Pawn Of The Planewalker (Book 5) (5 page)

A tiny knock came from the door.

“Come.”

Will stepped through, carrying a tray of food covered with red linen. Silence hung awkwardly as the boy put the tray on the table.

“I’ll leave you to your meal,” Darien said, standing. “The next council meeting is tomorrow. I’m counting on you.”

The rest of Darien’s sentence was left unspoken, but Garrick understood clearly what Darien was saying—
without your support, the Freeborn will not accept the bylaws.

Darien left.

The smell of food wafted from the tray.

“I’m sorry about Alistair’s journal, sir,” Will said, his face a clouded mix of contrition and desire. “I just wanted to learn something.”

“It’s all right, Will,” Garrick said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll begin teaching you sometime soon.”

Will smiled.

“But for now, let’s eat.”

Chapter 7

“The plan is perfect,” Neuma said with a flourish.

The rest of the Koradictine council was silent, a fact that made her even more confident. It
was
perfect. Ettril would request an audience with Lord Ellesadil in Dorfort, where he would point to his shattered order and ask for a peaceful coexistence. Such a meeting would certainly draw Darien and Garrick, putting those two out of the scenario. Fil would slip into the manor and cast a spell over any guards outside the stable. At the same time, Hirl-enat and Quin Sar would encapsulate the entire area in magic that would hide their casting from any Torean mages outside the manor area. The encapsulation was the most difficult part, but it didn’t have to be perfect—she would need only a moment to swoop into the stable area and grab the boy.

The plan took advantage of the perception that the Koradictine order was decimated. It allowed Ettril to be seen publicly during the event, meaning he could deny involvement if necessary. As long as Fil was gentle on the guards, no one else would be hurt, reducing Dorfort’s ability to rouse outside support.

Yes, the plan was perfect in every way.

But she was banking on her compatriots to be leery of her, too. She knew they wouldn’t trust her to perform her role all by herself.

That was the key element in
the rest
of her plan.

“Why wouldn’t I cast a blanket spell that would put them
all
to sleep?” Fil asked.

“You mean the stable hands as well as the guards?”

“Yes.”

“That would work, but if you cast a blanket, we could have people falling in the middle of corrals where they would be easily seen. I felt it safest to merely work on the guard.”

“What happens if you can’t grab the boy?” Hirl-enat said. “Or what if he’s guarded more closely?”

“That’s a good point,” Neuma replied. “I’ll need to have a spell prepared in case the boy’s covered. Perhaps you could suggest a few yourself. I’ve considered several, but would be grateful for any thoughts you might have.”

“That still doesn’t account for cases where you might struggle to handle the boy. Even a short scuffle could destroy the timing.”

“Perhaps Quin Sar could join Neuma after he finishes helping Hirl-enat with the encapsulation,” said Ettril.

“I considered that, Superior,” Neuma answered. “But I was concerned that putting too much strain on Hirl-enat’s magic may cause problems. Holding encapsulation for that long will be difficult.”

“I can do it,” Hirl-enat snapped back.

Ettril nodded.

Quin Sar’s glance bounced from the superior, to Neuma, to Hirl-enat. His distrust of Neuma was obvious, and, of course, not without merit. “The timing would be very tricky.”

“If I rest adequately beforehand, I can do the entire encapsulation,” Hirl-enat offered.

Ettril gave him a disbelieving glance.

“I’ve cast more difficult spell work before,” Hirl-enat said, drawing himself up in his chair.

Fil scratched his cheek. “If Hirl-enat can manage the encapsulation by himself, that
would
make snatching the boy considerably more certain.”

“And, admittedly,” Neuma added with reluctance she hoped seemed sincere, “the encapsulation shouldn’t need to be held that long.”

The superior cast a questioning glance at Quin Sar and received a thin-lipped nod in return.

“It’s decided, then,” Ettril said. “Quin Sar will accompany Neuma.”

“Where will you take the boy?” Fil asked.

“Neuma and Quin Sar will bring him back here.” Ettril responded before anyone else could. “I will handle it from that point.”

Neuma grinned. “Whatever you decide at that point, superior, be prepared to do it immediately. Unless I miss my mark, Garrick will not be far behind.”

“You’d best not miss your mark by far on that point, Neuma,” Ettril replied. “Our entire plan is based on it.

“I have no fear, Lord Superior. Garrick will follow.”

Chapter 8

Braxidane cut a swath through Existence, brushing tendrils against gates, touching entire lands of people and moving energy into and out of those lands. He was careful, always careful. It would be unseemly to be caught violating an agreement he had brokered himself. But sometimes, if everything was right and none of the others were watching, he would extract just a tad more than he gave. He had a secret reservoir where he stored these extra gleanings, protected away, hidden from prying senses.

This time, however, he wasn’t interested in extending his cache. This time he spread his filaments through Existence, enjoying its friction for the mere pleasure of the act. Yal, a plane of little magic, was perpetually balanced. Costaralan was still growing. Ragant had slipped toward chaos, and smelled vaguely of brother Pullini’s influence.

A dark green shiver ran through him.

Pullini seemed to think the planes were there for his own entertainment. He constantly stretched the rules, pushing residents as far as the guidelines would allow and then sometimes further. Braxidane wouldn’t mind it so much, but Pullini did nothing of any value with the extras he gleaned. Instead, he consumed and consumed, and when he went too far and got himself dragged before Joint Authority he always complained he was being persecuted.

Pullini was a coward.

Braxidane slipped through connective tissues between the planes, enjoying the process of travel despite the pall brother Pullini put over him.

Rastella lie ahead, a world that he owned, and that—due to its direct link to Talin—was rich with highly evolved and elegantly crafted magic. He was interested in a mage there, a child still, but showing talents as natural as Garrick’s had been.

Braxidane reached for the gate, hoping for a taste of its unique flavor, and maybe the briefest update on the child. But it scalded him at his touch, and when he pulled the tendril back he smelled the odor of smoke.

He drew on media to heal the wound, and once the pain subsided, he triaged the damage. He had lost a chunk of himself, easily resolved by dipping into his node and pulling from his worlds. But as he touched the wounds, a sensation of dread filled him.

Hezarin.

Her flavoring was clear and unmistakable.

His sister had been busy.

She had taken over Rastella, and had warded it with powerful controls.

He hesitated, not wanting to confront her while he was still in pain. But this had to be done, and it was best to get it over with now. So Braxidane flowed until he drew close enough to spread himself around Hezarin’s node. She was alone, relaxing languidly and soaking energy from the flow around her. Nervous tension built as he stepped through the membrane of her cell.

“I was wondering when you would come,” Hezarin said.

“What are you doing?” Braxidane replied.

“What does it look like I’m doing, brother? I’m occupying my node and listening to the flow.”

“You’ve taken Rastella.”

“So?”

“I want it back.”

She laughed. “Go away, Braxidane.”

“Are you begging to be brought before Joint Authority?”

Hezarin’s movement then was slow and graceful, like a sheet billowing in the spring breeze. She folded on herself, gathering from the outside until she stood with physical presence before him.

“I’ve committed no crime greater than you did when you entered Adruin to save your champion there.”

He blanched.

“You didn’t think I knew about that, did you?”

Braxidane was silent.

It was all some time ago. Garrick had been drowning, and if he had died Braxidane’s efforts would have been for naught. Braxidane thought he had been subtle. He thought he had slipped into the plane without creating a ripple, and he thought his alteration was small enough to pass unnoticed—it was, after all, merely a single casting. He rationalized that saving Garrick then had not
directly
affected a battle, and therefore had not harmed the efforts of any other planewalker. But that argument would be unlikely to stand in Joint Authority any better than Hezarin’s decision to take Rastella from him would.

“How did you find out?” he finally said.

Hezarin laughed again. “Put me up on Joint Authority if you wish, Braxidane. We’ll share whatever punishments the collective decides to dole out.”

“Be very careful playing this game, sister,” Braxidane said. “There will be others who will notice, and many of them may be less … motivated … to give you leeway.”

“Just the thought of you providing cautionary advice on how to make such arrangements makes me laugh.”

“I’m serious.”

Hezarin mocked him.
“I’m serious.”

Ignoring her, Braxidane pressed on. “None of us in Existence are very good at following the agreement.”

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

“And there are a hundred such deals between us all—maybe a thousand.”

“Are you done being boring, yet?”

“You don’t see it, do you? All it takes is one agreement to break with enough vehemence, and a domino chain could cascade throughout All of Existence. One of us blows up and calls in an agreement on another, who, in turn, calls in their own chits. Let’s not create another domino in the chain, sister. You’ve made your point. Now give me back Rastella.”

“This is the best you can do, Braxidane? Seriously?”

“It should be enough.”

“Go away,” Hezarin said.

Braxidane waited for a moment, then, realizing it was a hopeless cause, he slipped out of Hezarin’s node.

An unsettled taste flared within him. Hezarin wasn’t going to back down, and if she controlled Rastella she was certain to discover his candidate. Braxidane returned to his node in a cloud of contemplation. He had to do something. This action from his sister could not be left to stand. He saw two options—let her have the plane and risk losing the mage, or take it back and risk what could turn out to be an ugly chain of events.

He spread out in his node, dipped his consciousness into the flow, and began to consider the possibilities.

Chapter 9

Raucous voices echoed through Dorfort’s royal ballroom—a cavernous grand hall that was often used for events of state, celebrations, and festivals. Garrick sat at the head of the table with Darien and Reynard. Mages filled the rest of the seats. Will and several apprentices cleared plates and filled mugs.

Arabel, a mage of some respect, spoke.