CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

I WANT TO MAKE A SWEEP OF IT,” VIGUS QUINTREL said, eyeing his battle mages. “After this campaign, Rostivan will control a crescent from the Riven Mountains down to the sea,” he said. His face was alight with excitement as he gestured at the maps he had tacked up on the wall.

Carensa could see the clearly marked sections that showed the bounds of each of the warlords’ territories. To the northeast of Castle Reach, Rodestead House, Westbain, and Lundmyhre anchored the land protected by Lanyon Penhallow, Traher Voss, and Kierken Vandholt. Stretching north from there, anchored by Solsiden, were the lands of Pentreath Reese and Vedran Pollard, protected by Larska Hennoch’s troops. Lysander’s territory lay between the areas claimed by Rostivan, Verner, and the Solveigs, including the lands that had once belonged to the Arkalas, though the ambitious warlord clearly had plans to expand that.

Rostivan’s lands were in the far north, up against the foothills of the Riven Mountains, but Quintrel’s plans, if they succeeded, would give him a sickle-shaped swath that took the Solveigs’ territory in the northwest down through Verner’s holdings and Blaine McFadden’s lands, seizing Glenreith, Quillarth Castle, and the seaport of Castle Reach.

The plan was audacious. It was also, in Carensa’s opinion, suicidal.

“Yesterday decided nothing, yet a lot of men died,” Guran pointed out. “There’s little to be done until the storms lift.”

Quintrel glowered, displeased with Guran’s observation. “Nothing?” he challenged. “We probed the enemy’s weaknesses. We learned what their mages were able—or willing—to do. Those dead men are that many fewer we have to kill to gain our objective. I would hardly call that ‘nothing.’ ”

Guran inclined his head to show deference. “I misspoke,” he said, hastily retreating. Carensa knew that Guran’s opinion had not changed a whit, yet they gained nothing by antagonizing Quintrel, especially when he was already manic.

“Rostivan performed well yesterday,” Quintrel said, beginning to pace. “Yet he lacks will. Several times, he would have drawn back had we not controlled him and pushed him to press on.”

Rostivan is a seasoned commander, Carensa thought. If he wanted to pull back, there was good reason. Vigus doesn’t care how many men die so long as he gets what he wants. He’s planning to make this battle his last stand.

“What of Lysander?” Guran asked. “His troops engaged McFadden’s and the Solveigs directly.”

Quintrel’s eyes were alight with the excitement of the fight. “Lysander has proven more malleable than I thought,” he replied. “We’re very happy with him.” The divi orb pulsed beneath Quintrel’s shirt. Carensa was grateful that her magic did not resonate with the divi. Something about its appearance reminded her of a large feline predator, content to wait for the right moment to kill.

“Lysander’s Tingur proved useful,” Quintrel said. “They and their beasts exacted quite a price from McFadden’s forces. A shame they’re used up now.”

Used up, Carensa thought with disgust. Not ‘dead,’ just ‘used up,’ like a tool. Expendable, like all of us.

“What next?” Guran asked. Quintrel had summoned his senior mages to regroup over dinner. Esban had gone to make sure that the other mages were at work on their tasks. Half of the mages who had left Valshoa still lived. Several of those who had died were among the most senior practitioners, pushed to the limits of their ability by Quintrel. The rest of the mages were in their tents, preparing for the next day’s battle. That left Carensa and Guran alone with Quintrel.

The divi was riding Quintrel hard, Carensa thought. Since the mages left Valshoa, Quintrel had grown thin and haggard. His skin now had a sallow cast, and his eyes shone with madness. Quintrel was fading, but the divi’s pulse grew stronger, yet Quintrel did not seem to notice.

“With McFadden tied up here, it’s safe to say he’s had no chance to use the crystals,” Quintrel said. “And if he dies here, our problem has been solved.”

“You sent Pollard to Mirdalur,” Guran said. “Do you really think he can wrest the crystals back from the Knights of Esthrane and Voss’s troops?”

Quintrel shrugged. “If not, and he dies, it’s a rival eliminated. Without Reese, Pollard and Hennoch have only a fraction of their former power. If he succeeds, and we successfully eliminate McFadden, we are free to anchor the power as we will.”

Carensa repressed a shiver. She had a growing sense that when Quintrel said ‘we,’ he did not mean the mages. She could not avoid a glance at the contentedly pulsing divi orb. She knew who ‘we’ really meant.

“If Pollard should by chance succeed, you’d gain both the crystals and Mirdalur’s ritual chamber,” Guran noted. “What then?”

Quintrel’s expression was ecstatic. “Then we remake the Continent to our liking,” he said, excitement clear in his voice. “If Dolan’s gone to prepare the chamber, he won’t last long. The taint in the presence-crystal will only activate in the presence of strong magic, so any attempt to work the anchoring ritual should trigger it. When the crystal activates, everyone nearby dies.”

“You expected Dolan to steal the crystals?” Guran asked skeptically.

“Foresight warned me of betrayal,” Quintrel replied. “I took precautions. The divi could lift the taint for those we choose to work the ritual without harm.” He shrugged. “It would have also been easy to offer the crystals to McFadden and watch him take the bait.”

“Without McFadden either as a willing partner or as a prisoner, how do you expect to make the anchoring work?” Guran probed. They had asked Quintrel the same questions directly and indirectly several times, and each time, Quintrel sidestepped the answer.

“We have everything we need,” Quintrel replied, with a smile that gave Carensa no reassurance.

“Have you chosen your twelve?” Carensa asked. “Your new Lords of the Blood?” That was the missing piece. The thought had occurred to her in the middle of the previous night, when she lay awake listening to the sounds of the army camp, wondering how she had ever landed in the midst of such insanity. Quintrel’s answer would make all the difference, because it augured the direction of Donderath’s future.

“I’ve had a change in my thinking about that,” Quintrel said. “Anchor the magic to thirteen fragile mortals, and the cycle of destruction and chaos is set in motion all over again. Anchor magic to immortal spirits, and we never need endure anything like the Great Fire again.”

“What do you mean, ‘immortal spirits’?” Guran probed. “Ghosts? Souls?”

Quintrel shook his head impatiently. “My Guide,” he said, reaching up to stroke the divi crystal, “has many brothers. Twelve more spirits await my call. Their magic, combined with ours, properly anchored, would make us invincible.”

Carensa frowned. “But what of the blood?” she asked, fearing the answer even as she framed the question. “The ritual is bound to the bloodline of those who work the magic.”

“As are the spirits,” Quintrel replied, his face glowing with excitement. “The spirits join with their mortal hosts. Our blood is the catalyst, their magic binds the power.”

“Thirteen mortals who are no longer exactly mortal,” Guran repeated carefully as if he struggled to make certain he had heard correctly. “And the magic, controlled by the spirits, would pass from generation to generation?”

Quintrel nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. The spirit would pass from father to firstborn son when the father dies. Over time, the spirit would become one with its host.”

Carensa struggled to hide her horror. The mental image of a divi abandoning the cooling corpse of its prior host and claiming an endless series of victims gave her chills. That’s what’s happened with Vigus, she thought, eyeing Quintrel and noting the changes in his appearance. If that’s how it would go for all the hosts, I don’t imagine their lives will be long.

Carensa had searched the manuscripts for any references to the divi. Most of the citations were oblique, vague references that seemed to expect the reader to already know something about the spirits, details that went unsaid but that she suspected were essential. Finally, she had found one old manuscript whose writer spoke plainly. He had written of the Genitors, the First Ones, monsters made not by the gods nor by magic, beings from the chaos that birthed the world.

Those Genitors, the divi, had eventually been rooted out at the cost of immense slaughter. The uprising against the spirits had cost the lives of thousands of mortals and hundreds of mages. And when the divi were bound, more lives were lost to work the type of forbidden spells necessary to send the divi to oblivion in the Unseen Realm.

Parasites, she thought. That’s what the divi were. And if the old manuscript is right, there won’t just be thirteen of them. Once they control the magic, they’ll bring their friends to feast on us.

There had been another reason Carensa had lain awake the night before, and many other nights. Quintrel’s lack of concern for life—the lives of his followers, the mages, and the soldiers—deepened her conviction that somehow he needed to be brought to heel. She and Guran, speaking briefly and always in code, had agreed on as much. Every night, Carensa tried to imagine a way even a small number of mages might be able to act against Quintrel, and every night she fell asleep without finding an answer.

She had realized months before that Quintrel was a danger, even prior to discovering that the divi controlled his thoughts. A mad mage was worrisome enough, but the danger grew when Quintrel bent Lysander and Rostivan to his will. Through Lysander, Quintrel had a hold over Pollard and Hennoch, and all of the mages not allied with McFadden, now that the Arkala twins were dead. Those forces were arrayed for this battle on the northern plains.

Verner’s army had already been badly damaged. If the others fell, there would be nothing in the way to keep Quintrel from carrying out his version of the ritual to bind the magic, and the divi spirits would return from their exile and find a world of potential hosts to be drained. Something had to be done. Somehow it had to be stopped. Carensa struggled to control her expression as inside she felt utterly at a loss.

“Lysander’s mercenaries are a problem,” Quintrel said, bringing Carensa’s attention back to the conversation. “Damned border men. His messenger arrived a candlemark ago, and I can barely understand the man, with his backwoods talk.”

“Carensa can be of help for that,” Guran said, and as Carensa startled, she saw him meet her gaze. “She can make sure your orders are translated correctly, so there’s no misunderstanding.”

Carensa felt the missing piece slip into place at Guran’s look, needing no telepathy or code to make his message clear. There was one way to damage Quintrel, one way to stop his vision. If he could be defeated in battle, despite the odds he had stacked in his favor, the divis would remain bound and Donderath would not face the caprice of an insane mage. But the price would be steep.

“How can I help?” she asked, managing a smile. She was grateful that Quintrel was not a telepath.

“I’ll have a messenger bring you the orders I draw up for Lysander in a candlemark, once I finish. You’ll translate them into that damned nonsense the border men speak so there’s no misunderstanding,” Quintrel said.

“What’s the plan?” Guran asked.

Quintrel smiled. With his gaunt face and his hollow eyes, the expression was far more skull-like than Carensa remembered it being only a few months before. “Verner’s troops continue to be the weak point in McFadden’s front line. The beasts and Tingur hurt McFadden’s troops, but the Solveigs are still quite strong.

“I’ll keep Rostivan focused on Theilsson and Voss. I think our mages can break theirs with a little effort,” he said, his grin becoming a smirk. “Lysander needs to smash the Solveig line. I believe that once the Solveigs fold, McFadden and Verner won’t be able to withstand us on their own,” he added. “And every day the magic remains unstable, it drains McFadden, perhaps to the breaking point.”

“McFadden’s a fighter, and Tormod Solveig’s power is still an unknown,” Guran said. “Are we certain there’s no weakness of Lysander’s that they might exploit?”

Quintrel seemed pleased by Guran’s concern. Carensa read a darker meaning, that Guran was intentionally feeding her information. The battle was likely to be decided in the next day. What Carensa told the messenger could easily determine who won—and who lost.

“Lysander’s spent his Tingur and their beasts, which will annoy him, because he doesn’t like to use his soldiers until he’s softened up the enemy,” Quintrel remarked, and it struck Carensa that his talk of ‘spending’ lives made it seem like nothing more than coins. “He’ll have to throw his best troops in up front, so I hope they haven’t gotten soft, having the Tingur to lead the charge for them.”

“What of his mages?” Guran asked. “Can they stand up to Tormod Solveig?”

Quintrel chuckled. “Oh, I think so. I’ve got a surprise planned for Solveig. Lysander’s mages will loose a bit of the divi when Tormod Solveig uses his necromancy. Divis walk the Unseen Realm, like the restless dead,” he said, warming to his subject.

“When Solveig opens himself to his magic, the divi will seize him, using the dead to drag his soul in to the Realm. Without Solveig, I don’t think the others can last the rest of the day. They’re counting on him to turn the tide.” Quintrel looked quite pleased with himself.

He paused. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish writing the plan for Lysander, then meet with Rostivan. Watch for my messenger; he’ll bring the plan to your tent,” he said to Carensa.

Guran and Carensa walked together through the army camp in silence. There were too many people nearby who would hear anything they might have said, Carensa thought. And as she pondered her next move, she was not yet ready to talk, or perhaps afraid to say aloud the plans forming in her mind.

Guran stopped at the entrance to Carensa’s tent. For a moment, she thought he might come in and set a warding to allow them to speak freely, but he did not. No, she thought, it wouldn’t do for us to make any move that might make Vigus suspicious, not now. Too much at stake.

Instead, Guran managed a smile and met Carensa’s gaze. “You’ve got important work to do,” he said. “That message will determine the outcome of the battle, so you’ll want to get it exactly right. You mustn’t think about who will die. What matters is that the right outcome, the best outcome, is achieved.” He nodded, but his smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I know that you’ll do this brilliantly, and we’ll all sit back and watch it happen together.”

Carensa realized she was barely breathing. She felt cold in her marrow, something that had no connection to the temperature outside. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might tear through her chest, and her mouth was dry. He knows, she thought. And he is letting me know that the sacrifice is worth the outcome.

Carensa reached out to squeeze Guran’s hand. “Thanks,” she said in a strangled voice. “I want to stand with you to watch it all play out.”

“You will,” Guran promised. “We’re the guard of last resort. It’s up to us to set it straight.” He paused. “We’ll be helping Vigus stay focused, so he’s not distracted,” he added with a meaningful glance. Carensa took his meaning immediately, that Guran and their other allies would try to divert Vigus’s attention from whatever she did, for as long as possible.

Sweet Esthrane! Carensa thought. It’s come down to this. The outcome of the war, in our hands.

There were a million things she wanted to say, but instead, she swallowed hard and nodded. “I’ll wait for the messenger, then,” she said. “And I’ll stand with you in the morning.” She ducked into her tent, and only then did she realize just how hard she was shaking.

Carensa paced her tent, thinking about her options. Every choice carried risks and consequences, and she knew there was only one chance.

We’re plotting treason, or at the least, massive betrayal, she thought. But when he accepted the divi, when he promised to give the magic over to those spirits, Vigus betrayed us. Vigus as the power behind the throne was bad enough. This… this would be intolerable.

She had steeled herself to action when the messenger came to the door. To her relief, Vigus was not with him. “Come in,” she said to the messenger. “This is going to take a little while.”

“Master Quintrel says speed,” the messenger said in broken Donderan.

“It must also be correct,” Carensa said, summoning all her nerve to speak with authority. “Now, for me to put this into your language, I must hear you speak. Talk to me, and I will learn your words.”

The messenger looked at her skeptically, but at her prompting, he told her of his journey from the front lines to Quintrel’s position, of what he had seen and heard, and of his travels through the storm. Carensa listened intently, focusing her magic. She responded to his comments, at first a word or two, then short sentences, and finally, asking questions as naturally as if she had been speaking the messenger’s border dialect all her life.

The man looked at her in wary amazement. “You talk like someone from my village,” he said, a mixture of interest and fear clear in his eyes. “Yet before—”

“It’s my magic,” she said matter-of-factly, taking the folded parchment from him and sitting down at her portable writing desk. “Now I’ll translate what Master Quintrel wrote so that your captains can understand.”

If the messenger noticed her hand shaking as she took up the quill to write, Carensa hoped he would blame the cold. Carensa withdrew a clean piece of parchment and carefully smoothed it, stirred the ink, and set out the sand to blot. She forced herself to breathe, recognizing that if she succeeded, this paper would become her death warrant, and the order of execution for Guran and her allies as well as Quintrel and his divi.

With the messenger’s dialect still clear in her mind, Carensa forced down thoughts of anything except the translation. She could not afford to dwell on the outcome, the loss, or her own willful betrayal. What mattered was the document, that it be clear and carry the force of legitimacy, and that it run completely counter to Quintrel’s real orders.

Carensa looked up at the messenger, who stood a respectful distance from her writing table. “Did Master Quintrel review the plan with you?” she asked.

The messenger shook his head. “No, m’lady. It was sealed when I received it, and he said only that I must bring it directly to you for translation.”

Carensa nodded and looked down, fearing her relief might show in her face. She broke the wax seal on Quintrel’s document. “Very well,” she said. It was unlikely that the messenger could read his own dialect let alone standard Donderan, but Carensa positioned the parchment so that Quintrel’s plan was not visible to the man.

Quintrel’s plan called for the mercenaries to make a lightning-fast charge against the center of the Solveigs’ line while Lysander pounded away at Blaine’s troops and Rostivan hammered Niklas and Voss. It was intended to force Tormod Solveig’s hand, pushing him into expending his magic.

Carensa understood what Quintrel intended. Just as Lysander used the Tingur as expendable troops to wear down an enemy, Quintrel saw the mercenaries as equally disposable. Though Quintrel’s plan did not say so, she knew that once Tormod Solveig had spent his most dangerous magic killing the mercenaries, Quintrel would use the mages to release the divi and kill the weakened necromancer.

I’m betraying Quintrel, Carensa thought, but perhaps the mercenary should thank me. I’m likely saving his life and the lives of his companions.

She wrote swiftly, afraid she might lose her nerve if she hesitated long enough to think. Magic supplied the translation and the words for Carensa to create false orders that would send the mercenaries in the opposite direction Quintrel intended. Once the troops were in action, there would be little Quintrel could do to stop them short of loosing his own magic against his ally’s soldiers. If he did that, Carensa had no doubt that Lysander’s commanders, who were not under the control of the divi, would think it an enemy trick and fight to protect their warlord.

Quintrel ordered a rapid advance. Carensa’s translation demanded a retreat. Quintrel intended to send the mercenaries like an arrow to the heart of the Solveig defenses. Carensa sent them against Rostivan’s own rear flank. In the chaos, Rostivan’s soldiers would defend themselves against what appeared to be Lysander’s betrayal, diverting a goodly portion of Rostivan’s army to fend off the attack.

The fighting was likely to push the front half of the troops into the forefront of the battle and deliver them into the sights of Tormod and Rinka Solveig and their army. Tormod Solveig, who had not yet loosed his full power in battle, Carensa suspected, would find a perfect target in Quintrel and her fellow mages. Once the mercenaries were deployed, Guran and their few allies would throw in their lot, doing whatever they could to undermine Rostivan and Quintrel until they were captured and killed. She could only hope Tormod would be able to withstand Quintrel’s use of the divi.

We’ll make our stand, Carensa thought as she blotted the ink with the sand and then carefully folded the parchment, melting wax to seal the document and pressing her ring into the wax to certify it. And if we succeed, we’ll die.