War of Shadows (32 page)

“Dag said that Vigus paid you a visit,” Guran said neutrally.

He suspects
, Carensa thought.
Now we begin the cat-and-mouse game of saying things without saying them
.

Carensa weighed her words. She would need to give Guran information he would interpret correctly, while having the conversation be utterly innocent should they be overheard.

“He wanted to see how I was doing, and to tell me a little more about his plans,” she replied.

“Oh?”

“He helped me put the pieces together about where we fit with Rostivan,” Carensa replied. “We’ll be training battle mages for the allies Vigus hopes to make—Pollard and Lysander.”

“I suspect it’s going to take a lot of conversations to make this
happen,” he said, with a meaningful glance that told Carensa his agenda differed from Quintrel’s.

She nodded. “We’ll all have to take a look at how our magic comes into play and what we can do to have an impact.”

“These kinds of things take shape best with a core team. Too many people and it gets unwieldy,” Guran agreed.

“The smaller the better,” Carensa agreed.
Then again, if Vigus goes around expounding on his ‘vision’ too often and too loudly, I suspect those allies’ spies will carry the word back before we have a chance to do anything
.

Guran took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Well, I’ve kept you long enough. But I’m glad for the news.”

“Thank you for the tea,” Carensa said, laying a hand on Guran’s arm. He put an arm around her shoulder.

Carensa closed the door behind him and bit back tears of disappointment and frustration.
How did things go so wrong so quickly?

She stared at the fire, watching the flames flicker.
There’s going to be a bloodbath, and I’ve got to find a way to stop it. One way or another, I’ve got to stop Quintrel before he can work his plan
.

Carensa watched nervously as Rostivan pulled Quintrel into discussions behind closed doors. They had expected to meet with Quintrel to discuss plans, but Carensa and Guran were left chafing, wondering what their masters had in mind.

“Be ready to go in a candlemark,” Quintrel told Carensa and Guran when he emerged from his private conversation with Rostivan.

“Go where?” Carensa asked, alarmed. She and the others
had just returned from the battlefield, and Carensa had hoped they would have a few weeks to recover before being sent on another task.

“Diplomatic mission,” Quintrel replied with a wave of his hand. “Essential business. Utmost urgency.”

“Why us?” Guran asked suspiciously.

Quintrel looked at him as if the answer were obvious. “I need a translator and a far-seer. Don’t worry—we’ll have a contingent of guards to assure our safety on the road.”

Neither Quintrel’s assurances nor Rostivan’s guards were likely to assuage Carensa’s worries, but she said nothing. Her bags were still packed, so readying herself for the journey took only minutes. Carensa stared out the window of her room at the snow, sorting through the possibilities, uncomfortable with any of the reasons for the journey that she could devise.

“Where exactly are you taking us, Vigus?” Guran pressed as they rode away from Torsford.

“The Kells Mill Lyceum,” Quintrel replied offhandedly. At the throat of his tunic, the
divi
orb pulsed a bright yellow, something Carensa had come to understand meant that the spirit that resided inside it was pleased. Anything that pleased the
divi
worried Carensa.

Guran and Carensa exchanged a look. “That’s on the border of Karstan Lysander’s lands,” Guran warned. “What could possibly be worth the risk?”

“You’ll see,” Quintrel answered, spurring his horse onward. Carensa sought counsel in Guran’s expression, but he merely shrugged, looking as uncomfortable and perplexed as she felt. With a heavy heart, she snapped the reins, her worries as dark as the snow clouds on the horizon.

The village of Kells Mill was a three-candlemark ride from Torsford. Carensa was glad for her heavy cloak, hat, and scarf.
She huddled down into her cloak against the wind, but kept a wary eye on the roadway and the hedgerow. Brigands now ruled Donderath’s highways, once safeguarded by King Merrill’s soldiers. Rostivan’s team of ten soldiers seemed paltry to Carensa, who had heard tell of bandit gangs of two or three times that many men, preying on anyone foolish enough to journey the shattered kingdom’s ruined roadways.

Once, Kells Mill was a prosperous town with a large grist mill that drew farmers and merchants from miles around. Carensa looked at the deserted fields and abandoned farms along their route, feeling a familiar pang of sadness. Some of the barns and homes had burned in the Great Fire; others might have been destroyed in the Cataclysm. But for many, Carensa guessed that their desperate owners just walked away to seek their fortune somewhere, anywhere, else.

“Why Kells Mill?” Guran probed. Quintrel had been maddeningly silent for the entire ride. Carensa and Guran had chatted quietly with each other, but neither felt free to speculate on the question that was uppermost in their minds.

“Because it’s neutral ground,” Quintrel replied. He refused to say anything more until the village’s bell tower came into view. The longer they rode, the more worried Guran looked. Given his abilities, that gave Carensa deep cause for concern.

Before the Cataclysm, the Kells Mill bells would have rung out the candlemarks for farmers and villagers alike. Now the tower was a ruined, blackened hulk, scorched and broken where the Great Fire had touched it. The bell tower sat in the center of the village, which was surrounded by a high stockade fence patrolled by guards.

“I’m not sure about how neutral this ground is,” Guran murmured as they rode through the village gates.

Carensa had to agree as she looked from side to side. Few
people walked along the village streets, and those she saw were soldiers. The suspicion she had tried to dismiss since they left Torsford loomed large, and she could no longer ignore it.

“Does your gift tell you anything?” Carensa asked Guran quietly.

“You won’t like it.”

“We’re going to meet with Lysander, aren’t we?” she said.

Guran nodded. “Almost certainly.”

Quintrel rode down the main street of the village with Carensa and Guran behind him, flanked by guards who also took up the rear of the procession. They approached the largest building still standing in the village, a home that Carensa guessed must once have belonged to the richest man in town. The home looked hard used, damaged by the Great Fire and repaired by workers less skilled than those who built it. Now it appeared to have been pressed into service as a headquarters for the most dangerous warlord in Donderath.

Four uniformed soldiers blocked their path. “State your purpose,” the ranking soldier demanded.

Quintrel waved his hand in dismissal. “We are here by arrangement with Lord Lysander. Step aside and let us pass.”

The soldier leveled an appraising glance at the team of guards that accompanied Quintrel. “They stay out here,” he said. “You three, dismount and approach.”

Not exactly a warm welcome
, Carensa thought.

“Lord Lysander has placed a condition upon his agreement to meet with you,” the soldier said, and as they walked closer, Carensa could see insignia indicating that the man was a captain.

“I agreed to no conditions,” Quintrel bristled.

The captain shrugged. “Perhaps not, but the condition remains.”

“What is it?” Quintrel demanded.

The captain held out three agate disks with hollow centers, strung on three separate leather lanyards. Even at a distance, the disks gave off a strange magical aura that Carensa found uncomfortable.

“These are null amulets. They dampen magic,” the captain said. “You will wear them if you wish to meet with Lord Lysander.”

Carensa expected a challenge from Quintrel, but instead, the mage-scholar gave a tolerant smile. “Of course,” he said as if the request was customary. He allowed the captain to place the amulet’s strap over his head, and gestured for Carensa and Guran to do the same. Carensa noticed that the
divi
orb no longer glowed, nor was it visible at the neck of Quintrel’s tunic.

Carensa felt a physical jolt as the amulet touched her skin. She was one of the least powerful of Quintrel’s mages, and her magic—translating languages—seemed insignificant compared to the grander power of the others. Carensa had the uncomfortable feeling of being partially blind, constrained as if someone had rolled her up in a heavy blanket that blocked motion, sight, and sound. Just like when the magic had died. She could not guess what it felt like for Quintrel or Guran, but from Guran’s expression, she suspected he was also decidedly uncomfortable. Quintrel did not seem to be affected, and his mood was buoyant.

The captain escorted them through the old home’s scarred front hallway and into a room that might once have been the office of the well-to-do merchant or gentleman farmer who owned the house. The ravages of storms, fire, and errant magic had taken a toll on the house and its furnishings, dimming its former grandeur.

“So you’re the mage I’ve heard about.” Karstan Lysander
sat behind a large, solid wooden desk. He did not rise to greet them, and there were no chairs to welcome visitors. A fire burned in the fireplace, barely taking the chill from the room. Lysander spoke with a heavy accent, one Carensa searched her memory to place.

Carensa studied Lysander, trying to match the reality to the legend. Karstan Lysander was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked. His dark eyes were cold and it almost seemed possible to see the calculations going on behind them. No one would consider him handsome. His face was fleshy, like the wild hogs that roamed the countryside. In the close confines of the warm room, an unpleasant odor hung about Lysander that made Carensa want to wrinkle her nose. Yet from his heavy boots to his sturdy weapons to the scars that marked his hands and face, no one could doubt Lysander was a warrior.

Standing behind him was another man, in mage robes, who looked vaguely familiar to Carensa. Nothing in the mage’s face betrayed any recognition, and Carensa struggled to keep her own features impassive as she put the face with a name.
Dro Hastins
, her memory supplied.
At least, that’s what he called himself back in Castle Reach, before the Great Fire. He was one of Quintrel’s hangers-on
.

“My lord,” Quintrel said with a bow. “We are honored.”

Lysander looked at him with curiosity. “You requested a meeting. I’m here. What do you want?”

Carensa glanced at Quintrel in alarm. Vigus Quintrel’s opinion of himself was as grand as his magic, and she had never known him to permit anyone to speak so dismissively to him. Yet to her amazement, Quintrel did not look perturbed in the least.

“To be blunt, we wish to further our alliance.”

Carensa stifled a gasp. Guran looked alarmed. But Quintrel continued as if the request was nothing out of the ordinary. Lysander regarded Quintrel with heavy-lidded eyes, unreadable.

“You’re already aligned with Rostivan, and he’s helping rid me of some unwanted pests. What need do I have for mages?” Lysander challenged. Carensa finally recognized Lysander’s thick accent: It was common in the region nearest the Meroven border. Before the war, many of the mountain villages had kept to themselves for so long that they spoke an unusual dialect not found anywhere else in Donderath. It was rumored Lysander had drawn on Meroven mercenaries to swell the ranks of his army, in addition to the Tingur. Carensa chafed at the effect of the magic-dampening amulets, since it hindered her ability to easily understand the whispered conversation between Lysander’s captain and a guard at the door.

“I suggest a grander alliance, and I am empowered by General Rostivan to extend an offer of truce and to negotiate further, on his behalf,” Quintrel continued smoothly.

“I would be more likely to accept your surrender than your truce,” Lysander growled. “What do I need from you that I can’t do on my own or that Rostivan hasn’t already promised?”

“Real magic,” Quintrel replied. “The kind of magic that turns the tide of battles.” Quintrel was at his charming best, and Carensa thought she caught a hint of a glow from the
divi
orb. The light lasted for a fraction of a second, but it left Carensa wondering whether the
divi
was constrained at all by Lysander’s amulets.

“I had my fill of magic in the Meroven War,” Lysander replied.

“Perhaps,” Quintrel said agreeably. “But what will you do when you go up against Tormod Solveig? Animating the
battlefield dead is child’s play to a necromancer of his power. What happens when he decides to wrest the living soul from your soldiers?” Quintrel asked.

“McFadden’s assembled his own mages, and he’s allied with the Knights of Esthrane,” Quintrel continued. My mages know those Knights, studied their magic. How will you stand against such powerful
talishte
mages without mages of your own?”

Lysander glowered at him, but did not end the conversation. “What do you propose?”

“Protection spells for you and your soldiers,” Quintrel said. “Magic to turn back the undead. Wardings
talishte
cannot cross. A translator to make it easier for you to communicate with your Meroven mercenaries. A far-seer, who can look beyond the scope of mortal vision. And a priceless gift for you to make you impossible to kill—if you will accept it.”

Interest and skepticism flickered in Lysander’s black eyes. “Interesting. Tell me about this ‘gift.’ ”

Quintrel smiled and leaned forward, warming to the tale. “Such a gift was given by the first Knights of Esthrane to King Hougen many years ago, and the king did not die until he removed the charm,” Quintrel said.

“You’ve heard the tales, no doubt, about Randuvil the Destroyer?” Quintrel added. Carensa recognized the name as belonging to the most storied warlord in Donderath’s history, an invincible fighter who conquered nearly the entire Continent. “This amulet was created from manuscripts we found in Valshoa made by the maker of Randuvil’s talisman. Those manuscripts have been hidden away for hundreds of years, which is why no one in all these centuries had such a charm.”