Master (Book 5) (17 page)

“Seizing people all willy-nilly and forcing them into servitude doing backbreaking labor and menial chores?” Vaste asked. He sounded more aggravated than Cyrus could recall ever hearing him before. “I don’t suggest it; I state it flatly. I’ve seen the slave markets outside Gren, seen the wickedness, the coercion, the torture, the beatings and whippings.” The healer’s massive frame shook. “It is a disgusting practice, and yes, it continues to this day in spite of every accord signed to end the war with the humans.” Vaste slumped back in his seat, his oversized body flowing over the side of the chair.

“Many a paladin has made it their lifelong crusade to free the slaves,” Vara said quietly across the table. Cyrus looked over at her, and she back at him. Her indifference had faded somewhat. Now she looked merely tired. “It is a problem of Gren and of Saekaj Sovar, though I have only heard anecdotes about it myself.”

“I have seen the slaves of Saekaj Sovar,” J’anda said with his hands out expressively, long fingers dangling. He wore his true face now, with his platinum-tinged hair and wrinkles in full appearance. “Humans, elves, dwarves and gnomes forced into grueling labor in the surface farms.” His long fingers came up to cup his face. “I did not know that the trolls were still slaving, though. I had assumed it ended with the war.”

“Barbaric,” Longwell pronounced, shaking his head.

“Yes, well,” Nyad said, sending him a glare, “how were the women treated in your lands?”

“Better than that,” Longwell said with a little fire.

“Irrelevant,” Curatio snapped, drawing the attention of everyone around the table. His breath hissed out. “Now we have two disappearances with little to go on—a missing goddess and a missing guild. At least the guild, we suspect, is enslaved.”

“The footprints were definitely troll,” Cyrus said, looking to Curatio, “and there were so many of them and of enough variation that Martaina says it was not simply one troll passing through and … walking in circles or somesuch.” He shook his head. “It was an attack party. In human territory, in defiance of all treaties on the matter.”

“Another excellent to question to ask,” Vaste said, “is how they managed to transport the Daring back to troll territory.”

“Overland, one would assume,” Ryin said with a blank look.

“And one would be an idiot to assume that,” Vaste said with a sneer.

“I miss the days of civility in this Council,” Ryin said with a sigh.

“You cannot travel in the Confederation as a troll without being stopped and interrogated,” Vaste said. “I cannot imagine that traveling as a pack with prisoners would allow for much more freedom in the matter.”

“What would you suggest?” Cyrus asked. “They teleport in and out?”

“Yes,” Vaste said with a nod. “Exactly.”

“Except that they’d still have to travel overland,” Cyrus said, “in order to get to the point of ambush. Because the portals are guarded by massive numbers of men with swords and spears.”

Vaste let his hand come to his face, claws scratching lightly at his green skin. “Yes. I had forgotten that.”

“So we know it is trolls,” Erith said, speaking for the first time since they had come to Council. She, too, wore a weary look, but that was to be expected. It had been long days of riding for her, Cyrus supposed. “What we lack is how they invaded the Confederation to do so and where they went afterward.”

“Gren,” Vaste said without pause.

Erith turned to look at him. “Are you certain?”

Vaste gave a slight nod. “There is nothing else in troll lands but Gren and swamps. Few of my people live in the outlands, and there is nothing even close to a town in that area.” His face tightened. “Anymore. There was once, obviously. But not anymore.”

“Can I submit an alternate theory?” Ryin said, and though he did not sound tentative, his posture was upright and his nerves showed.

“Sure,” Vaste said, “we could use more idiocy around here.”

“Vaste!” Curatio said with another snap. “Curb your tongue lest you find yourself ejected from Council.” A quiet pervaded the chamber in the wake of that which lasted near half a minute. Curatio’s eyebrows were arched, his face cracking with fury, lips pressed in a harsh line. “Ryin, you may proceed.”

“Ah … thank you?” Ryin said. He tore his eyes from Curatio, though Cyrus noted many of the other Council members kept watching the healer, waiting to see if the Elder’s uncharacteristic outburst was to be followed by another. “Last year, when we were under siege by the dark elves, they sent a division of trolls against us.” Ryin’s words came faster as he went, as though he were gaining confidence by the mere act of speaking. “It would not be out of the question to assume that perhaps the dark elves were behind this in some way. That they were using a troll brigade of some sort to fill their own slaving needs.” Ryin looked tentatively at Vaste. “Now, you may resume your diatribe by calling me an idiot once more.”

Vaste stared at the druid. “That is … possible.”

“From you, that’s almost like a compliment,” Ryin said with a half-smile.

“From you, it almost sounded like reason,” Vaste replied. “Trolls don’t have wizards. At best, I know of one shaman remaining in the swamps around Gren. Even assuming there were more, shamans do not possess the ability to teleport. There are no portals near Gren, not anymore. Therefore, a wizard of outside origin would have to be involved in some way.”

“And the lack of portals around Gren blows a hole in your theory that the trolls would have teleported home,” Ryin said.

“Yes, I see that now,” Vaste said with more than a little chagrin. His complexion darkened.

“A question,” Cyrus said, frowning. “The Daring was possessed of several spell casters, presumably at least one or more wizards. Yet they were defeated by this band of trolls.”

“Did Martaina ever put a count to their number?” Vara asked, looking directly at Cyrus.

“No,” Cyrus said, “but I would have to assume at least one hundred in order to overcome the Daring as they did. My point, though, is that they would need a wizard to keep the Daring’s wizards from teleporting out.”

“A cessation spell,” Ryin said with a nod.

“It tilts the playing field dramatically,” Vaste said, tapping his fingernails upon the table. “Trolls can overmatch nearly anyone in strength given the opportunity to fight without magic. With all due respect to Cass and the Daring,” he made an apologetic bow of the head to Erith, “they would have been overwhelmed.”

“So, a dark elven wizard,” J’anda said with slitted eyes.

“Presumably,” Ryin said.

“Possibly,” Vaste corrected.

“And trolls,” J’anda went on. “For the Sovereignty.” He nodded slowly, eyes wide. “Well, that is quite a lot of conjecture wrapped into a nice ball and thrown against the wall.”

“You have a better theory?” Vaste asked.

“I do not,” J’anda said, folding his hands and putting them on the table before him as he leaned forward. “Far be it from me to suggest that the Sovereignty is anything but greatly evil. They are fully capable of such a thing. But it seems an odd waste of their resources at a time when they are falling back on all fronts—” J’anda stopped, his face changed in a moment, scanning the table around him.

Cyrus felt it too, a change in the atmosphere of the room, a subtle movement among a few of their members. He honed in on Vara, whose face had returned to a stony countenance. “What?” he asked, waiting to see who would speak first. “Something has happened,” he said, glancing over to Vaste, who was slumped once more, head down. “What is it?”

“The news was waiting when we returned to Sanctuary earlier today,” Curatio said, the strain evident on his face. The dark circles under his eyes were even more shadowed now, and his mouth was a thin line when it came to rest as he paused. “The dark elves have begun a new offensive.” He pursed his lips for just a beat before he went on. “They have struck out into the Human Confederation in a lightning assault and taken massive territorial gains in the Riverlands and the Northlands.”

“Why the Riverlands and Northlands?” J’anda asked, his weathered face torn by surprise.

“Food,” Cyrus said dully. The sweet aroma of the hearth smoke filled his nostrils as his thoughts swirled in his head, the stone block that comprised the Council Chambers glinting here and there in small sparkles of light from the odd reflective grain on the surface. Cyrus knew every head in the chamber was now turned to him. “If they had struck west, into the Plains of Perdamun, it would gain them nothing at present.” He lifted his head and surveyed the table as he answered, the taste in his mouth sudden and acidic. “The plains are engulfed in shortages and famine from the last efforts of the dark elves.”

“But the Elven Kingdom?” J’anda asked. “Surely it would be a rich prize—”

“If there were some beachhead for the dark elves, it surely would be,” Vara spoke, stiff and upright in her chair. “But there is none. To take the Kingdom would be to fight their way over the bridges in Termina—and could only be accomplished after cutting a safe supply line across the Plains of Perdamun, which leaves them vulnerable along a line in the north from the Confederation—”

“And with a knife against their belly in the south from us,” Curatio said. “More troubling yet for the Sovereign, because we have shown little reluctance to stab at him in such a manner after we dislodged his army from Prehorta.”

“As you say,” Cyrus agreed with a nod to Vara and Curatio in turn. He turned his gaze back to J’anda, who waited patiently, listening. “Rather than have to re-establish the lines of supply to wage such a battle against the elves, the Sovereign turns toward greener pastures, sending his armies marching around Lake Magnus to the north and south, hitting the breadbasket of the Confederation. They’re far enough from Reikonos that help will not be swift in coming. They face no threat from the gnomes or goblins in the south, presumably, and the humans are unlikely to receive the help of the dwarves from the north, so …”

“The real question,” Longwell said, “is where did the Sovereign get the troops to stage such a massive incursion?”

“The line around Reikonos, surely,” Cyrus said. “They’ve had the city bottled up for a long time now without pressing any sort of attack there. He probably called his dogs off there and—”

“No,” Curatio said, shaking his head. “There have been repeated battles along that line of late, assaults staged by the Sovereignty, and there is no weakness in that front.”

“If anything,” Vara said, shifting her gaze to Cyrus, “Isabelle reports that the fighting around Reikonos has grown more fervent. The dark elves throw troops into the battle in numbers that they have not previously been willing to commit.”

“How fares your sister?” Cyrus asked, while his mind whirled and worked on the problem at hand.

“She is well enough,” Vara said, though her jaw tightened. “Weary, but well enough. The assault on Reikonos proceeds along a line fifty miles south of the city, but in her last correspondence she mentioned that they were losing ground. That was a week ago, though. I have no idea how things might have changed in the interim.”

“Whatever the case,” Curatio said with an air of finality, “and no matter how our interests might run, this is not our problem at present. And may I remind you all that we have quite enough of our own concerns to deal with.”

“Curatio,” Vara said gently—for her, in Cyrus’s estimation, “are you quite all right?”

Curatio held steady for a moment, and then his countenance darkened. He sat in the chair next to Alaric’s old one—largest of all of them in the room, with its great sweeping back. Yet in the moments that followed, Cyrus would have sworn that Curatio grew taller than the chair of the Guildmaster.

“We stand in the middle of crisis,” Curatio said, words beginning low in his throat, almost a growl. “Disappearances that we have taken the responsibility of solving. All fine and good. Mysteries to unravel, even as the world unravels around us. I, however, can only weather so much unraveling.” Curatio stood, and his chair scraped forcefully across the uneven stones of the floor. “We grow at present, we face the strains of it, and it falls on one head—
and one head alone!
” His face darkened still further, then lightened for but a moment. “I did not ask for this responsibility. I did not want it.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head, but the scowl remained. “And I only wish Alaric would come back and take it.”

With that he reached into the neck of his robes and pulled out a pendant upon a chain. Cyrus could see it in the dim light of the torches and hearth, and it looked familiar. It was circular, almost like a perfectly round stone, but flatter and small enough to fit in the palm if absent the chain. He could see etchings swirling around it, but they were illegible in the dark. It took him but a moment to realize that it was the pendant that Alaric had handed Cyrus before destroying the Endless Bridge.

“I carry this unwanted thing,” Curatio said, and his eyes were open now, searching each and every one of them. “I carry this burden unasked. I was never to be the leader!” He was shouting now. “It was always to be him, never me! I did not desire it, did not seek it—” he let the heavy pendant drop on the table and it landed with a thump, “—and I no longer want it. The healer’s face grew into a mask of disgust. “I am the Elder of this guild and no more. Decide among yourselves who wants the responsibility of being the Guildmaster.”

There was a pause longer than a breath. “Curatio,” Vara said first, “electing a new Guildmaster now would be—”

“Entirely appropriate,” Curatio said, his words strong, like beaten iron. “And inevitable.”

“It is not time yet,” Vara said, and Cyrus could see her hand shaking where it was clenched on the table, her gauntlet rattling against the wooden edge. “He has not been gone but for—”

“Six months,” Curatio spat and leaned toward her across Alaric’s old seat. “Do you not see what the rest of us find blindingly obvious? He is gone, child. Gone, and not to return. The rest of us are left holding what remains, but none lead.”

“You could,” J’anda said, looking to Curatio. “You have.”