Lords Of Existence (Book 8) (7 page)

Agar was going to pay for this.

He lay baking in the sun on a dais of wind-worn sandstone, and held a hand up weakly to shield his eyes from the sun’s blazing orb. It helped for a moment. Blinking, he saw the desert lie brown and dry to his north and west, and that mountains rose to his south and east.

His stomach grumbled. He was hungry. It was an embarrassment to feel such crude human needs. And, now that he was settling in, he realized his odor was something atrocious.

Why him? Braxidane thought. Why not Agar, instead? Why was he punished like this when his underhanded brother was allowed to retain his power? He could not live like this. He would not live like this.

He wanted his connection back.

There were ways to make it happen, too—seams in the Thousand Worlds that could be accessed. But they each took power, and he had no idea where he might find that kind of leverage on this plane beyond Garrick, and he knew better than to expect his champion would help him now.

He would find a way, though. He had to.

And when he did he would return to Existence and take his revenge on Agar and on the whole of Joint Authority. It would serve them right. No planewalker deserved to be cut from the world like this. Ever.

Braxidane pulled himself to his hands and knees. The sun felt better against his neck than it did on his eyes.

Dorfort, he thought. The Freeborn.

Garrick may be of no service, but the mage had stationed his Freeborn House in Dorfort along with his human friend.

Darien. That was his name. Yes, Darien.

Braxidane was still a planewalker to some. If he could find the right Freeborn, he could get some help. Darien was a human who might be able to make such a connection.

Yes. That was the plan.

Merely having an agenda gave Braxidane the strength to stand, and the strength to walk, and even the strength to pull a few weeds and trap a lizard for a disgustingly raw meal. By the time the sun had disappeared, he was feeling almost normal.

Whatever normal was, anyway.

He traveled that night, setting his course eastward, thinking about Dorfort City, and thinking about how he might best address the one named Darien.

Chapter 10

Zutrian watched his commanders from the comfort of his observation nook. They sat around his table, muttering, laughing, and conversing in animated tones, waving their hands as they told their tales. Goblets sat before them, all drunk down to low levels and each having been drained more than once before. He wanted to see how each of his staff was reacting to news that the Koradictine order had been destroyed, and to the issues caused by the sudden restriction of the flow of magic through their gates.

What he saw did not surprise him.

The ambitious ones, leaders like Kartha and Halsten, moved through the collective before the meal, shaking hands and pretending to listen to the others, but they finished each conversation with exhortations that supported their own further efforts. Others seemed to merely be pleased to have something to celebrate. They spent most of the session smiling and calling for toasts as their cheeks became ruddy with the drink. Still others were quiet and reserved—perhaps more content to be patient.

Cara was one of those.

She sat alone for most of the dinner, eating with a relaxed confidence that said she knew the entire meal would be eaten before anything of concern would be addressed. She savored each mouthful before moving on to the next. Cara had only recently returned from the banishment she had received as result of the failure at Arderveer. Though Zutrian didn’t know what she had seen during her time on the dark, gritty plane of Castagar, he knew it would not have been pleasant. Cara carried that experience within, though. She had not spoken of it upon her return and he was not inclined to ask until she was ready to share. All he could say with certainty was that Cara’s eyes were colder than when she had left, and that she sported a scar that ran from the side of her jaw bone, and down her neck, to eventually disappear under the collar of her robe.

And he knew this: whatever tasks she commanded in the future would be executed with precision and efficiency.

When the dinner was completed, Zutrian stepped through the curtains that draped the back wall. He wore a silk tunic of the darkest blue, and a pair of leather breeches oiled and buffed to a shine. Silver chains hung from his neck, rings glittered from his dry and boney fingers. A triangular tattoo was easily seen on the back of his left hand, which he kept strategically exposed as he crossed his arms. He wore a long cape lined in wolf’s fur that fell from his shoulders nearly to the floor.

Silence settled.

Zutrian may have been an old man, but he was still lithe, his muscles still firm and strong. The order buzzed with rumors of their Superior’s daily physical regimen, and he cut a sharp figure in support of those stories.

“My commanders,” he said to the collective. “We have driven the Koradictine order to the brink of its extinction. Congratulations on this outstanding performance.”

The room shook with a throaty roar.

“Over the brink!” Halsten yelled, raising his goblet.

Another roar filled the chamber.

Zutrian smiled, an expression that was more a simple pulling back of his lips than a hearty, all out grin. Success had been a scarce commodity this past year, and he didn’t want to dampen his order’s enthusiasm while it raged.

“On to Dorfort!” Halsten added when the clamor subsided.

This time the roar was not so throaty.

Zutrian held his palms down and waited for the cheering to fade.

“We are right to celebrate,” he finally said as the mages quieted. “It is good that the Koradictine order is gone from this side of the map. But the plan is laid out, and we’ve each agreed to it. As heady as our victory has been, we will not outrun our chargers while the winter rages.”

The gathering settled.

“And what of the links?” a voice called. “What of the plane of magic?”

Zutrian nodded.

“That, too, is an issue we must examine before we enact our plans.”

“It is the same for all mages,” Halsten said, his voice sloppy with drink. “And we have enough power stored in potions and catalysts and crystals, regardless. No other mages will be stronger. It is wisest to strike now—while the inability to retrieve power from Talin ensures our invincibility.”

Zutrian replied with a touch of spite. “We will move quickly, Halsten, but I see no reason to rush this. Our plan has been exceptional, so far. We will spend the next few weeks recovering from our efforts, then we will move forward.”

“But we have the advantage now.” Halsten said. “We should take Dorfort while we have the chance. And we should drive west to finish the Koradictines off for good.”

A few heads nodded.

Zutrian stepped to Halsten’s side of the table.

“Indeed, we do have the advantage today. And we’ll continue to have this advantage for the near future. There is more to this than Dorfort, though. We will need to take Whitestone and Badwall and Spire if we are to control the plane. This is the time for final preparation, for building our strength, and then, come the earliest thaw, for positioning our forces such that we can unveil the final chapters of our plan.”

Halsten sat back with an unpleasant scowl on his face, as—Zutrian noted—did Kartha.

“So celebrate today,” Zutrian added, turning back to the gathering as a whole. “Sleep late and recover tomorrow. I’ll expect you each to report to this very room the following day to prepare for the next wave.”

A cheer rose.

Goblets chimed as toasts were consummated.

Zutrian watched the gathering, noting that Cara merely chewed on a roll.

This exchange had been useful in more ways than one, he thought. Then he left again, stepping back through the heavy drapes to give his commanders the opportunity to speak among themselves.

It was then that the runner came to him.

She was a child, perhaps nine or ten seasons old.

“What is it?” he asked, handing his cloak to his maid-servant, and striding down the hallway toward his chambers. It was growing late, and he, too, needed his rest.

The runner scrambled to keep up with him.

“I’m asked to tell you that you have a visitor, Lord Superior.”

“I do not wish to see anyone.”

“Yes, Lord,” the girl said. “I understand, but I’m told to explain that the visitor is a gentleman named Garrick.”

Zutrian stopped so abruptly the runner found herself ahead of him. She stopped and returned to his side, her face showing fear that she may have been too forward in racing so far before the lord.

“The Torean?” Zutrian said.

“That’s correct, Lord Superior.”

“And no one else? He is alone?”

“I understand Garrick is escorted by a sentry from the peaks, Lord.”

Zutrian’s eyes widened as he grasped this most remarkable news. He ran his hand over his chin. Why would Garrick be here? Was he really this foolish? Who in their right mind would march into the den of his enemy all by themselves?

“I am told he wants an audience,” the runner said, twisting her foot awkwardly, obviously uncertain of what to do next.

“I understand,” Zutrian said. “Ask the guard to take Garrick to the ceremonial hallway. I will meet him there.”

Chapter 11

Flanked by four Lectodinian guards, Garrick stepped into the chamber.

It was a rounded cave, carved from the granite center of the mountain itself and polished to a shine. The air here glowed of purple-tinged magelight that came from sconces cut into the walls. The ceiling was high, with a surface cut in faceted angles that had been made mirror-smooth. Those facets formed the light into beams that encircled the dais whereupon the throne sat, and whereupon that throne sat Zutrian Esta, High Superior of the Lectodinian order, swathed in robes that blazed blue.

Mages ringed the room, and therefore surrounded Garrick.

The full aura of Lectodinian power thrummed as if it came from the bedrock itself.

This was a powerful room, a room that could have many uses.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Lord Esta said from his perch.

He was dressed the part of his role, crisp in his robes and covered in a skullcap that gave him a strident look. His arms rested comfortably on the throne, which was made of rock and was padded with blue pillows that were fringed with golden thread.

“I come to discuss the whole of Adruin,” Garrick replied.

“A worthy topic.”

Silence permeated the room as Esta stared dispassionately at Garrick.

“I expect you have plans to take the plane when springtime comes,” Garrick said. “But I have news that may cause you to rethink those plans.”

“And that news would be?”

“You are aware that the gate to the Talin is now closed?”

Zutrian’s face gave away nothing, but the slight hesitation in his response told Garrick all he needed to know. Zutrian was both aware of the blockage, and more worried about it than he would let on here before his constituency.

“Why might this cause us to amend any of our plans?”

“You understand that the gate is closed forever?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“No, Zutrian. It does not remain to be seen. This will not go away. The planewalkers have closed the gates, and there will be no more magestuff beyond what you have stored.”

“Luckily, then,” Zutrian smiled, “we have a not inconsiderable supply.”

“Is that the best answer you have? Do you understand what this means?”

Zutrian sat calmly, holding this phlegmatic composure as heat rose in Garrick’s face.

“Why did you come here, Garrick?”

“I want to make an arrangement with you.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because the water is even deeper than you worry it might be. The planewalkers will not stop at blocking the flow of mage stuff. They will not leave us to our own.”

“And for that we should make an arrangement with you, because…?”

“If we do not find a way to fight this together, there will be another Starshower. Then we will all perish.”

Zutrian’s laugh echoed in the enclosed chamber, then the room became silent.