Book 2: Chapter Twenty-Three

The refugees had set themselves up in family groups in the cavernous building in which they’d taken shelter. Ellerie made her way between them, careful not to step on the few who were still sleeping. The villagers’ mood was subdued after everything they’d been through. Their headman’s death the previous afternoon had just been one more shock added onto all the others, but the plainsmen were a hard people, and they were already organizing the indoor camp for an extended stay. They were in no shape to attempt the journey back to Jol’s Brook yet, and no one knew if more snow beasts were waiting for them along the trail.

Ellerie should have been resting after the mild drain shock she’d suffered during the fight, but she’d slept enough that she’d mostly recovered, and now that she was actually in the ruins of one of the Ancients’ cities, she couldn’t resist looking around.

Before leaving Terevas, she’d visited a few other small ruins that were thought to be Ancient in origin, dotted around the western edge of the nation near the seaborn enclave, but those structures had no distinguishing features. This place, on the other hand, matched what she’d read about other Ancient cities that had been discovered. Many of the buildings had ornate designs carved into the stonework, even if they’d partly faded with time. The structure they were in now was more utilitarian—it seemed to have been something like a warehouse, and the Ancients hadn’t spent any effort decorating it.

Ellerie slipped out through the empty doorway—no doors had survived the millennia of abandonment—and tried to figure out where to go next. The deep snow would make exploration a problem. Other than the courtyard where they’d fought, the entire city was buried. The courtyard seemed like as good a place to start as any.

When she got there, she found Boktar, Gregor, and Nedley working with some of the village men to tie ropes around the shoulders of one of the snow beasts. They paused when they saw her.

“Should you be up?” Boktar asked, quiet concern in his voice.

“I slept as much as I could—I’ll be careful not to cast any spells today. What about your arm?”

“Treya fixed it all up yesterday.”

Ellerie nodded, having expected that answer. After the battle, with the drain shock setting in, she’d had a hard time concentrating on what was going on around her, but Treya wasn’t the sort of person to leave her friends in pain when she could help them. “What are you doing?”

“Hauling these things out into the forest. They’re too damned big to burn or bury, especially with the ground frozen, but we can’t just leave them here.”

“I’m going to look around. Do you want to come?”

He paused for a moment, considering, but he’d been involved in Ellerie’s search for years. It didn’t take him long to decide. “Sure, why not? One more person won’t matter that much. Nedley, you stay here and help.”

“Yes, sir!” the boy said.

“Is there anything we should watch out for?” Ellerie asked Gregor.

“The buildings that are open have already been explored and mapped, so you’ll be safe enough if you’re careful. If you manage to find a way into a building that hasn’t been excavated yet, you shouldn’t go in. Not without more planning.”

“You said there’s a hot spring below the courtyard, right? Should we move the people closer?” A hot bath would be nice—she didn’t even want to think about what she must smell like after the past week.

“Not here. What’s below us are tunnels for moving the water around. If you go…that way, I think,” he said, pointing roughly south, “about half a mile, there’s an old bathhouse that still has a roof. That might be a good spot.”

“We’ll check it out.”

#

Shavala leaned against one of the partial buildings surrounding the courtyard, watching as the refugees from Jol’s Brook hauled away the last of the snow beasts. Twenty-one of the creatures had died, as had Fergus, and it had all been for nothing. She’d been so eager to see snow beasts for the first time. Not even Meritia had encountered one before! And now she’d seen them. She’d killed two herself, and helped Sarette to kill more.

Life and death happened all the time, of course. One creature eats another creature, and then is itself eaten by a third. The third creature dies and its body fertilizes the land to feed the plants that support the next generation. Shavala was a hunter herself, and knew that better than anyone. But the fights against the snow beasts and the red-eyed men had been different—violence without purpose.

She sighed and looked down. What else could they have done?

Sarette’s voice came from beside her. “Katrin said I might find you here.”

Shavala nodded but didn’t reply.

“Thank you for what you did yesterday,” the stormborn woman said. “I could feel it, but I couldn’t do anything. When you called the lightning for me…that’s the closest I’ve ever come to running a storm. I was right! The warden bond is helping!”

“I’m glad you got what you wanted.” Shavala tried to sound happy for the other woman, but knew she’d failed.

Sarette tilted her head to the side, concern etched on her face. “Are you worried about what happened? Don’t feel bad—it’s hard to control lightning the first time. You managed to keep it from hitting any of us.”

“That’s not it. I underestimated the storm, but people make mistakes all the time. I’ll know better in the future.”

“Then what?”

“Did they have to die? Gregor said they were following their instincts.”

“They’re snow beasts! They killed Fergus!”

“They reminded me of ogres. Ogres aren’t evil, usually; they just think differently than we do. They trade with my people sometimes. They don’t always fight us.”

“Snow beasts kill. If we’re lucky, and they hit one of the ranches, then they’ll stop with the cattle and not move on to the people. Killing is all they do.” Sarette hesitated. “Well, it’s all they do when they come south.”

“What do you mean?”

“They hibernate up north in the summer, near the snowborn. Someone told me they don’t attack the snowborn.”

“So maybe they are like ogres after all, and they just don’t understand that what they’re doing is wrong.”

“That doesn’t mean we can let them invade the Heights!”

“No, you have to defend yourselves,” Shavala agreed. “We had to defend ourselves.” It somehow made her feel better to learn that the beasts weren’t always violent. There must be some logic that allowed them to fit into their natural place in the world, no matter how foreign it might be to her mind.

In the distance, a wolf howled. Shavala had no way of knowing which wolf was calling out, but she liked the idea that it was her friendly visitor. Life would go on. Not for everyone, but for most.

#

“That’ll be a mark for the night and a penny for each meal,” the dwarven innkeeper said. “You want the nooning?”

“What is nooning?” Leena asked, having a hard time following the man’s speech even though he was speaking trade tongue. She already knew that mark and penny were their terms for silver and copper coins, after having stopped at a shop to purchase supplies when she’d first arrived in the small town.

The man glared up at her. “The nooning! Nooning meal!”

“Oh, no thank you. I’ve already had it.” She’d taken to eating before Traveling, in case she ended up in another unexpected situation. “Can you look at my map and tell me where I am?”

The dwarf waved his hands in irritation. “Fine, fine. Show me.” He was the least friendly innkeeper she’d ever met.

Unlike elves, she was used to dwarves. Sanvar was a human nation built over the top of three lizardfolk kingdoms and numerous dwarven settlements. The result had been centuries of war between the three races, the last one ending when she was still a child. The dwarves she’d encountered in her home town of Matihar generally eyed her with distrust, except for the few who frequented the bakery she worked at. Here in Stone Home, the dwarves were different. The children playing in the streets had watched her curiously, while the adults walking past had politely ignored her. The shopkeepers had been friendly and welcoming so far.

The innkeeper was an exception to that, but she didn’t think it was because she was human. He’d been screaming at his dwarven customers in their own language when she’d first entered. They’d ignored his ranting.

Leena unrolled the new map she’d bought in South Corner, laying it out on the bar. Unfortunately, the map didn’t show anything south of Stone Home, and Stone Home itself was just shown as an outline, without any distinguishing features or towns.

The innkeeper frowned as he looked over it. “Here,” he said, stabbing a spot with his thumb. “Rakovar. Map’s wrong. It doesn’t show all of Stone Home.”

“How far south does it go? I’m heading that way.”

“Then you’ve got a long trip ahead. South border’s another four hundred miles. Here,” he said, and grabbed the knife he’d been using to slice a roast for his patrons. He held the map still, and extended it by carving marks directly into the wooden bar top. “There. That’s Stone Home. Stick to the road. Don’t go west, that’s the Stone Top Mountains, then Terevas. East is ogre territory.”

“What about Sanvar? Can you tell me how far away Sanvar is?”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s another thousand miles south of the border.”

Leena sighed. It would still take her weeks to get back home then, through lands she only vaguely remembered from her Traveler training. Geography had never been her strongest subject. Just how far had she teleported, to get all the way from Matihar to Telfort? She should have asked Sarlo more questions while he’d been around.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Thank you,” she said to the dwarf.

He stalked off without acknowledging her, already haranguing another group of customers who were eating in the common room.

Leena rolled up the map and stuffed it back in the small pack she’d purchased in South Corner, then went to find her room.

A nap before supper would be good—she was still tired from the jump she’d made earlier. She stripped off her dress and climbed into the bed, which turned out to be dwarven in size. Even with her head pressed up against the headboard, her feet still dangled over the edge. She turned on her side and curled up instead, trying to get comfortable.

Unfortunately, her nap wasn’t restful, ending with a nightmare where the men who’d attacked her in Matihar had returned, chasing her to the bakery where she’d once worked. As nightmares often go, she’d run and she’d run, but she’d known all along that once she reached the bakery, they would catch her.

She woke with a gasp just as they found her hiding in the bakery’s storeroom. Even after realizing it had been a dream, she felt a vague sense of disorientation. The room was startlingly warm and completely dark, and the bed was much harder than she remembered it being. She must have slept all afternoon if there was no light coming in through the window. It was so dark, she couldn’t even see the window.

She threw the sheet and blanket to the side, trying to cool down, then sat up and stretched. The sweet smell of fresh-baked bread permeated the room. If the innkeeper had a decent baker, perhaps that was how he managed to keep his clientele despite his attitude. Strangely, she thought she heard people in the streets calling out to each other in Sanvari.

She’d just shaken that thought off, deciding it must be a memory left over from the dream, when someone threw open the door, allowing daylight to flood in.

“Leena!” came a familiar shriek. “What are you doing here?” the voice continued in Sanvari. “Sleeping on the floor in the middle of the day! Where have you been all this time? Where are your clothes? Are those tattoos?”

“Sanja?” Leena asked, using her forearm to shield the sunlight from her eyes. “Is that you? Where am I?”

Was she still dreaming? She was sitting on the floor of the bakery’s storeroom back in Matihar, dressed only in her undergarments, surrounded by the bedding from the inn in Stone Home.

She’d just realized it wasn’t a dream when a man’s voice called out. “Sanja! What’s going on?” It was Madi, Sanja’s husband—the owner of the shop.

Leena was home! She’d Traveled in her sleep, but she’d somehow made it safely!

“Don’t let Madi see me like this!” she pleaded, gathering the sheets up and draping them over herself. The dwarven innkeeper would be mad when he discovered she’d stolen them, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She was actually home!

“Where are your clothes?” Sanja whispered.

“I don’t know! I don’t know how I got here!”

Sanja and Madi weren’t Zidari. They knew Leena was, but she’d never told them she was a mage. Most non-Zidari had little understanding of the clan’s magic to begin with, and this didn’t seem like the best time to explain.

“But…then how…?”

“Can I borrow a dress?” Leena interrupted her.

“I…yes, but I don’t have one in the Zidari style. Have you always had those tattoos?”

Outside their own encampments, the Zidari covered up their tattoos. Sanja had never seen her in anything other than clothing that covered her arms and body entirely. Most other Sanvarites wore clothing that showed more skin.

“Yes, I’ve always had them. I’ll wear whatever you have; it’s fine.”

“Leena!” Madi shouted, rounding the corner. “Where have you been? Why did you leave without telling us? Is that a sheet you’re wearing?”

“I’m sorry, Madi. I had to leave without any warning. I didn’t want to go without telling you, but I didn’t have a choice. I’m back now, though.”

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” he asked, concerned.

“No. Not anymore, anyway. It’s over now. I’ll tell you all about it. Did my parents ever come by looking for me? ”

“Your parents?” Madi exchanged a glance with Sanja, who shrugged. “Not that I recall, but I don’t know that I’d recognize them to see them again. We only met them the one time.”

Leena frowned. That was strange. Her parents and her little brother knew where she worked. They wouldn’t come all the way across town just to visit a bakery, but she’d expected them to look for her when she didn’t show up for her weekly visit. Perhaps not after the first week, but she’d been gone for months now. Had they spoken to the Zidari elders first, and figured out what had happened?

Then, she had a sudden horrible thought. What if someone had seen the men attack her, and had told her parents, and they’d assumed she’d been killed? She’d always hoped they’d have continued to ask around until they realized her Traveling had gone awry.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll go talk to them if Sanja can loan me a dress, then I’ll come back and tell you what happened to me. Have you already hired someone to take my place?”

#

Rusol strode across the Fort Northtower courtyard, the walkways brushed clear of snow in preparation for a visit from a member of the royal family. Samir and Yassi followed him, along with the honor guard his father had insisted he take—two knights and two royal guardsmen. The four men and Samir had ridden on horseback, accompanying Rusol’s carriage.

One member of their party wasn’t with them. Rusol had left Kolvi—an elder witch and distant cousin—outside the town. He didn’t trust her to avoid using magic in plain view. She was forced to obey him, like his other bondmates, but her interpretation of his orders was always unpredictable. Unlike the royal palace, where Marten had influenced the servants and guardsmen to not see magic, the priests and knights at Fort Northtower would notice anything out of the ordinary. Rusol wasn’t as good at influencing people as his father, and there was no way he could affect a large number at once.

He’d have preferred to bring Magnus rather than Kolvi, especially for an encounter with a priest, but the man absolutely hated the Order of Pallisur and was even more likely than Kolvi to do something stupid. And in any case, if the meeting with Leonis came to violence, Kolvi was the better choice. With the warden bond, she’d become nearly as strong as Rusol himself.

There was a delegation waiting for them in front of the main doors leading into the fortress. The tower itself stood tall above them, casting a long afternoon shadow to the northeast.

“Is that Leonis?” Rusol asked Samir quietly, steeling himself for a confrontation. Before leaving the carriage, he’d strapped on the armor and sword his mother had given him, hoping to make a good impression with the knights, but if there was a fight, he’d have to depend on Samir and his honor guard to protect him. And if Leonis himself joined the fight, Rusol would have no choice but to use magic in front of everyone. His heart pounded in his chest. He’d never killed anyone before. He should have had Kolvi follow them in, just in case. Could he take out the entire group while they were still close together? Fire would be easiest. Lightning would require more effort to get them all.

“No, Your Highness,” Samir replied. “I think these are the locals.”

Rusol let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The entire delegation bowed deeply as he approached, and the two men in front stepped forward.

One, a fat priest with a supercilious expression, said, “Your Highness, on behalf of the Order of Pallisur, welcome to Fort Northtower. My name is Calwell. Sir Barat and I will see to all of your needs while you are here.” He indicated the other man, a young knight in full panoply.

The knight, Sir Barat, bowed again. “Your Highness, welcome to Northtower,” he said in a thick northern freeholder accent. “We make rooms ready for you. The priests from Blue Vale arrived yesterday.”

Rusol eyed the young man, wondering how he’d ended up in Larso, and as a knight of Pallisur no less. The freeholders lived across the border to the northeast. After the North Border War, one group of barbarians had settled down there, realizing they could claim land for themselves rather than raiding those who’d already done so. Marten had left them there rather than going in to clear them out, happy for his northern neighbors to fight each other, weakening both sides. The freeholders, though, had turned to ranching rather than making war, integrating with the other villages in their region.

“And have you met this Priest Leonis?” Rusol asked the knight. “What do you think of him?”

Priest Calwell’s lips tightened at the question.

Sir Barat shrugged. “He is priest, Your Highness. I do not know him except to greet him.”

“You don’t care that he chased the clans out of the basin?”

The official story they’d used for holding the conclave with Leonis was to give the man a commendation for his victory over the barbarians, as well as make overtures to open up diplomatic relations.

The knight shrugged again. “Is different clans, Your Highness. They do not settle like we do. Is best they are gone.”

Barat would likely change his mind if Leonis extended his conquests outside of the basin, but Rusol decided not to press the man.

“Very well,” he said. “Show us to our rooms.”

#

Two hours later, Rusol had eaten, bathed, and changed clothes. It wouldn’t be appropriate to wear the armor except for ceremonial reasons, but he strapped the sword belt back on. It was strange how comforting it was to feel the blade at his side, considering how little he knew about using it.

“Have any arrangements been made for the conclave with Priest Leonis?” he asked the manservant who’d been assigned to him.

“No, Your Highness, but I was instructed to inform you that the Great Hall is available to you at any time, as well as the cooks and the servants. If you tell me what your needs are, Priest Calwell will see that they are met.”

Rusol nodded. Calwell had the same inflated sense of self-importance as many of the other unblessed priests, but at least he’d handled the preparations appropriately.

“Do you know how large his retinue is?”

“He brought eight men with him, Your Highness, all fellow priests of the Order.”

Nine priests of Pallisur traveling together? That was enough to make Rusol’s skin crawl. Leonis knew Rusol was a warden, which meant he knew he wielded magic that the Order of Pallisur had outlawed. Had becoming a warden himself made the man more tolerant of other mages?

“Our numbers should be equal for the initial greeting,” Rusol said. “I brought six with me, so ask Sir Barat and Priest Calwell to join us. I’ll write a note for you to take to Priest Leonis, asking him his preference for a time and day.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

A few minutes after the manservant left, there was a quiet knock at the door. With no other servants in the suite, there was no one to answer it.

“Enter!” Rusol called out.

A young man with short blond hair came in, closing the door behind him. He wore the black robe of a priest of Pallisur, less ornate than Priest Calwell’s. He didn’t speak; he just stared at Rusol as if measuring him.

“Well?” Rusol asked, trying to keep his annoyance in check.

“Your Highness,” the man said in a deeper voice than Rusol had expected, “it’s good to meet you at last. This is a momentous occasion. It’s not often I meet another warden, though I knew the time was coming soon.”

Rusol took a step back before he realized it. “Leonis.”

The man nodded his head just slightly in acknowledgement. “That is indeed the name I’m currently using. My tenth name, I believe, but I rather like it. And you are Rusol, heir to the throne of Larso.”

“I expected to meet in a…more formal environment.”

“We can do that later if you wish to keep up appearances, but I thought it best for us to get our own discussion out of the way first, and without any observers. To be honest, Fort Northtower is not as I remember it. There are far too many of the unblessed here. They should never have been allowed in the priesthood to begin with, much less to hold such positions of power.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Of course,” Leonis said with a small smile, staring off into the distance. “Many times. I thought this visit would bring back good memories, but it’s disturbing to see how far the Order of Pallisur has fallen. It was glorious, once.”

“We have problems with the unblessed ourselves,” Rusol said, hoping to draw the man out. Leonis didn’t appear to know that Marten had been deliberately exacerbating the issue for years.

The priest shook his head and sighed. “A matter I’ll have to deal with in the future, I suppose. Now, you don’t strike me as the wizardly type, and I watched you in the courtyard. You were wearing metal armor. Elder magic, then?”

Something about the way Leonis spoke reminded Rusol uncomfortably of the First.

“Yes,” he replied, readying a spell in his mind. “Is that a problem?”

“One must make allowances, though I never thought the House of Larse would allow witch blood to pollute its line. Still, very soon, that will no longer matter.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A threat?” Leonis said with a laugh. “I have no desire to harm my own kin, no matter how distant.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your man told you I was the high priest of Pallisur, didn’t he? Who did you think I was? I may go by Leonis now, but my true name is Torwin Larse.”

Rusol tried to control his shock. “I don’t believe you. King Torwin died nearly sixteen hundred years ago.”

“When I became a warden, I stopped aging. People eventually started asking questions, so I thought it best to fake my death and disappear. My eldest boy was well able to carry on the family line. Your family line.” Leonis stepped over to the window and looked down at the courtyard. “What you call Larso was all untamed wilderness once, filled with the unenlightened and the uneducated. It was worse than the northern plains, with constant warfare. I chased out the barbarian clans and burned their witches. I built Telfort as a shining beacon to the glory of Pallisur. The people who remained either swore to my banner or were put to the sword. Through war, I brought peace, just as Pallisur decrees.” He turned back around, his face shining with triumph.

Rusol knew the history of Larso, but somehow the tales that had seemed glorious in books sounded disturbing coming from this young-looking, fresh-faced zealot who claimed to be the person responsible. Were all of the wardens insane?

Whether Leonis was involved in Rikard’s death or not, Rusol was more certain than ever about his plan to kill the man. But first, he needed more information. If Leonis was truly over a thousand years old, he was likely more dangerous than he looked.

“What did you mean about my witch blood no longer mattering?” Rusol asked, still not certain whether the other man had threatened him.

“Pallisur sent you to me, my son. You are going to help me change the world.”