A King for Ravens

PART ONE: THE DEFILE

***

Chapter One

Shapes in the Dark

—They came slinking and sliding through cold, flattened grasses,— the female was saying while licking her lips. —Last night came the army of brothers and sisters, returning and heeding the call of the Presence, preparing for those we expect will soon follow. And when those that follow come after our army, we will emerge and will capture two humans… —

Rekh wasn’t listening, or at least trying not to. He flared his nostrils as the wind picked up. Spring would have come to the Rekhwyr’s deep south, where rarely he ventured, but nearer the north it barely inched forward. It had been cold last night, and he had taken his band into a cave. They sat nestled high in the crack in the mountains they called the Defile. The wall of the cliff had been their high refuge. But with morning and day both now growing longer, he and his thirty Wyrlokhen sat down to wait, clustered near Aroweth, hearing her story.

—Our army passed by,— she was saying quite softly. —We watched them pass by and we stayed in the cave. Ours is the task to wait for the two.—

Rekh felt the wind rustle over his skin. It fingered its way through the mouth of the cave. He crouched down low and was full of remembering; he sat apart near the cave’s selfsame mouth while the others were clustered, huddling, listening and watching Aroweth. The males perhaps were admiring her form; the females more likely were envying her; both sexes felt rapture at listening close. This was enjoyment, hearing the stories.

—They were heeding the Presence,— Aroweth continued. —The ones who were marching were called by the Presence. They left to the north, leaving the battle and clash of the swords. It was night as they passed and we slept and we watched. If wakened, we waited, waited and prayed to the Presence within.—

—Waited and prayed to the Presence within!— a male echoed, inciting excitement.

The cheers and the howls tickled Rekh’s concentration. Aroweth’s story would interrupt his rememberings. When fellow Wyrlokhen asked him for those, he would tell them that they were to wait until called. For now, though, they watched and stayed focused on her; for now he would wait and would think and remember and drag his black nail through the cold earth. He did this and watched as the soil curled and buckled, claw steadily tearing, while staring ahead down the open Defile.

Aroweth was caught in the thrall of her story: —The army retreated but not out of fear; they retreated because they were called by the Presence. They will return and we will remain, fulfilling the purpose the Presence has given.—

Rekh shifted his weight in his crouch and, snapping a blade of grass, kept remembering. Tasting the grass with his dark blue, forked tongue, he saw in his mind what had happened before. He sat while he tasted and replayed the sights:

—Wait here, a woman had said to him once—the Woman, the Presence, the one in his thoughts—Wait here and you’ll see how I end a disaster.

How you hide our salvation, thought Rekh to himself. That is the Presence: obstructing salvation. Keeping us locked in a cycle of rebirth.

But don’t let the Presence feel what you are thinking. Keep it inside; keep it hidden away.

The grass tickled Rekh’s tongue much as Aroweth kept speaking. Her voice was harsh in the Wyrlokhen tongue; it was rich and was full of the bloodlust of youth. —We sit,— she now said, —because we are sent. By the Presence we come; her command we obey. The others retreat, but our purpose remains. Of all Wyrlokhen, we thirty are chosen; the others retreat but our purpose remains.—

Rekh rolled back on his haunches and stretched forward one leg. His eyes were now shut and he let the grass fall. The voice of the female was tiresome. His memories were kinder: —I will avert a disaster,— the woman had said. The woman whose black Sword led all the Wyrlokhen.

—We heard her call,— Aroweth now said. —The Presence. It spoke in our minds and our ears.—

Rekh stole a glance, reverie interrupted, and looked away when he saw her look back.

—We heard its call,— Aroweth repeated. The call of the Presence so deep in our minds, beseeching that we thirty warriors should come. Requesting we capture the one we would know. The Presence appeared to our leader and told him. She spoke in our minds and so told us as well.

In his mind, Rekh focused solely on his decades-old memory. Seeing the Presence—he had watched from a cave—and watching her stand as the hoof beats began. He had waited back then as he thought he should now: absorbing the pervasive sense of deep quiet. To himself, now, he whispered:

—I sat, feeling chilled by the air, my stare fixed down west, between high, gray rock walls and over the floor’s white-green early spring. Above me the sky peered down, more blue than any Wyrlokhen hide. My breath-whispered fog, curling the air. I rolled back my shoulders, the black of my stripes like cliffs’ shadowed recesses. I heard the hoof beats and watched the approach. One human female, riding a horse, approaching the Presence while I hid and watched. The human had hair tinged with white and with silver, her eyes were like silver, but lit with the green of the grass under foot. Such beauty seemed almost the Presence’s equal until she was slain without motion by either. The human female was sitting, then fell from her horse. The Presence had triumphed but neither had moved.—

His stare now unfocused as cold settled in. No one had heard the whisper he’d shared. The female spoke, her story still going.

—We come here,— she whispered, —but not as before. We come not to kill, but rather to take. Two humans will come and will carry a Sword. Never before have they come to our land. Because they come, we take them away.—

—They came once before,— whispered Rekh. No one heard. —They came once before and I saw it right here.—

It had happened so quickly, he’d had to refocus. To look at the dead woman, there on the ground, and realize that nothing could face down the Presence. The Presence—the Woman who carried the black Sword—was power beyond what Wyrlokhen could dream. Rekh well remembered his crouch in the grass as he saw the two meet, the soft thud that came with the death of the one, and the glorious beauty that thereby was slain. Closing his eyes, he drank in her beauty—not that of the lost, but that of the Presence.

Her hair was both silver and gold, not with age but with light. Her eyes and her skin were the same, lit with silver, though her eyes tended green and her skin tended pale. To be in her presence was to know real beauty.

Aroweth continued: —We never have known such a difference as this. In all of our memory, all of our kind have been killing and waiting, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes we waited for years and sometimes for days. To the west we attack; to the north we retreat; when we are not attacking we are lusting and hating.—

A male now spoke, one who, Rekh was sure, lusted for Aroweth. —You have been silent,— he said, pointing at Rekh.

Rekh tensed, though still sitting. Absorbing his memories that had gone unheard.

—You have been silent,— the male repeated. —She has been speaking and telling us much. You are our leader. Tell us what thoughts you keep hid from the Presence.—

Rekh turned around and, forked tongue snaking out, resumed his crouch with his claws in the ground. He chose to speak first with his eyes and his stance, muscles tensing and relaxing as he leaned in and out, still at the edge of the circle and cave. For a time he ignored the male who had accused him, letting his eyes take in Aroweth.

Her skin was pale cobalt, like his, like theirs all, with thin swirls and markings of black all throughout. The stripes made furious rims around her dark eyes and made dark fire dance in relief on her body, over her smooth scalp and down her swaying back. Her form, etched from running and warfare and stories, was purer, more lithe, and refined than the humans’. Rekh had seen human women among those who fought. And others, of course. Had not one rode up on horseback three decades ago, meeting the Presence and falling down dead?

Aroweth was watching, admiring him, likely, and once more the male spoke: —Tell us what thoughts you keep hidden away.—

After another long moment Rekh finally answered. —Not hidden,— he said. —Remembered. I keep in my mind what I saw twenty-eight years past.—

—That is not long,— said the male. —One hundred and seventy-three years I’ve lived. One hundred and seventy-three years of fighting!—

—And one hundred me,— added Aroweth.

—And I have been living two hundred fifty-four,— countered Rekh. —But I remember this story: a human came here twenty-eight years ago. The human rode in on a horse and then rode out the same. Between her two ridings the Presence had slain her. The human rode in tall and imposing; but when she rode out she was draped on the saddle.—

—How could a human have come here before?— Aroweth’s voice betrayed her doubt.

Rekh locked his claws on her shoulder with calmness. —By what power she came I never will know. And what power killed her I never could say. One moment she rode in her saddle, imperious; the next moment passed and she fell down dead.—

The male interjected: —And what of the Presence? And what of her Sword? Did she not kill her with that?—

—No,— Rekh said. —The Presence just stood. The force of her power got rid of the woman.—

—How was the Presence?— Aroweth asked.

—Beautiful,— answered Rekh. —Her skin and her form are just like a human’s, save her hair is like iron and gold and her eyes… are silver in shade but like dew-edged grass. The Sword wreathes her always in power and darkness.—

Rekh stood up. —This is the Presence. This is the Presence that speaks in our minds, the Presence that can kill only by thought. Hers are the orders which we now obey. Aroweth has told you the story we saw as the army marched by. The army returns, but until then, we wait.—

—And when we capture the humans?— It was the male, responding.

Rekh was displeased. —You are impatient.—

—Because you live long,— the male replied. —You will not act when the time comes to act. Wyrlokhen should not live two hundred years.—

—You have come close,— Rekh spoke with a sneer.

—From talent in battle and not from vain hopes.—

Aroweth hissed at them both as she stood. —You speak of salvation,— she said very softly. —Heresy founded on heresy, some will say, believing first in rebirth and next in an end to it, not things we can prove, not things that the Presence has ever revealed.—

—It is a vain hope our leader embraces,— said the male again, thinking perhaps that Aroweth was with him.

—It is not vain,— Aroweth answered. —But also it is not our story right now. Right now we wait.— She looked at Rekh and he nodded in answer, clacking his black claws against each other.

—We wait,— said the male. And then with a grunt: —No more foolish stories.—

—No more,— answered Rekh. —We wait for the Presence to speak in our minds. Aroweth, tell stories to keep us to this. Help focus us on why we follow the Presence.—

She nodded, beginning, but as she began, Rekh shut his eyes and sat down on his haunches. Drawing his claws back out of the ground, he continued remembering as the sun passed its zenith. He continued remembering as it climbed down the mountains.

***

Loek Silvernature had the appearance of a man of fifty but the stride of a man half that age. In actual years, of course, fifty was a laughably low number. He was maybe even older than the castle in whose halls he now strode. Strode and… felt something.

Loek put his hand to his hip. He always carried a dagger—You never know—and he had just sensed a gentle tug at the base of his neck, just above the space between his shoulders. He could tell where the pull came from, how far away it was, and what it meant.

Mageweave. The power of the gods—the energy that held up the universe. The energy that holds you up, Silvernature.

Not just any mageweave, though; a sorry power it would be if he couldn’t tell the spell also. He knew the spell, the size, the distance.… Just not who did it. Yes? He said. He didn’t even turn around at first.

It’s impolite not to address me, Loek.

It’s impolite to sneak up on people. Even if nobody can sneak up on anybody in this Castle. He turned anyway.

The woman standing there was robed in black, and she tipped back the cowl from her head to reveal cloud-gray hair and a creased face as dark as night. Thought I might find you here. She hadn’t been in the hallway even moments before; the mageweave had been hers.

Loek’s lips twitched. It’s awfully warm for a robe indoors—and still morning, at that.

The creases in her face deepened with her smile. Unlike some of the lady mages, I don’t feel the need to dress as for a gala every day. Maybe it’s my age. The woman’s laugh sounded like a cackle.

Loek nodded. How may I help you, Lady Watcher?

The woman began a shuffling step toward him, slowly closing the distance and pulling alongside him. She nodded in the direction he’d been walking, and he fell into step beside her. I heard, she said, about the army near the Wyrlokhen.

It’s troubling, yes.

I also heard that the High Princess of Caer G’Dwythia has been in Vare these past three months.

What?

The woman blinked up at him in surprise. You didn’t know? I thought for sure that Dakmora—

The Lady Watcher of Life doesn’t always tell all, even if she knows, Glynn. You know that. That’s terrible news. With one of Vare’s strongest southern Warlords away from his holdings to fight the Wyrlokhen…

There’s always someone posted at the Defile when the raids are on, Loek.

But not always a strong southern Warlord, and with Caer G’Dwythia destabilized as it is…

Glynn put an arm on his elbow. Calm yourself, Master Silvernature. The Wyrlokhen have only ever been a local problem for Vare—ah, don’t interrupt—despite what you may say otherwise. The rest is mere coincidence. Loek turned down a main hallway that was illuminated, as were they all, by the soft glow of golden torches that never went out. His step broke Glynn’s grip, but she followed him and frowned. Why are we going to the library?

I thought you knew where to find me.

I had to try a couple of hallways, and Dakmora’s quarters are further down that last one.

Loek returned to the more troubling topic. But if Caer G’Dwythia is on its edge and there’s unrest in Vare.… We’ve never seen eye to eye on this, so why did she bring it up? Loek thought.

You’ve always been overly partial to the Northland, Loek.

To taunt me? Who else cares for mages? He picked up his pace. And prophecy is clear on the birthplace of the last Bel Esdras—the Argentine, the Silver One, who will bring peace among the gods.

Seeing that Vare has tried banning us from its borders for more than a decade, now, you can’t think all the Northlanders care. And slow down; you’re frustrating enough without being older and better fit than I am.

That’s the difference between a mage and a Bel Esdras, Lady Watcher.

Glynn’s voice was marginally louder over his shoulder—she must have sped up her shuffle, despite her complaints. You must have another reason. About the Northland. And it’s not just because your wife died there. Loek whirled on Glynn, who was still too far away for an accidentally not-so-accidental nudge. She merely pushed a wrinkled eyebrow upward. As Watcher of Death, tasteless remarks about the deceased are my prerogative, Loek. And she’s been dead twenty-eight years.

Loek held back his anger and picked up his pace, pulling ahead of her. They weren’t that far from the library. You know that’s not very long for me, he said.

My prerogative, Glynn continued, and I saw that you’ve been reading up on her mystery again—found dead, without a mark on her. The last of the silver-eyed mages, herself a Bel Esdras. I’ll agree it’s troubling, perhaps even prophetically so, but it’s also been twenty-eight years.

Loek lowered the barbed words he’d been gathering to throw and spoke more coldly, slowing so that she caught him again. What do you mean, ‘reading up on her’?

We’re going to the library. I passed through earlier today and noticed the collection of books sitting out. I made note of them, but I didn’t imagine you’d be going back twice in one day.

I haven’t been in yet today. Your prerogative to be tasteless about death. When have you ever loved, Glynn Jesselian? Like so many lesser Watchers, wedded to your work. And I haven’t been ‘researching’ my deceased wife.

Glynn’s eyebrow lifted again. No? What with one of the romances about you two sitting there, alongside a book about the deaths of prior Bel Esdras, I was certain you had. It’s all right to be in mourning a little, even still, but you always have made such a fuss about prophecy.…

The tall man hurried toward the library, old mage back to shuffling behind him. Loek, she said, I don’t normally like you in your best moods, and I hate to be ignored. Loek!

Something’s wrong. Loek pushed open the door to the library. Who is reading up on my wife?

In answer he felt a tug at the nape if his neck. It wasn’t the same sort of tug that had signaled Glynn’s appearance in the hallway—her transportation— no, this was a spell of another sort. Instinctively, he stretched with his eyes, pushing his own sight below the visible layer of the world around him, into the veil of rainbow fire that undergirded it all.

Mageweave, to the eyes of a Bel Esdras like Loek, was a silvery curtain, fitting the forms of the world above it but reflecting all the colors of its raw power. Mageweave drove the universe, and the nine colors of its Aspects—all shot through with its deepest essence, Quicksilver—made it a spectacular sight, the hues and shapes far sharper than those drawn out by mere light. There was green for Nature, red for Fire, and now, skittering across the surface and gathering momentum, the purplish-black of Death ballooning from somewhere deeper in the library. That was the tug. Loek’s fingertips tingled as he began shaping a spell, but he felt another tug, another rush of Death mageweave, one that came coursing past from behind him to cut off the first flow.

Both black clouds dissipated with a crackle of energy. And then his eyes made out the form.

Near the back of the library, where prophecies were kept, a tall, hooded figure was coming around a corner. Loek could feel the tingling of more spells. He threw up a wall of Life energy—invisible to the naked eye, but to him, a sheen of faint rose—right as the dark man lanced out with more barbs of Death. Just what the Death spells were designed to do, Loek wasn’t sure; what they did do was snap against his shield, fizzling and vanishing, scattering dark cracks across is rosy surface.

Cracking. His shield. This was a powerful mage. And bent on killing you!

Again, Loek wasn’t the first to strike back. He simultaneously felt and saw Glynn’s own wave of Death mageweave roll past him once more, passing invisibly through bookshelves to envelope the man beyond. This was a spell Loek knew, one calibrated as much to subdue as to kill, and a favorite of Glynn and others of her pacifistically-inclined camp. That’s most mages, now—there aren’t enough to fight like this.

But we’re fighting now.

Whatever spell the other mage used—one again that Loek could see, but only half-understand—it simply split Glynn’s weave in two and shoved it back beneath the smooth surface of silver.

Enough of this.

Loek drew out globules of Fire mageweave, forming them into actual balls of flame that danced in his palms, and launched one after another after another. These he guided with one thought while simultaneously melding Life with Water and Air, pink with blue and gray, lashing out with whips of energy to try to catch the hooded man. With Death mageweave, the counter to the fireballs was simple—Loek saw the man shroud himself in Death, simply absorbing the flames as they struck—but Loek was shocked again at the ease with which the mystery assailant deflected the other attacks. Loek added some Earth and Chaos mageweave to the next round of fireballs, intending explosions, but the mage still countered them easily. How is this mage so versatile with Death? And if he’s only a mage, how did he see so clearly to block the spells of pure mageweave—the ones that a Death mage shouldn’t have seen, maybe not even felt?

One of the Chaos-laced fireballs got through and exploded. And because Loek knew the Death shroud kept the dark man safe from the flames, he knew instantly what had happened when a scream came from the back of the library. Glynn must have struck. He looked around and saw the tail end of her spell, drawn out and shaped from Death mageweave into a lance of pain that, though not deadly, certainly would have crippled the attacker.

This was their chance. Loek dashed ahead through the bookshelves, letting his shield drop, lining up another set of attacks and hoping now that they might capture the villain—because Loek thought he knew who it had to be, now, what with the power—

But then he could feel the spell as it started. The tug was coming at the back of his neck again, but now it was coming from only twenty yards ahead of him, around one of the rearmost shelving units. Loek couldn’t see the spell begin, but he knew that the dark-robed man was now digging his fingers underneath the visible layer of mageweave, peeling it back like an onion skin, wrapping himself in a sheet of mageweave like a blanket. But not a blanket of warmth; this blanket would unfold him into a realm of darkness and stars deeper even than mageweave, a parallel emptiness between things that was the brief stop on a journey away to somewhere else.

Transportation.

Loek flung some desperate flames, but this time it was Glynn’s shroud of Death that cut short his spells. The sound of rushing wind came from behind the bookcases and the tug at the nape of Loek’s neck came hard, but Loek kept running. He could tell from the way he seemed to be pulled where the spell had been cast, and about how far and in what direction the Mage had gone, so if he could just find the rift before it fully closed over, he could pursue—

Don’t you dare abandon me, Silvernature! Not after I had to keep you from setting fire to the books! Glynn’s shout was followed by a raspy cough. "Scorched enough as things are in here. And Fire? In a library?"

Loek had come screeching to a halt, the sudden shout drawing him back from the edge. The transportation spell had been pretty strong, which meant the man was going a long distance. A long distance westward, which, from the Castle, could mean the Northland.

But it could also be a ruse.

Glynn was right. Better to stay.

But he didn’t have to like it. Cursing, he let his vision slide out of mageweave. If you’re asking for gratitude, you won’t get any. I was outmatching him! He longed to look for the rift. It might last for thirty, forty minutes… maybe more. It had been a strong transportation spell.

You have no idea where he was going. Her voice said more than her words, and as Loek neared, he saw she was trembling with more than age.

Yes I do.

She shook her head. "I don’t mean direction and distance, Loek. I mean location. You can’t see inside his head."

I could have found out. His protestation was half-hearted; she still trembled, and it sheepishly occurred to him that of all the mages here at the Castle—of most of those in the world, except some in Caer G’Dwythia—he was one of the few who had used mageweave to do battle. I’m sorry.

Glynn started shuffling toward him and spoke his thoughts exactly. "I haven’t ever seen some of those spells he was using. I don’t even know who that could be. And a Death mage! I should know! The fear was leaving her and turning to righteous indignation. There are rogue mages in every Aspect, of course, but so few, and they never come to the Eye—and to have snuck in who knows how long ago and to be willing to kill… !"

Loek knew that a good comrade might place a hand on Glynn’s shoulder now, but politics had polarized them a little too often. Even here. But she was right, and not just because of the paucity of battles between mages. It couldn’t have been a mage then. He turned and started back toward the corner where the mage had been lurking.

That was Death mageweave, Loek. I saw every spell he shaped.

Which might be precisely what he wanted you to see.

‘He?’ That sounds like you have someone in mind. I’m not going to like who you have in mind.

Gouron Lugoth. Gouron was a Bel Esdras like Loek—in that he could see all the Aspects of mageweave, one of only nine ever so far to have lived—but otherwise, not like Loek. Gouron had made a habit of killing Bel Esdras.

Twenty-eight years ago, he killed Nyra!

Gouron couldn’t have known Loek would have been the one he must have sensed entering the library. The Bel Esdras might have restricted himself to one Aspect of mageweave so as not to reveal his identity, and stuck with the plan in hopes Loek might not make the connection. Might not have recognized a too-powerful mage? Might not wonder whether some of those same spells of Death were the ones to strike Nyra down without a mark? Well, I have and I did. If something’s rotten in the Northland, you can bet that Gouron is skulking around, waiting for opportunities for discord or death.

With no more attacks seeming imminent, Glynn could answer drily again. "So this is about your wife." She caught up to where he stood, both of them now looking at where Gouron had been working.

It has to have been Gouron. Loek approached a low table, slightly singed from his flames. Good work cutting off the last fireball, he said. It’s not as easy to intercept a spell not of your Aspect as you made it look there. He pointedly ignored the jab about his wife and turned over the pages in one of the books lying open on the smoldering table, flipping slowly to the cover after skimming a few. "Our assailant deflected my other attacks with surprising ease—including several that wouldn’t have been visible either to the naked eye or to the eyes of a Death mage."

Glynn grunted, as much to still the lingering terror as to be noncommittal. So I’m not agreeing it was Gouron, but what was he looking for?

Loek held up the book. It’s a study of the Raven King.

Glynn’s silence remained nonplussed, and that despite the still-steaming furniture.

"Not a history, Glynn. A study."

I heard you. And?

The Bel Esdras was pulling together his theory as he stood there. That the mage had been no mage, but Gouron Lugoth, he was sure. As for this book… Loek looked down at the cover.

The identity of the Raven King was shrouded in mystery. Legend abounded, but that would make sense, given that the only hard facts were that he was the first king of Vare in the Northland, and that he had singlehandedly turned back the first Wyrlokhen invasion. Loek knew more than that, which was more than most, and nearly all of it he had never let on to, but Gouron would have known just as much. Although he might not have had all the resources to put that knowledge to use without this book. Loek cracked it open to check the opening lines again. At least, this book or another like it. The book discusses links between the Raven King and the Bel Esdras. Not common reading outside the Northland, and coming here to the Castle would be a safer cover for someone using mageweave. It’s nearly always being tugged at in one way or another here. Loek set the book down and pointed to another open book, one of two remaining. "I don’t even have to look at that one; it’s the prophecies of Kreina the Bard: it speaks of nothing but the Bel Esdras. Specifically, the coming of the Argentine."

So by your theory, Gouron broke in to read up in some dusty old prophecies.

Or brush up on a few things while waiting for whoever was reading up on my wife. Maybe you were right after all.

Glynn’s eyes narrowed in recollection. "Why were you coming to the library just now?"

He chose to ignore the accusation in her tone. No, not just the accusation—the whole comment. Gouron created the Wyrlokhen, Glynn. This last book—Loek turned over the one on the unblemished corner of the table—is a study of Northland bloodlines. This is probably what he really came to read; I’m pretty certain we have the only copy. Don’t you see? It all fits. Suddenly angry, he hissed. You should have let me pursue him!

"Why were you coming here, Loek?"

Seeing she wouldn’t be satisfied, he blurted out, "There’s more to the Varen army gathering at the border by the Wyrlokhen. It’s a fully Arwonyn army, self-selected and trained especially to fight Wyrlokhen, and I think it’s being gathered because a couple of off-their rocker royals are trying to play with prophecy. Gouron’s apparently gotten wind of it, too, if you care to take a quick look at his reading material, and I could have gone after him!"

And what would that have done?

Stopped him!

From?

Loek pressed his eyes shut in frustration.

Glynn waited patiently.

When Loek opened his eyes again, she still stood there, dark face blank with infallible calm. The fear of the battle had passed, and now she, too, wanted answers.

And didn’t trust Loek. It’s a good thing you’ve got Quicksilver sustaining you, Loek. Can’t work yourself into an aneurysm if you’re immortal, I guess.

Loek slapped shut the book on the Raven King. If there’s an extra army getting ready to fight the Wyrlokhen, it just might be that Gouron’s thinking he wants to fight back. He created the beasts but hasn’t been able to control them for nearly a thousand years. Decades have passed since he last tried, but for centuries before that, that was his constant motivation.

That, mused Glynn, and slowly killing off the other Bel Esdras under some deranged belief that he will be the last Bel Esdras—the Argentine—the one to bring his version of peace among the gods, if he is the last one living. I know the way the story goes. But is that your only explanation for coming to the library?

It’s been my life these last centuries, Glynn. Not just a story. Nyra. She wasn’t just a story when I found her dead. He looked back at Glynn. She looked skeptical. He glared. If the Varen royals are messing around with prophecy, there’s a distinct risk that this time around, the Argentine actually will turn up—that even as we speak, the last Bel Esdras, unaware of his or her power, is very possibly going about a normal life. And if Gouron is going to try bending the Wyrlokhen to his own purposes once more, and manages to flush out the untrained Argentine before we can step in, he just might pull off his crazy scheme of killing all the other Bel Esdras.

Except for you. Ah—don’t shout. Remember, I get to joke about death. Glynn sighed. I can’t abide coincidences.

Prophecy wouldn’t work without them.

Then I can’t abide prophecy. She shook her head. We’re probably due for another rogue mage, so that makes sense here. But I’m not sure we’re quite due for the Argentine yet, despite what you think, what you think Gouron thinks, or what the Wyrlokhen-crazed Varens are doing with their soldiers. She came forward and started gathering up the books to put back on shelves. I think you’re the one researching prophecy—perhaps not your wife, but apocalyptic prophecy fits your interests just as well.

And we’re back to this being a rogue mage?

They do turn up, Loek. I may only be a few hundred years old, and it may be several decades since I’ve had to face one, but I’ve met enough that I would run out of fingers counting them. She beckoned for the book he had pinned under his hand, and he gave it to her. She added it atop her pile and turned away to find their proper places. But still. Go to Vare.

What? That doesn’t follow.

You won’t be satisfied until you go. And with you gone, I’m the ranking member on the Council.

You get awfully petty after a near-death experience. And don’t tell me about your prerogatives.

You’re learning. Glynn looked over her shoulder at him while she slid a book into place. You’d learn more if we talked more. We may not agree on prophecies and impending world events, but it did used to be unseemly for a Bel Esdras to play favorites on the Council. She shelved another book, and reached upward with the last one. And no matter what you did just now.… She couldn’t finish the sentence. She leaned forward a few inches forward to rest heavily on the bookcase. If you hadn’t been here just now, Loek, she said more quietly, and if that mage had been intent on killing, I don’t know that—

It’s all right, he said. Adrenaline was wearing off for both of them, bringing with it the emotional maelstrom that followed. I guess you don’t always get to joke about death. He couldn’t make the words sound light-hearted.

Not my own. But Glynn straightened up and placed the last book on the shelf, turning to look him in the eye. No. You’re right. I don’t like it, but it can’t be coincidence. Even if it was a rogue mage, someone still was reading up on all of these things. Someone who, at least today, wasn’t you. She swallowed hard and started shuffling back over to him. You may not be welcome in Vare, but you’d better go. We can manage here.

You’ll have to be on your guard.

It’s not the first time in my three hundred years, Master Silvernature. We all know the procedures—go about in pairs, that sort of thing. Just then, they both felt a tug at the nape of their necks, from somewhere back at the entrance of the library, and Glynn smiled thinly. One of the first things we’ll need to do is work on our response times. She started walking back to the open area outside the bookcases. It feels like someone has finally come to investigate.

I’ll stay a few hours to sort things out, but then I’m going to Vare. By the time I leave, it should be morning there. Loek came around the table and offered Glynn an arm. Who’s there? he called.

The old woman gratefully clasped his elbow. A sight we’ll make, she murmured.

A sight indeed, Loek thought. I don’t know I’ve ever been this rueful that the politics of prophecy and of mageweave cannot be so easily cast aside.

But then again, it has been a very long time since I’ve had to worry that Gouron Lugoth may once more be bringing war.

Chapter Two

Guarding the Royal Body

There sat a soldier in an upscale inn, The Broken Wing, not six blocks from the Keep of Aravon, wondering how the Prince had persuaded him to allow this excursion. It crossed his mind that the clock in the Keep was likely striking midnight, although over the din of the patrons the soldier could not hear it.

These inns had cropped up over the last several years under the patronage of the Prince. The Keep was small; important visitors to Aravon were frequent; people liked to dance, sing, and eat. So went the reasoning. The soldier sat in sharp contrast to the singing, dancing, and eating, instead partaking more of the stoic Varen disposition. But even for an inn such as this, where even the Prince might be found to dance a jig, The Broken Wing was a little more exciting that night than usual.

That might just have to do with the Prince’s presence, the soldier thought. Three months before, The Broken Wing had been calmer; because his charge hadn’t come in the interim, neither had the soldier. His charge—Celador Geldethren, the Crown Prince of Vare—was back at it, though, loving the nightlife, and judging from his antics, none would guess that only three days ago—three days!—the Prince had been practically falling in love with the Naborl Warlord’s elder daughter, Amarelle. The soldier shook his head. Celador and Amarelle.

At the moment that pair crossed his mind, a young server stepped in front of the soldier’s booth, blocking his view of the Prince out among the dancers. Captain Llegarion? the young man asked.

The soldier nodded. Call me Taen, please. Taen got his fill of rank while working as Prince Celador’s bodyguard; the last thing he needed was for a man barely his junior to start dropping titles.

The server nodded. You see over there? He pointed to the adjoining side of the large room, where a cluster of young women were all packed around one small table. The fair-haired one, wearing the pink and glancing over this way? She’s a Rothdane wool merchant, not new to the business and but new to the area, and she asked me to inform you that she would enjoy having you at their table. You can do your work from there, surely. She’d like to meet you, and all that.

I’m sure she would. The server seemed earnest enough, flat as his recommendation had fallen. You’re new here. Taen looked up at the server, then gave the room a quick scan, eyes coming back to the young man just as he smiled.

I’ve been here a month, Captain.

Ah—a month! The Prince has been bringing me here since we turned eighteen—nearly four years, then. Except for the last three months, of course. But once Celador and the young Lady Amarelle started to be more exclusive, the quality of their evenings out had more than doubled. Taen hadn’t minded. Quiet dinners at the homes of nobles and merchants as well as the upper rooms of these classier inns closer to the Keep were easier to monitor. Granted, he stuck out more there. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, watching the Prince practically prance across the dance floor. I suppose I’m the one who’s been absent, then.

It’s all right, sir. The other servers told me about you, so you were easy to recognize.

Taen’s smile was fake. I know who the others are, my boy; each has tried the same trick as that young merchant woman you just pointed out. On their behalf or another’s, everyone wants to meet the Prince, and everyone goes through the bodyguard. They probably told you I dine alone.

They said your reasons were never satisfactory. He punched Taen lightly on the shoulder. Come on, you know she can’t come to your booth alone. Standards of decency and all. He winked. Listen, her father’s rich and she’s easily the prettiest of all her friends.

You’d do better not trying to be chummy. She pay you much?

What?

Taen smiled again, without showing his teeth. I’m here to make sure the Prince enters and exits in one piece, nothing more. The hostess knows I get a booth to myself. The other five guards get all the dalliances they want, but that’s because they don’t watch the whole room.

The young man was about to speak again when somebody clapped a hand on his shoulder. Give it up. It was the Prince. The young man could have been no more than three years the Prince’s junior, but Celador continued: My dear boy, you’ll never move this boring lump. He jerked a jovial thumb at Taen.

The server suddenly realized just whose hand was on his shoulder. He started. Can I get you anything, your Highness? Taen resisted the urge to stick out a boot while the server backed away, bowing.

A little fresh air, said Taen. Surprisingly, it worked; the server nodded and immediately left to go trouble some other table. Taen gave the room a quick scan again and saw the blonde merchant woman pouting a little. Taen laughed wryly as Celador sat down. Your presence finally gave my commands some force. Duty’s difficult in places like these.

You feel tempted? Mischief stalked Celador’s eyes.

Hardly. Taen pursed his lips. Temptation abounds, certainly, but when I’m guarding you, I’m guarding you.

I hope I didn’t surprise you by sneaking up, then. Celador grinned.

I was watching you the whole time.

I know. The Prince stretched back on the sparsely padded bench, yawning. What a night. And it’s still young. He tapped the game board that was pushed against the wall on the table and gave Taen a bit of a grin. Hard to play a game of soldiers by yourself, isn’t it? You could loosen up and let somebody join you. That’s what the server was playing at? Celador imitated Taen by swinging his head in a wide, slow arc to take in the room. He pointed at the opposite wall where a pair of women shared a table with a surprisingly dilapidated-looking fellow. That one there. The plumper one—the blonde. He squinted. Strawberry blonde.

Taen smirked. That’s why I do the looking, your Highness.

Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never been able to peg your taste, but I thought she was pretty enough.

What I mean is, you missed her completely. Taen cocked his head toward the dance floor and the jumble of arms, legs, and mandolins brawling across it. But tell me. Who was that?

Celador ran a hand through his dark hair, sighing with what must have been distress at Taen’s all-business attitude. Which one? he asked, sliding his back toward the wall and kicking his feet up to sit sideways on the bench.

Let’s start with the redhead.

Celador laughed and met Taen’s eyes. You already know her, dear Captain.

I’m trying to make a point, your Highness.

Don’t call me that.

"Then you don’t call me that."

Celador smirked. Taen, I don’t know what possessed your Captain Dentor to assign you to my guard, but let me tell you, these last two years since your promotion have been some of the most fun I’ve had.

Mere coincidence, I’m sure, said Taen drily.

That’s beside the point—and will you stop doing that?

What?

That thing with your eyes. Looking around. Celador snapped his fingers at Taen. We’re talking. Keep eye contact. It’s polite that way. Ah… As Celador had been speaking, his gaze had wandered. He tapped Taen on the wrist and pointed. That one.

He was indicating a tall woman, a brunette, who was just joining a table on the adjacent wall.

No, Taen replied. He completed his scan. The room had a relatively vaulted ceiling; it had been a lesser noble’s hall in Aravon before the line had died out. Now the rooms that had housed relatives were let out to the rich, the powerful, and the discreet, while the same mingled to dance and to dine below. In this room, booths lined the walls, and a few tables were scattered here and there across the floor. There was something of a dais at the front, remnant of the long-gone noble’s receiving room, and the musicians had been selecting jigs the whole night. On other nights there are waltzes. Torches kept the room well-lit. He sighed. That’s why I do the looking. He met Celador’s eyes for a moment. And a lousy guard it would make me if I didn’t.

For the first thirteen years of your life, you weren’t my guard.

For nearly the first two decades, Taen corrected. And you’re changing the subject. I was asking about the redhead.

Celador sighed. She’s the High Princess of Caer G’Dwythia. Kyria Enferneth. You know her. Blindingly beautiful and a catch for any man.

She’s got something of a longish nose.

I could forgive that for her body.

But she’s not Amarelle Naborl.

Celador rolled his eyes. It’s all fun, Taen.

It’s been fun since before I was assigned to guard you. Taen left off his look at the room to meet the Prince’s eyes again. And I’ve been privy to lots of your fun in our time together. Your romancing does tend to dictate my duties, after all.

Celador put an elbow on the table. Touchy, tonight. His voice had gone serious for a moment.

Taen gave him half a smile but then looked sharply to his right. It was nothing. Just a tipsy gentleman trying to find his way to the stairs. Not touchy; surprised. He cleared his throat. You two got on very well. I thought it might work.

The Prince sighed and leaned across the table a little, talking to his hands since Taen wasn’t looking at him. To tell you the truth, Taen, I came here tonight to remind myself about Amarelle. It’s been only three days and I miss her like crazy. The Princess… He waved a hand sort of absent-mindedly, still looking down at the other. She is amazing, no doubting that. But she’s also more a sort of dream, if you could say that. The kind you’ll never give in to but never give up on. You know the kind I mean, I’m sure. He looked up.

Even if I do, if you end up courting the young Lady Naborl, I’d keep that sort of philosophizing under wraps. Taen glanced over at the table where the fair-haired young merchant had been sitting. She was looking right at him, toying with a bit of pink ribbon, and blushed when she saw him. He looked around the room, then back at Celador. Besides, you’ve heard the rumors of the Princess’s dubious parentage, I’m sure.

That the Queen isn’t her mother? Celador grinned. Exotic, isn’t it? Of course, if we’re going to poke fun at bastards, I’d be careful letting your tongue run like that.

Taen reached over and flicked him in the arm. Don’t remind me. I still might take your throne.

Celador laughed. You like your sword too much. Despite you and the Princess sharing a common parentage, you’d never take a crown.

It’s true, Taen replied. I can trounce you in the sword-yard, after all. And to boot, I happen to know quite well who my mother is.

Aye, said Celador, affecting a lilting southern accent, but do ye know your father? After a moment, he gave a short laugh and rubbed his eyes. I’m sorry, Taen, it must be the late hour getting to me.

You know jesting about family doesn’t bother me, Taen replied. Being who I am means I get to spend more time playing with this—he touched his sword, laying on the table next to the soldiers gameboard and the brown and cream pieces—than having to play at being noble.

Being noble’s not so bad, said Celador. It’s being royal that gets to me sometimes.

I’m sure it gets to the other three young ladies you were entertaining out there as well. You realize that the tall one—the one in blue, with curly hair—was somewhat put out when you stopped dancing with her?

Celador affected a sigh. Like I said, it’s being royal that gets to me. Hot water and that.

Taen tapped himself in the chest. You should let it get to you here. A motion caught his eye and he glanced across the room—it was only the door to the kitchens opening, one of the servers coming out with her arms covered in platters. The Lord Naborl knows your reputation.

Then like everybody who knows my reputation, replied Celador, he knows that I never go far enough to leave behind a child. Not even close. It’s all fun on the dance floor or at dinner. And then maybe a moment here in the booth.

Yes, those moments here in the booth are awkward for me, thank you.

Celador reached over and punched him in the shoulder, grinning. You’re awful tonight.

Taen stopped eyeing the room to lock his gaze on Celador’s. He allowed a bit of a sardonic smile. Duty, your Highness. And I feel it a bit imperative to guard you morally, as well. After all, the Lady Amarelle expects something from you.

The Prince shrugged, but Taen could see he’d finally managed to beat on the point enough that Celador was starting to listen. Maybe you’re right. He looked away. Then he flapped both hands in the air. The Princess completely ignores me, anyway.

Good. Let someone else deal with her.

I think I will, said Celador, turning a roguish grin on Taen. Maybe you can have her—a great match, am I right? Parallel ancestry, as it were, and the two of you would rather gut a man than talk with him. Even if she is a mage, which I know will be your next argument. He tapped Taen’s sword himself, and then his eyes lit up. Or, speaking of three days ago, maybe your best bet would be Amarelle’s younger sister. Lorana. She’s almost as emotionless as you, some of the time. Blindingly gorgeous, but impossible to read. Yes… there’s a match for you!

Taen smiled thinly. Let’s worry about your courtship first. Once I have you safely into the hands of a wife, my job will ease up.

Celador put up his hands in mock surrender. Let’s not use that word ‘wife’ just yet, Taen. We can stick with ‘duty.’

Then speaking of duty, you have an early start tomorrow. I promised your mother.

Oh, Uncle, I’m not sure who’s worse—you or your sister.

The Queen of Vare must be awful to her most roguish subjects, your Highness, as must your Highness’s bodyguard. Taen tried to put some humor in the remark, but he knew it sounded curt. Celador had played the family card a few too many times for Taen’s liking tonight. Are you going to have another jig or are we going back to the Keep?

Celador groaned. Early starts will be the death of me.

Not on my watch, said Taen.

Yours or the other however many of the White Raven royal guard you have around this place. What number did you bring tonight?

Enough to clear this inn in under five seconds if I so much as twitch. Only a slight exaggeration; the royal guard were very skilled. They do a good job at staying invisible, don’t they?

Too good, Celador said. Suddenly, he stood up. Well, they’ll be all right to wait a few more minutes, then. I think I will take you up on that offer of another dance or two. Like you said, I left the dark-haired beauty feeling a little put out. He looked back down at Taen. Still, I’ll say you could make yourself a match with one of those beautiful, man-hating women, if you didn’t drive each other crazy first. Think about something besides duty. Then Celador glanced over his shoulder before looking back at Taen. But I do agree with your assessment. The blonde woman, maybe a merchant, the one in pink? Her name’s Ruenna, but she’s definitely not your type. And with that, he headed back onto the floor.

***

I miss the action, Taen thought. That’s what it came down to. He was probably very good at what he did—nobody tried killing the Prince, so his skills as a bodyguard hadn’t yet been tested—but it was slow.

Lit only by the moon and its faint rings, Taen pulled his longsword through another flurry of slashes and parries, sparing no energy to imagine invisible foes. Each strike had his full concentration. A blademaster’s mind, his teachers had called it. Too old too young, a sly girl of fourteen with pale blue eyes had told him once when Taen had been that age, barely big enough to handle a longsword. She was long gone from his life, but the words remained.

The haloed moon overhead was a nearly flawless silver-white orb when full, but tonight it was just past the halfway point of waxing out of darkness. This earth was beautiful by the light of its unmarked moon, then moon itself encircled by a garland of light from its rings.

Enough of the thought of celestial bodies slipped past Taen’s exercises for him to recall a debate he’d heard was raging in one of the great cities to the far south, that this earth was but one of many encircling their brass-gold sun and other stars. For their sun, it was the fourth nearest, at least.

Taen did not disdain scholarship, per se, but at least since leaving court, he had remade himself into a man of action. There was action fighting the Wyrlokhen. There, the duty was a palpable thing, and we saved lives. Didn’t just think and talk—about planets, about love, about…

Taen was blending into his exercises again, letting his thoughts slip back into the sword. Under the half moon, the sword-yard was a field of specters and shadows; soon, the light moon would dip in front of the Keep, leaving this walled-in rear area a single space of blackness. But for now, Taen could finish his brief, late-night workout in near silence, nearly alone. But only nearly; there were at least three others of the royal guard, the White Raven, waiting in shadows and watching the swordplay, probably musing that babysitting Celador had been especially stressful today.

Normally it isn’t, Taen thought. And then he pushed away all thought for the last time, just a few minutes more to finish his work. The sword bit through air, his muscles tensed and relaxed, his feet danced steps to rival any at that evening’s playing.

Taen finished with a two-handed hack and a sliding forward step, stopping the blade just short of the ground. His forearms screamed with the tension, and then their cry faded to a burn. He stood up and sheathed the sword. A horse whickered nearby. The royal stables were in the same enclosure as the sword-yard.

Celador went to The Broken Wing to remind himself of Amarelle, Taen thought. And I came to the sword-yard to remind me of my duty. Celador’s right about himself, after all; he keeps Varen tradition. There will be no bastards fathered from him.

But he went to an inn to think on a noble? And never mind that the High Princess of Caer G’Dwythia was there, albeit in half-hearted disguise—although, given the higher-profile clientele of The Broken Wing, nobody is likely to divulge anybody else’s secrets.

Unless the price is good enough, of course. Taen grunted and stretched out his forearms. Regardless. I suppose there are some things about each other we just won’t understand.

Taen had started walking toward the rear of the Keep, deeper into shadow. He would ascend a servants’ staircase to the fifth floor, would leave out his clothing for the early-morning wash—the privileges of