CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

JARLE WAS YOUR FRIEND, AND HE’S DEAD,” CARENSA said, daring to stare down Vigus Quintrel.

She had been back at Torsford for a day, not yet physically recovered from the last battle, though she doubted she would ever forget the bloodshed she had seen. Now, alone in the mage’s workshop with Quintrel long after the others had gone to bed, Carensa could not hold back.

“And I have already told you how sorry I am that such a thing happened,” Quintrel replied. Carensa could almost believe him. Quintrel’s voice was appropriately sincere, his manner just the right degree of concerned. Almost. Calculation glinted in Quintrel’s eyes, something that had not been there before. Or, she thought with a sigh, she had been too naïve to see it.

“You’re influencing Rostivan, so it wasn’t really his decision to take us to the battlefield. It was yours.” Carensa knew she was on dangerous ground. Yet if anything of the old Vigus remained, Carensa felt duty-bound to be his conscience.

Quintrel turned away. “We must make it clear that an alliance with us—as equals, not as servants—has its benefits.” He softened his tone. “These are desperate times, Carensa,” Quintrel continued. Carensa could still hear the charisma in his voice, though it no longer swayed her.

“There’s a moment when the wind is changing, when a ship has to fill its sails or miss its chance,” Quintrel went on. “This is Donderath’s moment. The old ways are gone. The slate has been wiped clean. We stand in a moment of remaking, when the future of the entire Continent is as malleable as putty.” His eyes were alight with passion—or madness.

“Can’t you feel it? We are alive at this moment for a reason, Carensa. We are mages at this moment because destiny has willed it. We have an opportunity that only comes once every millennium—to change the course of history and make of it what we want.”

Funny, she thought, I never realized how he calculates every word, every gesture to get a response. It’s like he’s rehearsed it all for effect. Nothing is spontaneous.

“I know that the kingdom is a tinderbox,” Carensa said, choosing her words carefully. “Rostivan set the Arkalas back on their heels—for now. But what about Lysander? Or the Solveigs? All I see is squabbling for territory as everything falls to Raka around us.”

Quintrel looked at her with pity. “That’s because you don’t have the gift of foresight. Chaos is a process when great things are born. It’s a forge, a crucible. It makes us stronger so we can seize the best the future offers.” The orb with its divi spirit hung in a pouch on a leather strand around Quintrel’s neck. Even with the string drawn shut, Carensa could see a glow from the top of the pouch. The divi was listening.

He’s speaking in platitudes, Carensa thought, the kind he might use to whip a crowd up into a fervor. When did I become immune?

“It didn’t make Jarle stronger,” Carensa said quietly. “It made him dead.”

“Jarle wasn’t strong enough for the future that’s coming,” Quintrel snapped. “The more you and the other mages help Rostivan, the more we prove our worth. We need soldiers to keep the peace and defend our interests,” Quintrel explained, his eyes alight with the promise of his vision. “And they need to understand that without us, they cannot get and keep the power they desire.” The divi’s glow surged and then dimmed. Carensa was certain the spirit was paying attention.

“Rostivan considers us disposable—and replaceable,” Carensa said, lifting her chin. “Is that how you see us?”

Quintrel’s expression softened into a smile, and for an instant, it was easy to believe he was the same mentor who had rescued her from the Great Fire. “Carensa. How can you doubt me? You could never be replaced. Each of you have such special gifts. You are all precious.”

His voice is saying all the right things, but his eyes are cold as ice, Carensa thought. And he brought two new mages with him, one to replace Jarle and a spare. Vigus is the only mage who isn’t disposable. The rest of us are just tools to accomplish his vision.

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Vigus,” Carensa said, ducking her head so that Quintrel did not meet her gaze. She did her best to suffuse her voice with the admiration she once felt. But she knew her eyes would give her away. “It was such a shock, being in the battle. I don’t think I’m quite recovered yet.” Once, Quintrel had doted on her as a promising pupil. Now Carensa bet on the fact that his pride would not allow him to see that the student no longer trusted the master.

“First blood is difficult,” Quintrel replied in a fatherly tone. “But when you look at the temporary difficulty from the perspective of the grand vision… well, it changes how you see everything.”

Oh, it has, Carensa thought. But not in the way you intended. “We should have the University up and functioning in a week or two,” Carensa said, changing subjects. She turned away, gesturing toward the library, but it was really to avoid making eye contact with Quintrel. “What then?”

“We must solve the problem of anchoring the magic,” Quintrel replied. “We’ve made two attempts to bring McFadden to us, and both failed. Dolan has the crystals, but oddly enough he hasn’t used them yet. We need to act before Dolan can make a move.”

“How?” Carensa asked warily.

“If we can’t control McFadden, we must destroy him,” Quintrel replied. “That’s why we must make our own people the dominant power in Donderath—and then the Continent.” Enthusiasm warmed his voice. “We’ll adapt to deal with the magic as it is now. Imagine a king of our choosing, with our mages at his side, creating a new kingdom as it should always have been, with mages coequal to the king.”

Is that what the divi has promised you? Carensa thought. And you believed it? Because I don’t see the divi sharing power, and how can a return to magic chaos and the storms help us? She drew a deep breath. This is against everything we worked for; the Vigus I thought I knew was too smart to fall for that, she thought. Vigus and the rest of us are being used as pawns.

“That’s a lofty vision,” Carensa said, hoping she sounded appropriately impressed. “But if you destroy McFadden, how do you know it won’t make the magic wild again?”

Quintrel’s hand shifted unconsciously to the divi orb in its pouch. “McFadden is a Lord of the Blood,” he replied. “Blood magic is the oldest and most powerful. I’ve been studying. And if we can’t capture McFadden, then I believe we can make his death serve us.” A strange light glinted in Quintrel’s eyes, the same as the glow from the divi orb.

“What does the University have to do with it?”

“The mages in the last war didn’t properly understand how magic was bound. Now we do. McFadden harnessed magic, but that magic is different. We need mages who can work with this new magic. And we must transfer—or wrest—magic’s anchor away from McFadden. He’s the weak point. Even if it means his death.” Quintrel sighed. “If only Lowrey hadn’t failed…”

Carensa held her breath to avoid speaking. Lowrey? Vigus, what have you done? It was bad enough when you wanted to lock Blaine up, maybe for the rest of his life. But to kill him and risk the loss of magic, the return of the beasts, and the storms, when you worked so hard to anchor the magic to him?

“How?” Carensa asked. If he trusts me, he’ll tell me the truth. Or else he sees right through me, and he’s setting me up.

“Ally with his enemies, break his allies.” His smile was predatory, the glint in his eyes not altogether sane.

Carensa warmed her hands at the fireplace. She had taken a sudden chill. “Is Rostivan strong enough to do that?”

“By himself, no. But allied with all those who see McFadden as a threat… definitely.” He paused. “We’ve already made overtures to Lord Pollard and Lysander.”

I knew Vedran Pollard, Carensa thought. He was a nasty, backstabbing son of a bitch before the Great Fire, and I doubt his temperament has improved.

Quintrel gave a mysterious smile and leaned back in his chair. “Our mages help them win their battles, then feed information back to me, and exert control.”

And if Pollard and Lysander realized we were betraying them, they’d kill us in a heartbeat, Carensa thought.

Quintrel smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Carensa. Once you make up your mind to do whatever it takes, victory is certain. Rostivan wants to win. He’s open to any proposal that gets him power.” He paused. “That desire makes him easy to control. You might even argue that being manipulated by the divi to get what he wants falls under ‘whatever it takes.’ It’s not difficult to tempt someone who goes willingly.”

Whatever it takes, she thought. How many people’s deaths are factored into that equation? By Esthrane! He’s just declared that no price is too high to get what he wants. And I’m going to be right in the middle of it.

Quintrel got to his feet. “Rostivan and I are due to meet. He spoke well of your involvement at the battle, Carensa. You impressed him. That’s important. The divi’s control is subtle; Rostivan isn’t a mindless puppet on strings. The coercion works best when he believes he is making up his own mind.” He paused. “I trust you’re recovered from the exertion of the outing?”

Carensa managed a smile. “I’m just a little tired.”

It was impossible for her to read Quintrel’s expression. Quintrel would be a formidable adversary. Whether or not he knew it, that’s exactly what he had become.

“But after all the effort you put into helping McFadden bring back the magic, if you kill him, won’t it all be for naught?” She did her best to make the question sound completely academic.

“Magic wasn’t always harnessed for human use,” Quintrel replied, falling into the tone he used to lecture students. “Go back far enough, and the Lords of the Blood didn’t inherit their power, they seized it on their own. Since McFadden won’t cooperate with us to let us join with him to re-anchor the magic, then we must do the same.” He met her gaze, and his eyes were alight with ambition and madness.

“Kill McFadden, and the slate is wiped clean. No mortal Lords of the Blood remain. The divi has helped us find old records. With its help, we can name our own Lords of the Blood, cement our own dynasty of mages, shape magic as we deem it should be,” he said with the fervor of a convert.

“Can you do that? Truly?” Carensa replied, aghast. “Name your own Lords of the Blood?”

Quintrel nodded. “It’s what McFadden will have to do, if he lives long enough to try to re-anchor the power. And if he gets that chance, it will lock us out of true power for generations, unless we kill his chosen. And that will become much more difficult once they have been anointed Lords of the Blood.”

Carensa tried to hide her shock. She replayed the conversation with Quintrel in her mind. Vigus isn’t just a danger to Blaine. He’s a danger to the mages, to the soldiers, and to Donderath. And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it, she concluded with a sigh.

That evening, Carensa sat by the window in her room, watching the rain. I remember watching the raindrops run down the windowpane when I was a child, Carensa thought, keeping the same raindrop in view as it made its way down the glass. How much less complicated things were then!

She rehashed her alternatives, and found none of them to be promising. Going against Quintrel head-on was impossible. Even with the brittle new magic, his power was much stronger than hers. An outright coup would just mean death, her own and the deaths of any who came to her aid. There would only be one opportunity, and it would likely be fatal for both Quintrel and his attackers. My magic is translation. I can barely light a candle with magic. What can I possibly do?

The knock at her door startled her. Carensa reluctantly left her chair and went to greet her visitor. Guran stood in the doorway with a pot of tea.

“I didn’t think you looked well at dinner,” he said. “I brought you some tea. May I come in?”

Carensa moved to the side to allow him to enter. “That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve quite recovered from the battle.”

Guran placed the tray on her desk, and poured a cup for each of them. “Should I be worried?”

Carensa shrugged. “No more than before,” she replied. With Quintrel in the building, it was unwise to speak plainly. And even though she knew Guran could temporarily block them from being overheard, Carensa did not know whether or not Quintrel could sense it. She did not want Quintrel to question her loyalty. Too much was at stake. I don’t dare have Vigus doubt me. If he isn’t completely sure of me, I won’t have the access when I need it. We have to be very, very careful until then.

Carensa shook her head. “I just never expected to be anywhere close to a battle. And then, to see Jarle die…” It required no acting on her part to look distressed.

“Dag said that Vigus paid you a visit,” Guran said neutrally.

He suspects, Carensa thought. Now we begin the cat-and-mouse game of saying things without saying them.

Carensa weighed her words. She would need to give Guran information he would interpret correctly, while having the conversation be utterly innocent should they be overheard.

“He wanted to see how I was doing, and to tell me a little more about his plans,” she replied.

“Oh?”

“He helped me put the pieces together about where we fit with Rostivan,” Carensa replied. “We’ll be training battle mages for the allies Vigus hopes to make—Pollard and Lysander.”

“I suspect it’s going to take a lot of conversations to make this happen,” he said, with a meaningful glance that told Carensa his agenda differed from Quintrel’s.

She nodded. “We’ll all have to take a look at how our magic comes into play and what we can do to have an impact.”

“These kinds of things take shape best with a core team. Too many people and it gets unwieldy,” Guran agreed.

“The smaller the better,” Carensa agreed. Then again, if Vigus goes around expounding on his ‘vision’ too often and too loudly, I suspect those allies’ spies will carry the word back before we have a chance to do anything.

Guran took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Well, I’ve kept you long enough. But I’m glad for the news.”

“Thank you for the tea,” Carensa said, laying a hand on Guran’s arm. He put an arm around her shoulder.

Carensa closed the door behind him and bit back tears of disappointment and frustration. How did things go so wrong so quickly?

She stared at the fire, watching the flames flicker. There’s going to be a bloodbath, and I’ve got to find a way to stop it. One way or another, I’ve got to stop Quintrel before he can work his plan.

Carensa watched nervously as Rostivan pulled Quintrel into discussions behind closed doors. They had expected to meet with Quintrel to discuss plans, but Carensa and Guran were left chafing, wondering what their masters had in mind.

“Be ready to go in a candlemark,” Quintrel told Carensa and Guran when he emerged from his private conversation with Rostivan.

“Go where?” Carensa asked, alarmed. She and the others had just returned from the battlefield, and Carensa had hoped they would have a few weeks to recover before being sent on another task.

“Diplomatic mission,” Quintrel replied with a wave of his hand. “Essential business. Utmost urgency.”

“Why us?” Guran asked suspiciously.

Quintrel looked at him as if the answer were obvious. “I need a translator and a far-seer. Don’t worry—we’ll have a contingent of guards to assure our safety on the road.”

Neither Quintrel’s assurances nor Rostivan’s guards were likely to assuage Carensa’s worries, but she said nothing. Her bags were still packed, so readying herself for the journey took only minutes. Carensa stared out the window of her room at the snow, sorting through the possibilities, uncomfortable with any of the reasons for the journey that she could devise.

“Where exactly are you taking us, Vigus?” Guran pressed as they rode away from Torsford.

“The Kells Mill Lyceum,” Quintrel replied offhandedly. At the throat of his tunic, the divi orb pulsed a bright yellow, something Carensa had come to understand meant that the spirit that resided inside it was pleased. Anything that pleased the divi worried Carensa.

Guran and Carensa exchanged a look. “That’s on the border of Karstan Lysander’s lands,” Guran warned. “What could possibly be worth the risk?”

“You’ll see,” Quintrel answered, spurring his horse onward. Carensa sought counsel in Guran’s expression, but he merely shrugged, looking as uncomfortable and perplexed as she felt. With a heavy heart, she snapped the reins, her worries as dark as the snow clouds on the horizon.

The village of Kells Mill was a three-candlemark ride from Torsford. Carensa was glad for her heavy cloak, hat, and scarf. She huddled down into her cloak against the wind, but kept a wary eye on the roadway and the hedgerow. Brigands now ruled Donderath’s highways, once safeguarded by King Merrill’s soldiers. Rostivan’s team of ten soldiers seemed paltry to Carensa, who had heard tell of bandit gangs of two or three times that many men, preying on anyone foolish enough to journey the shattered kingdom’s ruined roadways.

Once, Kells Mill was a prosperous town with a large grist mill that drew farmers and merchants from miles around. Carensa looked at the deserted fields and abandoned farms along their route, feeling a familiar pang of sadness. Some of the barns and homes had burned in the Great Fire; others might have been destroyed in the Cataclysm. But for many, Carensa guessed that their desperate owners just walked away to seek their fortune somewhere, anywhere, else.

“Why Kells Mill?” Guran probed. Quintrel had been maddeningly silent for the entire ride. Carensa and Guran had chatted quietly with each other, but neither felt free to speculate on the question that was uppermost in their minds.

“Because it’s neutral ground,” Quintrel replied. He refused to say anything more until the village’s bell tower came into view. The longer they rode, the more worried Guran looked. Given his abilities, that gave Carensa deep cause for concern.

Before the Cataclysm, the Kells Mill bells would have rung out the candlemarks for farmers and villagers alike. Now the tower was a ruined, blackened hulk, scorched and broken where the Great Fire had touched it. The bell tower sat in the center of the village, which was surrounded by a high stockade fence patrolled by guards.

“I’m not sure about how neutral this ground is,” Guran murmured as they rode through the village gates.

Carensa had to agree as she looked from side to side. Few people walked along the village streets, and those she saw were soldiers. The suspicion she had tried to dismiss since they left Torsford loomed large, and she could no longer ignore it.

“Does your gift tell you anything?” Carensa asked Guran quietly.

“You won’t like it.”

“We’re going to meet with Lysander, aren’t we?” she said.

Guran nodded. “Almost certainly.”

Quintrel rode down the main street of the village with Carensa and Guran behind him, flanked by guards who also took up the rear of the procession. They approached the largest building still standing in the village, a home that Carensa guessed must once have belonged to the richest man in town. The home looked hard used, damaged by the Great Fire and repaired by workers less skilled than those who built it. Now it appeared to have been pressed into service as a headquarters for the most dangerous warlord in Donderath.

Four uniformed soldiers blocked their path. “State your purpose,” the ranking soldier demanded.

Quintrel waved his hand in dismissal. “We are here by arrangement with Lord Lysander. Step aside and let us pass.”

The soldier leveled an appraising glance at the team of guards that accompanied Quintrel. “They stay out here,” he said. “You three, dismount and approach.”

Not exactly a warm welcome, Carensa thought.

“Lord Lysander has placed a condition upon his agreement to meet with you,” the soldier said, and as they walked closer, Carensa could see insignia indicating that the man was a captain.

“I agreed to no conditions,” Quintrel bristled.

The captain shrugged. “Perhaps not, but the condition remains.”

“What is it?” Quintrel demanded.

The captain held out three agate disks with hollow centers, strung on three separate leather lanyards. Even at a distance, the disks gave off a strange magical aura that Carensa found uncomfortable.

“These are null amulets. They dampen magic,” the captain said. “You will wear them if you wish to meet with Lord Lysander.”

Carensa expected a challenge from Quintrel, but instead, the mage-scholar gave a tolerant smile. “Of course,” he said as if the request was customary. He allowed the captain to place the amulet’s strap over his head, and gestured for Carensa and Guran to do the same. Carensa noticed that the divi orb no longer glowed, nor was it visible at the neck of Quintrel’s tunic.

Carensa felt a physical jolt as the amulet touched her skin. She was one of the least powerful of Quintrel’s mages, and her magic—translating languages—seemed insignificant compared to the grander power of the others. Carensa had the uncomfortable feeling of being partially blind, constrained as if someone had rolled her up in a heavy blanket that blocked motion, sight, and sound. Just like when the magic had died. She could not guess what it felt like for Quintrel or Guran, but from Guran’s expression, she suspected he was also decidedly uncomfortable. Quintrel did not seem to be affected, and his mood was buoyant.

The captain escorted them through the old home’s scarred front hallway and into a room that might once have been the office of the well-to-do merchant or gentleman farmer who owned the house. The ravages of storms, fire, and errant magic had taken a toll on the house and its furnishings, dimming its former grandeur.

“So you’re the mage I’ve heard about.” Karstan Lysander sat behind a large, solid wooden desk. He did not rise to greet them, and there were no chairs to welcome visitors. A fire burned in the fireplace, barely taking the chill from the room. Lysander spoke with a heavy accent, one Carensa searched her memory to place.

Carensa studied Lysander, trying to match the reality to the legend. Karstan Lysander was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked. His dark eyes were cold and it almost seemed possible to see the calculations going on behind them. No one would consider him handsome. His face was fleshy, like the wild hogs that roamed the countryside. In the close confines of the warm room, an unpleasant odor hung about Lysander that made Carensa want to wrinkle her nose. Yet from his heavy boots to his sturdy weapons to the scars that marked his hands and face, no one could doubt Lysander was a warrior.

Standing behind him was another man, in mage robes, who looked vaguely familiar to Carensa. Nothing in the mage’s face betrayed any recognition, and Carensa struggled to keep her own features impassive as she put the face with a name. Dro Hastins, her memory supplied. At least, that’s what he called himself back in Castle Reach, before the Great Fire. He was one of Quintrel’s hangers-on.

“My lord,” Quintrel said with a bow. “We are honored.”

Lysander looked at him with curiosity. “You requested a meeting. I’m here. What do you want?”

Carensa glanced at Quintrel in alarm. Vigus Quintrel’s opinion of himself was as grand as his magic, and she had never known him to permit anyone to speak so dismissively to him. Yet to her amazement, Quintrel did not look perturbed in the least.

“To be blunt, we wish to further our alliance.”

Carensa stifled a gasp. Guran looked alarmed. But Quintrel continued as if the request was nothing out of the ordinary. Lysander regarded Quintrel with heavy-lidded eyes, unreadable.

“You’re already aligned with Rostivan, and he’s helping rid me of some unwanted pests. What need do I have for mages?” Lysander challenged. Carensa finally recognized Lysander’s thick accent: It was common in the region nearest the Meroven border. Before the war, many of the mountain villages had kept to themselves for so long that they spoke an unusual dialect not found anywhere else in Donderath. It was rumored Lysander had drawn on Meroven mercenaries to swell the ranks of his army, in addition to the Tingur. Carensa chafed at the effect of the magic-dampening amulets, since it hindered her ability to easily understand the whispered conversation between Lysander’s captain and a guard at the door.

“I suggest a grander alliance, and I am empowered by General Rostivan to extend an offer of truce and to negotiate further, on his behalf,” Quintrel continued smoothly.

“I would be more likely to accept your surrender than your truce,” Lysander growled. “What do I need from you that I can’t do on my own or that Rostivan hasn’t already promised?”

“Real magic,” Quintrel replied. “The kind of magic that turns the tide of battles.” Quintrel was at his charming best, and Carensa thought she caught a hint of a glow from the divi orb. The light lasted for a fraction of a second, but it left Carensa wondering whether the divi was constrained at all by Lysander’s amulets.

“I had my fill of magic in the Meroven War,” Lysander replied.

“Perhaps,” Quintrel said agreeably. “But what will you do when you go up against Tormod Solveig? Animating the battlefield dead is child’s play to a necromancer of his power. What happens when he decides to wrest the living soul from your soldiers?” Quintrel asked.

“McFadden’s assembled his own mages, and he’s allied with the Knights of Esthrane,” Quintrel continued. My mages know those Knights, studied their magic. How will you stand against such powerful talishte mages without mages of your own?”

Lysander glowered at him, but did not end the conversation. “What do you propose?”

“Protection spells for you and your soldiers,” Quintrel said. “Magic to turn back the undead. Wardings talishte cannot cross. A translator to make it easier for you to communicate with your Meroven mercenaries. A far-seer, who can look beyond the scope of mortal vision. And a priceless gift for you to make you impossible to kill—if you will accept it.”

Interest and skepticism flickered in Lysander’s black eyes. “Interesting. Tell me about this ‘gift.’ ”

Quintrel smiled and leaned forward, warming to the tale. “Such a gift was given by the first Knights of Esthrane to King Hougen many years ago, and the king did not die until he removed the charm,” Quintrel said.

“You’ve heard the tales, no doubt, about Randuvil the Destroyer?” Quintrel added. Carensa recognized the name as belonging to the most storied warlord in Donderath’s history, an invincible fighter who conquered nearly the entire Continent. “This amulet was created from manuscripts we found in Valshoa made by the maker of Randuvil’s talisman. Those manuscripts have been hidden away for hundreds of years, which is why no one in all these centuries had such a charm.”

He shrugged. “I brought it to give to you, but it can’t work in the presence of these amulets,” he said, as if that settled the matter. “It must be attuned to you, something that can only be done in your presence.” He paused. “It’s of no consequence. I can take it back with me.”

Carensa could almost hear Lysander’s internal struggle. Greed glinted in his eyes, and she knew Quintrel had been cagey enough to determine what Lysander would find irresistible. After a moment, Lysander nodded.

“You may remove your amulets,” Lysander said, and Carensa guessed that caution had lost out to avarice. Once again, Carensa thought she saw the barest glimmer of the divi orb, but it was gone as soon as she blinked.

Carensa felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her chest as she removed the amulet and set it aside. Guran also wasted no time removing the talisman, nor did Quintrel. Lysander’s guards felt compelled to move a step closer from their stations along the walls, but the warlord motioned for them to stand down.

“Show me,” Lysander rumbled.

Quintrel reached inside his coat and withdrew a velvet pouch with elaborate, arcane embroidery in golden thread. “Quite literally, a gift worthy of a king,” Quintrel said, holding it aloft.

“Just think: the power of Randuvil the Destroyer, for you,” he said, staring at the pouch in awe.

I’ll give him credit: Quintrel’s a showman, Carensa thought. Quintrel was reeling in Lysander like an expert fisherman, and from the naked desire in the warlord’s eyes, the bait was working.

“Mage! Your assistance is required.” Lysander’s voice brought Hastins to the forefront. “Test this item with your magic. Tell me what you find.”

Carensa held her breath. If Hastins had parted faith with Quintrel, there was no way a mage of any power could help but sense the divi’s presence. Hastins’s betrayal would mean certain death for her and for Quintrel.

Hastins looked bored, even slightly contemptuous, as he reached out to take the pouch from Quintrel. He weighed the velvet pouch in his hand, passing his other palm above it, then closed his eyes, as if focusing his magic. After a moment of silence, Hastins looked to Lysander.

“He speaks the truth,” Hastins said. “The amulet is as he has told you. I sense no ill intent.” Hastins handed the pouch back to Quintrel as if it were of little interest.

“Give it to me.” Lysander’s voice was husky with hunger.

“As you wish,” Quintrel said, making a shallow bow. Somehow he managed to keep his glee from showing in his face. Lysander was falling for it, just as Quintrel knew he would. And Hastins was in on it, Carensa realized, Quintrel’s man on the inside.

Of course, she thought. Hastins was Quintrel’s infiltrator. He’s working with Quintrel to make Lysander trust the orb, and he lied about the amulet being safe because Quintrel told him to lie. That’s also how Quintrel could make a divi orb tied to Lysander—Hastins supplied him with something of Lysander’s in order to bind him.

Quintrel withdrew a small crystal orb much like his own divi sphere. This orb was much smaller, its surface etched with sigils and runes. Carensa could read the magical language. The markings would bend the sphere’s wearer to Quintrel’s will. Instead of a leather strap, the new orb was on a length of braided silken cord.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Quintrel said with a sigh, as if he were looking on the face of a lover. Lysander’s gaze fixed on the orb, which as of yet showed none of the divi’s spark.

“My lord Lysander,” Quintrel said, presenting the orb and its pouch with a flourish.

“Just imagine, m’lord,” Quintrel continued. “You will become Randuvil’s heir. Generations will celebrate your victories. Your name will be legend.”

Lysander lifted the small orb and peered at it. “I see nothing extraordinary,” he said, giving Quintrel a piercing look.

“That’s because it must be activated to your personal energies,” Quintrel replied with a smile. “It will attune itself once you wear it.”

For a moment, Lysander looked conflicted, as if some inner warning fought with his desire for immortality. Greed won, and Lysander slipped the silken cord around his neck. The small orb lay on his breastbone, and after a few breaths, a yellow light flickered from its depths. At the same instant, Carensa saw an answering glimmer from the divi orb beneath Quintrel’s tunic.

“The orb is your protector,” Quintrel advised. “Never remove it. It will not only extend your life and give you luck, it will guide your decisions and visit your dreams with secrets that will allow you to rule over other men.”

And it will worm its way into your brain and your soul, putting you entirely under the control of Vigus Quintrel, Carensa thought. From the unabashed avarice in Lysander’s eyes, she concluded he was a man who had made more than one Raka’s bargain in his life.

“A royal gift indeed,” Lysander replied as one hand absently stroked the orb. The divi had begun its work. He looked to Quintrel, and the hardened glint came back to his black eyes. “What boon do you ask in exchange?”

Always ask the cost first, Carensa thought, though she did not think Lysander worth her pity. Never trust a mage’s gifts.

“A place at the table, m’lord,” Quintrel said, playing to Lysander’s self-importance. Carensa marveled that Quintrel could set aside his own grand opinion of himself long enough to be someone else’s lickspittle, but she guessed the mage had decided the outcome was worth the temporary abasement.

“When you come into your power, dominating the other warlords, I ask that you name mages to your council. We would advise and protect you, and in return, be protected by your power,” Quintrel asked with such a convincing show of humility that Carensa thought she might retch.

“And what of Rostivan?” Lysander asked, a canny look coming into his black eyes.

“Surely you will need clever proxies to wield your power and subdue dissent,” Quintrel replied. “Lord Rostivan and I discussed such matters before my party set out. He acknowledges your primacy, and wishes to serve in the role to which he is best suited: as a military man enforcing order.”

“And Rostivan would accept that?” Lysander said shrewdly. “He fights hard for a man who doesn’t want to be king himself.”

Quintrel did not hesitate. “There are many ways to wield power,” he answered. “Rostivan is a man born to do battle. He has no love for administration, for council meetings and court ceremonies. Honor him as your foremost general, and he will have the power and prestige he desires.”

Clever, Carensa thought. Quintrel sets Lysander up as the would-be king without saying so, and positions Rostivan as his right-hand military commander and himself as the king’s left hand. As much as Carensa had grown to dislike Quintrel, she could not deny his brilliance.

“And if I decide to accept your gift, and deny your request?” Lysander asked, growing suspicious too late in the process.

Quintrel gave his most unassuming smile. “You’re not the kind of man who makes a misstep like that,” he said mildly. “Together, we are invincible. You’ve gained your power by choosing your allies wisely. This alliance will make you the supreme power in Donderath—a kingdom to shape to your liking,” he added. “I assure you, m’lord, you will gain the victory you so richly deserve,” Quintrel said confidently.

Funny, Carensa thought, Lysander believes that’s a good thing. But she had a suspicion that the reality of Lysander’s victory would be exactly, and mercilessly, what he deserved.