CHAPTER
SIX

SO 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.

“That’s what makes me nervous,” Connor replied. “I get to be the Wraith Lord’s borrowed body while he plays prosecutor for Pentreath Reese in front of the oldest and most powerful talishte on the Continent. I can’t help worrying that the Elders will be wondering how I’d taste as a snack.”

“There are valid reasons to be concerned over tonight’s event,” Penhallow replied. “Fearing that you will become a ‘snack,’ as you put it, is not one of them.”

“I’m the one with warm blood,” Connor said, not feeling reassured.

“Possessed by one of the most powerful talishte the Continent has ever seen,” Penhallow reminded him. “I know that hosting Kierken takes a toll on you. But you know better than anyone that he has always protected you in exchange.”

Even when it was his own presence inside me that nearly burned me up and dried me to a husk, Connor thought, indulging what he considered a moment of well-deserved pique. “That’s true,” he conceded. “But you have no idea how frightening it is on this end of the bargain.”

Penhallow’s expression softened. “Actually, Bevin, I do. Or did you forget that the kruvgaldur is a two-way bond?”

Connor felt his cheeks color at the reminder. “I understand that what is being asked of you is difficult, even unreasonable,” Penhallow continued. “You have shown uncommon courage, above and beyond what ought to be asked of you. And I regret that we must ask too much of you yet again.”

“It’s not really like there’s a choice, is there?” Connor replied quietly. “There isn’t anyone else who can do the job. I can, so it falls to me. That’s how it works.”

“I know it’s scant consolation,” Penhallow said, “but you will be privy to something no living mortal has ever seen: the convocation of the Elders and their judgment on a powerful talishte.”

“What if they decide they don’t like the idea of having a mortal witness?” Connor asked, finally getting up the nerve to voice the question that had bothered him all day. “You and the Wraith Lord are very powerful, but if they came after me, could you really promise me I’d make it out alive?”

Penhallow’s gaze met his, and Connor saw just how seriously the talishte took his question. “I will protect you with all my power, Connor. Even if I cease to exist. The Wraith Lord, I believe, has made you a similar oath. It’s the most we can promise.”

Connor let out a long breath. “I know, and I’m not ungrateful. I’m just—”

“Frightened,” Penhallow finished for him, placing a firm hand on Connor’s shoulder. “You would hardly be sane or reasonable were you not.”

“The Elders are going to determine Reese’s fate, aren’t they?” Connor asked. The ride to the Wraith Lord’s manor at Lundmyhre would have taken two candlemarks in good weather. In the sleeting rain, it took considerably more. Connor was chilled to the bone.

Penhallow frowned. “The Elders have authority to punish Reese for crimes against immortals. That includes waging war against the Wraith Lord at Valshoa, and attacking my brood on several occasions.”

“I was there,” Connor replied, doing his best to keep his teeth from chattering.

The fact that Reese might be punished for putting the talishte in danger rather than for the loss of mortal life was not lost on Connor. “They’ve called him to be sentenced, but they haven’t declared a verdict yet. So there’s the chance that Reese might not be punished at all, isn’t there? Where would that leave us?”

The tightness around Penhallow’s mouth told Connor the talishte was far from certain of the outcome. “If the Elders refuse to pass judgment, they might also refuse to place special protection over Reese. Other talishte would still be able to destroy him—without fearing the Elders’ wrath.”

They rode with an escort of Penhallow’s talishte soldiers and Traher Voss’s mortal fighters until they reached the borders of the Wraith Lord’s lands. Connor followed Penhallow through the tangled undergrowth to Lundmyhre, once a grand manor and now an overgrown ruin.

Cold mist coalesced into the shape of a man. Connor recognized the sense of presence even before the features became distinct. This was Kierken Vandholt, talishte, warrior, and Wraith Lord.

To Connor’s surprise, General Dolan and Nidhud of the Knights of Esthrane moved out of the shadows to stand with the Wraith Lord. If Penhallow was surprised, he did not show it.

“Welcome,” the Wraith Lord said. He was of medium height, broad-shouldered, with the stance of a warrior, clad in clothing out of fashion centuries ago. The mist made his features indistinct, but Connor had no problem calling Kierken Vandholt’s face to mind. After all, Vandholt had inhabited his thoughts and possessed his body on more than one occasion.

“Gentlemen,” Penhallow said with a nod to Dolan and Nidhud. He looked back to the Wraith Lord. “To what do we owe the reinforcements?”

The Wraith Lord’s chuckle held little mirth. “Not exactly ‘reinforcements,’ ” he said.

“I’ve withdrawn my soldiers from Valshoa,” Dolan replied, meeting Penhallow’s gaze. “The situation has grown undesirable.”

“I don’t imagine Quintrel was happy about that,” Penhallow said.

Dolan’s mouth tightened. “No. He wasn’t. And I suspect he was even less happy after we left,” he added, withdrawing a black bag from beneath his cloak. “Quintrel used old Valshoan manuscripts to figure out a way to anchor the magic outside of Blaine McFadden. These,” he said with a nod toward the bag, “are what he called ‘presence-crystals,’ artifacts he needed to work the magic necessary to shift the anchor.”

Connor let out a low whistle, then realized he had been audible and fell abruptly silent. Penhallow chuckled. “Eloquently put, Connor.” He looked to Dolan. “Quintrel hadn’t had a chance to do the working yet?”

Dolan shook his head. “He would have needed to kidnap McFadden to make that happen.” He paused. “Anchoring the magic is a strain no one man was meant to bear. If the anchor doesn’t shift, it will eventually kill McFadden.”

Penhallow eyed the bag. “Do you think it’s possible to work the ritual somewhere besides Valshoa? Could you and mages loyal to McFadden create that new anchor?”

“I believe it’s possible,” Dolan replied. “But we would need the right place to make the working, a place of power. Perhaps the crypts beneath Quillarth Castle, or even better, Mirdalur.”

“Blaine tried to bring the magic back at Mirdalur and it nearly killed him,” Connor objected before he could stop himself.

Dolan nodded. “True. But the magic was wild then, and McFadden was unprepared for the working. The crystals, together with the obsidian disks and the restored magic, might yield a very different outcome.”

Dolan returned his attention to Penhallow. “I believe that Quintrel has fallen under the sway of a corrupted artifact,” he said. “A globe with a bound divi.”

The Wraith Lord looked up sharply. “A divi? What in Raka is Quintrel doing with a divi?”

“Nothing good, that’s for certain,” Penhallow replied. “You say it’s affected him?”

Dolan’s expression was grave. “It’s making him unstable and volatile. If he persists—and I think he will—it will drive him mad.”

Penhallow frowned. “What brings you here?”

Dolan looked from Penhallow to the Wraith Lord. “Nidhud told me about what McFadden has done since Valshoa. He would seem to be an honorable contender for power.” He paused. “I would like to propose a deal to McFadden. I will ally my Knights with those Nidhud leads and support him—on one condition.”

“Say on,” the Wraith Lord said warily.

“I will not allow the Knights to be exiled again,” Dolan said. “So in exchange for our support, I would ask that one of the new Lords of the Blood be chosen from among the Knights of Esthrane, and that the Knights hold seats on McFadden’s senior council.”

Penhallow and the Wraith Lord exchanged a glance. “We aren’t the ones who can make that decision, but if Blaine agrees, we’ll support you,” the Wraith Lord replied.

Dolan nodded. “In that case, I will send Nidhud to Glenreith to make our offer. And I will go to Mirdalur.”

“Why Mirdalur?” Connor could not contain his curiosity. Dolan looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Is your servant always so forthright?” he asked Penhallow drolly.

“Always,” Penhallow replied. Connor blushed, but held his ground.

Dolan regarded Connor with amusement. “Mirdalur is an exceptionally powerful place. I am not convinced that its usefulness is over.”

“I’ll send Geir to let Niklas Theilsson know there may be new allies,” Penhallow said. “Once we finish securing Westbain, Connor and I are due to travel to Glenreith.”

“Nidhud will bring word,” Dolan replied. “Travel safely. Donderath is a dangerous place.” With that, he and Nidhud were gone. Connor could not suppress a shiver. If a talishte mage-warrior considers travel dangerous, what does that say for the mortals?

Penhallow turned his attention back to the Wraith Lord. “What should we expect tonight among the Elders?”

“The Elders are assembling at the Circle. Talishte loyal to me will bring Reese to us there.” The insubstantial figure turned toward Connor. “I may need to ask to use your form once again,” he said. “I will need you only if we are attacked, and I will do my best to return the form to you unharmed.”

Not far beyond the ruins of the Wraith Lord’s fortress stood an ancient circle of large stones in the center of a forest clearing. Connor had not quite decided whether the stones themselves were magic, but he feared venturing close to them, and hesitated to step within their circle.

The Wraith Lord led them directly into the center of the stones. It was clear they were no accident of nature. The spaces between the huge stone rectangles were even, and their width was uniform. The moon hung directly above one of the tallest stone rectangles, illuminating cryptic carvings.

They waited in the darkness. Connor blinked, and twelve black-robed figures appeared, each wearing a different color satin mask. The masks hid the entire face, and the color of the masks was duplicated in the gemstone pendants each wore at the throat of their robes.

“Who called us?” The speaker was a tall figure with a deep-red satin mask and a large ruby pendant.

“I did,” the Wraith Lord said. “Pentreath Reese has waged war against me and against Lanyon Penhallow. For that, I demand he be punished. I have brought Penhallow as witness.”

“Lord Vandholt—you have brought a mortal among us.” The speaker was a smaller figure with a saffron-colored mask and pendant. Connor wondered if the speaker were female.

“Penhallow’s servant serves as my host when needed,” the Wraith Lord answered. “It is my right.”

The Wraith Lord had not bothered to ask either Connor or Penhallow to leave behind their weapons, but Connor found that he took little comfort in the sword at his hip. Given the speed with which these oldest talishte moved, Connor knew that he could not hope to even draw his blade before they would be on him unless the Wraith Lord possessed him.

“You are not unknown to us, Lanyon Penhallow.” Sapphire-mask said. “Some might say you have a troubling history of inserting yourself into the affairs of mortals.”

If the comment ruffled Penhallow, he did not show it. “I have found it advantageous, not only for my own part but also for the defense of the talishte as a whole, to maintain ties to influential mortals,” Penhallow replied. “A word or two in the right ear at court, a small payment here or there, and many problems are solved before they ever begin.”

“Yet you don’t make the same investment into the dealings of your own kind. How interesting.” The onyx-masked figure’s voice was neutral, but there was an edge of implied threat that made the hair on the back of Connor’s neck prickle.

Penhallow shrugged. “I’m not interested in politics. I’ve found, over the centuries, that the things that pose a threat to me also threaten the survival of our kind.”

“What is this threat that is so great, you risk yourself to summon us?” Emerald turned to face Penhallow.

“It is against the law of the Elders for a talishte to make an unprovoked attack on another talishte,” Penhallow said. “Yet Reese attacked me and my brood in my crypt, burned the safe haven, and destroyed many of my get.”

“He sent armed men into my territory to attack me and my guests,” the Wraith Lord added, “and allied with Vedran Pollard to wage war against Penhallow and myself at Valshoa.”

“Reese would have preferred magic to remain out of reach,” Onyx replied. “He hoped that by attacking you, he could stop Blaine McFadden from restoring the magic. He failed.”

“What has this to do with us? We are talishte, not mages.” Saffron’s impatience was clear.

“It has everything to do with us, my lords,” Penhallow said. “When magic functions, we benefit as much as any of the mortals for conveniences small and large. We use magical protections to guard our day places, and ward intruders away. When harvests are good and famine is rare, feeding is better.”

Connor tried not to flinch at that last comment.

“Magic is restored. Why trouble us?” Sapphire challenged. “We want nothing to do with your squabble.”

“I came to ask your judgment on Reese,” the Wraith Lord replied. “Reese’s attacks against me and against Penhallow are a violation of our law. He has defied the Elders.”

“We have only your word for these attacks,” Emerald answered. “It sounds like a personal squabble, hardly a matter for the Elders.”

“Reese sent a team of assassins into my sanctuary,” Penhallow said. “Reese and Pollard sent an army to besiege the fortress of my associate, Traher Voss, with the express intent to capture me and my servant. Surely an army escalates this far beyond a ‘personal squabble.’ ”

“What would you have us do? Give him the final death?” Ruby challenged. “Place you in protective custody?”

The latter suggestion sounded far more like imprisonment than protection to Connor, who struggled to say nothing. I’m in way over my head, he thought. We’ll be lucky to make it out of here alive.

“I petition the Elders for Reese’s final death,” the Wraith Lord said, looking from one Elder to the next as if to challenge a reply. “Punish him as he deserves.”

“Is that all?” Saffron mocked. “You presume that your cause to bring back the magic puts you in the right, and that Reese is clearly wrong. I disagree. We are immortals. We do not require the convenience of magic. Magic enables the survival of the weak. Let hardship cull the herds, so that only the strongest blood survives.”

“You romanticize misery,” Emerald replied. “Immortality doesn’t make privation less unpleasant. Hardship means that there’s less blood to go around. Soon our people are fighting among themselves for territory to have sufficient prey for them and their broods to survive.” He shook his head. “I do not want to see a return of those days.”

“The last time the magic died, it took more than a generation to bring it back,” Sapphire said. “It was a struggle to feed ourselves and our broods,” he added. “I have no desire for that to happen again.”

“This is not about magic. It is forbidden for a talishte to strike against an Elder, yet Reese has sent his men against me. I claim my right as Elder to bring charges against him,” the Wraith Lord said. “I call for your judgment.”

“Shall we hear the defendant’s side?” Emerald interrupted. “Since we took Lord Reese prisoner at the Wraith Lord’s behest?”

Three talishte guards brought Pentreath Reese from the shadows outside the stone circle. Reese’s wrists were bound. Despite the rapid rate at which talishte healed, Reese still showed evidence of the damage done in the Battle of Valshoa. Even after several months of healing, Reese’s skin was puckered and discolored from the fire that had nearly destroyed him. One side of his face was nearly burned away, along with most of his right ear. His hair had grown back in patches here and there in the scar tissue. Reese walked with a new limp, and held one arm as if it were painful to move.

He’s had several months to heal, and he’s talishte, Connor thought. If he looks this bad now, I’m glad I didn’t see what he looked like right after the battle.

“Elders. I appeal to you,” Reese said. He shot a glare in the direction of Penhallow and the Wraith Lord. “I’ve done nothing that warrants this imposition on your time.” His body might have tested the limits of endurance, but it was obvious that hardship had not dimmed his will.

“Speak your case,” Emerald said.

Reese squared his shoulders. “Without magic, talishte would not be subservient to mortals. Magic enables mortals to amplify their strength. It upsets the natural order. I had no hand in the destruction of magic. But when that destruction came, I saw the opportunity for our kind to regain their rightful place in the order of things.”

Reese looked from one masked face to another. “We are the top predator. And to the victor goes the spoils.” He looked toward Penhallow. “Yet Penhallow and the Wraith Lord would deny us our victory. They act against our kind, allying with mortals to give those mortals magic once more, magic they will use to hunt us and destroy us.”

“Had we convened before the Battle of Valshoa, your plea would have had merit,” Sapphire-mask replied. “But magic has been restored. Your aggression toward mortals could bring retribution on all of us. You brought assassins against Lord Penhallow, and armed men against the Wraith Lord. How do you plead?”

“My lords,” Reese said, spreading his hands in supplication. “What I did was out of desperation, in an attempt to protect all talishte. I identified a threat to the talishte, and I acted on it, with the intent to protect our kind,” Reese said, raising his head. “I will not apologize for that.”

“And in the matter of allowing troops under your control to attack the Wraith Lord, one of the Elders?”

Reese struck a conciliatory note. “My lords,” he said, “I had no way to verify that the Wraith Lord was in possession of his mortal servant. We suspected such claims were a ruse by Penhallow to force our troops to retreat.”

“Then let us vote,” Saffron said. “End the conjecture.”

The Wraith Lord turned to the assembly of Elders. “We have been convened here to determine whether or not the Elders shall levy punishment upon Pentreath Reese for attacks against Lanyon Penhallow and the Wraith Lord. How say you?”

“I must remind the Elders that a vote of condemnation demands the final death,” Saffron said. “There is precedent, in times of extreme unrest, to show forbearance.” He paused. “I vote for punishment, but not death.”

“I believe Pentreath Reese deserves the final death for his actions,” the Wraith Lord said, facing Reese. “Guilty. Death.”

“This is nonsense.” Saffron replied. “Release Reese and end this farce.”

“Punishment.” Ruby and Brown spoke at the same time.

“I see a larger issue,” said Amber. “Our numbers are few. If we talishte are going to survive, we cannot pass final judgment on one another for matters that, in a century or two, will seem trivial. I vote for censure, with imprisonment, even torture, but not death.”

“I see nothing wrong with Lord Reese’s actions.” Aubergine’s voice was sharp. “I vote to absolve Lord Reese of all charges.”

“Death,” said Silver.

“Death,” added Gold.

“Death,” Gray voted.

“Censure without death.” Jade sounded bored with the proceedings.

“Death,” Onyx replied.

“It appears we have a tie.” The Wraith Lord looked to Emerald. “How do you vote?”

Emerald looked at Penhallow in silence for a moment. “I agree that Reese’s actions were… unwise. But these are unstable and dangerous times, and the old ways may need to be reexamined.” He paused. “In normal circumstances, the attacks would warrant death,” Emerald said, leveling a stern gaze at Reese, who had the good grace to look abashed.

“Yet we do not live in normal circumstances,” the Elder continued. “Our numbers are few, and many of our kind were destroyed in the Great Fire. We cannot replenish those numbers quickly. For that reason alone I am loath to destroy one of our older talishte. It is with hesitation that I vote… censure with punishment but not death.” Emerald paused. “But should Reese repeat any of these crimes against the Elders, he shall receive final death without trial.”

In less than the blink of an eye, Onyx withdrew a stake from the folds of his cloak and drove it into Reese’s heart. Reese’s eyes widened and his mouth opened, but he made no sound as he crumpled to the ground.

“Lord Reese—you are under censure by the Elders for attacks on Penhallow and Kierken Vandholt,” Onyx said. “Such actions, if repeated, will result in the final death. The Elders have spoken.”

“Let him have the punishment given to Hemming Lorens,” Onyx ordered. “Let him be bound with rope made from rowan-wood fibers. Let masterwort be burned and the ashes sprinkled on his skin and all around him. Make a tincture of moonflower and allow it to seep into his clothing and bonds. And when he is immobilized, place him in the oubliette beneath my manor. For his crimes, he shall starve there for fifty years. This is the word of the Elders.”

As quickly as they had assembled, the Elders vanished and took Reese with them, leaving the Wraith Lord, Penhallow, and Connor standing inside the stone circle.

“Will the black-masked Elder carry out the sentence?” Connor asked, still shaking.

Vandholt nodded. “Onyx is trustworthy,” he replied. “Imprisoning Reese at his own manor makes me more certain the punishment will be carried out.”

“You’re immortal, ancient, and powerful. Why bother with the masks?” Connor’s fear made him impudent.

“Because we are not indestructible,” Vandholt replied. “Even I can be destroyed.” He paused. “We Elders rule on the affairs of the talishte, beings who, after many centuries of existence, often believe themselves beholden to no one. Those whom we rule against have supporters who may take vengeance in the name of their master.”

“So the Elders are afraid?” Connor asked incredulously. He realized what he said aloud and blanched, aware of the company he kept. “I’m sorry—it’s just that it’s difficult to think of beings like the Elders feeling fear, with all their power.”

Penhallow met his gaze. “The night of the Great Fire, do you believe King Merrill was afraid? And the other lords of the realm, did they feel fear?”

Connor felt his face redden. “Of course. They were men. Powerful, but still men.”

“And so are we,” the Wraith Lord said. “Men… and a few women… who have great power, yet we have no real desire to go to the Sea of Souls while existence is still within our grasp.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor said. “I spoke rashly.”

“You spoke honestly,” the Wraith Lord replied. “Yet it is good for you to remember the discretion you learned at court. Not many among our kind will answer you as candidly—or without offense taken—as Lanyon and I.”

“Setting Connor’s question aside,” Penhallow said, “what repercussions do you foresee?”

Kierken Vandholt turned to face Penhallow. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps war. We’ll see what kind of loyalty Pentreath Reese commands from his followers—and his master.”