The Lost Kingdom

Prologue: Dark Alliance

The Kalac Kull had summoned Benzin Loen to an audience.

Benzin stood with the scroll in his hands, staring blankly at the words. The black lines on the thick parchment danced before his watering eyes, and the sides of his vision began to vibrate. He tried to re-read the message but could not focus on the individual words long enough to combine them into sentences. There was no finery on the parchment, no seal or ornate lettering. There was only the Mark, imprinted on the page, rising up through every word.

He flinched away from the parchment and it fluttered from his shaking hands to land lightly on the rough floor. The Mark faded from his mind, but it did not leave him entirely. It would not, not until he returned to the Kalac’s presence. It would only grow, until he died of hunger or thirst or madness, unable to do anything except think of his Master.

He left the summons where it lay and blinked fiercely to clear his eyes as the world flashed around him. He tried to steady himself and only succeeded in staggering sideways, his boots ringing out against the raised wooden floor. And then, like one of the newly woken dead, he made his way senselessly to the door of the small hut and looked out toward the harbor.

The mists that covered the island were swirling apart as they often did at dawn, and they had risen just enough to allow golden rays of summer light to fall on what these ignorant inhabitants of Eira called the Shining Sea. The waves sparkled in a brilliant array of color, throwing out rainbows and flashes of gold that a lesser man might mistake for lost treasure sunk beneath the watery surface.

Something flashed past him and slipped into his curled hand. His fingers were forced open and then closed again, and he felt thick parchment against his rough palm. The Mark roared back to life in his mind, like a burning brand in the darkness behind his eyelids; he flinched away, as if it were something physical rushing toward him. No collision came, but it sent his heart racing, and he had to wipe sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of himself, then looked down at his shaking hands. He was clutching the summons again – clutching it so hard that creases had begun to form across the missive, creases that mirrored the growing cracks in his composure. It would haunt him until he sought out the Kalac. It would act quickly, this one – it had been written with hasty and in anger.

He thought about turning back into his apartment, about gathering what he might need, but he knew that he did not have the time. The Mark was in him, and the Kalac’s need for him was too great to resist. If he did not leave now, he would be forced to do so, and if he still resisted his slaves would find him seizing on the ground and chewing through his own tongue.

He left the glorified hut, crossing his warded, doorless threshold, and descended the set of wooden steps that took him to the central walkway running from the residence of the Kull to the rest of the island. The force behind the Mark’s dark insistence lessened, but only slightly. If he were to stop again, or to be held up, it would come back in full force to spur him onwards.

He turned toward the inner island and began to hurry.

The sprawling fortress-palace on the inland hillside was almost complete. Under the orders of the Kalac, new defenses had been added and another wing constructed for prisoners, where they were to be held while the Kull extracted information from them. Already there were men of the islands kept in captivity there – dark-skinned savages – alongside pale continentals pulled from the cities of Aeon that had thought themselves safe.

The road that led from his modest dwelling to the central pathway was short, and every step he took made it far shorter still. That the Kalac had summoned him personally elicited both pride and fear, a combination of emotions that he had learned to live with since he had grown old enough to feel at all. He had known that another would be chosen for primacy now that Kalizar was gone, killed in his foolish attempt to steal one of the Stones, but he had assumed the position would go to one of the others – to Balat or Quelin, in particular. There was always a chance that another would be selected, though. This Kalac was unpredictable.

Have I been forgiven? Has he decided to wash away my sins?

Soon he was on the main stretch of walkway that led from the docks to the fortress-palace itself, and then before he knew it he was in the shadow of the enormous structure. Others greeted him as he passed – not the commoners, no, they knew their place and bowed; and not the soldiers, who bowed as well, but only as much as was required – but the other initiates of the Kull, the others who knew the signs of a summoning. They had come to watch his progress with veiled eyes. When the Mark was cast, anyone with a sense of the other world, the world that lay beyond mundane reality, could sense it for miles around. It was unmistakable, like a beacon of light or the stench of a rotting corpse.

Let them watch. Let them wonder.

His brothers and sisters knew of his disgrace, and many of them had shunned him as if he were infected and had been placed in quarantine. He had become contaminated. Unclean. But there was no sneering now, no jokes at his expense, no condemnations or thinly veiled glee. Not even from Lilin, the cruelest among them all, who glared at him with her yellowed eyes. No, they simply watched him now, watched the Mark worming its inside him like a parasite, and felt relief and jealousy that it had not been passed to them.

With the death of Kalizar, there were only twelve who could call themselves full Kull now, and all bowed before the strongest of them all, the Kalac Kull. Benzin Loen had been one of them until the horrible disaster that had been the invasion of the city the continentals called Caelron. The defeat of the fleet the Kalac Kull had spent nearly a year outfitting and readying for battle, sacrificing countless men and slaves to its creation, had been Benzin Loen’s downfall.

Even the thought of his disgrace was too much to bear. He was still a Kull, and he always would be until the day of his death, but without official recognition by the Kalac, he lived only half alive. Now he was one of the Lowered – those who were in line to become Kull, those who were sent out to prove themselves under the orders of the full Kull. Those who would one day replace the full Kull when they died, resigned, or were killed by those with more ambition.

The demotion had been horrible, and it had come mere hours after he had landed the small remnant of their glorious fleet back here in these strange, floating islands. The severing had been brutal and shocking, but it had been clean too, and if the Kalac had intended to kill him, he would have done so then. Benzin was disgraced but alive. And now… now he could dare to hope again. This was a chance for redemption. A chance to regain his Face, to become one with death again.

He entered the fortress-palace without returning the greetings of the other Lowered, and he thought he could hear them whispering behind his back, though when he turned to look they were all studiously looking elsewhere.

The hall where reigned the Kalac Kull was long and splendid. Black onyx columns ascended from floor to ceiling in two rows to right and left, and the floor was etched through with blood-red veins of minerals that had been unearthed and woven into the marble. It had cost an inestimable amount to bring it all here from the other islands and the mainland, but the Kalac had demanded it, and so the metal and the stone had been brought.

The Kalac was not alone today.

Benzin Loen knew immediately that something was wrong. This was not what he had anticipated. When a Kull was summoned before the Kalac with the Mark, there was never an audience. Commoners were not allowed in the Kalac’s presence, much less soldiers. Slaves, yes, but only those under his personal binding, and only those that had been unmanned by his own hand. The Lowered would never see him here, or, if they did, they would only see him to receive judgment; to be cast out or raised up into the ranks of the Kull.

Today, though, the area around the Throne of Bones was occupied by almost a dozen people. Benzin Loen recognized barely half of them, though among those he did know were three ship captains that he had helped bring safely back to harbor. A fourth was Admiral Lot, who had commanded the fleet beside him.

The admiral was the most shocking addition, because he was bound in chains that were in turn lashed to the floor. The bonds were so tight that he was bleeding into them where they cinched his wrists and ankles. His bright white clothing with the gold fringe that he wore when on duty was soiled and torn, and Benzin could smell the stench of several day’s filth coming off of him. It was so horrible that it engulfed the man in an almost visible cloud.

I haven’t seen him since we returned. Almost a month.

As one of the Kull, he was well versed in the ways of degradation. It was one of the ways that he wrested power from the world, power he could use to shape creation and splice it with pieces of the unseen world of the dead. There were many things that could be done to a man to make him such a tool, and Benzin Loen recognized a number of the signs in Admiral Lot.

You must have wondered why I kept you waiting, rasped a voice from the throne. You must have wondered.

Benzin Loen pulled his eyes away from the admiral and raised them to the man on the Throne of Bones. He seemed strangely small, in large part due to the sheer size of the throne, but there was more to it than that. He was clothed in massive robes that bulked up his size, but they were thrown open in the front to show his bare chest and neck, and the patches of skin that had been flayed away. He looked small because pieces of him were missing.

His face was in ruins. The aged skin over his cheekbones had been peeled back so that white bone was visible beneath, and holes had been opened in both sides of his mouth so that you could see his tongue move even when his lips were closed. His nose was gone, though that was more usual among the Kull. His scalp had been removed and replaced with a glittering sheet of gold, melded to his skull with the power of the dead world, and what hair remained to him was pure white.

All that remained untouched and pure were his eyes. His blazing eyes that shone like perfect sapphires at the bottom of a horrible pit. They would remain pure forever, as they did with all the Kull. Without the eyes, there was no seeing into the other world. It was as necessary as the bone they used for channeling, and for the bone masks – their Faces – that they wore into battle to amplify their power.

I have wondered, Master, yes, Benzin Loen said, careful not to look the Kalac in the eye. Such was the full privilege of the Kull, and he was as yet technically still one of the Lowered.

It is good you tell the truth, the Kalac said, taking his time to caress each word as it rolled out his mutilated mouth. He always spoke such; there was no reason for him to hurry. He held more power than the next several Kull combined. He would be listened to, no matter the time or cost.

I would never lie to you, my Master.

Good, said the Kalac. Good. For all your faults and failures, this much is true. You have always been honest with me. I suppose you are also wondering what has happened to your erstwhile companion. To the great Admiral Lot.

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches, and Benzin Loen breathed it in as one addicted to the bottle might take his first swig of alcohol in months. There was power in such things – power in the tension and the fear of lesser men, like those that surrounded Benzin and the Kalac.

He shivered before he managed to bring himself under control. I am wondering that as well, Master.

Good. Because it is why I have summoned you.

Master? I… do not understand.

You bear much fault for the loss of the fleet I built, said the Kalac. His words were deliberate and driving, and they increased the tension in the room still further. Benzin could feel what his master was doing, could feel it and knew somehow that it wasn’t for him. This was an example being made for someone else. But who?

He did not dare look over at the others he had not recognized, but as his thoughts shifted to them he felt something stir among them. Something he had never sensed before. No… no, he had felt it before. But when? And where?

The fault is mine, master, Benzin Loen said. I should have anticipated the counter-attack of these Sorev Ael witch men. They use bastardized words of power, and somehow they managed to summon the savages that live in the islands to the south. I should have foreseen the possibility, I should have –

But you did. Didn’t you?

Benzin’s mind went blank. He had no idea what the Kalac was talking about. He had not foreseen anything. He had led the fleet into the bay between the two cities of Aeon, thinking he would crush what these continentals called their Great Ships. But the witch men in their tower had counterattacked with power he had not expected, and then the Islanders from the archipelago to the south had attacked from the rear, trapping the fleet in a vise. It had been his fault entirely.

His eyes flicked to the admiral, and it was only then that he realized the man’s mouth had been sewn shut.

The admiral did not know himself anymore, that much was clear. Whatever the Kalac had done to him in the deep, dank torture chambers built beneath the palace had driven out the spark of his sanity, something that must have given the Kalac great power and pleasure. Lot was an empty shell now. The same man, but with half the mind. Living and breathing, but not alive.

Why isn’t that me? Benzin asked himself. Why was he tortured and not I?

He longed again to look toward the newcomers, but still he resisted. He could feel the threads of a political tapestry being woven around him, and he knew that he needed to grab hold of the pattern and work with the weave before it was too late. If he were to disrupt the flow, the Kalac would be forced to do to him what he had done to Lot – forced to punish him and use him for what he was worth. The Kalac was granting him time to figure out the scheme, gifting him the precious space of a few heartbeats to prove his worth and save himself.

Why would he give me such a chance?

And then everything clicked into place.

This time he did meet the Kalac’s eyes. It was a horrible gamble, the kind that he would never have taken in normal times. But this was a time for desperate measures. The Kalac’s lidless eyes blazed back at him, and Benzin Loen nodded his head the barest fraction of an inch. The blue gaze flickered, and then Benzin once more averted his eyes.

Whose fault was the loss? the Kalac asked immediately.

It was mine, Master.

Speak the truth! the horrible face screamed at him, breaking the tension that had enveloped the room. Speak the truth or I shall strip you bare, limb from limb, flesh from flesh, until your blood and bone bathe my feet and soak into the stone!

Yes, Great Kalac! Benzin cried. It was my fault, but not mine alone!

A silence fell, and in it the admiral whimpered. Benzin wanted to look at the man, wanted to watch him with the sick, fascinated pleasure he always received when watching those in pain, when feeding off their suffering. But he refrained, and told himself that this was neither the time nor the place to indulge his urges. There would be power enough for him when he regained his Face.

How can that be? the Kalac asked. A tremor went through the room, shaking all those in attendance. The Kalac was gathering power to him, drawing on the waves of terror rolling off the admiral, who was shaking and sobbing as only broken men can. Benzin Loen thought back to the time they had spent together on the ships crossing the sea for the invasion of this land of Aeon. He thought of the man’s former pomposity, his gross arrogance and caustic humor.

Benzin’s heart thrilled in his chest, and he breathed in deeply, tasting the fear. He knew now that the Kalac wouldn’t mind; knew now that he would be made a full Kull again so long as he stepped where he was required to step.

This is about the visitors. Who are they?

How can it be that this is not your fault? the Kalac asked, building his power to a head. His voice, old but still horribly forceful, pounded through the room, and everyone flinched back from it.

No… no, not everyone.

Benzin could not turn to look, but he saw from the corner of his eye one figure standing tall, unflinching and unbowed. Simple clothing. Costly and well-cut, but simple. That was all he could make out. And the man who wore it stood like a rock against the waves of fury radiating from the Kalac.

How can it be that you were sent across this pitiful sea with a duty that was failed and yet somehow it is not your fault? How is it that you stand there and tell me this? I demanded that you speak truth… is this not deception?

It is not, my Master.

How? How is it not, Lowered One?

Because I cast the auspices before our attack and found them wanting. I told the admiral that we should turn around, that we should abandon the attack and regroup, and he refused. He turned the crew against me, and there was nothing I could do but fight alongside them lest they all be lost.

Half of it was true, the other half mostly true with a healthy sprinkling of lies. He had also decided to go ahead, without the admiral’s insistence. They had been in it together, but that didn’t matter. No one would know now. Benzin had long experience weaving together truth and falsehood, and most of his tale, from a certain perspective, was completely plausible.

The Kalac Kull fell silent, and the ambient power in the room shot up yet again, soaring until it was like an invisible storm raging all around them. Benzin Loen was only just able to stop himself from shaking with the need to reach out and take some of it for his own. He could taste the power, could smell it waiting for him. He clasped his hands before him so hard that his knuckles cracked. That small sound, so loud in the newly completed audience chamber, seemed to go on forever.

And then the Kalac Kull nodded.

Very well, he said slowly. You were punished when you arrived and you have lived as one of the Lowered long enough. Do you wish to rise again?

Yes, my Master, Benzin replied, barely able to keep a moan of longing from his voice. Yes, it is my most sincere wish –

Then you shall prove it to me.

Benzin paused, trying and failing to read the room. He had no other choice, though, so he said, Whatever you require, great Kalac.

The Kalac strode forward, unlimbering himself from his chair. He shrugged out of his massive robes and shrunk in size, so emaciated that he looked like a living skeleton with limbs and an impossibly large head. He wore no shirt, no boots, and so all could see the patches of skin that had been peeled artfully away in his quest for ever-greater power. Muscles rippled visibly where they should have been covered, and bone shone out proudly, infection and disease and all crippling afflictions held at bay by the power that coursed continually through him.

Benzin knew what would happen next, but he was still not prepared for the suddenness or the outright brutality. The Kalac reached for the admiral and grabbed him by the neck. With impossible strength, he raised the broken man into the air and threw him down from the dais as easily as a child might toss an ill-favored toy. The admiral cried out as the manacles holding him in placed ripped through skin and bone, severing his hands and feet. Blood spurted from the stumps, splashing artfully across floor, and the Kalac spat words of power to summon death to him. He followed the admiral then, like a predator after wounded prey, and slammed the man into the floor. Lot’s head stuck the marble, and he began to shake and writhe in a full-body seizure.

The Kalac grabbed his head and bent it back, inch by inch. The admiral screamed and tried to stop him, but there was nothing that could be done. The power of the Kalac was complete, and there was nothing a mortal could do to fight against it. The admiral’s neck snapped, and his body went limp, though his lips continued to spasm and his teeth to gnash. The next vertebrae snapped, and the men’s eyes glazed over. The skin of his throat parted, ripped open, and then blood was flowing as Lot’s head was torn from his body and tossed aside.

The Kalac Kull bent to drink from the severed stump, coating his face and chest with the fresh arterial blood and moaning in pleasure.

Benzin shivered in ecstasy, desperate to join his Master, his whole body quivering with excitement that bordered on the erotic. But he held himself still and forced himself not to show his eagerness. This was the Kalac’s feast, a private sacrament. Benzin would have his own if he waited, and so he waited.

Finally, the Kalac had drunk his fill, and so he released the body and stood. He radiated light, though Benzin was not sure how much of it the mortals saw. The emaciated man was more substantial than many a mountain Benzin had seen, and just as indomitable. It was a beautiful moment, and it inspired in Benzin the kind of perverted loyalty that all practitioners of dark depravity feel for true masters.

But the moment was short-lived.

That was rather excessive, interrupted a voice. One of the strangers.

All eyes shifted to the man who’d spoken, and Benzin, finally given an excuse to look, drank in the sight hungrily. What he found disappointed him. This man was ordinary. He stood at a middling height, with a plain face and soft brown hair that he’d pulled back behind his head. His chin was beardless, and he looked oddly wind-swept. His clothing was just as simple as Benzin had originally noted: of good material, if outlandish, but very simple. There was no finery about him. No gold, no jewels or rings, not even embroidery on his fitted vest. His face was forgettable, his eyes a dull, muddy brown. If you were to see him in a crowd, you would not remember him. And yet he stood like a king among peasants. His back was ramrod straight, his beardless chin raised proudly; his hands were clasped patiently before him, and his mouth and brows were set in a look of long-suffering patience. The brutal dismantling of the admiral had inspired no apparent fear in him, nor any particular interest. His expression said that he had seen such things before and that they had lost all meaning for him.

You are a guest here, emissary, said the Kalac Kull tightly as he strode back to his throne. Do not presume to judge what you do not understand.

The corner of the plain-faced man’s mouth twitched, but his expression remained neutral. Of course, great Kalac, the man said, inclining his head slightly but in no other way exhibiting deference. The three men behind him, all dressed in functional clothing just like the man upon which they attended, were much more moved than he was, and they looked ready to flee at the slightest provocation. It was only their leader’s stoicism that kept them rooted.

We have heard your plea, the Kalac said as he seated himself once more, wrapping himself again in his robes, which slid back into place without him needing to lift a finger. We are grateful to Charridan for all they have done for us.

It was not a plea, great Kalac. Do not mistake it for such.

Benzin froze in place, barely daring to breathe. No one spoke to the Kalac in such a way. And yet, the greatest of the Kull did not lash out, but instead smiled lazily, almost indulgently, as if such a thing amused him. Our bargain was that we would break this land for you should you give us safe passage through the Charyb Sound. We will share this land, as was agreed.

And yet you have failed, the man said, still unmoved. He looked less bored now. You failed to retrieve the Stone after I told you what it was and what it could do. You failed in your invasion. You failed as completely as possible.

The Kalac Kull began to laugh, and a wave of calm reassurance rolled over Benzin. It was not his usual response to his Master’s laugh – in fact, this might have been the first time in living memory that anyone had felt reassured by the Kalac showing such obvious amusement. But in this case it fit: the Kalac hadn’t been taken off guard, he’d been expecting this. He had a plan, and it had to do with Benzin.

There was no time limit agreed upon, the Kalac said, brushing back a stray strand of white hair from his face. The gold plate of his scalp gleamed in the light of the throne room, making it hard to look directly at him and giving him a magnificent halo. We have only just tested the waters.

My lord needs reassurance, the man said, clearly not reassured himself.

He will have it, the Kalac said. We will send an emissary to return with you, to lay out our plans. Charridan is a valued ally in this endeavor, despite our contentious past. Perhaps because of it. You know what we are capable of and what we want. Have not we proved ourselves on that point?

The man paused, for the first time appearing to study the Kalac. He seemed surprised by what he found, though Benzin could not understand why.

Yes, he said finally. Yes. Who will you send?

And it was then that Benzin Loen realized he was going to Charridan. The Kalac had not spared him out of any sense of compassion – there was no compassion in such a man, nor in any of the Kull who had earned their Face – but out of political necessity. He needed someone to send across the Sea, someone expendable who could be relied upon but who could also be cut away like a dead limb if necessary.

I thought that the Zystorin could not cross the Shining Sea, said Benzin Loen, seeing a chance to intervene and give the Kalac Kull time to compose his thoughts. Perhaps the Kalac would favor him if he could help in such a way. I thought that the reason you needed us here was that you wished us to do what you could not. How is it that you are here? Are not we still in Aeon?

That is partly true, of course, the man said, turning slowly to Benzin. But not in whole. I have spent many years testing the boundaries. I cannot set foot on the continent of Eira. None who hold allegiance to the Glorious Emperor in their heart can do so. This island, however, is land that has never been settled. They tried, once, by sending Ainic settlers. They met with… misfortune.

This made the Kalac smile, and so Benzin smiled too.

This is not part of Aeon, the man continued pleasantly. "This is a place between. An outpost that those like myself can use without breaking the Peace. A thing that even the great Eman Vath did not foresee."

Benzin had heard that name before, but he could not place it. It was in some relation to the stone that the man had told them about – the stone in the ring that had been found, that Kalizar had been tasked to find and return. The ring that had slipped through their fingers.

I see, Benzin said. Then it is well we claimed it.

It is well indeed, the man said, now studying Benzin. His face was neutral, and he gave away nothing of his thoughts or whether he approved or disapproved.

Benzin Loen, one of my Kull, will go with you, the Kalac said. Benzin tried not to swell too visibly with pride, but the effort it took was phenomenal.

This is your one and only chance to redeem yourself, the Kalac said to Benzin, his composure once more regained, his iron face cold and unforgiving. You failed me once, but the fault was not entirely your own. Do not fail me again.

The dismissal was clear. Benzin bowed low – so low that his nose almost scraped the marble floor – and then he turned and left. He heard the sound of footsteps behind him and slowed just enough for the unnamed emissary and his attendants to fall into step beside him. Together they exited the room, and with every step Benzin’s relief mounted. He could not help but feel that he was escaping miraculously unscathed from what should have been the jaws of death.

Once they were outside the throne room, the doors slammed shut behind them, moving on their own with the power of the Kalac.

What is your name? Benzin Loen asked, turning to the man beside him. The man glanced at him, and then raised a single, ordinary eyebrow.

They call me Pall Majin, the Man of a Thousand Lives.

Benzin Loen’s throat went bone dry, and suddenly his every sense was focused in on this conversation. He could smell incense covering the metallic hint of blood, could feel cool air blowing in from the entranceway several rooms away.

You are the son of the Pall Majin who sealed the Peace a century ago? he asked, trying to make sense of such a statement.

No, the man said. His face changed then – something grew inside him and swept over him, and Benzin jerked away. He tried to summon up his essence, tried to ready the power that made him one of the Kull, but even as he reached for it he realized he could not find it. The sense of it was completely gone. Panic swept over him, but before he could do anything, his new companion grabbed him by the front of his robes and held him fast. He smiled, and it was a smile that made Benzin want to drive nails into his eyes so that he would never have to see it again. A smile full of pus and rot and all the things that eat and claw and tear at tender flesh in the dark, preying on the innocent, preying on the weak, consuming everything for all eternity.

No, he said. No, I am Pall Majin the original. The Grand Zystorin of the Charridan Empire, as I have been for over half a millennia. And we are going to meet my master. I suggest you ready yourself.

Chapter One: Words of the Wise

Valinor Therin, Mage of the Eryn-Ra and Sorev Ael of Var Athel, stood on the foredeck of the Crossing Ferry as it sliced through Maiden’s Bay. The Citadel of Var Athel, a bastion of white stone, rose from the waves ahead of him like an Old God’s fortress. High tide covered the base of the structure almost entirely so that it appeared to grow directly from the waves themselves, or else to float upon them, eternal and unmoving as the sea.

The summer sun blazed down on him from above, reflecting off the waves with insistent force and boring into the eyes of any who cast an unwary glance at the blue-green sheet of glassy, rippling water. The city of Caelron, opposite the narrow mouth of Maiden’s Bay from the Citadel of Var Athel, drank in that light as it stretched wide like a lazing beast across the seven hills of the Peninsula’s tip.

Greenery covered every surface of dry land surrounding the Bay. The winter and spring had been full of rain and even occasional snow, and as such summer had burst out in vibrant, verdant force. The scent of flowers and wild grass permeated the air as the wind from the Shining Sea caught the pollen and playfully tossed it about. When the wind reversed direction, coming instead from Aginor, it bore with it the scent of wheat and barely and new-cut alfalfa. Wildlife flourished along with the lush plant life, and from the clear vantage point of the ferry Valinor could see flashes of deer and foxes and ten types of fowl. The Great Ships of Caelron, three-masted clippers and war frigates, patrolled the sea lanes just outside the mouth of the Bay, and in their wake dolphins could be seen cresting the white-capped waves, diving through the sun-drenched waters of the otherwise frigid sea.

And yet to Valinor Therin, a pallor seemed to have settled over the scene, cast by the dark words he’d heard in Caelron.

Master Sorev Ael? said a voice behind him. Are you comfortable? Do you need further accommodation?

It’s an hour-long journey, boy, Valinor snapped. I’m fine. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. His temper, always short with unnecessary or foolish questions, was even shorter after his meeting with Baelric.

Damned fool Sage.

The boy recoiled, stung; the sorcerer took a breath and turned to him. The boy was young and thin, barely into adolescence. He had dark brown hair and the swarthy complexion of the men and women who lived further inland, often in Aginor or Ain, or even the easternmost Forts. His eyes were bright, and he was going through the kind of growth spurt typical of boys his age, leaving him looking pinched and a little sickly, even though his cheeks were flushed with health.

The way he cowered now, though, under the anger of a Sorev Ael, left Valinor feeling exasperated and guilty. The boy’s eyes were wide and fearful, and he had pulled back as if afraid the sorcerer might strike him down or curse him into oblivion. Or maybe both.

I apologize, Valinor said, doing his best to mean it. I should not have spoken in such a way. Thank you for asking after my comfort. I am well, and do not wish to be disturbed. What is your name?

E-Erik, sir.

I am sorry, Erik. Do you accept my apology?

The boy nodded, though he was still obviously worried that the sorcerer he’d accidentally disturbed might find him disagreeable and turn him into a newt or a fish or perhaps something truly horrible, like a prickly, middle-aged man. Before Valinor could say anything else, though, the boy bowed respectfully and retreated, hurrying away toward the quarterdeck.

Valinor called himself several choice words under his breath.

Master your anger. What Baelric said was true, and what matters is that you did what needed to be done. Put it behind you. The next task will be more challenging, and you’ll need all your wits about you for it.

But still his mind was pulled back to the meeting with Baelric and the young King Malineri.

Valinor had never been inside the palace before. The experience had been novel, and for quite possibly the first time in the half-century of his life, he had felt the shabbiness of his attire and the overwhelming sense that he was truly out of place, like a broken-down nag among well-brushed stallions. He was not used to feeling such inferiority, and though he had managed to quickly stamp it out like the first flames of a dangerous brush fire, he had remained self-conscious during the entirety of his stay in the palace as he waited on the pleasure of the King.

Waiting. A month of waiting.

The first week had been understandable – Malineri was as yet new as Kings of Caelron went, and there were a-thousand-and-one details of daily operation to attend to. Not to mention the fact that the city of Caelron was reeling from the recent invasion of the Varanathi, an invasion that had only barely been beaten back. The Great Ships needed to be re-outfitted and various delegations needed to be sent to the other cities of Aeon, the islands of the Archipelago, and the southern nations of Laniae and Calinae, all of which Malineri would need to treat with individually. And that was just scratching the surface.

But that week had turned into two, and those two into three, and still Valinor had been left languishing in the rooms they had given him in which to wait. There was nothing he could do about it, though. He was a Sorev Ael, true, but he had not come in any official capacity from Var Athel, and so could not simply demand an audience. The only other Sorev Ael who knew where he was, outside of Baelric, was Holder Flynn, the Thirteenth Speaker of the Circle, and he had counseled Valinor to undertake the trip in secret.

If you intend to take the three children with you when you head north, Flynn had said when Valinor had revealed his plans, then you must not have the Circle looking over your shoulder. It will soon be known that the Ring of Eman Vath is missing, if it is not known already, and when Baelric finds he is supposed to have it, word will be sent to the Circle and I will come under direct suspicion. I have cast my lot in with you, Valinor. You must convince Baelric and Malineri of your plans, or there is no chance this secret will be kept.

So when the King finally granted Valinor an audience, the seasoned Sorev Ael experienced a rare moment of anxiety.

You do not keep a friend waiting, he thought.

The audience was not in the central chamber of the palace where Malineri in his official position as King heard petitions from the people of Aeon and received visits of state. No – the audience granted was a summons to the private chambers of Baelric himself, and Valinor thought he knew why.

The journey was a walk through all the stately, towering hallways of the palace, full of carved statues, beautiful tapestries, and lush paintings of the great heroes of Aeon. A walk meant to humble even a Sorev Ael. And the Arcana pervaded it all, like an overpowering stench. Not in the sense that it was foul, but in the sense that it was layered on so heavily that anyone trained in the arts of the Sorev Ael could not help but be overwhelmed by it. There were wards upon wards woven into the walls, lending them strength, setting traps for trespassers.

The Varanathi came with sorcerers, Valinor thought as he went. Baelric is taking no chances, not even with Sorev Ael.

The Sage should not have needed to do that. The Sorev Ael were sworn to one another and sworn to serve the people of Aeon. If Baelric the Wise thought it prudent to take such measures…

When he rounded the final corner that led to Baelric’s chamber, he found himself in a long corridor that terminated in an arched double door. The heavy thud of his boots on the castle stone became suddenly muffled as he crossed onto a thick carpet that took up the middle third of the corridor. When he was still several yards away, an odd sensation swept over him. It was like the sensation of falling, save that it was not physical in nature. His stomach did not churn, not did his gut clench; his body generally did not react. It was a seizure of the mind, in both meanings of the word: something had grabbed him, and his thoughts had spasmed in response.

It disappeared as quickly as it came, though, and the only evidence that anything at all had happened was a slight hitch in his step as his monotonous, steady tread faltered. He caught himself and smoothed over that single break in his confident stride with practiced ease. There were servants in the corridor, ostensibly cleaning, and two knights of the Viretorum flanking the chamber door. All of their eyes were on him.

He knew that they were spies for Baelric, knew it with the inexplicable, intuitive certainty that so often guided him. The way they paused to take note, the way they relaxed when he kept going; it told him everything he needed to know.

The knights in their red-and-green cloaks and polished armor parted as he approached, and the doors swung open without his needing to announce himself.

Baelric’s chambers were much more modest than their exterior implied. The first room was large, but it was almost bare. The only real focal point was an inner pavilion, a raised dais on which sat a number of chairs partially hidden by long flowing curtains that descended from the ceiling. There were tapestries on the walls, but none contained battles or scenes of glory; instead, each contained a King of Caelron backed by his Sorev Ael advisor. Valinor noted that the kings chosen were all of note for their wisdom and justice – Balini, Wyllhem, even Cuthman. None were great war leaders save Marcus Aurin, and he had only gone to war at the last extent of his rule in response to the first Charridan invasion.

The knights shut the doors behind him, and Valinor waited.

Natural light lit the room, streaming in through a window opposite the door. The window was tall and wide and made of glass cut into simple, square sections that bore no color or ornamentation. Through it could be seen the beautiful turquoise sweep of Maiden’s Bay at high tide, full of fishing boats and the Crossing Ferry. There was no molding around the window – no gilt, either. The wire framing simply met the wall and flowed into it, as if the two were one.

He glanced around at the rest of the room: two doors aside from the one he’d entered through, one on his right and one on his left. The one on his left was ajar, and through it he could see what looked like a washroom with a simple stone basin, wooden chests of clothing, and curtains for dressing. The other door was closed.

He heard a sound behind him; the sound of swishing fabric, and then the soft tread of light, booted feet. The doors closed again, and the newcomer spoke.

Valinor Therin, a deep voice said. Mage of the Eryn-Ra.

Baelric the Wise was a Sorev Ael as they were portrayed in stories. He had grizzled black-gray hair and a matching beard, and he wore dark robes with inner layers of white. At his neck was a silver clasp, and his sleeves had been rolled up to the elbow to show tanned forearms covered in dark runes that looked as if they’d been burned into the skin. If the stories were true, they had been.

His face was neutral, and the hood of his robe was up, even in the sweltering heat of a Caelron summer, so that his bright eyes peered out like glistening coals in a dark cavern. Despite the heat of day, there was no perspiration on his face, and he gave the impression of perfect equanimity. Valinor became aware of the sweat dripping down his own back, sticking his simple gray shirt to his skin beneath his faded red vest, and he stifled a flare of annoyance.

Baelric the Wise, Valinor replied. Or so they tell me.

To the man’s credit, he smiled, but the motion was nothing more than a soft flick of the lips, a thinning and stretching in the depths of the hood’s shadow, and then the neutral mask returned. When they first started using that epithet I thought it rather gauche. Baelric the Brooder, Baelric the Barrister, Baelric the Batty, all of those are much more satisfying to the ear.

And yet slightly less dignified.

I find I often yearn for the mundane, the older man sighed. A personal weakness. He swept a robed arm toward the closed inner door and then moved in that direction. Please. Valinor paused only a moment before following; he had taken the time to look toward the main door and wonder where King Malineri was.

I requested to see them both.

He followed Baelric, though, putting aside his irritation.

The room into which they moved was quite different from the first in all respects save one: it too was almost bare of ornamentation. The main differences were clear enough; the size, for one, was drastically different. Where the main room was wide and tall, almost bulbous, this room was long, short, and thin. And even the small amount of adornment it did contain, namely a long bed, a solid writing desk, and a yawning fireplace flanked by two floor-to-ceiling windows, were clearly crafted for function over form. The bed was