Chapter Three

Gryphon’s Roost, Caras

Kingdom of Cedirc

7th Day of Pendelius, 247 A.C.

Pre-dawn

Rabberick passed through the charred remains of the twin doors that had only minutes earlier stood barred, shaking his head as he re-entered the solarium.

Magic.

How he hated the cursed stuff when it was used against him.

Oh, when Malute or other magus’ of the Spire used it to aid him, as when Malute had sundered the oaken doors moments before, he saw its benefits. But when the enemy used it, and to escape, no less…

That was a different story.

Leaning out the window beside the tall magus, Rabberick had watched as the falling assailant had managed to conjure a portal, disappearing moments before he either would have become no more than a broken body on the slate roof, or Kyarra’s gryphon would have caught him. Either of those options would have been preferable—in fact, he would have preferred the death of the assassin over Kyarra’s capture of him, the King’s wishes be damned.

The man was a cursed mage!

Rabberick still could not believe that. In his mind, the martial and mystic arts were distinct from one another. One either trained with weapons or with the vita, not both. That the assassin could possess such power had not occurred to the commander, and the thought bothered him more than a little. If this man had known some spells, after all, did others? Would more mage-assassins come after the King?

That thought bothered him more than a little as his eyes fixed on the scene in the solar, where Herocas, one of his acolytes, and one of his Talons knelt over and tended to the King, the latter two bracing the King’s shoulders and feet as Herocas tended to the wound. Small spasms and jerks of the wounded man’s limbs told Rabberick that he did indeed live, and he felt no small measure of relief at that realization. When he had charged through the doorway following Malute’s spell, he had not known if the King was still with them or not. He had trusted that Herocas would be there shortly from the room where the priest and his acolytes had waited the past few nights, and if not, his Talons would have seen to him.

In truth, regardless of if the King been dead, capturing the assassin would still have been his priority.

He made his where to where the two servants of Aegoth tended the monarch, noting the large crimson stain on Alfred’s grey robes, and spreading out from him on the marble floor. Herocas spared him a look as he approached, the sandy haired priest’s face grim, his lips a thin line, before returning to his work. The commander moved to stand behind him, and saw immediately what was causing the High Priest’s consternation: the wound on the King’s chest had missed his heart and lungs, but the edges of the wound had blackened, with dark tendrils snaking out from the wound along his crimson skin. The skin touching the blackened edge was an angry, harsh red, and looked to be swollen; had he not known the wound was only minutes old, Rabberick would have sworn it had become infected already. He had seen many such infections on the battlefield, and had he not known better, he would have bet a month’s wages that that was what he was looking at, were it not for the blackened skin around the wound, and…

He narrowed his eyes, trying to determine if what he was seeing was a trick of the light. But no, there were indeed faint wisps of smoke rising from the King’s wound, as the blackened skin spread from the wound, as if Alfred’s body were burning. He could swear he was able to see the tendrils on his skin moving too, weaving like serpents as they spread.

“Let me through!”

Malute’s acerbic voice cut through the near silence of the room as Rabberick heard soldiers move aside to let the magus through. He heard a sharp intake of breath from the magus as he, too, viewed the wound before Herocas, taking a phial from his kit, poured some salve or tincture on a clean clothe and draped it over the wound. Alfred let out a groan of pain as the soft fabric came into contact with his sweat drenched skin, trying to roll away from Herocas’ touch as the acolyte and Talon did their best to hold him in place. Herocas began murmuring a prayer to his god as he placed a hand on the King’s forehead. Alfred seemed to calm then, slumping to the floor, though he continued to mutter softly.

“Prepare him for transport, we need to get him to the temple,” The priest instructed his acolyte as he stood, brushing off his bright red, gold fringed robes that marked him as the High Priest of Aegoth. The female acolyte at the King’s feet nodded, hurrying from the room. Herocas looked beside Rabberick, where another acolyte stood, his hands stained crimson, “How is the guard, Orneth?”

“There was nothing I could do, High Priest,” the acolyte replied in a soft voice, his shoulders slumping at the admission; Rabberick closed his eyes at the confirmation that he had lost a soldier this night.

“Go and help Valencia with the litter,” Herocas instructed the young man, nodding as if he had already known the answer, “and hurry back, we need to move him as soon as possible.”

Orneth bowed his head, bringing his right pal to his chest, over his heart, and spun to do as the High Priest ordered. Herocas turned his tired, brown eyes to regard Rabberick and Malute, “The assassin?”

“Gone,” the magus replied in a voice barely louder than a whisper, raw anger evident in the normally emotionless tone, sending a cold shiver through Rabberick, “Jumped through the window.”

“Dead, then, not escaped.”

Malute sighed, shaking his head as he replied, “No, I’m afraid I did not speak in error: he escaped.”

“But how?” Herocas asked, wiping his hands clean of the King’s blood on a cloth, confused, “We are nearly fifty feet above the roof. If the assassin jumped, surely he—“

“Magic.”

Rabberick winced as he heard the barely contained anger in Kyarra’s voice as she pushed through the watching soldiers.

Quiet voices rose in surprise and no small amount of alarm at her simple statement, and Rabberick turned to regard her. He saw anger flash in her emerald eyes as she met his eyes for a moment before turning her regard to Malute. She was not the only one staring at the mage, Rabberick noted; many of the Talons behind her, murmuring amongst themselves, were staring hard at the mage. Malute seemed at a loss for words as he returned her gaze, and that, the commander knew, was more disconcerting than had Malute responded immediately. The normally calm and composed mage was clearly shaken by the events of the night, and that unsettled Rabberick.

“Swiftwing almost had him,” Kyarra stated when Malute said nothing, speaking trough gritted teeth. “He would have caught them if they hadn’t vanished through some kind of portal, Fa—Commander,” she caught the slip, but the fact that it had happened at all spoke volumes to him. He turned is regard from Malute to her, and saw the conflict written across her features as she began to continue, “Why did—“

“Clear the room, Captain,” Rabberick ordered in a loud voice, cutting off her forthcoming question; he did not need her to voice it aloud to know it. She was smart, and had likely figured out most of the nights events—and indeed, her appearance so soon after, apparently in time to come within a hair’s breadth of catching the assailant, told him in no uncertain terms that she had pieced it together. Her expression told him that she wanted answers, and he would give them to her, but this was neither the time nor the place. There were too many people around, and the King needed treatment. He met her eyes, saw the anger and some other emotion—hurt?—simmering behind them as he continued, “Ensure none enters, aside from the acolytes.”

Kyarra stiffened, mouth snapping shut at the order; her red rimmed, watery eyes stared up at him a heartbeat longer before she straightened and snapped a salute, slapping fist to breast, spinning away to do as commanded. She would do her duty, he knew as she started snapping commands, clearing the Talons from the room, but he grimaced as he thought of the conversation he knew they would have later.

“Captain.”

Herocas’ call stopped her, and all three—Kyarra, Rabberick, and Malute—turned to regard the priest, who once again knelt beside the King, “If you could send a couple of those Talons to assist my acolytes, I would appreciate it,” he met Malute’s eyes, then Rabberick’s, as he stated, “we need to hurry.”

“You can’t do anything more for him here?” Rabberick asked, surprised.

“Normally I could, but this wound… No, I cannot.”

“No magics? Surely there is some spell…” Rabberick trailed off as the priest shook his head sadly, telling the commander that he had already tried.

“There is something about this wound that repels every spell I have tried,” Herocas admitted, sounding defeated.

“Yes, I saw that,” Malute whispered from beside him, bending closer to the King, “Do you know why that would be?”

“You know as well as I that there are some materials that are less affected by magic, Malute. My guess would be that whatever weapon was used on him has coated in one of them, but I cannot be sure.”

Malute nodded, and the three fell silent as they waited for the acolytes to return. Rabberick found his eyes drifting back to the covered wound again, and from there to his beloved King’s face. It was no longer the deep crimson he had grown accustomed to, but appeared lighter; more akin to the hue of a rose than blood; what passed for pale for the red skinned man, he supposed. Sweat continued to bead on Alfred’s forehead, running in rivulets down his face, his breaths coming shallow and rapid, and Rabberick took some solace in the fact that Alfred still lived, at least for now.

But still his shoulders slumped, and he let out a long sigh, unable to deny one overwhelming thought.

He had failed.

* * *

“You two, come with me; the rest of you, make ready to clear the way,” Kyarra ordered, the fiery redheaded captain hearing the voices and cries of confusion coming from the stairs, where no doubt a mass of concerned servants and soldiers had gathered. The two Talons—Janson and Closden, she thought their names were—followed her without hesitation as she marched down the hall to where the only other open doorway. As she had expected, she found the two acolytes inside, holding a litter, one of its poles snapped in half; it seemed like the two were arguing.

“What happened?” she demanded, startling the two acolytes.

“I grabbed it, and he—“

“She dropped it and—“

She held up a hand, not really caring what had happened or whose fault it was. She looked the broken litter over, and noted that the poles were simply slid through thick loops of the fabric the bed of the litter was made of. She stepped closer and pulled the two halves of the snapped wooden pole off and tossed them to the ground. The clatter they make as the bounce off the stone floor startle the acolytes, who jump and turn wide eyes on her.

“Follow me, and hurry. Back to the King,” she felt a twinge of regret at their reaction to the abrupt noise, but could not take the time to calm their nerves now. Her own were on edge, and her thoughts swirled as she spun and lead the acolytes back to the King’s chambers, the Talons following behind.

As she stepped over the fallen Talon’s body, she turned her head and commanded the Talon’s, “Move him out of the door and make another litter. Use spears and bedsheets; wrap the spearheads in clothe so you don’t cut yourselves. Make sure his head is covered. Hurry, you will follow behind us.”

The Talons hurry to follow her commands, snapping quick salutes as they turn to go strip the bedding in the room they just left.

“And one of you give me your halberd,” she adds; one of them—Janson, she’s pretty sure—hurries back and hands her his weapon before spinning on the spot and rushing to catch up to his partner.

That taken care of, she continued into the room, having the acolytes Orneth and Valencia place the litter down beside the King as Malute and Rabberick moved out of the way. Following her own advice, she grabbed one of the blood stained clothes Herocas had used to tend to the King and wrapped it around the head of the polearm before sliding its haft through the loops on the litter. She moved to the King’s feet as her father moved to his shoulders, father and daughter both squatting.

“Careful now,” Herocas murmured softly as they lifted the limp body of their King and slowly transfered him to the litter. The four looked down at Alfred for a moment, and Kyarra thought the normally larger than life figure looked somehow smaller. She felt a lump growing in her throat, and blinked her wet eyes, embarrassed at her own display of emotion until she saw the same reflected on the faces of her father, Herocas, and even Malute.

“Come on then, there’s no time to waste if we want to save him,” Herocas said, placing a damp cloth on the King’s forehead to fight the fever.

Exchanging glances, Kyarra and Rabberick moved to stand at either end of the litter and crouched between the poles, gripping them in their hands. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw her father nod, and they lifted at the same time, doing their best to keep the King’s body level in spite of their difference in height.

“A moment,” Malute said as they started leaving the room; he disappeared through the blasted doors to the King’s bed chambers, returning a moment later bearing a violet blanket. The tan skinned magus threw it over the King’s unconscious body, adjusting it so the swooping gryphon sigil of House DeCarren was centered on the King’s form.

If he had pulled it any higher, Kyarra thought morbidly, it would look like a shroud.

“Go ahead of us and clear a path for us. We take the most direct route to the temple,” she heard her father command the men she had brought in with her, “Take whoever you need. We must not be hindered in any way.”

“If you do not clear a path, I will,” Malute added, normally tanned hands white as he gripped the black shaft of his staff, his quiet voice telling them all beyond a doubt that he would not be gentle towards any he had to clear himself.

The two Talons shared a nervous look before saluting and, stealing glances at the blasted remains of the King’s bed chamber door, still smoking on the floor, dashing from the room, no doubt imagining the havoc the mage could create if he felt the need. She heard them shouting for other soldiers to go with them, voices fading as the clanking of their boots on the stone floor was joined by many others. Ahead of her, at the head of the litter, Rabberick turned his head so he could look at her with one brown eye. She could see the wetness in that eye, and before he could say a word, she gave a quick, curt nod, not trusting either of them to speak. She was as ready as she could be.

Shoulders rising as he took in a deep breath, and very obviously not looking at the load they carried, Rabberick gave a slight nod in response and, together, they began moving towards the door.

In the hall, Malute and Herocas moved so they walked to either side of the litter, the better to monitor the King’s condition as they bore him to the Temple of Aegoth. The two acolytes hurried to walk in front of them, with several Talons falling in ahead of and behind them as they began descending the stairs.

The soldiers had done their jobs well, and most of the corridors they passed through were empty save for cordons of Talons, though more than once she saw heads poking around corners or out of mostly closed doors, eyes watching them with both curiosity and concern. The soldiers stood at attention as they passed, polearms held erect in front of them, heads bowed with hands to chest. Though they did a laudable job at remaining stoic, more than once she heard a sniffle and caught a glisten in the eyes of those the grim parade passed.

It was a jarring experience for the captain; she had lived within the confines of Gryphon’s Roost her entire life, and had served within the keep itself for the last five or so years, and never had it been so quiet. No matter the time of day or night, there were always servants going about their tasks, cleaning the halls, running hither and thither as they prepared for the next day. One would be hard pressed to find an empty corridor or room, and no matter the hour, conversations and laughter could be heard echoing through the halls as servants and attendants went about their duties.

No such activity was apparent this night; the only sounds accompanying them through the cavernous hallways was the clacking of their boots and the rhythmic tapping of Malute’s staff on the floor.

Her arms began to burn from carrying so heavy a load for so long as they reached the ground floor of the keep, passing into the large entry hall, but she ignored the pain, willing it away. Now was not the time to give in to tiredness, and she refused to let any other bear the King.

Marble columns rose to the high ceiling all around them, sweeping arches reaching from the capitol atop each to the next, crisscrossing the ceiling of the hall. Tapestries depicting momentous events in Cedirc’s history lined the walls, beginning with one of the Cataclysm of Tercress by the entrance to the throne room, with the eruption of Mount Sildé and destruction of the former capitol of Tercress City depicted in tones of black, red, and orange. That event had ended the reign of House Polderian, obliterating not just the former capitol of Cedirc, but the Tyrant-King and all his line as well, changing the course of the Archonte Rebellion that had been raging at the time. The rebellion had morphed into a war between former allies to not only claim the vacant, albeit nonexistent, throne, but also to establish a new seat of power in Cedirc.

Fittingly, the next tapestry in line was the crowning of Queen Alitha DeCarren, the warrior queen who had united Cedirc under her following the Cataclysm. Dubbed the Queen of the Ashes by detractors in her time—a title still used by historians, though in a much more complimentary fashion— she had either defeated or won over the allegiances of the other surviving Great Houses. It had likely helped that the armies of Houses Mencanus, and Tovar had been greatly depleted, with only House Trekon able to field an army after the surviving Royalists had fled north with the remnant of their army following the eruption of Mount Sildé. Regardless of circumstances, Alitha had overcome great opposition in the years following the devastation, and had declared Caras the new capitol of Cedirc, laying the seeds for the former mining village and trading post to grow into the bustling centre of trade it was nearly two and a half centuries later. Behind Alitha stood her wife, the Lady Sera, and Alfred’s ancestor. The fact that neither woman had bore natural children had not sat well with many at the time, and had indeed threatened another war, but the Queens of Cedirc had adopted many children, and, standing their ground and declaring them as legitimate heirs, the dynasty had been born.

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Kyarra could not help but feel a swell of pride as she though of that history—Alitha DeCarren was one of the most inspirational figures in all of history, as far as she was concerned. That pride quickly dissipated as her gaze fell to Alfred, Alitha’s descendant, lying on the litter carried by her and her father. Normally, she loved spending time in the Hall of Memories, but this night, she felt the judgment of the former kings and queens of Cedirc, from Alitha all the way down to Artur II, Alfred’s father, as they passed their portraits, hung on the wall opposite the tapestries, bearing their sorely wounded descendant. In the two and a half centuries since the foundation of the DeCarren dynasty, all of the previous monarchs had died of natural causes, unless they were killed in open combat. None had been assassinated, or come close to the situation that they now foudn themselves in. She felt as though the eyes of the portraits were watching them, judging them for their current failure.

She judged them—and herself—too.

Why had Rabberick not told her?

Clearly, he—and, she assumed, Malute and the King had planned something between the three of them, and that plan had led to the near death of Alfred himself.

The four of them, she corrected, her eyes passing to Herocas. The priest had arrived in the King’s chambers before her, after all, and so must have been nearby already. There had not been enough time for he and his acolytes to be sent for and still arrive before her, even with the failed aerial pursuit of the falling assassin her and Swiftwing had attempted. Clearly they had seen fit to have a priest nearby—and not just any priest, but the leader of the Church of Aegoth himself—nearby. They had anticipated danger, that much was apparent.

So why had they not included her, the Captain of the Winged Guard?

She could have kept an eye on everything from above, had she been aware, and not been caught unawares as she had been. The look her father had given her as he had cut short her question earlier had told her that he had regrets, and she knew they would discuss it soon.

Kyarra silently admonished herself for even thinking of questioning him in front of his own soldiers like that. What had she been thinking?

She had not been thinking, she knew, and that was the problem.

Even with the events of the night, she should have not lost her composure as she had. She had been trained better than that, and expected better of herself. She was in command of the Winged Guard, for Karthos’ sake!

Besides, he was already being hard on himself, she knew as she fixed her gaze on his back, determinedly not looking at the figure they bore between them. His normally stiff, straight shoulders were slumped, and she could hear the half scrape of his armoured feet as they dragged across the floor.

She kept her gaze fixed on her father’s back as they kept moving through the hall, considering how the coming conversation would go. Lost in her thoughts, she was only half aware as they went past depictions of more events in Cedirc’s long history—at least those that had occurred since the Cataclysm, since so much history and knowledge had been lost with the destruction of Tercress. As they passed the final tapestry—this one depicting the end of the Second Ilvarri War, and the signing of a treaty between Alfred and the leader of the ilvarri following the Battle of Faldur Istan—Kyarra realized that they were nearing the end of the hall.

As they neared the tall oaken doors that led out of the keep to the covered terrace and courtyard beyond, the soldiers who had led the grim procession ran ahead. They opened the right side portal a crack, exchanging words with those outside.

Word must have been sent in advance of their arrival, for even as the soldiers stepped back, both heavy ornate doors were swung wide, swinging silently on well oiled hinges until they thudded against the marble walls. Light from braziers burning outside on the terrace flooded into the dimly lit hall, casting long shadows from the soldiers as they turned to stand at attention, butts of spears and halberds thudding into the ground to be held erect in front of them. None of those they passed seemed to be surprised at seeing the King being born on a litter, confirming her suspicions that word had indeed been passed of the events at the top of the keep. How far had word spread already?

“Orneth!”

Herocas’ shout to the acolyte, the first any in the group had spoken since they had left the King’s chambers, echoed loudly in the barren hall, startling her from her thoughts and bringing her back to her surroundings. The black haired acolyte quickly stepped aside to wait for the group to catch up, then fell in step beside the High Priest as they passed through the gaping entrance to the terrace.

“Yes, High Priest?” the acolyte inquired as soon as he was beside Herocas.

“Run ahead to the temple and begin preparing the surgery.”

“The surgery?” She heard the confusion in the red robed acolytes voice.

“Just go!”

Kyarra could not remember having ever heard the High Priest raise his voice like that. Even Malute, still walking opposite the King from the priest, seemed taken aback at his tone, arching an eyebrow at him across the litter, a bemused expression briefly replacing his sour one. The command had the desired effect as Orneth sprinted away without another word, lifting his robes to ensure he did not trip on them as his slippered feet slapped loudly on the marble terrace. He soon disappeared down the wide stairs to the courtyard at the far end of the terrace as the rest of the procession made their slow way in his wake.

The captain could not help but glance up as they passed under the point where she could have caught hold of the falling assassin, where Swiftwing’s talons would have grasped the intruder had the assassin not escaped through that damned misty portal.

She would have had him, were it not for blasted magic.

* * *

Malute found himself a little surprised, and more than a little impressed, at the High Priest in that moment.

Normally, Herocas was a friendly, affable man who would never raise his voice at another human being, unless it was to speak over a large crowd. He was kind, charitable, and compassionate—everything that a priest of Aegoth should be. It drove Malute crazy, since he had never been able to figure out how such a man had risen to the paramount position within the church without a backbone. The man was agreeable to a fault, and never argued, at least not that Malute had ever seen.

Tonight, in the moment when Herocas had snapped Orneth, Malute saw some of that backbone.

The magus had never had a high opinion of the priest, seeing him as just another naive yet charismatic fool who served a god that did not actually care about him or anyone else. That was not to say that Malute did not believe the gods existed, he just had a hard time seeing them caring about the affairs of mortals. Oh sure, many priests and clerics were able to access the vitarus, there was no doubt of that; he could see the power misting around them as they cast their spells, after all. But that did not mean there was a god or goddess granting them that power. That was not how the vitarus worked.

The energy used to cast a spell did not just appear out of thin air, after all; it was transfer of energy. The energy of the spell had to come from somewhere in the vicinity of the caster. That was why the air surrounding the caster actually cooled when a spell was cast; the most common source of energy for the casting of a spell was the air surrounding them. More powerful spells required more energy, and a magus who tried using more of the vita than they could handle could easily end up killing themselves or anyone in their vicinity, though the use of another human’s energy to cast a spell was frowned upon by the Conclave.

But those spells cast by the clerics and priests did not appear to have the same effect on the area around them. When they cast, he could see the power, but not where it came from. It defied all the laws of magic as he and those who studied and used the vitarus knew it.

Quite simply, it should not have been possible, and yet it was.

And this night, he found himself hoping, for the first time in his life, that Herocas would be able to cast one of those seemingly impossible spells and save Alfred’s life.

It was not a position he found himself in often.

He did not like that.

Worse, it was not the first time he had found himself surprised by the seemingly impossible that night.

He liked that even less.

The magus was still bothered immensely by the power the assassin had been able to seize and wield. Like the magic used by the worshipers of the various gods and goddesses, it should not have been possible for a man who had had the power burned out of him to seize a mage’s vita like that. It was difficult enough for one mage to use the power built up by another mage against their will.

But for one who has burnt themselves out?

In all his years of practicing the art, Malute had never heard of such an occurrence, not one. So far as he knew, none in the Spire had. That in a and of itself did not mean it was impossible, of course; though the Spire was home to hundreds of the most knowledgeable and talented practitioners of the time, from both Cedirc and many, himself included, from other nations, each of whom brought a unique view on the vitarus. Yet despite the differences in how use of the vita was approached, and in understandings of how it worked, there remained two seemingly inherent omissions in their collective knowledge. The first was how the so-called divine magic worked, and the second was that once someone lost the ability to use the vita, it was gone forever. There was no cure, insofar as the collective knowledge of the denizens of the Spire was concerned.

Surely if someone, somewhere, had found a way for one who had burnt out to touch the vita again, they would have heard the barest of rumours.

Yet they had not.

Though, the magus considered as the procession passed by the last of the columns, beginning their descent down the carved stairs to the flagstone courtyard, most people who lost the ability did not remain near other practitioners for long. Most could not stand to see others using the power they themselves had lost access to, instead preferring to live far away from any magic users, in isolation.

Most were never heard from again.

Many others made sure they did not have to live long with that loss.

Malute’s own teacher had lost access to the vitarus, and had spent the first few years after trying anything he could think of to try to regain that power. He had retained the ability to see the others vita, but could not touch it himself. He had even tried to tap into and use another’s pool of vita, to no avail. When that had failed, he had tried seizing control of it, as the assassin had earlier, with no better results. In the end, it had driven him mad, and embittered him towards those who could still wield it. Malute had worked desperately with the Masters of the Spire to find a way to heal him, but their efforts did not bear fruit.

What had been lost remained lost.

Corvin Medeanus had left everything—the Spire, Gryphon’s Roost, and Caras itself—behind. He had said he was going to the ilvarri, but given the man’s past with the Stewards of the Forest, Malute did not think that was very likely. Corvin had fought in the Second Ilvarri War, after all, and had returned home bereft of his power.

No, Malute was certain that his old master had never gone to the ilvarri of Shetna Forest, instead going off on his own. If he had not killed himself immediately after leaving Caras, he had not lived long after. It had been almost fifteen years since he had left, after all, and no one had seen nor heard from him since that day he had walked out of the city gates, ignoring the protests of his colleagues, King, and apprentice.

So, given Malute’s experience with a powerful magus who had lost access to the vitarus, and had been unable to reverse it with all the resources of the Spire and, indeed, the King behind him, for Malute to have encountered someone who had lost the power but could still seize and wield another’s was incredible.

Horrible, in this instance, but still incredible.

Malute glanced back at the rosy hued visage of his dearest friend, seeing the King’s eyelids twitching as his eyes flitted around behind them.

If someone who had lost the vita could find it again, then surely a cleric or priest could find the power to save Alfred.

They had to.

The magus had to lecture the King for his poor choice, after all.

* * *

Rabberick fought back tears as he and Kyarra bore the litter carrying his King past the fountain in the center of the courtyard of Gryphon’s Roost.

The late night air was cool as the faint lightening of the sky over the eastern wall spoke of the coming dawn. The clouds that had so darkened the castle earlier in the night had passed, and stars twinkled above in the predawn sky. As they made their way from the keep to the temple, Rabberick found himself missing the empty, cavernous halls of the castle interior.

Unlike the corridors before, the courtyard was filled with groups of milling soldiers and servants, whispered conversations halting as all eyes turned to watch the procession pass. Talons still moved about on their patrols, but he saw many of their helmeted heads turn and watch their passage, flickering torches halting in their progress as their bearers stopped to bear witness. Though none drew close enough to them for Rabberick to hear their conversations, word had clearly spread ahead of them about the night’s events.

Glancing towards the stables, the commander noticed a group of stablehands also watching, with the stout figure of Estram Raim centering the line, head bowed in respect. Even the horses in the stable behind their handlers seemed to Rabberick to be watching them—those that were awake, at least. It felt as the whole of Gryphon’s Roost were holding its breath, the air thick about them with anticipation, and more than a little dread. There was an almost palpable air of surprise and uncertainty that he shared in.

He was still in shock that the assassin was able to use magic.

That was something that none of them had anticipated in their planning, not that any of them had had a large part in setting up tonight's trap. Alfred had made the plan, determined to capture the next assassin alive and get some answers. The King had decided to use himself as bait, and let the assassin make it to his chambers before capturing him. It had been difficult enough for three of them to convince Alfred to have Herocas nearby in case the trap went awry.

A fitting precaution, as it turned out.

He adjusted his grip on the litter, the body it bore seeming to grow heavier as he thought of how fortunate they were to have won that particular argument. He was certain that without Herocas and his acolytes, the King would have died in his chambers whole they waited for the followers of Aegoth to arrive.

Magic.

None of them had considered the possibility, and now Alfred lay near death, and the assassin had escaped. The planning had all been for nothing.

Even had they anticipated the assassin being able to use magic, Rabberick knew that Alfred would have gone ahead with it, regardless of the added danger. The King was nothing if not stubborn, after all, a trait that had proven beneficial over his long reign, especially in recent years with the negotiations with Eno’Kalia, but also one that had lead them to their current situation.

He just hoped Alfred was stubborn enough to survive this.

As they passed the row of towering red oaks that separated the keep from the rest of the castle compound, the great Temple of Aegoth that Alfred had helped construct came into view. Two long wings spread in an L from either side of the large domed rotunda that was centered between them, columned terraces running the length of both wings. Two large statues, carved int he likeness of hooded acolytes of the god of wisdom flanked the wide staircase that lead up to the mezzanine, the All Seeing Eye of Aegoth adorning each sculpture across their chests. The statues stood erect, right hands raised with palms facing out in the greeting of those who worshiped the deity. Taking a deep breath, readjusting his grip again on the poles of the litter, he began climbing the stairs between the towering sculptures.

He felt the strain with every step, but refused to let anyone else carry the litter in his place. They were in this situation in part because of his failure to convince the King to abandon his plan, and so he would bear the consequences of his actions. Sweat beading and cooling on his brow as he neared the top of the staircase, he looked up to see a line of red robed acolytes standing before the large doors of the temple, Orneth standing in front of them.

“My brothers and sisters will take him from here,” Herocas said, stepping past the commander as Rabberick stopped in front of the line of Aegites.

“But—“ the commander began protesting, only to get cut off.

“You have much to discuss, my friend,” Herocas stepped close to him, placing a gentle hand on the commander’s shoulder, squeezing it gently as the priest’s eyes met the commanders, “And, I’m sorry to say, but your presence here will not make a difference in the condition of our King. Either of you,” he added as Malute stepped up beside Rabberick, holding his hand up as the magus opened his mouth to respond. “The Eno’Kalians will still be expecting to sign the treatise when they arrive, and,” he paused, and cleared his throat before continuing, “Princes Rolan and Steffan and Princess Elenor will need to be made aware of this.”

Silence followed the High Priests words as both Rabberick and Mlaute both mulled them over, trying to find some way to refute the Aegite’s logic, but to no avail. The priest was right, Rabberick knew, and a glance towards Malute, whose lips had thinned to a line on his tan face as his brow furrowed in thought, told him Malute was likewise unable to argue the point. They could do nothing if they went inside; likely, they would just be in the way as Herocas and his clerics did their best to save the life of the King.

“You have much to do,” Herocas bowed to both men, giving a sad smile as he met their eyes with his own tired, red-rimmed ones, “As do we. I will keep you apprised of any changes, you can be assured of that. Now please, let us take the King within. Time is not on our side in this.”

The High Priest gestured as he spoke, and four acolytes moved forward from the line standing before the commander, two moving past him as the other two moved to either side of him. The commander felt the weight of the King lessen as four hands gripped the poles of the litter, one on each corner. He hesitated, not wanting to loose the litter from his hands. He knew it was irrational, but he had the feeling that passing the King into the care of the Aegites was letting him go. Logically, he knew that made no sense; the clerics could do far more for the King than he could at this point.

And yet he could not bring himself to open his hands.

“Rabberick, let him go,” Herocas said softly, stepping closer to the commander. “We need to get him inside.”

Still Rabberick could not open his hands.

“Father.”

Rabbericks eyes found Kyarra as she stepped in front of him, having passed the rear of the litter to the acolytes that had flanked her. Her green eyes stared up into his, shimmering with tears as they streamed unheeded down her face, watery lines flickering orange as they reflected the torchlight surrounding them. Herocas stepped back to allow the captain to stand in front of him.

“Father, let go,” Kyarra stepped forward, and he felt her hands on his as she pried his fingers from their death grip on one of the poles.

Sighing, Rabberick resisted for another moment before, shoulders sagging, he let the acolytes fully take the litter from him. Opening and closing his sore fingers, he followed her to the side as the clerics began bearing the King into the temple, the carved wooden doors swinging open to admit them.

“I’ll keep you informed on any changes,” Herocas said again, “Aegoth willing, it will not be long before we stabilize him,” with a slight incline of his head, the High Priest hurried back to the litter.

The three of them watched as the followers of the Hooded One, Herocas at the fore once more, passed between the ornately carved doors of the temple. Both Kyarra and Rabberick stretched their sore limbs as the priestly procession disappeared from sight, watching as the doors closed with a muted thud, two acolytes moving to stand before them. The commander let out another long breath before turning to his two companions, crossing his arms across his chest.

“He was not wrong, Commander,” the magus said, regret tinging every word, “There is nothing more we could do in there.”

Seeing and hearing how the admission pained the proud magus, who did not like feeling as if events were out of his control, Rabberick simply nodded in agreement. Hearing Malute, who was usually the one who had all the answers, say it out loud somehow made the commander feel slightly better. Straightening his shoulders, he regarded his daughter.

“Kyarra, go—“

“She should stay, Rabberick,” Malute, who had a strong dislike of physical contact, put a hand on his shoulder, the gesture more than the words stopping Rabberick mid-sentence. The magus removed his hand after a brief moment as he continued, “I think we will have need of her.”

Confused, his thoughts sluggish as weariness set in following the events of the long night, Rabberick looked at Malute questioningly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kyarra do the same, silently asking the magus to explain.

Malute obliged.

Herocas had been correct, after all; there was much that needed to be discussed.

As the sun broke over the eastern wall of Gryphon’s Roost, marking the end of the horrible night, the magus explained his plan. Rabberick and Kyarra listened to Malute, not speaking much, exchanging glances occasionally as the magus outlined their path forward. Each of the three shot frequent looks towards the temple doors as they planned their next moves, waiting and hoping to see the doors open to release an acolyte bearing news of the King, but none exited the temple.

Finally, all three nodded in agreement, and set off, splitting ups as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Malute made for his tower, intent on learning anything he could about the intruder.

Bidding the magus farewell, Rabberick and Kyarra made for the center of the courtyard, the redheaded captain whistling for Swiftwing as father and daughter discussed the night past.

Soon after, Rabberick left the captain with Swiftwing, heading for the gatehouse to issue orders to his Talons there, while Kyarra climbed atop her gryphon, taking to the air and returning to the nesting grounds below the castle, briefly, before she took to the skies once again, heading west and leaving the castle and city far behind in short order.

Three riderless gryphons took to the air behind them, following closely in their wake.