The moon was a mere sliver when we left Renner. It had waxed full and begun to wane by the time we made it to our fortified home.
Liddarn and the nearby mines had both been abandoned long before the border wars with the uurnigath that had ultimately provided context for the Usurper’s rebellion against House Traianum. The iron ore in the mine had run out almost a century ago, and the town had dried up less than a decade later. Remote and half-forgotten, far from the populous and well-guarded borders with Namora and Georg and Naal, the tunnels had been an ideal place for the rebellion to hide and to grow. The stone and mineral-laden earth of the mines also provided a natural barrier against our enemies’ divinations, and solid anchors for the protections we had put up to augment those natural protections.
The ruins came into view first. We knew we were only an hour away when the Wolf River became clearly visible on the northern horizon, and the Draddiaal – the Vencari called it the Wolfwood – appeared as a green blur just beyond. We camped there, at what we knew was a point just outside the perimeter of the watch and the wards. We wished to arrive early and well-rested.
In the morning, we rose before dawn and set out to complete our journey. As we approached, the ruins looked like any other ghost town: half the buildings fully collapsed; the rest skeletal and sun-bleached, looking as if they might fall at any moment. The path through Liddarn appeared unguarded, though I knew that there were eyes on us. The main entrance to the mine was hidden under a massive barn-like building that looked as if it might fall down at any minute. This, too, appeared unguarded, until we crossed fully into the artificial twilight of the barn.
Piles of debris shook themselves and became guards, bristling with arms. Arrows were trained on us from all directions. Now, at last, coded phrases were exchanged, proving that the prince and her knights – and, by extension, the rest of us – were who they claimed to be. Weapons were lowered, and courtesies replaced codes and signs.
A handful of human guards appeared to take our horses. Each of us took our personal bags, and we were escorted to the main shaft, where a lift carriage waited to lower us into the mine. The engineering was a wonder: a complicated system of gears and winches that made it possible for the carriage to be lowered with the simple release of a switch, and to be raised by only a handful of workers. That wonder, unfortunately, did not make me feel any less claustrophobic as we descended into the earth.
Most of my companions were acclimated to the process. Only Orland looked as uneasy as I felt, and that was because something about the movement of the lift upset his stomach. Derrek had started slightly when the carriage first moved, but had otherwise watched with calm curiosity as it descended.
The uppermost levels of the mine were used mostly for storage, minimizing the time anything heavier than a half-dozen people stayed on the well-repaired but still aged machinery. Below that was where the majority of the soldiers, mercenaries, and guards were housed, fed, and trained. Below that was where we would be stopping: the great artificial caverns where meetings were held, and where the baths had been built, and where the nobles and diplomats and other guests of honor lived. The few dozens of elves – fire dancers, hunters, sisters of Amalai – who had joined the rebellion lived on these levels, too, but far from the central hub: we guarded one of the few other tunnels in and out of the mine. This was both a sign of respect and a concession to the near-universal claustrophobia of my people, providing us unfettered access to fresher air and sunlight as needed. Further below us, still, was where the serving staff and tradesfolk of the rebellion lived and worked, along with the fans and cisterns and boilers and other magical and engineered devices that made life in the mines bearable.
Our car eased and swayed to a stop on the ground of the first of the great halls. An honor guard and an embassy surrounded us: both safeguards against treachery, and witnesses to the political and strategic coup Elana had achieved by recruiting the second of the Great Wizards to our cause.
She turned to face him now.
“We thank you,” she said in her most regal and formal tone and accent, “and we honor you, for joining us in our quest for justice and our birthright. Tomorrow, a feast will be held in your honor. In the meantime, my seneschal will show you to your rooms so that you may rest and refresh yourself. I must apologize, for events have inevitably advanced in my absence, and I must attend to my court.”
Derrek bowed ever so slightly at the neck and shoulders.
“Of course, your grace,” he said.
“Sir Rennin,” she said, turning to the rest of us. “Lord Sir Orland. Master Veralar. Master Khanaarre. Thank you, as always, for your loyal and generous service.”
We bowed and thanked her in turn. By the time we had straightened our backs, the courtiers had carried Elana off in a flurry of whispers. The seneschal – a lean woman with a severe face and a savage sense of humor – took Derrek Rowan swiftly in hand, leading him away to whatever rooms had been prepared on the off chance of our victory. Without a moment’s hesitation or discussion, the rest of us headed for the baths.
The baths are a central institution of Vencari society. When the mines had been chosen as the gathering place of the court-in-exile, enormous amounts of effort had been expended to install a suitable bath for every social station. Only the gargantuan fans that kept the air fresh throughout the complex and the enchantments that purified the waters had been higher priorities. The bath “house” that served this level was almost as big as the great meeting hall where tomorrow’s dinner would be held. Tanks of brick and stone, lined with smooth concrete, had been built to hold water carefully diverted from the main aqueduct, where it was magically filtered and pre-heated so that, with the release of a valve, it could fill tiled basins large enough for three men the size of Orland, or more of lesser build. By the use of another valve, the waste-water was then diverted to be re-used for washing the dishes and watering the fields. Boxlike compartments lined one of the walls, near the door, where one could safely fold one’s clothes, and benches near every tub where one might sit and sluice oneself.
Veralar did not join us, of course. Namoran modesty precluded it. She filled an ewer with hot water and retreated to her own room, where she would bathe in private.
The baths begin, as Veralar meant to bathe, by wetting oneself from an urn or ewer and scrubbing oneself with oily soap-sand, followed by scraping one’s skin with a strigel, and sluicing again before reclining in the bath to soak.
Under other circumstances, the three of us might have shared a tub, luxuriating in the hot water and commiserating over the struggles of our journey. Today I did not care to linger, and I had spent enough time in the company of human men.
I left my filthy travel clothes in a hamper, knowing they would find their way back to me in time, and took one of the many plain tunics left there for that purpose. I was mostly used to the practice of it by now, but it still made my head spin when I stopped to think of all the things that my friends relied on servants to do for them. Why did so many work so hard for the comfort of so few?
Of all the privileges my friendships with Elana and her knights provided me, quarters near the center of things were not among them. I lived with the rest of my people, in the honored and necessary but remote position near the main escape tunnel, where we could breathe fresher air and sneak out to enjoy sunlight or moonlight more often. I greeted and embraced a few that I had come to know over the last year – looking for, but not immediately seeing my dearest friend, Rhii`aa. I refused to explicitly confirm or deny the already-spreading rumors of our successful quest, but my demeanor made the truth perfectly clear.
My room – a section of mine shaft cordoned off by shaped stone and two layers of curtains – was private, but no larger than any other elf’s, and smaller than that of those who were more willing to share space. Near the doorway was a small shelf where I kept two idol-masks. The first was the Es-mask most elves kept in their home. I oiled it gently, and gave it a new bed of fresh grass and wildflowers, gathered on my way to the mine. I bowed my head in silent prayer for a moment, giving thanks for the health and wellbeing of my people and nation and family. The second was made of iron, meticulously extracted from the traces of ore left in this very mine. This mask, too, I anointed with oil. Instead of a bed of green grass, it received a lump of incense and a kiss on its cold lips, and a handful of pretty rocks that I had found on my most recent travels.
Sore and exhausted from my travels, I still took time to sit in front of that altar and whisper the name of the second god: “Urassarrain.”
The wall behind the mask blurred in the smoke of the incense. A wide face seemed to appear behind the smoke, with bulbous cheeks and narrow molten eyes and big iron teeth. The face smiled broadly, growing even more uncanny.
*You return, O daughter of Esthraal,* it said.
“I do, Urassarrain.”
*And you bring me gifts,* it said. *Tastes of earth from far away.*
“As you have asked, dear friend.”
We did not speak the language of the Compact. Nor did we speak my native tongue. Instead, we spoke the language of earth-spirits. I was still a novice at this tongue, though my old master had taught me a little. He had taught me more of the sky-gods’ language, and the demon tongue, and even a handful of words of draconic. But the spirits of the land had never really interested him. Fortunately for me, Urassarrain was a patient teacher, as curious to see one of the llamenan practicing blood magic as any wizard had been, and delighted that I offered him the courtesy and attention that so many of the Vencari wizards had neglected.
*I see, too, that you have brought me one of the Great Wizards.*
“Our journey was fruitful,” I admitted, “if not without difficulty.”
*So I see,* it laughed. *Even now he beseeches me for secrets!*
“Does he now?”
*Indeed! And his offerings are fine! He wishes to know how the fortress has been concealed from the world. He offers me the fatted calf if I will help to keep whispers within the mine and away from the ear of your enemy.*
“Will you answer him?”
*I think I will. He bears the blessings of the earth and sky alike, his offerings are suitable, and his power …* The god of the mine paused, his alien eyes somehow distant. *I do think that he could consume me.*
I could not hide my surprise. Urassarrain was almost disdainful of the other wizards in the rebellion. ‘Foolish mortals,’ he had called them, ‘arrogant and frightened by turns, whispering in the dark with no knowledge that there was anyone there to hear them.’ That he was awestruck by Derrek Rowan …
“Did you know of him? Before the prince and her knights settled here?”
*Oh, yes. He and the other made earth and sky tremble with their quest for power and knowledge. The Vencari think this one to be less than the other, but I am uncertain. There is more to Derrek Rowan than I can say.*
“Does he also beseech you to keep his secrets, as well?”
Another iron grin.
*That would be telling, child of Esthraal.*
===
All my obligations met for the day, I slept through the afternoon, rising just in time to join the other elves for dinner. The prince and her court provided much of our food, but the hunters among us – occasionally including myself – supplemented those stores with fresh game whenever we could, ranging out for days lest the court denude the area of life. Our section had its own kitchen, staffed by the widowed and unmarried siblings and some few spouses of the sorceresses and hunters who had come to fight for the Prince, augmented by human staff provided by the prince. We ate together like an improbably vast household, lounging around low tables in the network of caverns that had been established as our communal areas, laughing and singing through meals.
I was disappointed that I still did not see Rrii`aa, but I found a seat easily enough. More rumors of our journey had reached the elven quarter while I slept, and all ears were eager to hear the details of our journey and my thoughts on the Great Wizard. I was happy to share them, relieved beyond words to hear and to speak my own language for the first time in weeks. The wedding and the battle at So’renner were, of course, the parts that interested people most.
One sorceress picked up on a detail that I had overlooked.
“A geothermal valley at the head of the River Venn, north of Mashandosaar?” She had repeated, shuddering. “Too close to the Great Ice Wall! Does he not know of the sao’ashan?”
Everyone at my table shuddered and made gestures to ward off evil.
In the ancient days, before we had settled in what would become Tanirinaal at the foot of Mount Kashrin, the sao`ashan had kept our people as slaves, and that memory haunted us to this day.
“He must not,” I said.
I returned to the baths after dinner. The baths were often full at that hour, and tonight was no exception. I found a quiet corner and worked on undoing my braids. By the time I was done, and had rinsed most of the dirt from my hair, a tub small enough that I needn’t share had become available, and I was able to wash it with the care and vigor that had not been possible on the road.
Wet and unbound, it fell past my waist in a black sheet. I wrung it dry carefully, knowing full well that it would still probably take literal magic to dry and rebraid it in time for tomorrow night’s banquet. Letting it fall loose around my shoulders – a sight that would have been mildly scandalous in public, had I been a true sorcerer – I claimed another tunic from the pile, returning to my room.
There, at last, I found a note from Rrii`aa – carefully scribed on scented paper and signed with a flourish.
“I’m sorry that I missed you when you returned and at dinner. I’m afraid my tomorrow is very full, as well. If your prince does not need you the day after, will you call upon me that morning?”
I smiled, and a tension I had not realized that I was holding came loose in my belly. I tucked the note safely into my desk, and went back to sleep.
===
The next day was the banquet. My duties, barring tragedy, were less onerous than many, but they were obligations, nonetheless. Chief among them was double and triple checking the magical traps that I had laid throughout the great hall, assuring that I could spring them properly in the event of an assassin or a sudden change in someone’s loyalties: a fiery explosion waiting in each of the magical lanterns by the door; sticky webs that could be released from the elaborate patterns of the tiled walkway; a barrier wall of pure force that could be raised around the dais where the prince would be lounging. All was as it should be, requiring only a few drops of blood and a few whispered words of power to keep all in readiness. With that maintenance accomplished early in the morning, and an answering letter slipped past the curtains at the portal to Rrii`aa’s room, promising my early arrival.
I spent the afternoon drying, oiling, and braiding my hair with the help of my two closest sorceress friends, and donning my finest clothes and jewels. They knew I’d already told them that I was permitted to of the Great Wizard Derrek Rowan, so they filled me in on all the gossip of the last weeks, and the speculation about tonight’s banquet. Then, finally, it was time.
The great hall in which grand dinners and diplomatic meetings were held was a wonder of mortal engineering and of such artful rockshaping magic that even the rrotran would be awed. The domed ceiling had been reinforced with thick bands of stone and concrete. The spaces between had been polished smooth and painted blue to create the illusion of an open sky. For an event such as this, they were glamoured to glow like daylight, with illusory clouds passing overhead.
Veralar and I were the first to enter, even before the prince. For events like this, we were more security than guests. Veralar’s station was by the entrance, where she could strike any invader with preternatural speed. Officially, her role was honorary: she still dressed in the martial vestments of her order, but her seat was a deep cushion on which she lounged in perfect comfort. Her iconic giant’s sword had been left in her room, but her Shan Khul sword and sticks were tucked discreetly out of sight while easily within reach. My own position was on the far wall from her, where I could watch Veralar and the door on the one side, and the prince on her reclining couch on the dais on the other, and from which I could magically lay waste to anyone in the room. I, at least, got the pleasure of dressing for the occasion, trading my usual hunter’s garb for layers of blue silk robes so sheer that one or even perhaps two alone would have been transparent but seven of which combined to create the illusion that I was draped in waves of twilight. It was a fashion that, as a child aspiring to sorcery, I had never dreamed I might afford.
The prince came next, dressed in the formal and traditional Vencari garb that was most popular in the court-in-exile. Her chiton was of thin, fine white linen, almost as transparent as my own silks, bound into elegant folds by gold fibulae set with onyx and black diamond, and tied around her body with silk ropes of black and gold. Over that she wore a white stola trimmed in purple. She had covered her short hair with an elaborate wig enchanted to look like thread-of-gold. Barely visible under all of it, she wore gem-encrusted sandals.
Sir Rennin Ösh followed at his side, wearing his ceremonial Iron Guard armor: an elaborately decorated steel cuirass and armored kilt over a white knee-length tunic and under a blood-red chlamys. Leather sandals on his feet, steel greaves around his calves, and gilded steel bracers around his forearms completed the look. His freshly shaved head gleamed under the artificial light. The armor might be ceremonial and archaic, less protection than what he wore in the field, but it was very real, as was the ceremonial xiphos sword at his hip. A handful of soldiers followed behind him, dressed in more utilitarian versions of the same.
When the prince and her Iron Guard were settled, the loyalist court came next. They came draped in the most conservative fashions: simple tunics and elaborately folded togas; clinging chitons or more modest peplos, folded and tied in the most classic styles, all draped in voluminous himations. Every scrap of fabric was brightly died or woven in House colors and patterns. Almost everyone’s hair was shorn close, and many wore wigs almost as elaborate as the prince’s. These styles had arisen at the height of Imperial Vencar, and never entirely went out of style.
Few heads of household were present, and only a handful of scions of the Great Houses. Most of the courtiers were younger children of Lesser Houses, or aged loyal retainers, whose absence the Imperial Court was easily (if, we all suspected after half a decade, sometimes transparently) explained. The support they offered, however, was very real. If they brought less than we hoped for in the way of arms or soldiers, they made up a full half of the court’s wizards and they had dutifully kept the court-in-exile well supplied with food and wine and cloth and news since its establishment.
The loyalist court also included the House Traianum advisors and retainers who had escaped Aemillian’s rebellion, the generals and captains of the small rebel army, and those wizards who had sought us out, or who had been recruited or hired on. Of the prince’s fighters, only Lord Sir Orland Borgon was formally announced: entering as the representative of his House with his wife on his arm and their teenage son trailing behind, the three of them taking seats at the edge between the nobility and the military.
The foreign ambassadors came next, dressed in the finest styles of their homelands. Saiyun of Namor, ambassador from the King of Namora, dressed in silk robes of the brightest green, his hands lost in the voluminous sleeves, and a heavy panel of red and gold brocade rising from the floor to just under his collar. `Aandrulaan and Rrandaan, representing the warriors and sorceresses of Tanirinaal, dressed the highest finery of their arts: `Aandrulaan in warriors garb – wide-legged trousers belted tight at the waist, with cut-outs that left her hips bare, and the layered hip-length robes of painted silk, each tied to be a little more open than the one beneath; Rrandaan in a set of layered robes, much like her companion’s save that they fell to the floor, like my own, and her hair in the distinctive rows of braids, tight to her scalp and flowing down her back, that marked sorceresses of my people. Alistair der Naborus, agent of the Georgi Duke of Erlomire – and, we hoped, of the King – in a voluminous dress and embroidered doublet.
Last of all came Derrek Rowan. He was dressed in layered robes of unrelenting white, a painful contrast to the cacophony of colors through which he moved. Not the classical Imperial styles worn by the loyalist court, but the ceremonial robes of a wizard of the Obsidian Cabal. His golden-brown hair hung loose around his shoulders. His green eyes shone bright and cold. An iron mask and that oddly styled dagger hung from the golden belt around his waist, and he wore a golden wizard’s claw on his left hand, an elaborate assembly of diamond and obsidian-studded rings and bracelets bound one to the next by fine golden chains.
The nimbus of light that I had seen around him before seemed dim and pale by comparison to the scintillating mantle that he bore now. No other wizard here carried such visible power, but as I glanced I saw that a few of the priests, too, had a subtle light about them. Urassarrain’s words returned to me and I wondered – into what mysteries might he be initiated to be endued with such power? Or was this light some magic ward or aegis – like the blue glow that was said to surround the Usurper, guarding him against all mortal harm? Could anyone else see it?
The Master of Ceremony’s voice quavered a little as she announced him: “Derrek Rowan, master wizard of the Obsidian Cabal.”
No other wizard of the Cabal had joined the loyalist rebellion, not one. Our wizards came from the Jade Order, their ancient rivals, and from the Imperial Academy, and from the ranks of a dozen smaller orders.
Derrek Rowan looked out over the assembled court of loyalists and their allies, bowed his head as slightly as befit his station, and proceeded across the chamber to take the place of honor at the prince’s side, their heads close as they lounged on their recliners. All eyes followed him across the room. Few had believed that he could be recruited. His presence could change everything.
The rebellion now stood a chance.
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