left the room. Connor’s thoughts churned. Voss and Penhallow were men who had seen more than their share of war. Their decision to deal with Reese’s soldiers was well within military tradition, he knew. They didn’t have to offer the chance to switch sides, and had they not been able to assure a change in loyalty by reading the blood of the captives, such grace might not have been extended at all. When he served Lord Garnoc, he had been present at enough of King Merrill’s council meetings to have heard the lives of thousands of soldiers decided after heated debate.

Intellectually, he knew the decision was sound. Yet he hated hangings, and had gone out of his way to avoid the public executions that were held before the Cataclysm in Castle Reach’s main square, events many others regarded as entertainment.

“Death is a necessary part of war, Bevin,” Penhallow said quietly.

Whether the
talishte
read his thoughts through the
kruvgaldur
,
or guessed them from Connor’s expression, did not matter. The comment still made Connor wince. “I know,” he said. “I don’t fault the logic. It just all seemed much more distant and… academic… when I served Lord Garnoc.”

“And yet, the men who died as a result of those council meetings are just as dead,” Penhallow replied.

Connor nodded. “I know. But I don’t have to like it.”

Penhallow regarded him for a moment, and there was a sadness in his eyes Connor had rarely glimpsed before. “No. That speaks well of you. And know this—the decision never gets easier to make.”

Penhallow’s words only partly allayed the concern Connor felt. He knew that his real fear centered on the meeting to which he and Penhallow had been summoned later that night.

“Has the Wraith Lord told you more about what we’re to do tonight?” Connor asked, knowing that Penhallow could easily read his worries.

Penhallow shook his head. “No. My role is as a witness. You will play a much more pivotal role if he needs you as his host.”

Kierken Vandholt had been a
talishte
mage for six hundred years when he used his magic to save the life of King Hougen, Donderath’s king four centuries past. His loyalty cost him his soul. By exchanging his own soul for that of the king’s at the instant of Reaping, he cheated Etelscurion, the Taker of Souls, master of the Sea of Souls. The goddess refused Vandholt eternal rest, but Esthrane, a more powerful goddess, took pity, giving Vandholt sanctuary in the Unseen Realm, dooming him to a half-life existence as a wraith, neither living, dead, nor truly undead. King Hougen’s heirs grew to fear Vandholt’s power, murdering his living descendants and sending Vandholt into exile. Now nearly one thousand years old, Kierken Vandholt was better known as the Wraith Lord.