Denaven reached behind him with a shaking hand to ensure the chair was where he’d thought it was before he sank nerveless into its wooden seat. He hadn’t taken his eyes from the empty space where the block of crystal should have stood, before the cold stone fireplace in the main floor of the Chasm Tower.
The rounded walls remained, along with the old plank table and its mismatched chairs, bathed in red and gold from the lantern he’d set there. But the crystal with N’lahr and Irion was vanished as if it had never been.
Once Denaven had halted their search party yesterday to sense Kyrkenall’s direction and learned his quarry had swung northeast, he’d been certain the little archer would end up as gralk meat or a dart cushion. He’d never imagined, even in his nightmares, Kyrkenall might triumph over both beasts, the mechanism, and the warriors.
And he would never have guessed him capable of opening the crystal prison. No one else could, and it certainly had been tried by some of the best after N’lahr got himself trapped. It defied reason that the squire, Elenai, had done it. She had minimal training in sorcery and had never before used a hearthstone.
But there was no other explanation. There were no signs of drag marks, as would certainly have been evident if Kyrkenall and Elenai had somehow managed to transport the crystal that had held N’lahr. Instead, Tretton had discovered three sets of tracks leaving the fort after only two had entered. That meant N’lahr hadn’t died in the crystal, as Belahn had long since feared, and was now walking free. With his sword. Denaven’s hands tightened into fists at the thought.
Denaven deliberately took in a series of slow breaths. There had to be a way to keep this fiasco from swallowing him whole. He had collected the wisdom of others from a very young age, inspired by his grandfather, who’d bequeathed him a well-worn book of aphorisms the old man had used to record every kind of sage advice he’d run across. But the only adage rising to the fore of his recollection was one that had never made sense: “fools never drown alone.” Even as a boy he knew that fools were perfectly capable of wandering off and accomplishing something fatal only to themselves. Time and maturity had proven that true.
Now he understood his interpretation had been too literal.
To call Cargen’s actions foolish was to malign fools everywhere. In killing Asrahn, Cargen had engineered such a colossal catastrophe Denaven wasn’t sure he’d see the end of it. And somehow the idiocy had drawn in Kyrkenall, of all people, who managed, as ever, to stagger into Denaven’s life with impeccably terrible timing, drop disaster into his lap, then wander away unharmed. There really was “no justice but that taken in hand.”
Soon, very soon, the Altenerai would demand to know what Kyrkenall could possibly have wanted here. He had anticipated those questions the moment he understood Kyrkenall had changed course toward this tower, but none of the answers he’d invented would work anymore. He’d have to take this situation “in hand” to come up with something very convincing, very fast.
As he was playing with a variation of one explanation, there was a heavy footfall in the entryway, and a grunt. He imagined one of the male members of their group stepping past the expended metal trap Kyrkenall had inexplicably avoided.
“Denaven,” Decrin called. “What are you in here for?”
Denaven gazed steadily at the large man, wrapped in his khalat but dimly touched by the pool of lantern light. A slimmer figure followed behind: Gyldara.
“Making choices,” Denaven answered.
Decrin stepped forward, broad and dark. Gyldara came after. Her beauty was impossible to ignore, from the brilliant blue eyes, to the fine-featured face, to the golden tresses reflecting lantern light.
“You look like you’ve had your wits blown out of you,” Decrin remarked. There was no missing a note of pleasure in his voice. It was to be expected. Decrin’s skepticism of this entire enterprise lurked closely below the surface. Denaven had filtered little threads of his will past the protections of all their rings, an unprecedented skill he’d carefully developed over the last several years. But no one had proven so resistant to influence as simple-minded Decrin, who had unflagging faith in those he decided were friends.
“You have no idea,” Denaven replied honestly.
Gyldara interrupted. “We just found six dead soldiers laid out in a hollow south of here.”
There it was. Denaven saw an opening
“It looks like Kyrkenall’s doing,” Gyldara explained.
“There are sword and arrow wounds on them,” Decrin admitted. “And there’s another dead monster of some kind. Different than the one just outside. It was feathered with arrows, most of which are removed, and slashed with a sword.”
“They were black arrows,” Gyldara added pointedly.
Now he had his line of attack. Gyldara needed no persuading, so he sent energies solely through a thread invisibly connecting him to Decrin. “Kyrkenall’s killed again. Surely you can’t assign blame for the murders of these soldiers to anyone else, can you?”
The bigger man frowned, uncertain. “Well—why did he come here? What were these people doing here? I thought the Chasm Tower was abandoned.”
Denaven was ready, now, with an answer. A least part of one. “They were on official assignment guarding something very important, and very dangerous. And now a madman has it.”
“You mean Kyrkenall.” Decrin lowered his voice warningly.
“Yes,” Denaven said testily, “I mean Kyrkenall! I don’t suppose he left a note this time, did he?”
“No. Not that we’ve found.” Decrin’s obstinate loyalty was preparing objections. “What’s this secret? What was stored here? Why weren’t the rest of us told about it?”
Why wouldn’t he yield? Denaven resisted the impulse to draw more power from the hearthstone. It would alert the ring, and even a thick-skulled brute like Decrin might detect such an intrusion. Any changes in his thinking had to feel natural. He’d just have to keep implanting doubts. “None of that’s as important as the fact Kyrkenall’s killed more of our people, is it? You wanted evidence of his guilt? Well, here it is. We’ve got to stop him before he kills anyone else. You have to see that.”
Decrin stood rock still for a long moment before Denaven saw the big man’s shoulders sag a minute degree. “Yes,” he admitted at last. “I suppose I do.”
Denaven just barely held back a smile.
Once more he heard footfalls in the corridor. This time it was Tretton who strode forward, helmet under one arm. When he halted beside the others, he stood spear straight as always. The face beneath his trim, graying beard was solemn, yet betrayed little fatigue despite their relentless track of the fugitives, which had demanded more of him than any of the others. He was iron, that one, and Denaven privately hoped he’d never face Tretton’s enmity; he would be an implacable foe.
“Report,” Denaven ordered.
“They’re headed east by southeast, probably on a course for The Fragments, and I estimate they have a day’s lead on us.”
If Kyrkenall was somehow still a day ahead it meant he had even less rest than they. That had to be wearing on him, let alone that green squire. Another advantage.
“And I poked around in the offices of those outside barracks, sir,” Gyldara volunteered.
He hoped she wasn’t about to tell him anything that might contradict his own planned fabrications. “What did you learn?”
“Six soldiers were posted here. I found their names and their duties. They were to keep anyone without permission from approaching the boundary markers or the tower itself, on pain of death, and were to keep the creature inside the walls steadily supplied with meals. What I can’t find is why they were doing any of that.”
He nodded. He’d known all about their orders because he’d handed them down, but he didn’t want to draw the connection too sharply and was glad those posted hadn’t been too imaginative in their paperwork. “Good. We’ll need their names for the burials and to convey their honors to next of kin.” He also knew that these guards had been picked for this remote duty primarily due to their lack of familial entanglements. “As for the rest, I’d like to speak to the Altenerai and Exalt Ortala. No squires. Decrin, bring them in.”
The big alten nodded and left.
Denaven sat with head lowered, hand pressed to his temple, signaling that he was deep in thought and not to be disturbed. The two remaining dutiful and disciplined altens obeyed his unspoken request and departed to wait for the others. By the time Decrin returned with them and Exalt Ortala and Lasren, Denaven had the rest of his approach worked out. This would be the most daring address in his career so far, and he’d have to pitch it near perfectly. He looked up slowly, considering each of them in turn.
Gyldara was poised for action, her gold hair tightly pulled back from her forehead, eyes shining, eager as a hound straining at a leash. She wanted vengeance for her sister, and expected him to deliver some sound piece of information that would render that simply. He could do that.
Beside her stood Tretton, the model of restraint. He revealed neither fatigue nor passion for the pursuit. Though no proponent of Kyrkenall, Tretton was proving difficult to win over due to his preoccupation with justice, and the outmoded Altenerai code. More appeals to moral propriety would be needed. He’d have to add something there.
Ponderous Decrin still held himself with less than his customary assurance, his high brow wrinkled in concern. Good. Now was the time to drive the doubts home.
Then there was young Lasren, pushing hair back from his widow’s peak as he strode into the light after closing the door to the outside. He seemed always to be on the cusp of smiling, as if he burned with a secret amusement; he was, Denaven had long ago decided, an intellectual nonentity. He’d happily join any purpose that would bring him fame—like taking down a renowned rogue alten. As with Gyldara, any spell work on him seemed almost superfluous. He’d make the effort on them both anyway, for safety’s sake.
Solemn Ortala was one of the few who knew about N’lahr’s imprisonment and the hearthstones, and she’d be the only one to note the sorcerous augmentations to his arguments this day. He actually would have preferred to have brought an entire contingent of exalts, but the queen would never have permitted so many to be away from their work on the hearthstones, and he could never have excluded the Altenerai from the hunt. Though her loyalty was certain, he’d have to be careful to advance his own agenda without offending her faith in the queen.
Denaven stood and leaned with both palms against the table. “I’d hoped to never burden another soul with what I’m about to tell you, but Kyrkenall’s rampage has forced me to reveal a terrible state secret.” He paused for effect, met their eyes, and continued with grim resolve. “He has deliberately released a being more dangerous than anything we’ve ever fought. And we’re going to have to stop them before they plunge the realms into chaos.”
Tretton’s eyebrows rose. “What ‘being’?” he asked gravely.
The five before him waited, expectant, for his reply. “A monster of our own making.” Experienced orator that he was, Denaven held the pause for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “Our queen was just as distressed as the rest of us when N’lahr died. Maybe more so. She gathered the greatest weavers she had available to her, had them commune with the hearthstones, and added their power to her own in an attempt to bring him back. They failed catastrophically.”
Through his light connections he enhanced their credulity. Decrin let out a muffled oath. Tretton looked outraged at the blasphemy involved with meddling in sacred matters. Gyldara’s eyes widened in dismay. Lasren was rapt in fascination. Ortala’s brows rose and her eyes sought his, probably in concern about his fabricated story. He returned her gaze, willing her to hold her tongue.
“The duplicate thing she brought to life wasn’t truly sane. I’m told it looked like N’lahr and even sounded like him, but amounted to nothing beyond mindless rage. It cut one of the weavers down before any of the others could react. As the others tried to contain the thing, it sliced their hearthstone in two, generating a bizarre magical backlash that encased it in a huge block of crystal. There was no way to ascertain if it was dead or alive. No one, not even Belahn,” and Denaven paused to let that fact sink in, “could find a way to penetrate it. In the end, the queen decided to place the stone here, under guard and away from vulnerable populated areas while some of her best weavers researched the matter.”
Decrin made no effort to conceal his oath this time. He blasphemed with great volume and fecundity.
Denaven knew very well that the queen had removed N’lahr from the capital for two reasons: there had been fear his imprisonment would be discovered, and fear that more unexpected things might happen around the unstable nidus of his weird cage spurred on by the immense magical energy concentrated by the accumulation of hearthstones in Darassus. Belahn had worried that the accident which created N’lahr’s prison might grow unstable and destroy him if he’d managed to survive, just as Denaven had feared it might grow unstable and release him.
He wished Belahn had been right. How that misfortune had been timed to Kyrkenall’s interference Denaven still couldn’t imagine. They’d had teams of weavers working to open the crystal for months, until the queen had called them back to study hearthstones, claiming it a higher priority. Why couldn’t it have happened then?
“Commander, are you saying N’lahr was imprisoned here?” Lasren asked.
“Not N’lahr.” Hadn’t he been clear about that? He’d best reinforce the narrative, so that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill the “imposter” on sight. He sent a little pulse through his connective spellthreads, one meant to enforce the weight of his words. “N’lahr is dead. We interred his corpse. This is some kind of evil perversion walking around in his shape.”
“The queen did this?” Tretton’s voice was icy with disdain.
Denaven nodded gravely, as if he regretted having to do so. “Only with the best of intentions, Tretton.” That should help mollify Ortala.
“I don’t understand how Kyrkenall found out about any of this,” Decrin said.
He was still being obstinate. Denaven turned up an empty hand. “With Kyrkenall everything comes down to pure dumb luck. I suspect Cargen revealed something of significance at N’lahr’s tomb. Cargen had helped me arrange the transport and guardians up here. Maybe Kyrkenall, in his own twisted way, thought he could make up for the loss of Asrahn if he brought N’lahr back to the corps. But he has to realize, by now, what he’s done. I don’t know how Kyrkenall is managing to control the thing, but we need to track these twin murderers of frightening skill before more people are injured or killed—or worse, before others can mistake that beast for the real N’lahr and lose faith in the institutions that guide our lives.”
“Right,” Tretton said. And with his nod, tension eased, even if it didn’t entirely vanish. “What do you need from us?”
“We’re just about done in. We need rest if we’re to keep this up.”
Tretton nodded once more, although he looked more energetic than he had in days. And Denaven noticed that this time Decrin nodded as well.
“While you get settled,” he continued, “I’m going to risk a hearthstone consultation. I want to see if I can gain more precise information about Kyrkenall’s whereabouts so we don’t waste any time in reaching them.”
“What do you want us to tell the squires?” Decrin asked.
“Warn them about the false N’lahr. Don’t bring the queen into it. She was acting to protect her people. And this well-intentioned error shouldn’t stain their faith in her.”
“Yes, sir.”
That simple acknowledgment was another victory. Decrin had actually replied not as an equal, but a subordinate, something that would have been unthinkable even a few hours before. Denaven was likewise pleased that he was planting greater doubt in the queen’s competence even as he claimed to be doing the opposite. That might serve him well in the near future.
He allowed no sign of his satisfaction to cross his face as he nodded, solemnly. “I’ll catch up with you shortly. I’m not to be disturbed.” He caught Ortala’s questioning look and firmly met her eyes for a brief moment. She seemed to infer from that what he’d hoped. They’d talk soon.
Once the five of them filed out he sat down in one of the chairs, pulling the hearthstone from his satchel. He thought he had handled that well. At one time he’d been uncomfortable with such outright lies, seemingly banned by their oath, but was wise enough now to recognize when they were necessary to further greater truths. Leaders must conquer perils to clear a path.
And this situation presented ample opportunity with its peril. It had been impossible to access the sword while it was trapped with N’lahr. But now it was available … once he got rid of N’lahr. The weapon originally crafted for Denaven, rather than that untutored farmhand, would finally rest with its intended owner. And the next time Naor even stepped a foot over the border, Denaven would lead a raid deep into their lands and wield the sword as it was fated. Mazakan’s head would be his, and the queen’s throne would be that much closer. He’d make sure, discreetly of course, that her insane beliefs came to light. She would be relieved of power or even brought up on charges, and he’d be a hero well positioned to step into the vacuum.
He banished the smile that crept across his face in the emptied room. It was time to speak to the very woman he ultimately plotted against.
He lifted the hearthstone in its travel pack and set it on the table. He sighed a little as he untied the pack’s cover, then sat forward in the hardwood chair and pulled it free. Let other mages manipulate from afar. He preferred tactile contact.
With his mind fully focused upon the tool, there was the usual rush of energy, which set him frowning even as a tingle of pleasure set his arm hairs rising under his uniform sleeves. He tried not to stare hard into its depths.
Denaven had never particularly liked hearthstones. Their power warped those who used them. Belahn was the most obvious mess, but the queen and nearly all the weavers who’d been studying the things were twisted in some way. He ignored the temptation to consider his surroundings in a magical haze of wonder and set straight to work.
The commander sent his senses south. Normally any such projection was risky, liable to reveal one’s spirit to the hungry entities that lurked in the inner world and fed upon unprotected souls. But hearthstones shielded their users to some extent, especially when they were projecting their energies to other hearthstones, as he did now.
At first he sensed nothing at the other end of the connection, and he wondered if he might be so lucky as to find the queen occupied. How simple it would be to later tell her he’d tried to contact her and she hadn’t been available.
Hope passed. He felt a flare of energy, and then he regarded her image fragmented and distorted within the hearthstone.
An ivory gown draped her slim frame, and a cascade of strawberry blond hair fell in curls to her shoulder. If not quite the beauty described by minstrels, she was striking. Years before, that winsome mouth had often shaped playful expressions and her eyes had glinted with amusement. The queen’s smiles were rarer now, and her green eyes seemed to stare with disquieting intensity.
“The hour is late.” Leonara’s voice was clear but hard, like the tolling of a funeral bell.
“Forgive me, Majesty.”
“There’s much to forgive. You can report success? No. I see it in your eyes.” She frowned. “Where is he now?”
“Across the border in The Fragments. And he’s freed N’lahr.”
The queen’s head drew back. “Freed him? How?” Astonishment, and a hint of alarm, rang in her voice.
“I don’t know how, but the giant warped crystal is gone, and Tretton found three sets of tracks leaving the area. That can only mean Kyrkenall, the squire, and N’lahr.”
“What’s their destination?”
“Presumably they’re seeking Aradel or Belahn. Kyrkenall will still count both as friends. I’ll contact Belahn and allies in Alantris. They can delay Kyrkenall until I arrive or, if possible, finish him and the others.”
“You make it all sound very simple.” Something in her voice let him know her calm was poised upon a knife’s edge; he sensed danger without guessing its cause. “But then you always do, don’t you? It’s one of your gifts.”
He bowed his head as if pleased by the compliment, but did not interject.
“Tell me how it goes with the Altenerai,” she continued with patently false nonchalance. “Can you depend upon them to carry out your aims?”
“Yes. They’re more focused than ever, despite setbacks.” He was readying to explain when she cut him off.
“Are they really?” Menace rang in the undertones of that smooth voice. “Then perhaps you can explain why the two you left in Darassus broke into the hall this evening and stole a cache of hearthstones.”
Denaven knew that his eyes widened in shock and he quickly deadened his expression. Why would Varama have betrayed him? She had nothing to gain from interfering with his plans, for she lacked interest of any kind in court machinations, not to mention an understanding of the subtleties of interpersonal interaction. And surely Rylin wouldn’t be so resentful at being left behind that he’d throw away all the privilege and acclaim he’d worked for?
Leonara’s voice grew waspish. “As that newer alten is a nonentity, this is all Varama. You assured me she was happy with her endless experiments.”
He had thought she was. Her joy involved laboring for months or even years upon strange tasks that occasionally yielded brilliant discoveries. He’d long ago decided she was a mere craftsperson, albeit one worthy of respect, like a fine blacksmith or painter.
And then he remembered her strange comment about Kyrkenall’s wine bottles, and her incisive question about the hearthstones. He cursed himself for dismissing both as typical Varama oddities. Something had interested her, and if interest had transformed into fascination there was no telling where her inquiries might lead.
“What, you’ve no easy remedy? No smooth reassurance?” the queen jibed; then she grew fierce: “She stole the keystone!”
Sheer willpower kept him from groaning. Naturally Varama would gather up Leonara’s new obsession. The queen had been blathering on about that peculiar hearthstone, which she thought crucial for her “Great Awakening,” since she’d first learned of its existence; she’d rarely slept since its long-heralded discovery.
“Have the exalts been sent after the two traitors?”
“I’m dealing with them.” She spoke with such chill finality that he involuntarily shuddered. Once, just once, he’d seen the depths of her magical strength, and it had ever after shaken him to extreme caution.
Rather than imagine the hearthstone-enhanced horrors she’d be inflicting on his subordinates, he decided to redirect her anger to focus on his own aims. “Kyrkenall must have spoken to Varama when he was in Darassus. It’s the only answer. She bided her time until I was gone and everyone else was distracted. She’s clever, but her powers are barely a candle to your sun. She’s probably planning to meet him in The Fragments, but you’ll reach them long before then. And I’ll get Kyrkenall. Everything will be simpler with them gone in any case.”
Leonara’s manner changed. While hardly warm, she at least was no longer openly confrontational. “It’s true that Varama and the other one amount to nothing in the long run. Their destruction is inconsequential. But I’m thoroughly unhappy that you’ve let this happen to N’lahr.”
“I let nothing happen, Majesty. It is Kyrkenall—”
She cut him off. “N’lahr was our greatest weapon against the Naor. I’d thought to attempt his revival if Mazakan broke the treaty before the Great Awakening. Now you’ve let Kyrkenall find him.”
He thought she’d long since abandoned attempts to get at N’lahr. How could she possibly expect anything good for her to come from his release? “Majesty, N’lahr never supported your efforts with the hearthstones. He never truly supported you. He was a threat to your plans, at least indirectly, the moment he became commander, and he’s a worse one now. He surely knows you ordered him silenced before the peace treaty, and he’s had seven years to plan revenge.” Denaven had no way of knowing whether N’lahr had been conscious during his imprisonment, but it took no great leap of imagination to be certain the former commander would resent losing seven years of his life. “I mean no offense, but you can’t possibly expect he’d happily serve you again after so long.”
He expected an immediate reaction. A frown, or a snarl, or further accusation that this had somehow been his fault. But she simply stared at him for a long moment. Blink, he thought, looking at those immobile green eyes, so fixed they might be stones. Blink and prove you’re human.
She didn’t.
“N’lahr was a shield for our people,” the queen said at last. “And Kyrkenall a lance with which I could attack our enemies. Thanks to you, now both of them must be eliminated. It occurs to me that you always disliked them and their removal benefits you beyond all others.”
“That’s not entirely—”
“You hated Kyrkenall because he stole the woman you loved. You envied N’lahr his success. And his sword. I know how much you want it.”
He couldn’t refute her. He’d unwillingly shared those confidences when he’d shared her bed. Damn her insistence on linking.
“Now you finally can eliminate them both, and play with his blade to your heart’s content.”
She deliberately omitted his legitimate claim to the famed sword N’lahr carried. She was trying to bait him. “Majesty, if I’d wanted them dead I’d have devised a better plan than this, which risks my own position.”
“I’m not an idiot, Denaven. You think I’m blind to your ultimate ambition?”
He’d thought religious contemplation had blinded her to most of his actions. Apparently he’d misjudged her. How much did she guess? How much did she know?
“I see the amount of time you spend with the councilors. I know you covet a seat among them. Or at their head.”
He kept his expression neutral, though he felt like sighing in relief. He’d certainly spent an immense amount of time with the councilors, though it was because he wanted to establish rapport, not because he intended to join their ranks. There’d been no king in Darassus for generations, just an unbroken line of queens, and it might be Leonara was so tradition-bound she’d never imagine he could rise to her throne even when he pulled her down from it backed by the Mage Auxiliary. Leonara might think that the exalts were her answer to the problem of Altenerai independence from the throne, but they were really his bulwark should she ever decide to harness the full power of her mastered hearthstones—and he’d worked hard to win a large portion of their loyalty.
He shook his head in honest denial. “I don’t want a seat with them. I’m only trying to see your will is done. For the good of the city, and the realms.”
“Is that so?” She sounded skeptical. He feared that she was ready to make a new accusation.
He retreated while deploying his best tactic, one he used only sparingly lest she grow conscious of his manipulation. “I swear that I’ve no interest in the council. I’ve merely stepped in for you so you have more time to ready the Great Awakening. I know how close it is, and want nothing to distract you.”
She’d been promising the Great Awakening for at least three years. Something always delayed it, and Denaven rather expected something always would.
Finally, she took the offered hook and swam on, at great speed. Her voice gained a distant, wistful air. “Of course, Denaven. And I’m grateful for that. Sometimes I forget how much you sacrifice for me.”
“For you and your sacred duty, My Queen.”
“Someday soon we will have no more need of warriors. Of any kind.” She was ready to waft away now into rapturous musings. “When the Goddess arrives, glories will shower from the heavens.”
He nodded, as though the queen sounded perfectly rational. “I await her coming expectantly.”
“As do we all. It pains me to keep this most awesome truth from the people, but they’re not equipped yet to understand.” She had repeated this last rationalization often, as if to convince herself.
“No, Majesty.”
“Very well, Denaven. You may go. I expect,” she continued, a note of remonstrance in her voice once more, “that you will report success when next we speak.”
He bowed his head. “Majesty, you can depend upon me.”
She bowed her head in the briefest of acknowledgments. And then her image winked out.
He sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. That had been excruciatingly unpleasant. She hadn’t shown such frightening clarity in years. It was almost as though somewhere inside she remained the bright young woman who’d become so indispensable to her predecessor decades earlier. Then, Leonara had been far less narrowly focused, and far more forgiving and fond of him—and perhaps a little kinder overall.
If she was capable of pulling out of her religious haze long enough to ask such searching questions, he might have to accelerate his plans.
He brought his hands together, cracked his knuckles, and set fingers once more to the hearthstone. There was time yet for one more sending. At least he knew Belahn would be awake. Belahn was always awake.