In the blistering cold of the north, in the region known in the old tongue as Le Chapeau des Rois, known in the new tongue as ‘The Hat of Kings’, Lukas scowled.

“Is this it?” he asked the man beside him. Grotesquely fat, the man, who was named Maxime, jiggled as he pushed up his glasses to read the map before him. Uncertain, he pulled at his long, white beard, combing through it with fingers so plump they were ripe to burst.

“I do believe so,” Maxime said, still uncertain. “I suppose close enough, if not.”

We’re either there, are we aren’t. Lukas had taken an instant dislike to the man. A scholar of mild repute, he was the only scholar available who knew the Cold Words, the language of the White Wastes. There was only one problem.

“How much further is the border?” Lukas asked.

“Come again?” came the expected reply.

“HOW MUCH FURTHER IS THE BORDER?” Lukas yelled.

Maxime gave him an idiotic smile. “Ah,” he said, “another day's ride. Two at most, I should think.”

Maxime, the only available scholar who knew the Cold Words, was partially deaf, and not too bright besides.

Lukas leaned to his left, away from the fat scholar and towards Rowena. “That’s four days, then,” he said to her. The fool’s estimates were almost always wrong.

“Is he truly a scholar of Highharrow?” she asked.

“So I was told. I believe this is Moreau’s attempt at jest.”

“Quite a lethal sense of humor.”

“Ha! Minor cardinals are nothing if not lethal.”

“Quite the controversial statement,” Rowena teased. She was right, of course. Lukas should not have said such a thing, but when he was with her all sorts of truths slipped out of him.

“I mean it only in jest,” Lukas said. “It is the Cardinals themselves you must watch out for.”

“Best not let the others hear that, my love. There are many doves in our ranks, and I know how you hate their singing.”

“That I do.”

Of the hundred men granted to him, nearly all of them had been selected against his will. Some of his students were allowed, of course, but only three, and not his best. Hugo, his brightest student, was busy with his research, which was at a critical stage, and Lukas could not pull the boy away even had he wanted to. Nor could he have asked Coralie, who was making a name for herself in the east by putting her mana reserve, which eclipsed even his own, to effective use in battle.

And the less said of Violaine the better.

That left him only Simon, Amadou, and Karine. A troublesome trio if there ever was one. Powerful, as necessary of proteges of the great Lukas Merveillo, and highly intelligent. But the three were siblings, born to the Argmont family which boasted a long lineage of powerful mages and esteemed scholars. There was much expected of them.

And none expected more from them than Lukas.

“Amadou, come here.”

The young mage rode up beside him, his steaming white breath creating a cloud somehow larger than his horse’s. Amadou was large for his age, being two inches taller than his elder brother Simon, who was in turn an inch taller than the average. With his size, however, came an ungainly gait and profound clumsiness unbefitting a student. But, while the boy was clumsy in the physical sense, the opposite was true of his mind.

“Perform a light show for us, if you would,” Lukas said.

“Yes, master.” Closing his eyes, Amadou clasped his hands together. There was a spark in the air as he conjured his magic, setting the hairs of Lukas’s arm on edge. The boy’s reserves were growing nicely.

In front of them a series of lit orbs appeared. They were separated into groups, bound within squares and rectangles that represented buildings. A village. Near the village’s center, on the northern end, there was a rectangle four times as large as the rest, and within it was the greatest concentration of orbs.

There were orbs outside of the buildings, as well, separated into small groupings that moved every so slowly at the village’s edge. Then, in the south, were the orbs that represented Lukas and all the rest.

“Another hour's ride, by the looks of it. If the terrain’s good.” His legs ached from riding, the face of his skin prickled painfully from the cold, and each time he blinked his eyes stayed closed just a bit longer than the time before. He could not wait to rest by a warm fire. Even if it meant dealing with the thick-headed locals.

How one can live in a place like this is beyond me.

Nearing the village they met a group of women bound in thick furs. They carried kindling and logs strapped to their backs, looking more exhausted than even Lukas felt. Wordless, the women watched, showing no hint of fear or glee or any sort of acknowledgment at all, even as Lukas called out to them.

“Your turn,” he said to Maxime, motioning him forward. He must have heard him, or at least understood well enough, as he rode forth with Lukas at his side.

“Pa-panay ko shavat,” he said in a decidedly unconfident tone. Lukas wondered if the man had ever spoken the language aloud before.

“Panay sal hata mek,” the middle woman replied.

“She says that we are welcome to come to the village,” Maxime said. “Though not gladly.”

That did not suit Lukas. Not at all. “Who the hell are they? This is Hilva land, last I checked. Why do they speak the Cold Words?”

Maxime shrugged. “That is a difficult thing to ask.”

“Why? Some cultural nonsense, I take it?”

“No, no, not at all. I just need time to remember the right words, is all.”

Lukas raised an irritated eyebrow, but said nothing.

When finally they entered the village proper, they were greeted by a host of twenty men and women, as well as children of twice that number. All looked on in disgruntled fear. Seeing from their eyes, Lukas would expect no different. Soldiers from the south, come to wage war.

“Are there any here who speak Stanwyhrta?”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Aye, sir, I am one.” A man stepped forth, so short Lukas had thought him a child at first. And, from the lack of wrinkles on his skin, he may as well have been, compared to the others. “I am Petre, the pastor of this flock. How can I aid you, sir?”

“You can start by using my name and true title. I am Lukas Merveillo, a Master of the Magehead and leader of this group, here on the authority of the Lower Council. And though I am no knight, that title does belong to several of my companions.”

“My apologies, master mage.” Petre bowed.

“Tell me, pastor, why do these savages of the Wastes inhabit your village?”

The pastor raised his head and stared at Lukas as if the answer were obvious.

“They are refugees, master mage.”

“I know that well enough, but it does not answer my question. Why are they here? You have no obligation to them.”

Pastor Petre scratched the side of his face and looked on in abject uncertainty. “They fled the kiss of cold steel and bitter embrace of death. To not take them in was a moral impossibility,” he finally admitted.

Lukas suspected as much, but hearing the truth out loud set his blood to boiling. Few in Hilva cared for apostates, yet fewer still hated them with passion equal to Lukas’s. Yet there is hope, he thought.

“Have you been able to convert them?” he asked.

“I have not,” Petre replied.

“Then they will have to leave,” Lukas said. “I have orders from the Lower Council to convert them, if possible. But if it cannot be done, then they must leave and cease burdening our lands and our people. I trust you will not interfere?”

Pastor Petre scratched his face again, again uncertain. “Do you know the story of Jean de Freau?”

“I do, as do all who accompany me. The Gildenæ is required reading in the south. I would find it a shame to discover that is not the case here, as well.”

Petre laughed. “Oh, master mage, it is as true for us as it is for you. All children of the frontier villages are raised on the Gildenæ. From the moment they are born it is read to them each day. It’s the only book we have.”

“It is the same in the south, so I must ask: why remind me of it now?”

“Because,” Petre said, now standing as tall as his short frame would allow, “Jean de Freau teaches us the value of a great many things. War is the most prominent, and I see our southern brethren have taken the lesson in stride. But Jean de Freau also teaches us patience and mercy. Do you think I care for these beggars, master mage? They grate on my nerves every day with their strange mannerisms, so at odds with our own. They rest in our homes, eat out food, and pray thrice a day to some foreign god. And their language! So vile that sounds like choking to my ears. But they came to us in peace, seeking refuge, and by the words of Jean de Freau I could not turn them away.”

“A hundred beggars become a hundred blades,” Lukas said.

“A most insightful passage.”

“I agree. Or would, had the circumstances been different. You said it yourself: they have not converted. How long until they see reason? I will not wait here for years. I have many more villages to visit. ”

“And I have the Gildenæ. The savages are free to stay in our village as long as they like, as are you, but if you wish to chase them off with violence then we must interfere. Such is our oath.”

Lukas grunted. I almost enjoy him, he thought. Far away from the politics of Highharrow, faith could be felt with ease, and the pastor Petre was faithful indeed. A shame I must work against him.

“This is… amenable. On behalf of the men and women who join me, I shall accept your offering. We will rest here for the day. Two at most, if I should find a suitable cause. And have no fear, pastor, we have brought our own food.”

Petre smiled. “If only all our guests did such. There’s a single empty house you may use, master mage, should you require privacy. More than two will be cramped, however. You also have free roam of the village, including the church, where you all will be free to pray. Be warned, however, that the church is where the savages make their nest.”

“Thank you for the hospitality. And the warning.”

Setting themselves up took less time than expected. The villagers, who at first eyed them with suspicion, were quick to show an amiable side once they knew who they were.

“I can take three. Four, if they’re small,” an old village woman said.

“That would be most appreciated,” Lukas replied, wearing his best smile. The woman seemed to like him well enough.

“We don’t got room enough for all ya, sorry to say,” she said, eyeing his compatriots. “Some’ll have to share with the northern folk in the church. My condolences.”

“That is perfectly alright. I am certain we can make do.”

“You’re free to try, but I don’t see much how. The northern folk are a strange bunch, master mage. Always jumpin’ at shadows and whisperin’ and prayin’ to their foreign god. Think somethin’s got’em spooked, but don’t rightly know what. Refugees, Petre says, but I ain’t too sure, myself. Who else is even in the north, ‘cept them?”

“I thank you for the information. I expect it will prove very fruitful for us.”

Patience and mercy, indeed, Lukas thought after the woman was gone. It could not have been easy dealing with these northerners, refugees or not, and behind the woman’s words he heard the echoes of weariness. It would not be long until Petre and the rest would be begging him to force these beggars out of their village. But still too long for my taste.

“Maxime,” he yelled from the doorway of the empty home allotted to him. “MAXIME!”

“Oh, yes. Coming, master Lukas.”

Maxime ran to him as fast as his stubby little legs would allow, and even that displeased Lukas. Would fire quicken the lout’s pace? He was tempted to try.

“What is it, master Lukas?” Maxime asked, breathing hard.

“The people of the White Wastes. What are they called?”

“Ah, well, there’s a few different peoples, technically, from what I recall. Twenty or so, at least a hundred years ago the last time an expedition was made, all of–”

“The ones here, Maxime, in the village. Who are they?”

“Ah, well, it’s hard to say for certain, but from their dialect I would care to wager that they are the Nalmodaa. The dominant group, as I recall, though relatively passive. They had the greatest population, and were closest to ruling the north, but were often beat out by competitors in battles, especially the Mihajaan, who–”

“Mihajaan? Who are they?”

“Come again?”

“MIHAJAAN.”

“The, ah, as I was saying, ah, the Mihajaan are a rather peculiar group, master Lukas. Very peculiar, indeed. There are few records on them, and fewer that I’ve read, I’m afraid. They were not required reading, as it were. But, as I recall, they are a very, very violent people. There is only one recorded meeting between our scholars and their people, and it resulted in a professor being killed and several students captured and taken away, never to be seen again.”

“Could it be this Mihajaan they are running from?”

Maxime stared at him as if trying to solve a puzzle. “I believe that could be the case, master Lukas. Why, may I ask?”

“Talk to them. See if they will reveal anything about why they’ve come here, and if it is the Mihajaan then I want every detail you can scrounge up from. Understand? Every detail.”

Maxime nodded, his great jowls trembling from the movement. “I understand. I will get right on it. It will be good for me, I think, to stay in the church. Close to the Gods and all that.”

Pray that they give you some wit in that oversized head of yours.

When Maxime had left Rowena approached, glancing at the house behind Lukas.

“This is ours, then?”

“Just us two. If you’ll allow.”

Rowena smiled, and for a moment the cold was forgotten.

“I’ll allow,” she said in that quiet, teasing voice of hers. The urge to hold her swelled up in him, dwindled only by the sight of Amadou approaching them, looking anxious.

“Master Lukas,” Amadou said, refusing to meet his eyes.

“What is it? Speak.”

“It would be easier to show you.” Light sprung out from his hands as he conjured his magic, projecting the familiar map of the village, only smaller. To what was their north, however, there was a spot of darkness that dwarfed the village in size, and which grew ever larger and ever closer.

“Clouds?” Lukas muttered, studying the light. A swelling, formless darkness approached them. A storm. A blizzard.

Lukas shivered.

What puzzled him was the unusual movement and growth. Blizzards were a rare enough occurrence, but the winds of the Chapeau de Rois normally blew north, bringing blizzards up from the south. Moreover, the storm swelled in size with worrying speed. Too fast, he thought, but didn’t know for certain.

“We should get inside,” Rowena said.

“Agreed. Warn Pastor Petre and get our men inside,” he ordered. “Horses, too. We don’t know how long this blizzard’s going to last, but I’ll be damned if we lose our best way out of here.”

Amadou gave a fervent nod and left, leaving the two alone. Lukas took her hand in his, wishing he could feel her warmth directly, but in the cold the gloves that separated them were a necessity. Still, as he looked into her eyes he could imagine the warmth, like a sunny spring day. But as he broke from her gaze to glance north he saw the dark clouds on the horizon, rolling over the land with frightening speed.

Lukas shivered.