Chapter Five

Gryphon’s Roost, Caras

Kingdom of Cedirc

7th Day of Pendelius, 247 A.C.

Early Morning

The early morning sun cast an orange glow on the city below as Rabberick gazed upon it, leaning on a crenelation along the northern wall of the castle. It had been almost a bell since he had helped carry Alfred to the Temple of Aegoth, and he had not heard anything since.

He did not know whether that bode well or ill for his beloved king.

Although the high, marble wall that encircled the castle was more crowded than it normally was, Rabberick having doubled the watch in the wake of the previous night’s events, the commander stood alone. He could feel the eyes of several nearby Talons on him, but whenever he tried to find their source, all those nearest him seemed to be studiously avoiding looking at him or even in his general direction. Which of course told him beyond a doubt that those under his command were watching him.

He felt a slight twinge of pride at that. Clearly, the men and women of the guard had many questions about what they had witnessed the night past, but not one had approached him about it. Of course, he was certain that was more due to them getting information from other witnesses than to any of their training on his part.

Still, none had tried to dig for more information, and that was something he was immensely grateful for. He was not ready to discuss it; he was still processing it all himself.

Staring down into the city below, the commander could see that the streets had begun to fill with people starting their day. In spite of the growing crowds visible on the main boulevard, the path from the Lower Gate that wound back and forth up the steep hill atop which the Roost was built remained empty. Usually by this time a line of petitioners had formed, both to come and see the King and to see the High Cleric or otherwise worship at the Temple of Aegoth. Alfred always ensured the castle was open to his people.

Had any come this day, they would have been shocked by the sight that greeted them.

Gryphon’s Roost stood high atop a natural hill that had been turned into a man-made island centuries ago during the castle’s construction. The hill had once been apart of the island that the majority of Caras was built upon in the middle of the River Elan. When construction had begun in the years following the Cataclysm, Alitha DeCarren had been vying for control of Cedirc with the other remaining Great Houses, and so had selected the location for it’s defensive capabilities.

A small mining village of little note in those days, Caras’ location on an island in the middle of the wide River Elan had been great boon to her cause, but it was the hill on the southern end that really won the soon-to-be victorious queen over. Even before construction of the keep or it’s fortifications had begun, she had ordered the excavation of a chasm, thirty feet wide and down the full hundred and fifty feet to the River Elan below, to add to it’s defensive capabilities. Even better, the stone removed was largely marble, which was then used in the construction of Gryphon’s Roost itself.

Added to the gryphon nests below and within the cliffs—the DeCarren’s had been in charge of Polderian’s winged messengers, who used gryphon mounts to carry his demands throughout the kingdom—it was the perfect location for the Gryphon Queen’s seat of power. Once the chasm was complete, a bridge had been constructed to connect the new island to the rest of Caras. The bridge could have been carved out as the chasm was dug; many of Alitha’s adviser’s had suggested just that, in fact. But she had been set on a different design.

It was made to be lowered.

Not in the traditional sense of a drawbridge, but rather up and down the cliff walls themselves. The stone bridge was set into four vertical channels carved into the cliff, and was held aloft by a number of iron pins that met on the underside of the bridge. When two levers set into the guardhouses that blocked either side of the chasm were pulled, the pins retracted and the bridge lowered quickly into the chasm on thick chains, until it was submerged in the waters below. When pushed back to their original positions, counterweights were released that would raise the bridge back to it’s original position before the pins slid back into place on it’s underside, securing it once more.

Rabberick had seen the mechanisms that controlled the bridge tested each year for the more than two decades he had been in the fortress, and each time it had filled him with a sense of wonder as he witnessed the brilliance the engineers of two hundred years ago had displayed in it’s construction.

Today was the first time he had ever seen it lowered with purpose.

After he had left Malute to see Kyarra off on her mission, the commander had sent a messenger to the barracks at the bottom of the Ascent to order the Lower Gate shut. He and Malute had, at length, decided to go against Alfred’s standing order that the castle and, more importantly to the pious man, the Temple of Aegoth be open to all throughout the day. In light of the fact that the King lay near death, the magus and commander had decided to go against the King’s wishes and have the gates sealed. If and when Alfred recovered, both would be glad to face the King’s anger at their choice

Security was paramount now.

As it should have been before, Rabberick reflected, shaking his head. Once the thoroughly confused messenger had departed, after ensuring that he had heard the commander correctly, the commander had ordered the bridge lowered.

He gazed at the gap left by the structure’s absence, where the path on both sides of the chasm ended abruptly in a hundred and fifty foot drop, and was grateful that every king and queen since Alitha had seen fit to ensure the mechanisms did not rust or seize. It was, he reflected, probably a good thing that the structure did not see much use, but it was paramount that it worked when needed.

Once the bridge had disappeared from sight below the waters of the river far below—the commander had stood along the edge of the chasm to watch it’s descent—he had, in act that even he had to admit was pretty unnecessary, given the other defensive measures already in place, ordered the gates to the castle compound itself closed and barred. No one was to get in or out of the castle, not even the regular deliveries of foodstuffs from the small dock built under the island the castle was built atop.

Except by gryphon, he reminded himself as he watched a Wing of Talons flying low across the city, patrolling as they always did. He itched to leave the castle himself, to go hunting for the assassin, though he knew not where the man had escaped to through that damnable portal.

He knew it was irrational, but he felt that if he were out searching the city himself, he would at least feel like he was doing something to help, even if the search itself was ultimately fruitless and, more, pointless.

He did not like this interminable waiting.

Exhaling a long breath, he swung his gaze to the large open pit that dominated most of the western end of the island that housed the city. Even at this early hour, large cranes lifted massive slabs of marble out of the Royal Quarry, to join the other slabs stacked on the surface nearby until they were transported to waiting barges. From there, they would be shipped down the River Elan to Aldar, from whence they would be shipped off to foreign markets. Caras had grown far from its humble beginnings as a small mining town before the Gryphon Queen had declared it the capital following the loss of Tercress City.

Like the castle itself, most of the oldest buildings were built of marble from the quarry, which itself descended far below the city. The deposit of marble here was extensive, with still no sign of it being near to depletion, in spite of centuries of excavation, so far as the commander knew. While the mine had been a private enterprise in those days, a partnership had developed between Alitha DeCarren when she had moved there and begun Gryphon’s Roost’s construction, and when her son married the daughter of the mine’s owner, it had only been a matter of time before the crown took control of the operation. Sales from the quarry still provided most of the income for the kingdom, combined with similar quarries to the south near Sable.

The island on which Caras was built was actually a group of six islands, arranged roughly in the shape of a human eye with small branches of the river running between them. On the western islands, south of where the quarry sat, stood the estates of the noble families of Cedirc, with the largest holding belonging to House Trekon, though their Head of House, the High Lord Elboreth, spent most of his time in Aldar overseeing the runnings of the port city. His eldest son Winston instead saw to the day-to-day running of House Trekon here in Caras.

Meanwhile, to the east of Gryphon’s Roost, a smaller island was home to the Spire and the majority of Cedirc’s magi and scholars, serving as a repository of knowledge both arcane and mundane. It’s black tip rose above the eastern wall of the castle, and was the only structure within the city to rival the height of Gryphon’s Roost itself. Malute had been trained at the Spire as well, as most practitioners of the vitarus within Cedirc did, and though he had his chambers that took most of the western tower of the keep, he also retained a chamber at the Spire that he used sporadically when he had issues that needed discussion with his fellow practitioners.

Directly across from where he stood was the Market Bridge, which connected the island to the northern shore of the river. As the name indicated, it was full of shops and stalls, as was the plaza that greeted visitors to the city on the island side. Between the Lower Gate and the Market Bridge was a straight avenue of inns and taverns, with artisans such as blacksmiths, seamstresses, alchemists, and apothecaries found in between. It was in this area that most visitors to the city would find accommodations, and he could see two of the more prominent inns in the city that stood across the square by the Lower Gate from one another: The Castle’s Shadow and The Duke’s Arms Inn.

The Castle’s Shadow, on the eastern side of the square, was so named because when the sun set the inn was covered by the stretching shadow of Gryphon’s Roost. It’s proprietor, Horace Dorrumas, had even had the facade of a castle built in front of the building, further leaning into the name when he had taken it over from the previous owner. Rabberick and many of the Talons and castle staff in general had spent many an evening and night at the The Castle’s Shadow. As his eyes passed over the inn’s facade, he belatedly thought that he should have somehow passed word on to Horace that none of his men or women would be frequenting his inn that day.

The establishment that stood opposite The Castle’s Shadow was also it’s exact opposite in appearance. The Duke’s Arms Inn was more opulent in it’s appearance and decoration, and clearly catered to a different clientèle than did it’s more gaudy counterpart. It was here that most noble visitors to the city stayed, as well as well-to-do merchants and the like. The Eno’Kalian delegates were to stay there, in fact, having refused rooms within the Roost on the grounds that they wanted to experience Cedircian culture first hand.

Rabberick wondered how the attempt on Alfred’s life would affect their stay here, once word got out—if indeed they decided to stay, in light of that attempt. Kyarra should be arriving in Aldar bearing news of the attempt by noon, the journey taking much less time on gryphon-back than it would by horse or river. It was unfortunate that Malute had been unable to send her by portal to the distant city.

Unable? Or unwilling?

No, he berated himself at the insipid thought.

No, if Malute had had the power, he would have sent Kyarra to Aldar the same way the assassin had escaped the castle. Rabberick knew that with complete certainty. But that did not stop that niggling doubt from creeping back in.

Malute was one of them, after all, was he not?

Shaking his head to clear the thought, Rabberick sighed. These thoughts were pointless, based not in fact but anxiety, and yet he could not stop them. He fixed his eyes on the western end of the city, focusing on the growing crowd of workers headed towards the gates to the centre of the town, seeking to lose himself in distraction.

Where the eastern end of Caras was where most of the citizens worked, the western side was where most dwelt. It had it’s share of taverns as well, though these were generally a little less well built and cared for, and frequented more by locals than visitors. Most of the population of Caras had historically resided within the small, densely packed houses that filled this area, though ever since the end of the Ilvarri War, a new district had begun to spring up on the northern bank of the River Elan, along the road from Arcos. Unlike most buildings on the island, which were gleaming white marble, those on the bank were of wood, creating a very visible contrast between the newer and older areas of the capital.

As Rabberick his survey of the city, he wondered how the news of the assassination—attempted assassination, so far—would be received, for had no doubt that word would even now be spreading throughout the city. A decade ago, he would have been certain of the outrage that such an act would bring. But lately, with all the unrest surrounding the negotiations and talks with Eno’Kalia, the King’s popularity was not what it once had been.

If it were, the recent attempts would not have occurred at all.

The commander sighed again, raising a hand to rub his tired eyes. He knew he should try to get some sleep, but also knew that if he went to lay down, he would just end up tossing and turning as his mind whirled hither and thither, trying to decide the best course of action.

As he lowered his hand and opened his eyes once more, he heard the soft sound of slippered feet slapping the stone walkway behind him a moment before a soft female voice said tentatively, “Um, Commander Rabberick?”

Not recognizing the voice immediately, but knowing from the sound of her footfalls that she was likely a member of the Aegothian clergy, he turned to see a young woman wearing the familiar red robes of the religious order staring nervously at him. Recognizing her as the same acolyte who had been accompanying Herocas earlier that morning, he straightened and forced himself back to alertness. He knew she had gone with the High Priest and the King into the temple, but found himself unable to recall her name. What was it again?

“S-sorry to bother you, sir, but the High Priest asked me to bid you to go see him,” she glanced around before adding in a lower voice, “It… it’s about the King.”

“Is everything alright?” The question came out sharper than he had intended, and she flinched back a step.

“I—he just bade me to get you, sir,” she shifted nervously, averting her eyes—her red rimmed eyes, he noted, guilt washing across him.

“Of course,” Rabberick ran a hand through his dark brown hair, making sure his next words came out in a more level, controlled voice, “Thank you… er, I’m sorry, I cannot recall your name.”

She smiled a sad smile, bowing slightly as she replied, “Valencia, sir. I do not think we have ever crossed paths before. You do not come to the Temple often,” there was a hint of admonishment in her voice, and her brown eyes widened as she realized what she had said, and who she had said it to.

“No, I suppose I don’t, at that,” Rabberick said with a chuckle to put her at ease, “Thank you, Valencia. You may tell Herocas I’ll be along shortly.”

“I—forgive me, sir, but the High Priest,” she emphasized the title, emboldened by his lack of reaction to her previous overstep, “He asked me to bring you back with me, immediately.”

Of course he did, the commander thought; he gestured and said aloud, “After you, then.”

With another slight bow, the red robed acolyte turned and started away, slippers slapping on the stone once more. With a last, lingering look out over the seemingly calm city below, Rabberick followed behind, keenly aware of the attention his soldiers gave him as he followed the disciple, knowing they would not have to guess at their destination.

They descended the stairs behind the eastern gatehouse in silence, save for the sounds of their feet and rustle of clothing. The ringing of picks on stone from the quarry diminished as they reached the bottom of the stairs, rounding the corner to head past the servant’s and soldier’s quarters. Heads turned to watch them, mouths whispering as the commander followed the acolyte across the avenue that separated the two rows of houses. Women stopped washing clothes in the well that centered that street, and children halted their play.

Oh yes, word had indeed spread.

Valencia must have noted their regard too, for he had to quicken his pace to catch up with her before she reached the far side, where the copse of trees separated the servants quarters from the rest of the castle compound. Rabberick found himself grateful for the trees and shrubbery beneath as they blocked the servant’s regard of the two as they rounded the corner, the Temple coming into view.

The commanders eyes looked past the great structure that was the Temple of Aegoth, however, finding his eyes drawn to the grassy area surrounded by an iron wrought fence beyond. Within he could see the lines of tombstones amidst the flower beds and rose bushes, where any in the employ of the King were buried after their death, should their families wish it. Beyond several rows of the stone markers, he could just make out the tip of a bronze wing, seemingly jutting from the edge of the temple, which he knew belonged to one of a pair of gryphon statues that stood on either side of the entrance to the Royal Mausoleum, where all of Alfred’s ancestors were interred.

Where Alfred himself may soon be laid to rest.

Rabberick shook that grim thought from his mind; there was still hope, after all. The fact that Herocas had taken so long to send for him was a good sign, he repeatedly told himself.

If only he could make himself believe that.

The commander, who normally only followed the teachings of Karthos, found himself praying to Aegoth that Herocas did indeed have some good news for him.

* * *

“You are absolutely certain you have never heard of such a thing?”

The swirling burgundy mists in the mirror seemed to let out an exasperated sigh, the magi on the other end clearly tiring of the circular nature of the conversation.

“How many times are you going to ask me the same question, Malute?” the mists pulsed and glowed with light to match the cadence of the voice that emanated from the glassy surface. “We have been over this many times in the past decades, as you well know. There are no records of anyone who has been cut off from the vitarus being able to use it in any manner, and certainly not in the way you have proposed. Seizing power from a channeling mage… the very notion is preposterous!”

So I had thought… until last night. I know what I saw, my friend, Malute thought, but dared not say out loud.

Not yet, at least; not until he had not other choice.

“Why the sudden interest in this again?” the mists pulsed again, breaking the silence when Malute did not immediately respond to the voice’s previous statement.

“Oh, it’s purely academic,” Malute said after a moment’s thought, brow furrowing as he considered how much to reveal, “I was just thinking of my former master, and wondering if we could have done more to help him.”

“Medeannus?” the voice sounded surprised, and dripped with more than a little incredulity, “Malute, we spent years trying to help him! None was more driven than yourself, as I recall. It is unfortunate what happened to him—he was a very gifted magus! To be stripped of his ability like that… it is unfortunate,” the voice repeated, “but nothing could be done. It is no wonder he left us all.”

“He went to the ilvarri after, you know.”

“And he never came back! We never heard from him again, Malute, and from that we can assume that those fey creatures could not help him either. And if they, with their higher attunement to and understanding of nature and the vita could not hope to help him, how could we? There is nothing more to explore, Malute. We have exhausted every avenue. You devoted far more of your time to it than any could have expected! It’s time to let it go,” the voice concluded in a plaintive tone, clearly wanting to be done with the topic for good.

“Of course, Barthalamus,” Malute said, careful to hide his disappointment and keep a neutral tone, “As always, thank you for your time and advice,” he pushed his chair back from the desk the mirror sat atop with a scrape.

“A moment, Malute,” Barthalamus, the Voice of the Conclave of the Spire, bade him.

Malute halted as his tan hand grasped his staff, ready to sever the spell of communication, having an inkling of, and therefore dreading, what Barthalamus would say next.

Speaking of being tired of having the same conversation over and over, Malute thought as he waited for the Voice to continue.

“There are those here who wonder at your long absence from the tower.”

There it was.

Malute barely suppressed a sigh, but did roll his eyes since Barthalamus could not actually see him, as he replied, “My duties to the realm—“

“Do not preclude your duties to the Spire,” the Voice of the Conclave cut him off sharply, then leveled out as the magi continued, “Of course, your duties to the King are paramount,” Malute was again grateful that the other magus could not see him as he winced involuntarily at the mention of Alfred, “None here argue your importance there! But that does not mean you can neglect your studies. It has been months since we last saw you within our walls! You have a duty to your fellow magi as well, you recall.”

“I…” Malute hesitated, momentarily unsure how he should respond. Barthalamus was not wrong, after all. He had not been back to the Spire since… the fact that he could not remember told him it had been long indeed. “Once the treaty has been signed, I will spend more time amongst my fellows.”

“That blasted treatise again…” Barthalamus growled, the annoyance in his voice palpable, which confused Malute; the Voice was known to be level headed, after all.

“I gather there has been trouble?” he ventured, knowing the answer before he actually asked it.

“You know how the people of Cedirc have responded to this proposed treaty, Malute,” his counterparts voice sounded resigned, now, the momentary flash of irritation gone, “It has been no different in the Spire, for all we are supposed to be removed from such concerns.”

“And what is the Conclave’s position on it?”

“The Conclave is… split,” Barthalamus verily spat the last word, the red mists pulsing in time with his disappointment.

That response rocked him back on his heels.

The Conclave would spend hundreds of hours debating every issue, trying to come to an agreeable stance for all involved. And that debate never left the chambers, or at the very least, the Spire—especially those on larger issues! For Barthalamus to admit that in this case they were undecided…

Well, he could not remember the last time such a thing had happened.

“What does that mean?” the black haired mage asked, unable to mask his concern.

“It means there are many among us who do not believe that the Eno’Kalians can be trusted. They remember all too well how the magi were treated by Darren Ungalt. They remember the hangings, Malute, and many view this treaty as a betrayal by the King.”

“That was Darren Ungalt the First,” Malute protested, “The new emperor is not his father! By all accounts, things are much better for practitioners in Eno’Kalia under the new emperor. There is no longer a ban on the use of vita on the island!”

“But neither is it wholly accepted by their people, “Barthalamus sighed, the red mists glowing brightly at his long exhalation, “You know how long these old hatreds and biases can linger, Malute,” the High Mage could well imagine Barthalamus narrowing eyes as he continued, “More than anyone, you should know.”

Though the other mage could not see, Malute nodded his agreement; he was of Eno’Kalian descent himself, after all—a fact that few here in Cedirc knew.

He had been instrumental in facilitating the peace talks after the passing of Darren I, having known Darren II from his previous life in Eno’Kalia, before his abilities had manifested and he had gone into a self-imposed exile to save his life. Though that had been decades ago, he could not imagine that Darren II’s views on magi had changed int eh intervening years. Darren II had argued often and passionately against his father’s harsh restrictions on magic, and had actually helped facilitate the escape of many such magi, helping to fake their deaths and executions with a group of like-minded sympathizers he had carefully gathered over time.

Malute himself was one of those whom the then-Prince of Eno’Kalia had aided in such a way, and since that time, he had remained in intermittent contact with the island nation, be it through a network of sympathizers. Through this, he had helped facilitate the escape of dozens of men and women who had been born with the talent from Darren I’s harsh edicts, a fact he prided himself on.

In spite of being a magus himself, Malute had faced an uphill battle when he had first arrived in Cedirc, repeatedly needing to prove himself to any who learned of his heritage, even within the Spire itself. That had galled him, at first; magi and scholars from all over the world came to study there, after all, but he had almost been denied access. Were it not for the efforts of his former master and this man, Malute might well have been turned away from the Spire, and how different his life would have been then!

Thankfully, the bias against him had lessened over the years, as he had helped more Eno’Kalian gifted escape the island, but even now, he found himself doubted by those both far older and far younger than he.

Barthalamus was right, he begrudgingly admitted to himself.

Ending decades of mistrust on both sides would truly take time.

“You know my history, Barthalamus. What I went through to get here,” he finally replied in a quiet voice thick with emotion as memories of his own treatment and escape flooded his mind.

“I do, Malute. It is not I who doubts you, my friend. Nor do I doubt the King. I do what I can to remind the others of your story, but…” the other man’s voice trailed off, and he let out another sigh, “I feel that your presence here would go a long ways towards alleviating the fears of many within the Spire.”

Malute was quiet a long moment, digesting the words of the Voice of the Conclave. He could not deny the fact that he had been spending less time amongst his fellow practitioners of late, and with the tensions surrounding the forthcoming treaty, he could see how that could be construed as something nefarious. He did not like that it could be, but he could see how some could see it that way.

He had fought long and hard to get out of Darren I’s Eno’Kalia, escaping with little more than the clothes on his back, and had done so much to help others in similar positions since coming to Cedirc. He had gone to great lengths to show that the majority of his people did not share the values and beliefs of the old Emperor, that they did not share his prejudice. He had to admit to himself that he saw his time at Gryphon’s Roost as an escape from some of the prejudice he faced in the Spire, and of late he had taken advantaged of that escape much more.

And still his fellows could not see past his heritage, believing that he was using his position as chief adviser to the King to twist his mind and influence his policy—all to the advantage of a nation that had not wanted him.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

“I will make more of an effort to visit the Spire more often, “he agreed, though he did so begrudgingly. He knew that once the events of the previous night became more commonly known, such would be more important than ever.

“I would appreciate it, Malute,” Barthalamus responded, his voice conveying genuine gratitude with the same undercurrent of concern, “It think it would do you some good, as well.”

“Of course, Barthalamus,” Malute agreed, though he did not entirely agree with that opinion. Perhaps he should give some warning to the other man, he considered. Anti-Eno’Kalian sentiments were sure to rise in the coming days—and even more so if the King did not survive his wounds.

Before he opened his mouth to tell Barthalumus of the assassination attempt, he felt the connection between his mirror and the other magus’ in the Spire sever abruptly as the other mage stopped feeding the spell on his end. The red mist dissipated almost immediately, leaving him staring at his own reflection in the reflective surface as he likewise stopped the flow of his own vita, waving his staff in front of the glass of the mirror. He released his hold on the vitarus at almost the same time, and sank back into the purple cushioned chair, feeling far more drained than he had in recent memory.

The events of the previous night had left him empty and exhausted.

The unexpected battle with the assassin, having control of his vita wrested from him—however momentarily it was—and having to fight for control of the flows had taken more out of him than he could bring himself to admit to anyone. He could honestly not remember the last time he had been forced to use that much vita in such a short period of time—and for battle, no less. He had fallen out of practice in combat magics, and he vowed to work on that in the near future. Even at his strongest, he was not sure he would have been able to conjure a portal such as the assassin had—usually such a casting took several magi and much preparation—and that worried him. The man was far stronger than any caster Malute had ever met, and was burned out from the vita. Such should not be possible, as Barthalamus had insisted, and yet it was.

The assassin clearly thought his mission had succeeded, but once they discovered they had not, they would certainly return to finish the job.

And Malute would have to be ready.

Visiting the Spire more frequently would certainly help him with that, he knew, and he had meant it when he had promised Barthalamus that he would visit the tower more often.

Once current events had run their course, of course.

The memories of his escape had brought with them memories of finding acceptance in Caras, particularly within the court of Alfred DeCarren. Malute had held much trepidation about going to the capital of the country he had long thought of us the enemy, having been fed misinformation about the distant nation from the moment of his birth, as had all Eno’Kalian citizens. He had been extremely fortunate to be taken under the tutelage of Corvin Medeannus, who had been the Spire’s liaison to the King, at the time. Fortunately, even back then, Alfred had understood that one could not control the circumstances or location of their birth, and had not let Malute’s heritage cloud his perception of the young mage.

In fact, though the King had never outright said it, Malute was fairly certain that it was their meeting that had given Alfred the idea to set up an underground network of safe-houses to help any practitioners trying to escape Eno’Kalia.

Without Alfred’s help and support, Malute was not sure he would have had even a fraction of the success he had seen.

Thus, as soon as Darren II had succeeded his father as Emperor of Eno’Kalia and his stance on magic had become widely known as radically different from those of his father, Alfred had encouraged Malute to reach out to the new emperor. Once Malute had confirmed that Darren II’s new policies were genuine and not a smokescreen to find more practitioners to execute—not that either had expected to learn this, given Malute’s history with the new emperor—Alfred had worked through Malute to facilitate the peace talks.

Alfred had, of course, reached out to Darren I many times during his long reign as well, but neither sovereign had been able to see pas the others policies—or lack thereof, in Cedirc’s case—regarding practitioners of the mystic arts. The King had said many times that he was concerned that making any kind of agreement with Darren I would signify that he supported the other kingdom’s barbaric rules when it came to those born with the gift, and that he could not countenance. Given the vocal outcry to the forthcoming treaty with Darren II, with his acceptance of magic and those who used it, Malute could certainly not blame Alfred for having such concerns back then. Clearly, those concerns were more than warranted.

But he also knew that any who thought that Alfred DeCarren could ever support such views did not truly know Alfred DeCarren.

That much was certain.

A hard knock on the door to his chambers interrupted his thoughts and brought him back to reality and the sad circumstances he now found himself in. With more effort than it usually took, he pushed himself up from his chair and, with a last glance at his haggard looking reflection in the mirror, crossed the black carpeted floor to the wooden door and opened it.

“Orneth,” he said as his eyes fell upon the black haired acolyte of Aegoth, remembering the young man’s name from the night past, “What news of the King?” he asked, knowing the reason for the acolytes visit.

The acolyte lowered the hand that had been raised to knock a second time, and bowed quickly, recovering quickly from his surprise.

“The High Priest asked that I retrieve you, sir,” the acolyte replied simply in his nasally voice, turning to leave as he finished.

“But the King?” Malute could not help but ask, stopping the man in his tracks.

“I was told only to bring you to him, High Mage,” Orneth said in carefully controlled voice before starting off once more.

Malute bit back another question, knowing he would not get any more information out of this disciple of Aegoth. If Herocas had ordered that the acolyte say nothing to him of the King’s condition, then Orneth would tell him nothing, regardless of if he knew anything or not. That rigid adherence to commands was one of the habits he found most annoying about the followers of Aegoth, and about most religions in general, for that fact.

Instead, he hurried back to retrieve his staff from where he had left it leaning against the table in front of his chair, and, thinking once more of his conversation with Barthalamus as he glanced at the empty mirror, returned to the door.

What Barthalamus had said about the Conclave and the denizens of the Spire in general was concerning. A schism in the tower would mean no good for anyone, especially if it came to blows. He had well noted the undercurrent of concern in Barthalamus’ voice when he had mentioned the stalemate in discussion. He had a strong feeling that the atmosphere in the Spire was even worse than he had been told outright by his friend, and that troubled him greatly.

Cedirc could not afford another release of sorcery as had been unleashed during the Ilvarri War.

Especially not within the capital.

Concerns swirling about his head, he pulled the door to his chambers shut behind him, waving a hand to reset the ward against unwanted intrusion that lay constant across it. The simple casting, one he did every time he came and went from his chambers, took more energy than it should have. Just reaching out to the vita was difficult.

Oh yes, he was tired.

But he could no allow himself to rest.

Not now, not yet.

Straightening his shoulders and forcing himself to stand erect, he turned to follow Orneth, who had paused at the top of the spiral staircase that wound down along the inside of the outer wall of the West Tower when he had noticed the magus was not following him. Without a word, the red robed acolyte started off again as soon as Malute came within a few paces of where the younger man waited, setting a brisk pace.

Stifling a sigh, Malute put one hand on the rail and, using it for more support than he had ever done before, did his best to keep up with the younger man, feeling every year of his five decades.

He fervently hoped that Herocas had good news for him.

He was even close to praying.

* * *

“By Morith’s dusty bones,” Kyarra cursed aloud as Swiftwing dropped into yet another sudden dive as some sense seemed to warn the avian a moment before the dark grey clouds around them lit green in another bright flash of jade lightning.

We should have gone around the Ashlands, the captain thought with no small amount of regret as she kept her eyes shut tight, the smell of burning ozone permeating the air about her.

The bolt lanced across the sky, the flash shining through her eyelids in spite of her effort to block it. When she opened her eyes, she could see the after image of the bolt, burnt into her retinas, wherever she looked. She blinked a few times to try to clear the image away, dreading the next flash already as thunder boomed all about her, threatening to deafen her.

Leaving Gryphon’s Roost several hours before, they had made good time following the shimmering azure waters of the River Elan to the west, the lush grasslands of the Plains of Tovar a green blur as Swiftwing bore her towards Aldar. The river route was one she had taken many times, both by air and by land, and so she had had plenty of time to think about the events of the previous night—and, more importantly, the coming conversation with the DeCarrens.

She was not looking forward to it in the slightest.

Even now, as Swiftwing dove and swooped around the jade flashes of lightning that lanced across the sky all about them in the dark clouds, she could not help but think of it all, trusting implicitly in her companion to keep her safe. With the thick, near-black clouds surrounding them, she could barely see a dozen feet in front of them, anyways.

Kyarra was still grappling with the knowledge that she had not been included in the King’s plans for capturing the assassin. From a purely logical standpoint, she could understand his reasoning completely: the less people who knew of the plan, the less chance that any would-be intruder would think anything amiss within the castle.

It had become increasingly clear from all the previous attempts that the would-be assassins had had a decent knowledge to the goings-on within Gryphon’s Roost, including the numbers and frequencies of the patrols within it’s strong walls. Whomever was behind the attempts had clearly surveilled the compound in advance of their attempts, and likely even had informants in the King’s employ to pass along information. The idea that there could be traitors in their midst galled her, but she could not deny that it made sense. So it stood to reason that any sudden, drastic changes in the security of the castle would either deter any further attempts, or change their route of approach.

It had had to appear as if another assassination attempt was unexpected.

Kyarra would have preferred they had just strengthened security and deterred the attempts outright, and from their brief conversation, she knew that her father felt the same way. Had they done so, Alfred would not now be fighting for his life, and she would not have been dispatched to Aldar bearing the grim news.

The red-haired woman blinked away tears as she thought of the coming encounter with the DeCarren siblings.

With her friends.

That was the downside of being close with the ones you were sworn to protect, she reflected morosely. What she was feeling within her went far beyond the professional sense of failure at the King being nearly mortally wounded. Every soldier within the Roost would be feeling that soon, were they not already. Giving grim news was part of the job; she accepted that, and was used to it.

But she had been born and raised within the castle, and was of an age with the twins. Due to her father’s close association and, she knew, close friendship with both King Alfred and Queen Denise, before her unfortunate passing, she had grown up playing with Rolan and Elenor, and later Steffan, when he had been born. She had also been fortunate enough to be tutored in the same vein the princes and princess had, thanks to Alfred’s kindness. They had forged a true friendship during that time, and she was the first to admit that sometimes even now the lines between their respective stations often blurred. She did not always show them the deference others did, and they did not expect her to when others were not present. In fact, they preferred it to the everyday trappings of their station.

That closeness was a double-edged sword, however.

While it meant there was an implicit trust between herself and the royal heirs, it also inevitably made this part of her job that much more difficult. There did not exist that disconnect that made bearing ill news to the family of one under her command easier. There was no good way to tell anyone that their loved one was injured or killed, but having a level of detachment made it more manageable.

The worst news she had ever had to give was following an incident with a new recruit a year or so ago. A young man named Jayne had failed to strap his legs into the saddle of gis mount properly on his first solo flight, and when the gryphon had banked sharply, he had lost his saddle to fall hundreds of feet to the ground before the Talon who had been training him could catch him. Kyarra had delivered the devastating news to his family herself, as they lived within the city below the castle. It had been difficult, to be sure, to face Jayne’s family as she informed them of his death due to the incident, but she had been able to retain that emotional detachment as she had done so.

She would not be able to do that with the DeCarrens.

Especially Elenor.

She was close to the DeCarren princes as well, of course, but her and Elenor had grown even closer the older they grew, and Kyarra dreaded seeing the princess’ pain and anguish when she broke the news to them.

She was, she admitted to herself, not sure she could be the one to tell Elenor the news.

Unbeknownst to anyone, their relationship had moved beyond mere friendship in recent years, even as suitors from the Great Houses of Cedirc and ruling families of other nations courted her. While she did not regret that, not for an instant, it would most certainly pose a problem when she told her that her father was currently fighting for his life.

Kyarra would instinctively want to comfort her, but would be unable to. Not in front of the princes, Captain Lorrik, or any others who may be present when the news was given. Propriety would demand otherwise.

Propriety, and secrecy of the true nature of their relationship.

The princess loved her father dearly, and would take the news hard, and despite every bone in her body urging her to go to her, to console her, she would be unable to. She had to remain apart, and Kyarra was not sure she could, not with Elenor. She remembered all too well how Queen Denise’s illness and death had affected the princess—how could she not, given that that sad time had been the catalyst of their heightened relationship, though neither knew it at the time. She had never wanted the princess to go through such pain again.

She prayed that High Priest Herocas would be able to help the King.

For Elenor’s sake.

It was completely selfish of the captain to think of these horrible events in such a light, and to put Elenor’s well-being above that of both her siblings, but she could not help it.

She dreaded the moment, but knew it could not be avoided. She had been working hard on this flight to steel herself against the coming conversation.

Kyarra would do her duty.

But that did not mean it would be easy.

She still did not know how she would tell them the news. With the mission they were on, greeting the Eno’Kalian representatives and escorting them to the capital, tensions would be high enough without adding in the King being near death.

Rolan would take it stoically enough, she knew. He was his father’s son in every way, and would compartmentalize the information until he could deal with the emotions properly. He would put the mission first, and see it through. There was no doubt in her mind about that. Just like she had no doubt that Steffan would be angry, even more that he was regarding the coming treaty, and would feel the need to do something to feel he was helping his father. Or to find whomever had done it. Not a bad trait, but she was certain it would not help in dealing with the negotiations.

Her father had thought the same, and that was why she had brought all three heirs’ gryphons with her. Duskwing and Shadowdancer, belonging to the princes, and Twilight, who was Elenor’s beloved mount, flew behind her and Swiftwing. She had brought all three black feathered gryphons with her, but only expected two of the heirs to return to the city alongside her.

Rolan would stay focused on the mission, and would see the Eno’Kalian’s safely to Caras. That was just who he was. The realm would be better served by the treaty, and so it Rolan would see it done. Steffan and Elenor could go wither way, but Kyarra had a sneaking suspicion that both would be returning with her astride their winged mounts.

Her mind had gone in circles about this, more times than she could count.

She just wanted to get it over with, truth be told.

With news like this, time was certainly of the essence.

While Rabberick had wanted to go himself by portal to inform the others, Malute had insisted such was not feasible. Not only was her father needed should the King be return to consciousness, the High Mage could not conjure a portal on his own. Other magi would be needed. She had heard the concern in his voice when he had admitted that fact, and knew that the fact that the assassin had been able to form one on their own bothered the magus more than a little. Besides that, Malute had explained, even should Rabberick go by portal to Aldar, he would not have a way back, and so would be stuck returning by land or boat, both journeys taking days.

No, gryphon was more efficient and reliable, and would get the DeCarren’s back to Caras quicker.

And so, with speed clearly desired, she had made the choice to fly through the Ashlands, a route to Aldar that, while not strictly forbidden, was certainly not encouraged, nor expected.

But the circumstances of her flight had necessitated taking the shortcut.

She had firmly believed that then, and still did, even as the nearly opaque clouds surrounding the quartet of gryphons flashed jade in another brilliant flash, the following thunderclap rattling every bone in her body.

The first bell or so of their flight through the Ashlands had been quiet, the ground below devoid of life. She had seen forms moving around from time to time, but, true to their name, there had been no sign of grass or living trees that she could see; everything remained coated in a thick layer of ash and soot, even though two and a half centuries had past since the eruption that had forever changed Cedirc.

She had heard many a tale of the undead monstrosities that inhabited the barren wastes of the Ashlands. It was held that they were revenants of those who had perished in horrid ways during the eruption of Mount Sildé, forever restless and always looking to unleash their wrath on any living creature who dared to enter domain. And though she had never set foot in that region until now—though she supposed she still had not set foot in the Ashlands—she had seen enough from escorting caravans and dignitaries from Aldar to Caras and back on the south bank of the River Elan, opposite the Ashlands, that she fully believed those tales.

On one particular trip she had been on duty when a fellow guard had seen movement on the opposite bank. Moving closer to their position to see better, Kyarra, too, had been able to make out movement across the flowing waters of the river, in the form of emaciated, slow moving, bipedal creatures. Light from the moon had been strong enough for her to see that they were pale creatures, moonlight reflecting off what she came to realize were their bones, and when one turned their way, green light had emanated from where their eyes should have been. If the wandering creatures had seen them, they had given no indication, continuing their ceaseless, aimless wandering as Kyarra and her companion had watched with eerie fascination. Though nothing had come of the admittedly not so close encounter, it had stuck with her ever since, and so when she had first seen the forms shambling about, she had felt that same inexplicable dread.

Thus having a good idea what those creatures likely were from past experience, she had had no desire to see them closer, and so she had instructed Swiftwing to fly higher, pulling back on the reigns. The gryphon had obliged without complaint, clearly wanting no part of whatever was down there either. To her relief, Duskwing, Twilight, and Shadowdancer had followed suit immediately.

The undead were on the ground; they were not. They should be safe so long as they did not land, she believed.

She twisted around in the saddle to ensure the other three gryphons remained behind them. The fact that all three of the royal gryphons had dark, almost black, feathers did not make seeing them any easier. Duskwing and Shadowdancer, true to their names, had dark grey feathers, with their wings and heads being closer to black. Twilight was also primarily dark grey, but her tail and neck feathers were closer in hue to the bronze of Kyarra’s own Swiftwing. She was pleased to see they remained close, though they blended in so well with the dark clouds around them that it took her a while to find them. She had checked behind after each flash since the storm had blown in.

Well, she silently corrected, maybe ‘blown in’ is not best description.

The storm had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, as if summoned by a magus. One moment, there had been blue skies about her, with only a few wispy clouds in sight. The next, the black, towering storm clouds had manifested all around the four gryphons.

Ever since, the gryphons had been dipping and diving, veering left and right without notice to dodge the green bolts of lightning. She was not sure how the gryphons seemed to know where the next lancing bolt of energy would appear, but she was grateful for it as she gripped the horn of her saddle hard with both hands.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, running down from the sodden padding under her helm and down the inside of her visor, blurring her vision as it left rivulets across the glass. She winced as some that salty liquid ran into her eyes, causing them to sting and further impeding her vision.

Not for the first time, she was grateful that Swiftwing did not need direction from her, trusting in him to fly true without guidance.

And at least there’s no rain, she thought, though that, too, seemed unusual for a storm like this. She had heard of clouds of volcanic ash generating lightning—tales of the Cataclysm told of vibrant crimson volts within the black plumes—without the presence of rain, but not a natural storm. For that matter, the air about her was dry, drier than it should be given the thick clouds all around.

Clearly, given all that, along with its sudden manifestation about them, this storm was unnatural. That lent more than a little credence to the belief that the Ashland’s continued lack of life some two centuries after the Cataclysm was likely a result of uncontrolled vitarus. Wild magic, she had heard the magi of the Spire call it. The overwhelming presence of undead also supported this, in her mind, whether or not they were controlled by the Uncrowned King or were just mindless creatures cursed to wander the ash and soot for all eternity.

As the latest peal of thunder died away another sound caught her attention.

At first, she thought it nothing more than the sharp ringing in her ears that had followed every cacophonous roar of thunder. Then she saw the eagle-like head of her mount swing to the side a moment before he let out a piercing cry.

Squinting in the direction Swiftwing looked, trying to see past the sweat streaking her visor, she saw a glowing form within the cloud a split second before it burst free, flying straight at her. Her eyes widened as she took in the creature that even now flew at her.

What corner of Morith’s dark realm did you come from?

She cursed as she ducked low, pressing her body close to her mount, narrowly avoiding the luminescent creature’s grasping talons as it swooped past, disappearing into the surrounding clouds with an annoyed screech.

She heard answering screeches from all around her, and saw with growing apprehension that glowing forms moved all about her in the clouds.

“Dive, Swiftwing! Get us out of the clouds!” she cried, hunching down over the gryphon’s back as she issued the command, knowing her loyal companion would heed her immediately.

He did, and suddenly they were plummeting, the air whistling past her as they fell a hundred feet, then two, in the cool air. Lighting arced around them once again, and she hurried to blink the flash from her eyes, frantically scanning around her for the pursuit she knew had to be coming. Twisting around, she saw several glowing forms about them in the cloud; she silently willed her mount to go faster as more piercing cries echoed from all around her midst the reverberating rumble of another peal of thunder, the sounds coalescing into a haunting melody as they reached her ears.

She took one hand off the saddle’s horn, reaching down to each leg to ensure that the straps holding her into the saddle were tight, not once taking her eyes off the glowing shadows about her. Confident that she was secure, she next reached beside her and undid the straps holding her spear in place, bringing it up before her.

Swiftwing’s agility would only delay the creature’s attacking them, after all. If she did not defend herself, eventually one of them would make contact with her. As she gripped the spear in both hands, watching the unnatural lights move about her for the slightest sign of the next attack, they broke free of the enveloping clouds.

Kyarra twisted about in the saddle, momentarily relieved to see the other three gryphons emerge from the clouds. That relief was cut short immediately as several smaller, winged green forms emerged from the black clouds, following directly behind the gryphons.

She let out another curse as she saw them, blinking sweat from her eyes.

She had been hoping against hope that what she had briefly seen within the obscuring mists of the cloud had been distorted, or some trick of the jade lightning.

But it was not.

Several undead birds, no more than bones and tufts of rotted feathers, eyes green points of light in otherwise empty sockets, swooped about the riderless gryphons, pecking and clawing at the larger avians. She could faintly see wisps of green energy forming a membrane of sorts along the wings of each creature, acting in the same way feathers would a living bird to keep them aloft.

It seemed that, contrary to what she had believed, what she had hoped, the undead of the Ashlands were not limited to the ground.

Uttering another curse, she heeled Swiftwing’s flank, turning him about even as she saw one of the undead monsters rip a clump of feathers from one of the accompanying gryphons—she could not tell which in the dim light that filtered through the clouds.

The injured gryphon let out a cry of pain and anger, twisting its head back and managing to catch the creature in it’s beak as it started to fly away. Kyarra heard multiple sharp cracks as the gryphon clamped it’s beak shut, and watched with no small amount of satisfaction as the magic holding the abomination together dissipated, and a shower of bones fell towards the ground far below.

Another of the undead birds—some kind of hawk, or maybe an eagle, she figured from the remaining plumage and large wingspan of the creature—dove towards her and Swiftwing as they turned about. She batted aside the lifeless creature’s talons with the butt of her spear, snapping one talon off completely. The bird flew past and came about for another attack. Kyarra met it with a stab of her spear, the glinting head cracking through the hollow bone of the birds skull as it opened its beak, shattering it utterly.

It, too, broke apart as the magic holding it together dissipated under the assault, disappearing in wisps of green smoke.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, she dared hope, her confidence rising as she noted another of their undead adversaries falling to pieces as the accompanying gryphons, no strangers to battle, defended themselves.

She regretted the thought almost immediately when, no more than a moment later, a dozen more of the undead avians dove out of the clouds. Varying in size from a few hand-spans to several feet across at the wing, the cacophony of cries as they approached chilled her. The chorus of bird songs, including the cawing of a crow, the screech of a hawk, the shriek of an eagle—she even thought she heard the cry of a seagull mixed in—all tinged with an unearthly undertone, was far and above the most unsettling sound she had ever heard as the undead flock flew towards them.

Kyarra considered fighting them, then shook her head and let out a sharp whistle, calling the riderless gryphons away from the fight with the remaining four creatures that swooped about them.

They could likely take care of the closing birds, as well as they ones they were already engaged with, she knew, but there was no way of telling how many more of the abominations would come after them if they lingered. She could hear more of the unworldly cries in the distance, though she could not see any more approaching. With the obscuring clouds, the undead could be upon them almost before they knew it. Beyond that, she and the gryphons would tire, eventually.

The undead would not.

In a prolonged battle, they would eventually lose.

A glance below, searching for any cover in the blasted landscape below, offered no help. She could see multiple shapes, with the same unworldly glow surrounding them, milling about below, seeming to converge on them. Landing was clearly not an option.

Scanning the horizon on all sides in an attempt to sort her bearing, she was pleased to spy shimmering waters some distance to the south.

It has to be the Elan, no other river runs near this cursed place.

It was no more than ten leagues away, she judged. On foot, even astride a horse, that would be an insurmountable distance with an undead horde pursuing them every step of the way.

Astride Swiftwing, however…

They could easily make that.

“Fly, Swiftwing. Fly fast to the river!” She instructed, her spear slashing out to knock aside the first of the new flock of undead avians as it came within striking distance. To her dismay her weapon only succeeded in breaking a couple of the creatures ribs off as it was pushed away, flapping its eerily glowing wings furiously to stay aloft following the impact.

The gryphon responded immediately to her command, beating its large wings furiously—knocking two of the attacking skeletons to pieces, she noted with grim satisfaction—and turning towards the river. Kyarra let out another whistle, calling the other three mounts to her.

Two of the gryphons broke free of the attacking undead easily, batting them aside with beaks, talons, and wings to follow at her command. More bones fell to the earth below.

The last gryphon—she still could not tell for certain which it was, the colour of its plumage impossible for her to make out in the dim light—was slower to react, and was quickly left behind by the other two. It tried valiantly to follow its kin, but even as it managed to knock aside the two remaining birds from the first assault, the new flock of undead arrived, seeming to have completely ignored the two uninjured gryphons in favour of the wounded one.

Tears welling up in her eyes, Kyarra debated turning about once more, and lifted her heel from Swiftwing’s flank to do just that. But the urge to do so only lasted a moment as she realized, with a heavy heart, that there was nothing she could do.

She watched as the dozen undead creatures tore into the wounded gryphon, tearing patches of feathers and skin off with wild abandon as the glowing green forms assaulted the majestic creature.

The gryphon’s cries of pain and anguish tore at her heart as Swiftwing let out an answering cry of anger, as did the two remaining riderless ones behind her. True to his training, however, her mount did not turn back, nor did the other two accompanying mounts. Instead, the gryphon followed his rider’s order, flying her to the river.

Flying her to safety.

Blinking away tears, Kyarra lifted her sweat streaked visor to as she continued to watch behind them, forcing herself to witness the horrible spectacle.

The cries of the dying gryphon grew fainter behind them before suddenly cutting off as one of the larger undead birds latched onto the gryphon’s throat.

The captain watched in horror as what had once been an eagle of some sort tore out the gryphon’s throat, ending it’s misery in a shower of blood. The gryphon’s wild, desperate thrashing ceased, its body going limp as all life left it, wings pushed up by the air about it as it began its inevitable fall from the sky. Still the undead horrors tore strips of flesh from it, not relenting in their attack in the slightest though she knew the avian had to be dead—or very near it.

She fervently hoped for the former.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the falling gryphon, “I’m so sorry.”

She watched until the dead avian crashed into the ground below, crushing more of the undead beneath it upon impact in a cloud of ash and dust, obscuring the corpse from her sight. Those few undead birds who had not been tearing relentlessly at the gryphon in the air swooped down after it, vanishing within the rising dust. Dozens of the milling forms on the ground likewise converged on the sit of impact, quickly disappearing within the cloud of ash and dust.

Kyarra stared at that cloud for a long moment before turning her regard to the remaining two gryphons that followed her, who were flying close enough now for her to be able to make out the colour of their plumage clearly for the first time since the attack began: grey and black.

Duskwing and Shadowdancer.

The two black feathered gryphons that remained were those of Rolan and Steffan.

It had been Elenor’s beloved Twilight who had fallen.

Heart heavy, regretting her choice to cut across the skies of the Ashlands now more than ever, Kyarra scanned the skies behind her for more of the undead monsters.

Seeing only the dark clouds of the storm, fortunately diminishing behind them now, she turned so she was facing forward once more. She leaned close and, after securing the spear at the side of the saddle once again, gripped the saddle-horn tight, pressing herself close to Swiftwing once more as he sped her to safety.

The horrid cries of the twisted, undead creatures continuing their frenzied tearing at the deceased gryphon’s carcass gradually diminished quickly as the gryphon put more distance between the spot the majestic creature had fallen. Kyarra was immensely grateful when the cawing, shrieking, screeching cacophony died away completely moments later.

She raised a gloved hand and brushed away more sweat from her brow, then made to lower the visor once more. She hesitated, then lowered her hand, deciding it would be better to leave the visor raised.

The wind would dry her tears for her.

The three surviving gryphons and their grieving rider flew across the river, striking west for Aldar.