CHAPTER
TWO

HERE’S YOUR TRIBUTE… M’LORD.” CARR McFADDEN tossed a leather messenger’s pouch at Blaine’s feet and stood back, hands on hips, waiting for a response to his challenge.

“Open it. You’ll find Karstan Lysander’s orders to his commanding officers, laying out a battle strategy for his next offensive—against us, and against your ‘buddy’ Vigus Quintrel.” Carr did not attempt to hide a victorious smirk. Eight years younger than Blaine, Carr took more after their father’s looks, with muddy-brown hair and angular features. Soldiering had hardened his body and dispelled any illusions that remained after having grown up under Ian McFadden’s thumb.

“How did you come by this?” Blaine asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the bite from his voice. Niklas Theilsson, the commander of Blaine’s army, bent to retrieve the pouch and opened it, frowning as he reviewed the contents.

“I stole it,” Carr said levelly, his voice insolent. “One of Lysander’s messengers got careless. I jumped him and took the bag.” Carr had made no secret of his anger at Blaine for the scandal that had destroyed the family fortune, even if killing Ian McFadden had saved Carr and their sister, Mari, from Ian’s abuse. A bout of the Madness just before the Battle of Valshoa had added to Carr’s edgy unpredictability.

Niklas looked at Carr sharply. “You were supposed to be spying, not waging a one-man war,” he snapped.

“Spies bring back information. I don’t think he’d have given it to me if I’d just asked. Sir.” Carr’s tone was still impertinent, but he reserved his contempt for his older brother. It was obvious the packet had required a fight: His knuckles on both hands were skinned and swollen. Carr’s lip was split and he had a large bruise on one side of his face, injuries he wore like a mark of honor.

“Of all the wrong-headed, damn-fool stunts—” Blaine began, then stopped to rein in his temper when it was clear Carr was enjoying Blaine’s outrage.

“Just doing my part for the war effort,” Carr said with a grin that baited Blaine to take a swing at him.

“Before Piran and I have to pull you two off each other—again—can I point out that this appears to be authentic?” Niklas interrupted, with a warning glance to both Blaine and Carr. Blaine and Niklas had been friends since boyhood, and when Blaine’s crime sent him into exile, Niklas joined the army in the Meroven War. A few years later, Carr mustered in, seeking out a place under Niklas’s command even though Carr was still underage.

Blaine took a deep breath, accepting the wisdom of the warning glance. Carr wants a reaction, and if I give it to him, he’ll do something even riskier next time. But damn, he makes it hard!

Piran leaned against the wall near the fireplace. They were in what had been one of the exchequer’s offices in Quillarth Castle and that was now being used by Niklas as a war room for the portion of Blaine’s army stationed at the castle and in the city of Castle Reach. “How do you know the messenger you waylaid wasn’t a decoy?” Piran asked, with a deceptively casual tone that Blaine and Kestel knew meant Piran was annoyed.

“I’ve been shadowing that battalion commander for a while now,” Carr replied. “That’s his usual messenger, so if he’s a decoy, then Lysander hasn’t sent any real orders to that division for over a month.” His tone dared Piran to challenge him.

Piran shrugged in acknowledgment. “Fair enough.” He glanced toward Niklas. “Was the information worth the risk?”

From the look on Carr’s face, Blaine was certain his brother had already looked over the documents and knew their value. Niklas took the pouch to the large table in the center of the room and Kestel helped him spread them out.

“I’m not in favor of how you came by these,” Niklas said with a stern glance toward Carr. “But I would be happy to stay a step ahead of Lysander. From what I can tell, he’s out to make a name for himself.”

“Did you know of him—in the war?” Blaine asked, coming around to have a look at the documents. Kestel was already studying them with a practiced eye from her own days as a court spy.

Niklas frowned. “I knew him by reputation. Never met him in person. He won his battles, but he also had the highest casualty rates of any commander in the king’s army. His strategies were daring and unpredictable, and he was willing to send large numbers of soldiers to their deaths to make them work.” His tone made it clear that he did not share Lysander’s perspective.

“He’s got to either adjust his tactics or come up with a lot of replacement soldiers,” Blaine observed drily.

“Rumor has it, he’s agitating the Tingur,” Carr said, and grinned as Blaine and Niklas looked up.

“Aren’t they the crazy folks wandering around saying that Torven sent the Cataclysm because someone annoyed him?” Piran asked. He had left his spot by the fire to come around and eye the battle map. Before his court-martial, Piran had been rising fast in King Merrill’s army. Exile had ended his official career, but Piran’s grasp of tactics and strategy was as sharp as ever.

“We know that the Great Fire happened because the battle mages on both sides got out of hand,” Kestel replied. “But think about how the Cataclysm looked to your average barmaid or farmer. A green ribbon of fire falls from the sky and destroys most of the countryside, killing the king and the nobles. They wouldn’t think about some faraway war. They’d pick the easy explanation—someone made the gods angry.” Torven, the god of the sea and underworld, was believed by his followers to be generous to the faithful and merciless to those he disliked.

“The word is that there are plenty of farmers, sailors, and tradesmen whose livelihoods went up in smoke in the Great Fire, and they’re milling about looking for something to do,” Carr replied. “Some of them join up with the warlord armies, but they’ll only take people who can do real soldiering.”

“So the Tingur attract all the other people who’ve got no place left to go and convince them praying to Torven will make it all right again?” Piran mocked.

Kestel shook her head. “I think you’re missing the point, Piran. These folks saw their world burn. They want it to make sense, and appeasing an angry god makes the kind of sense they can understand. It gives them a purpose. And if Lysander is clever enough to win their loyalty, he’ll have an almost limitless supply of disposable foot soldiers willing to die to make Torven happy.”

Blaine felt a chill as he thought through the import of Kestel’s statement. “Sweet Esthrane,” he murmured. “They wouldn’t stand a chance in a real battle.”

Kestel met his gaze. “They wouldn’t have to. Lysander could use them to wear down the enemy, and save the real troops for the second wave.”

“It takes a sick bastard to use soldiers like that,” Niklas muttered. “But from what I’ve heard of Lysander, it would be like him to try it.”

Blaine riffled through the sheaf of parchment from the pouch. “If these orders are real, Lysander’s going to send an assault our way in the next few weeks, and it looks like he’s interested in seeing if he can break our line to get to Castle Reach.”

Niklas nodded. “I saw. Fortunately, he’s not the only one who’s been recruiting. Word spread after Valshoa. We’ve taken on enough new recruits to make up for the men we lost in the battle.” He met Blaine’s gaze. “We can hold the line on the city, and protect Glenreith, too.”

“Glad I could be of service, m’lord,” Carr drawled, emphasizing ‘m’lord’ sarcastically. “I’ll be heading back to the camp now, with your permission, Commander.”

Blaine could see the irritation in Niklas’s face at the way Carr intentionally maneuvered to show his disdain for Blaine’s authority. And he had no doubt that Niklas would have something to say about it to Carr later, in private. For now, Niklas just gave Carr a glare. “Go. But don’t leave camp until you’ve talked to me. We need to discuss tactics.”

“Yes, sir,” Carr replied with a salute that was a little too snappy to be serious. As he left, Blaine saw the slight hitch in Carr’s gait that was an aftereffect of the Madness, a disease born of the broken magic that nearly killed him.

No one spoke until Carr had left the room. “Bloody hell, Mick!” Piran exploded. “If he weren’t your brother, I’d have loved to wipe that smirk off his face.”

Blaine sighed. “It wouldn’t do any good. Father beat both of us enough that we’re good at taking a whipping.” He shook his head. “I understand why he’s angry with me. Fine. But I don’t understand why he’s trying to get himself killed.”

Niklas grimaced. “Come on, Blaine. Carr always liked taking risks. He was never afraid to try anything you and I did, even though we were a lot older. And if he could, he figured out how to do us one better. Remember?”

More than one long-ago example came to mind. “Yeah, I remember. But that was different,” Blaine objected.

“I agree,” Niklas replied. “And I do wonder if the Madness had something to do with it. I’ve asked Ordel, but he’s had so few soldiers live through the Madness that there aren’t many cases for comparison.” He shook his head. “I don’t know whether he’s trying to prove something to you, or outdo you, or get himself killed. But he’s worse when I try to keep him with the rest of the troops. Letting him go off on patrol—and now, spying—seemed to be the only way to handle him, short of tying him up and putting him in Glenreith’s dungeon.”

“Maybe you should reconsider,” Piran muttered.

Sudden light-headedness made Blaine stagger. From outside the castle came a resounding explosion that made the glass in the windows rattle. “What in Raka is going on?” Niklas muttered, rushing with Piran to look out the window in the direction of the blast.

Kestel hung back, giving Blaine a worried look. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” he said, waving off her concern, although he was far from certain. As soon as he knew he could move without falling over, he joined the others at the window. Smoke was rising from the large tent the mages had claimed as their workspace.

“Looks like it was a good idea to keep the mages out of the castle while they try out the artifacts we brought back,” Piran remarked.

“Let’s hope no one died,” Niklas said.

Kestel still eyed Blaine skeptically. He was reluctant to admit it, but the vertigo worried him. So far, he had not blacked out, but he felt as if his knees might buckle. What if it happens in battle? he wondered.

“We’d better go see what happened,” Niklas said with a sigh of resignation. “Come on, Piran. Let’s find out what they’ve blown up this time.” He looked toward Blaine. “We’ll give you a report once we know what’s going on.”

Kestel waited until the others had gone before she folded her arms across her chest and gave Blaine a level stare. “What’s wrong? You looked like you were going to fall over.”

Blaine grimaced and turned back toward the window. “It felt like I was going to fall over. And I don’t know why.”

Kestel stepped up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. “How long has it been like this?”

He sighed. “Since Valshoa. Since we brought the magic back.”

“Maybe Niklas’s battle healer could help,” she suggested.

Blaine reached over to take her hand and drew her closer to him. “I’ve already had Ordel check me over, after we got back from Valshoa.” He shook his head. “Nothing. Except that he thought I seemed especially tired and ‘run-down’ was his term. Made it sound like I hadn’t been eating vegetables or something.”

Kestel chuckled. “Maybe you need to eat more herring.”

Blaine glared at her. “Not if I can help it.” After his time in Edgeland, manning the miserable herring boats that supplied the motherland with salted, pickled, and dried fish, he had little desire to eat herring ever again.

“There has to be a reason why it’s happening,” Kestel pressed. She thought for a moment. “Just now, you looked unsteady an instant before the explosion.”

Blaine nodded. “And the same thing happened when Xaffert used the mirror.”

He had a suspicion of what was causing the problem, but he desperately wished to be proven wrong.

“Both times there was strong magic,” Kestel said.

“That occurred to me, too,” Blaine admitted.

“You brought magic back under human control at Valshoa,” Kestel said, speaking slowly as she put the thoughts together. “But the last time, thirteen Lords of the Blood anchored the magic. This time, just one.”

Blaine nodded again, keeping his gaze focused on the hectic activity as soldiers and healers bustled around the mages’ tent. “But if that’s the case, how can I fix it?” he asked. “The magic that bound the old Lords of the Blood came down through the eldest son. Except for me, all the others either died in the Cataclysm or the bloodlines died out long ago.” He grimaced. “Well, there’s the Wraith Lord, but he’s a wraith so he can’t really help.”

“Has the light-headedness changed at all?”

Blaine thought for a moment. “I don’t remember noticing it immediately after Valshoa. But it’s been several months, and I’d say it’s happening more often, growing stronger.”

“We need to figure this out,” Kestel said, giving his hand a squeeze before she released it and began to pace. “Maybe Zaryae and Dagur can help.”

“If they didn’t blow themselves up in the tent,” Blaine replied.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go find out what happened, and see if we can get Zaryae and Dagur to come up to the castle tonight, once things calm down.” She smiled. “Besides, I wanted to make an offering at the shrine. For luck.”

“I still can’t believe it’s come to this.”

Kestel stared up at the charred ruins of Quillarth Castle and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The wind tangled her red hair around her face, and she brushed it back from green eyes that shimmered with tears.

Blaine slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Even though we heard about what happened, it’s different actually seeing the damage up close,” he replied.

The once-grand castle was a blackened shell, with most of the structure reduced to rubble. Only one tower and part of a wing remained standing; the rest was a jumble of massive stones. Quillarth Castle had survived a direct strike in the magical onslaught that brought the kingdom of Donderath to ruin, then a devastating fire when the mages of neighboring Meroven had sent their worst against the castle and the manor houses of the nobility. Magic storms had added to the damage since the kingdom’s fall. But the last, worst assault had been just two months ago, when renegade lord Vedran Pollard and talishte warlord Pentreath Reese had captured what remained of the castle, then took it apart nearly stone by stone to find the treasures Reese believed to be hidden inside.

In an alcove near the castle’s once-grand entrance was a shrine with salvaged statues to Donderath’s three most powerful gods, Charrot, Torven, and Esthrane. Charrot, the high god, was both male and female, with one head and two faces. Charrot was creation and destruction embodied, the True Source, and ruled both gods and men. One side of him was the perfect warrior with rippling muscles and broad shoulders. Charrot was handsome, with dusky yellow skin, dark hair, and chiseled features. The other side of Charrot was a beautiful woman with blue skin whose breasts and thighs promised fertility.

Traditionally, Charrot was depicted stretching out his hands to his two consorts. Torven, the god of illusion, was a man whose beauty rivaled that of Charrot himself. Torven ruled the air and sea, darkness and twilight, water and ice, and the Sea of Souls. Esthrane was the second consort, and equaled Charrot’s feminine beauty. Artists depicted Esthrane with saffron-colored skin and sorrowful eyes. She summoned fertility from crops and herds and commanded birth and fire. Esthrane was also the master of the Unseen Realm, where wandering and incomplete souls went after death.

A collection of guttered candles, withered flowers, and food offerings lay at the feet of the statues, along with pebbles brought by passersby. Whether the gifts came from supplicants who sought protection or merely wished to give tribute, Blaine did not know. If he had ever believed the gods cared about the affairs of mortals, what he had seen of his ravaged kingdom made such interest unlikely.

Kestel slipped up to the statues and withdrew a small bundle from beneath her cloak. She untied the bit of cloth and took out a hard roll and a bit of sausage. Bowing her head, she knelt before the statue of Esthrane and held out her offerings, murmuring a prayer to the goddess. From a pocket in her trews, she added a few smooth pebbles to her gift, and made a gesture of blessing, then rose to rejoin Blaine.

“I’m with Piran on wondering whether anyone is listening when you do that,” Blaine said, taking her arm.

Kestel chuckled. “Then it’s good the two of you have me to make offerings for you. I figure it can’t hurt.”

A deep rumble inside the castle walls quickly became a roar, shaking the ground beneath Blaine’s feet. Blaine drew his sword, and Kestel had knives in each hand, ready for the worst. Blaine spotted Piran running toward the disturbance, shouting for Niklas. A cloud of dust rose where part of the castle’s inner wall had stood just moments before.

“Let me through,” Blaine ordered, shouldering past the guards, with Kestel just a step behind him. “Someone give me a report!” Blaine shouted as they halted just paces away from the damage.

Piran picked his way across the rubble and scowled at Blaine. “The guards were supposed to keep you where it’s safe,” he said, running a hand over his bald head in frustration. He was covered in rock dust, and there was a smear of blood from a cut on one cheek.

“ ‘Safe’ is a relative term,” Blaine replied. “What happened?”

Piran muttered a potent oath. “The area’s been getting pounded by storms, each worse than the one before. It weakened the wall. That blast from the mages was the last straw.”

“Casualties?”

Piran grimaced. “One man broke a leg, maybe some ribs. The battle healer is with him. No one dead, thank the gods.”

Blaine looked up to find Dillon heading toward them with a young man behind him. “I’ve found someone you need to meet,” Dillon hailed him. “This is Jodd,” he added, with a nod toward his companion. “He was one of the master butler’s helpers.” He met Blaine’s gaze. “He knows his way around the castle, and he’s agreed to give us a hand.”

“My mates and I sprung all the traps we could find in the tower,” Jodd volunteered. He was a half-grown lad, perhaps about fourteen summers old, with a shock of dark hair that poked up at all angles. He looked intelligent and wily, and the grin he shot Blaine was confident and full of mischief.

“Are you certain?” Blaine asked.

Jodd shrugged. “We didn’t find no more than what we sprung. Had a right good time of it, too. The blokes who were here before left some real puzzlers, I’ll say that for them.”

“What kind of puzzlers?” Blaine asked.

Jodd did his best to look nonchalant, though it was clear he was quite pleased with himself. “Trip wires. Parts of the floor rigged to give out when you step on them. Walls set to collapse if you opened the door wrong. We got banged up good, but no one died.” From his triumphant grin, it was clear that Jodd and his friends had considered it a fine lark.

“Why would Reese and Pollard bother with traps?” Piran asked. “If they had what they wanted, why not just bring down the walls and be done with it?”

“Because they didn’t find what they were looking for,” Jodd said with a conspiratorial glance toward Dillon. “They just found enough to make them go away.”

Blaine looked from Jodd to Dillon. “I don’t understand.”

Dillon glanced toward the ruined portion of the castle, and his expression grew somber. “After the Great Fire, when the king and the nobles died, the mages vanished. Seneschal Lynge rallied the servants to salvage what was left,” he said. “Then Lord Penhallow came, and Bevin Connor.”

“They’re friends of ours,” Blaine said. Connor had traveled with Blaine’s group and earned their trust. Lord Penhallow, an immortal talishte lord, was an ally, if not exactly a friend.

“They were looking for the disks that helped forge the magic,” Dillon went on. Blaine, Kestel, and Piran exchanged a knowing look. The disks had been critical to raising the magic, and had nearly cost Blaine his life. They were safely locked away at Blaine’s manor, Glenreith.

“We know Connor found disks here at the castle,” Blaine said.

Dillon nodded. “Aye. When Connor and Lord Penhallow left with the disks, Lynge took me aside and had me work with Sir Alrik. Lynge told me that with Geddy gone, someone else needed to know the secret, in case anything happened to him. Sir Alrik gathered the remaining magic items that had been found, leaving just enough of the less valuable stuff for Pollard to find.” He gave a wan smile. “The items we left for Pollard might not have been as powerful as what he wanted, but they were good enough to make him wonder if there might be more if he had time to search harder. That’s why he set traps to keep other people out, and didn’t just destroy the castle.”

“And it’s a good thing Lynge and Alrik took you into their confidence, considering what happened,” Jodd added.

A chill went down Blaine’s back. Dillon met his gaze evenly. “Lynge sent us away when Lord Reese laid siege to the castle. We didn’t come back until we heard Lord Reese had been defeated.” He looked down. “We found Lynge’s body—laid him to rest.”

“Thank you for seeing that he got a proper burial,” Blaine said. “He deserved a better end.” He paused. “Have you told Commander Theilsson about the traps?” Blaine asked.

Jodd looked pleased. “Absolutely! Told him as soon as he arrived, and took him and his men around to show them what we’d found.”

“Good work,” Blaine replied. He turned to Dillon. “Tomorrow I need to go into Castle Reach, but after that, I’d like to get back to Glenreith. We’ll need provisions for the road, and fresh horses.”

Dillon nodded. “I’ll get started on it,” he said, and turned back toward the castle, taking Jodd with him.

Blaine staggered as the vertigo struck again. “Sorry, lost my footing.”

Kestel looked at him with concern. “Is the magic still affecting you? We need to figure out how to stop that from happening before we’re in battle.”

“I suspect that when I anchored the magic, I got tied up in the bond.” Blaine replied. “So it’s not just breaking me out of the bond—it’s making sure that getting me untangled doesn’t affect the magic.”

Kestel gave him a no-nonsense look. “You mean, making sure that if you get killed, it doesn’t destroy the magic again.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That, too. And I’m sure Pollard and Reese would like to make both those things happen.” He could see the worry in her eyes. “But we’re jumping to conclusions. Let’s see what Dagur or the other mages come up with.”

Kestel nodded, and glanced past Blaine. “Just as well. Niklas is headed our way.”

“What happened?” Blaine asked as Niklas approached.

Niklas muttered curses. “The mages tried to use another artifact. Good thing they were warded this time, or they might have done more than set off an explosion—although it made that wall fall. As it is, there are two people down with minor burns, and a man with some broken bones from the wall collapse, but Rikard and Dagur seem to think the exercise went well, all things considered.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to finish securing the grounds?”

Niklas turned to look back at the ruins. “A few more days at most.”

“Can you hurry it up?”

Piran laughed. “You put him in charge of your army for a reason. He’s good at what he does. Maybe we should let him do it.”

Blaine glowered at Piran, then nodded to Niklas. “Just make sure you don’t drag it out longer than necessary.”

Piran headed back to the wall, and Blaine turned to look at the remaining tower and wing, silhouetted against the sky. “The last time I was at Quillarth Castle, I was in chains,” he said quietly as Kestel came to stand next to him. “I never thought I’d outlive either the king or the castle.”

It had been nearly seven years since Lord Blaine McFadden had come before King Merrill to be tried for the murder of his father, Ian McFadden. To the court, it did not matter that he had killed Ian for dishonoring his own daughter, Blaine’s sister. Merrill exiled Blaine to the Velant prison colony. After three years as a convict and three more as a colonist in the brutal arctic weather of Edgeland, Blaine had returned to Donderath when the war that killed the king and leveled the cities also destroyed the magic.

“Even though we’re without a king,” Kestel said, “it makes sense to rebuild. Quillarth Castle is located on one of the meridians, so it’s a place of power. And it’s a stronghold to secure the city and the port. Someday, we’ll start trading again with the Cross-Sea powers and the other kingdoms. We’ll need a fortress to protect our interests.”

“I imagine just getting the city back under control will keep our garrison busy for quite a while,” Niklas added.

Blaine shrugged. “That’s what you’re here for. Glenreith is in pretty good shape now, and well defended,” he replied.

“You’ll still need all the help you can get for harvest,” Kestel replied. “At least our soldiers got enough planted so the manor, the garrison, and what’s left of the town won’t go hungry.”

“It’s a start,” Blaine acknowledged. “But we’ve got so much left to do.”

Blaine turned his gaze back to Niklas. “What’s the situation in Castle Reach?” he asked with a nod of his head in the direction toward where Donderath’s capital city sprawled down to the sea.

Niklas let out a long breath. “Even with twice as many men I couldn’t get the whole city completely in hand, but we’ve made a start,” he said. “We’ve secured a corridor from the castle down to the waterfront that includes most of the area that used to be shops, markets, and pubs, as well as the docks.”

“Any pushback?”

Niklas swore. “Lots of it. Without the king’s guards to keep the peace, and what with so many of the people fleeing the city, the folks who were left fended for themselves as best they could. The city was divided up between bandit gangs, and they each charged a toll for anyone foolhardy enough to cross their territory.”

Now that Blaine had a good look in daylight, he could see the fresh marks of recent battle in Niklas’s newly healed scars. “First, I took a garrison against the top two bandit gangs, and when we broke them, the others swore fealty, especially the dominant one, run by a man named Folville. He’ll keep the others in line.”

Blaine’s eyes widened. “You accepted oaths of fealty from bandit gangs?”

Niklas grinned. “No, you did. We dealt out death in the name of the warlord Blaine McFadden, and the survivors swore their loyalty to you.”

Well, damn. “And does this fealty mean anything at all?” Blaine asked.

“Yes and no,” Niklas replied. “Unless you want me to tie up half your army patrolling the city, we can’t keep a large enough presence to crack down on all the bandit gangs. But if they swear loyalty to you, those gangs patrol the city to keep out rival gangs—or any of Reese and Pollard’s men—and they pay a percentage of their profits to you as tribute.”

Before his exile, such an arrangement might have seemed sordid. But after three years in King Merrill’s prison colony, Blaine understood the idea of using rivals to gain a balance of power. “Very well,” he said. “What else?”

Niklas grimaced. “Reese and Pollard have left a mess behind. We’ve found an item we think was left as a trap. Dagur thinks it was meant to be triggered by magic. We dug a hole and buried it, and we’re going to have the mages see if they can set it off and contain it at the same time.”

Blaine raised an eyebrow. “That’s rather risky, isn’t it?”

Niklas shrugged. “Dagur seems to think it won’t be a problem.” He grimaced. “Then again, he didn’t think trying out this last artifact was going to be a problem, either.”

Shouting near the front gate sent guards running. From where Blaine stood, it looked as if someone had arrived unannounced.

“Expecting guests?” Kestel asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Hardly.”

Whoever had arrived was heatedly arguing with Niklas’s guards. After a while, Piran brought the newcomer over to Blaine at sword’s point, with a guard trailing warily behind them. A slender man in patched brown robes strode toward him, his angular features pinched with annoyance, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his sharp nose.

“Well, well, well,” Blaine said. “Treven Lowrey. I thought you were staying in Valshoa with Vigus Quintrel.” His sidelong glance to Kestel confirmed that she was as wary of the mage’s reappearance as Blaine.

“Lord McFadden! Tell this lout to unhand me,” Lowrey demanded, glowering at Piran.

Blaine caught Piran’s eye. With a sigh, Piran lowered his weapon but did not sheathe it.

“What brings you back to civilization, Treven?” Blaine worked to keep his features unreadable and his tone light, but he felt the same mistrust of the mage that was clear in his friends’ expressions.

“I came to beg for sanctuary,” Lowrey said, managing to look both defiant and desperate at the same time. “Quintrel sent a delegation of mages to rebuild the University in Lord Rostivan’s lands, and I asked to join them, figuring that I could make a break for it once I reached the city.”

Kestel fingered one of her knives. “The last time we saw you, you’d decided to throw in your lot with Vigus Quintrel—right before he tried to keep us prisoner in Valshoa.”

Lowrey’s eyes widened. “One of the biggest mistakes of my life,” he said, clutching at his chest dramatically. “Quintrel is a madman. That’s why I had to leave—and why I wanted to warn you.”

“Why did you think you’d find us here?” Piran asked suspiciously. He still had his sword in hand, and Blaine suspected Piran would be just as happy to give Lowrey a poke.

“I didn’t,” Lowrey said. “But I was desperate to get out of Valshoa. Once I got to the University—what’s left of it—I managed to sneak out for a pint at what passes for a pub these days,” he said with a sniff of derision. “That’s where I ran into one of the mages I knew from my days as a scholar. He told me he’d gone to ground after the Cataclysm, and wanted no part of organized magic anymore.” He gave a conspiratorial smile. “Seems my friend now sells good-luck tokens and love charms,” he said, “and makes enough to keep himself in ale.”

“And your point is?” Piran prodded with an unfriendly look.

Lowrey gave a long-suffering sigh. “My old friend told me that some of the other mages had come out of hiding. And I heard they joined up with you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine could see that Dagur and the other mage were watching with a look of concern. Their expressions gave Blaine to believe they were about as thrilled as Piran was to see Lowrey.

“With Reese in hiding and Pollard on the run, I’m not surprised mages have started trickling back,” Blaine replied, dodging Lowrey’s implied question. “But these days, nothing’s safe,” he added. He paused. “You said you wanted to warn us.”

Lowrey nodded vigorously. “Two things you must know. First of all, Vigus is dangerous. He’s allied with warlord Rostivan, and he’s trying to gather any magical items he can find and to have the mages figure out how to use them in battle.” Lowrey leaned forward, and there was fear in his face that for once seemed utterly genuine. “He’s convinced the mages should emerge to rule the Continent,” Lowrey said. “And he’s mad enough to believe he should be the power behind the throne.”

Kestel gave Lowrey a no-nonsense look. “We already knew Quintrel wasn’t to be trusted when he tried to keep us prisoner in Valshoa. Anyone who knew Quintrel before the Cataclysm knew he was always—only—out for himself. As for the other part, there are a number of delusional warlords who all think they should be king—why is this news?”

Lowrey lifted his chin and pulled himself up to his full height. “All right, then. How’s this? Restoring the magic by himself put Blaine in grave danger, according to Quintrel. If Blaine can’t figure out a way to create a broader anchor, it’s going to kill him—and he’ll take the magic with him. Quintrel wants to own the anchor and control the magic. And he won’t rest until he takes Blaine prisoner and has the power for himself.”

Several candlemarks had passed since the mages’ disastrous experiment and the wall’s collapse, long enough for Niklas and Piran to get free of their duties and join Blaine and the others in one of Quillarth Castle’s parlors. Blaine paced near the fireplace. Kestel leaned against the wall where she had a good view of the doors. Dagur and Zaryae had joined them, along with Ordel, Niklas’s battle healer.

“What makes Quintrel think he found a way to anchor the magic without it going through Blaine?” Niklas asked, with an expression that made it clear his trust of anything Lowrey had to say was highly conditional.

“If Quintrel figured it out, why hasn’t he already done it?” Piran added.

Lowrey dropped into a chair, looking miserable. “Because Vigus isn’t himself these days,” he said, running a hand back through his wild, graying hair. “He was angry when Blaine left—and livid when he found out you’d stolen the thirteen disks,” he said, leveling an accusing gaze at Kestel.

“Oops?” she said with false coquettishness. “How did those get in my bags?”

Lowrey gave her a narrowed glance. “I’m not saying you weren’t wise to steal them, but it put Quintrel into a fury. I think he knew before Blaine even arrived that using just one Lord of the Blood to anchor the power would create a deadly bond. He probably figured that he could keep Blaine and the rest of you from leaving, or at least control you long enough to find a way to transfer the binding. But you left.”

“Damn right,” Piran said. “What exactly were we going to do, locked up in Valshoa? Take up stargazing?”

“Quintrel didn’t expect the Wraith Lord to force Dolan to help you leave,” Lowrey replied. “He thought he could count on the Knights to keep you prisoner. When you left, it meant that the key to magic slipped out of Vigus’s control. And he is a very competitive man.”

“All well and good,” Ordel said impatiently. “But what about the impact on Blaine?”

Lowrey paused, and Blaine reined in the impulse to shake the truth out of the eccentric mage. Lowrey was clearly relishing his moment on center stage. “He wants to get Blaine to ally with him, and in exchange, he’ll share what he’s discovered.”

“You mean, hold Blaine hostage under threat that he support Quintrel or die?” Piran rose from his seat with outrage. Niklas waved him down.

“And you’re saying the rumors are true that Quintrel has an alliance with Rostivan?” Niklas asked.

“Yes,” Lowrey said. “Quintrel needed an army, and Rostivan needed mages.”

Kestel exchanged a glance with Blaine that let him know she questioned Lowrey’s truthfulness. I wouldn’t put it past him to have made up the whole story just to get us to take him in, Blaine thought. Except that the part about the magic draining me strikes a little too true to be a complete invention.

“I’m concerned about the effect that anchoring the magic is having on Blaine,” Ordel said. “I’ve healed him on more than one occasion, and his energy has… shifted. It feels ‘older’ than it should for someone of his age and health.”

Zaryae nodded. “Three times I’ve dreamt of Blaine as an old man on his deathbed. At first, I took it as a good sign, that he was destined to live through these troubling times, with many decades ahead of him. The second time, I wondered if his future self had a message for us. The third time, I took it as a warning.”

“It is consistent with some of the aftereffects we’ve seen of the ‘new’ magic,” Dagur added. He gave an apologetic shrug. “We’re still figuring out how magic works since the restoration. It’s not reliable, fades in and out, and as you’ve seen, it can be volatile.”

“What’s that have to do with Blaine?” Niklas asked.

“The mages who are working with the artifacts have to limit their time, because the magic drains them so badly,” Dagur replied. “We nearly lost a young mage who worked too long at a time with the artifacts. When we found him, he looked as if he’d been starving in a dungeon for weeks, but it had only been a few candlemarks.”

“One mage, working for a few candlemarks with an artifact, and it does that to him?” Niklas said. He stared pointedly at Blaine. “And you’ve anchored all the magic on the Continent.”

“What’s our option?” Kestel asked. She turned on Lowrey. “You said Quintrel had figured out the secret. How do we get it?”

Lowrey spread his hands. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. Quintrel wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

“We’ll keep working with the artifacts,” Dagur said with a sigh. “Maybe something will turn up.”

“That’s not good enough,” Piran snapped. “If the drain is getting worse, then how long until it puts Mick flat on his back—or worse?”

“It will take the time it takes,” Blaine said. “And in the meantime, we’ll figure out how to respond to Quintrel. At least now we have confirmation that I’m having a reaction to anchoring the magic.”

“And until we’ve figured out how to protect you from it, we need to keep you away from powerful magic,” Kestel said.

Dagur shook his head. “No, you don’t understand,” he said. They turned toward him. “It’s magic itself that’s the danger. How close it is won’t matter soon.” He looked at them in turn, worry clear in his face. “The bond is growing more powerful. Pretty soon, magic anywhere will take its toll on him. And if it kills him before he can find a new anchor, we’ll live through the loss of magic all over again.”