“That they’re a more immediate threat I can’t argue with,” said Ferguen. “But don’t be too ready to dismiss those old Prophets. Besides, if you’re incapable of devising a better plan to steal those weapons, there’s not much we can do but wait for another opportunity.”
“Or perhaps make our own,” a voice echoed.
Ferguen rose. “What is this? Who let you in without announcement?”
A Hodyn soldier strode across the room. His soiled clothes and haggard face bespoke long days with little sleep or shelter; yet as he halted at the other side of the table a dark, penetrating glance belied his weariness.
“Pardon, sir. My name is Begora. I felt I could not delay bringing this to you. My captain was, shall I say, reluctant to take advantage of this sudden stroke of fortune.”
Gendor shuffled his feet. “Laivan.”
“Who?” asked Ferguen.
“Laivan,” he repeated louder. “A pacifist. We’ve considered demoting him for his views.”
“Postpone that. We’re short of captains right now.” He faced Begora again. “Speak.”
“An Adan child, sir. We found him on the banks of the Winding River last evening.”
“A child? An
Adan
child?” He glanced at Gendor to confirm what he heard. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. He claims to be the Falling Man’s son.”
A silence fell, until Ferguen leaned closer with his hands upon the table. “There’s got to be some mistake here. Repeat what he said to you, word for word.”
“I’ll try, sir.” The soldier licked his lips, ill at ease. “
My name is Warren, fool! The son of Caleb Stenger. Or are your people so ignorant you cannot grasp the significance of that?
”
“A
boy
spoke those words? How old is he?”
“Nine or ten, I’d say, sir, perhaps older. He’s a bit of a runt.”
“This is a waste of time,” Gendor muttered.
“Perhaps,” said Ferguen, suddenly thoughtful. “Is he close by?”
Begora nodded.
“Get him. Bring him in.”
Gendor’s brows raised as the soldier left the room. “You actually think he’s the son of the Falling Man?”
Ferguen did not answer at once, but turned toward the nearest window of his third-story chamber. Beyond the ragged outskirts of Lagornan, the capitol of the Hodyn nation, a wide, snow-covered valley stretched on until it ended at the inner sea Larsus; tiny waves at the edge of sight glittered in the sun. “Hardly,” he answered, turning back. “But something about this bothers me—and yes, Gendor, enough for me to waste a few minutes of my time.”
He resumed his seat. After a short wait Begora returned, preceded by a guard, and by the flush in his cheeks someone had crisply reminded him about protocol. The guard stood to one side as Begora stopped again at the table. Yet Ferguen’s attention fixed upon the boy, who stood at Begora’s right, calm and unafraid. He seemed innocent enough, an endearing picture of blue eyes and sand-colored hair; but the Hodyn leader shuddered a little, unnerved by a premonition of danger, or even malice.
“Speak,” he commanded in the Adan tongue. “Who are you?”
The boy smiled faintly. “You may call me Warren, for now.”
“What do you mean by that?” Gendor snapped.
“I’ll ask the questions, Gendor.” He studied the child. “Why are you here?”
He shrugged. “I was lost.”
Ferguen slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t give me your evasive fodder, boy! Lost, over a hundred miles inside Grimoa? Keep insulting my intelligence and you’ll take your secrets to the grave. I ask again, who are you, and why are you here?”
The boy clasped his hands behind his back, unruffled by Ferguen’s threat. “One response will answer both questions. I am what your people have been waiting for.”
A pause of astonishment followed. Gendor burst out laughing, only to be silenced by another of Ferguen’s evil stares.
“Oh, I’m not so foolish as to expect immediate belief,” the boy continued. “I may be demanding, but not unrealistic. Proof is what you seek, I presume—once you’ve recovered from your idiotic expressions of shock—and proof is what I can give.”
Ferguen wrinkled his brow at the boy’s disturbingly adult sarcasm. “Not so fast. First I must repeat the second part of my question, which you foolishly think you’ve answered:
Why are you here?
”
“Simple. We share the same enemy.”
Gendor snorted in derision. “Forgive me, sir, but this is outrageous. An Adan boy, and a scrawny one at that, saying his own people are his enemies? A traitor I can accept, maybe. But it should at least be an adult, even this pitiful Falling Man who keeps eluding us.”
Ferguen listened patiently this time. “Well spoken. What’s your answer?”
“It’s simply the form I have chosen,” the boy said. “But if you wish for theatrics … ”
There was a brief flash of light, and the others sprang back. A monstrous beast towered above them. Fangs gleamed, and the narrow slits of its eyes shone emerald green; sharp talons like daggers reached forward, while a spiked tail rose behind, glittering in the sun. Then the creature vanished, the child restored, with only a curl of smoke in the air above his head in memory of the red, fuming throat from which it had escaped.
The child twisted his lips with a smirk. “A glimpse from the legends of a country very far from here—made into reality.”
The shocked guard had drawn his sword. Ferguen breathed deeply and approached. “Trickery. Illusion!”
Small hands gripped the table. “I offer the Bringer of Strength. Accept or refuse!”
“At last, plain words. But I won’t consider your offer until I see positive proof.”
“Use your eyes! Or are you so suspicious and ignorant that you wouldn’t consider
anything
as proof?”
Ferguen growled. “Gendor’s right, you’re nothing but an arrogant brat.” He faced Begora. “Take him back to the river. Drown him, for all I care.”
The soldier bowed and stepped forward to lay a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. The child relaxed, and made no protest or show of anger as Begora led him away. Gendor opened his mouth to speak, but Ferguen raised his hand to stop him. Not until the head of tawny hair disappeared down the hallway did he lower his arm.
“For a minute there I was ready to believe him,” Ferguen said. “But if he had any real power he would have saved himself.”
“At least it wasn’t a waste of your time,” Gendor conceded. “You discovered he was a fake. He could have fooled a lot of desperate people with his tricks.”
“I don’t know. He might have been some use to us.”
“Not much. The Falling Man’s weapons remain in the hands of the Adaiani. If we’re to survive, we must find a way to balance that power.”
Indistinct sounds, like those of a quarrel or wild celebration, drifted through the sunlit glass. “Perhaps simple thievery would be more useful than diversionary tactics,” Gendor said. “Our greatest strength has always been in stealth and secrecy. Why not use the same advantage now?”
Ferguen resumed his casual position on the table. “Where is that blasted servant with my meal?” he muttered. “Those skills seldom gain us any real advantage, Gendor. We come so close, then fail because we don’t have the proper strength.”
“The people need hope, sir, especially now. As leaders we must find a way to provide it.”
“Yes, yes—even if we have none ourselves. But what’s going on outside? It sounds like a blasted riot.”
Ferguen walked to the window again and swung it open, letting in the bitter breeze. The sounds sharpened, grew in intensity and frequency: shouts and scuffling feet, slamming doors.
“I don’t like this. Find out what’s happening.”
Ferguen closed the window as Gendor hurried from the room. Peering closely through the frosted pane into the street below, he soon realized with growing alarm that the people were running not in fear but in joy, shouting and laughing hysterically. Many tottered about with their arms full, or sped down the street brandishing objects in the air, but in the confusion it was difficult to make out what they were carrying.
Minutes passed as he tried to make sense of this spectacle. Then footsteps clamored in the hallway, and Gendor burst into the room with a pair of guards close behind, their faces pale with shock.
Ferguen returned to the table. “What in Hendra’s name is going on?”
“Sir, you will not believe—”
“Thank you, sir!” a voice wheezed. An old man dressed in rags staggered into the chamber, and fell to his knees at the leader’s feet.
“Who in thunder are you?” Ferguen demanded.
The stranger fought to calm himself, suddenly conscious of his manners. “Egeran, your greatness. I come on behalf of my family to express our thanks.”
“Enlighten me, old man. What have I done?”
Puzzlement deepened his wrinkles. “Why—the food, sir.”
“Food? What food?”
Gendor stepped forward. “Sir, if I may,” he said, and continued after Ferguen’s nod. “We’re getting reports of every home being filled with huge quantities of food. Bushels of fruit, sides of beef, bags of flour … ” He shook his head, speechless for once.
Amusement tainted Ferguen’s expression. “Is this a joke?”
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes, sir,” said one of the guards. “Folk running everywhere holding loaves of bread, ham hocks, bottles of wine—there’s so much of it they’re dropping it in the streets.”
Ferguen hurried to open the window again. The echoing tumult had grown, filling the chamber, and he watched silently, gaze darting up and down the street.
He turned. “I didn’t do this, old man! What madness is this?”
Egeran wrung his leathered hands. “It was your servant, great one. I passed by your doors, and he stopped to offer me a plate of food. When I hurried home to share it with my sons and opened the door, I saw all the—they showed me—” he tried to explain, but could go no further, and bowed his head weeping.
“I couldn’t believe it myself, sir,” said the other guard. “Every table, every shelf in his house was filled with bags, earthen jars, bottles—and I’m pretty sure all of it was Adan.”
“Every house?”
“Every one we searched, your eminence.”
Ferguen glanced back out the window, then at Gendor. “Can it be? The boy—”
A movement caught his attention, and he turned to see the child entering the room again, another guard following.
“You wanted real proof—now you have it.” Again, he looked so innocent, so incongruous to the vindication his words implied.
Ferguen groped for his chair and sat down, his head bowed.
A long minute passed. “Sir?” Gendor murmured.
Eyes fierce with hope lifted, brimming with tears. “Bring in a chair for … for the Bringer of Strength.”
“And a map of Ada,” the boy added.
Ferguen smiled.
3
Council in Berrensal
In great matters, the comfortable choice
is seldom the best one.
- from
Besir Orand’iteé
CALEB STENGER
sat like stone, his face void of expression, as the sled dogs labored up the snow-packed road to Spierel. He had not spoken a word since Gebi. Telai rode in front to shield him against the bitter wind of their speed, his arms drawn tightly around, his gloved hands clasped in hers. She tried to keep her watering eyes straight ahead. That hopeless visage was almost more than she could bear, draining the courage she struggled to maintain for his sake as well as her own.
Tenlar guided their sled, with Soren riding the next of three more in tandem. A massive fortress soared above at the head of a narrow mountain valley; its silver spires glinted like stars against the gray winter sky, and its outer wall spanned the gorge from cliff to cliff. With chains clanging and pulleys grinding the thick iron door of the main gate rose to accept them. As Tenlar and Soren led the party into the deep, echoing passage beyond, Telai glimpsed a guard peering out a tiny window in the gate tower overhead.
The dogs barked their enthusiasm as the sleds ground to a halt in the wide, snow-swept courtyard beyond. Telai remembered the day she first stood on these ancient flagstones, back when she was a confused, melancholy teenager continually uprooted by her mother’s promotions. Now Spierel felt like a second home to her.
Three main towers of varying heights stood proudly at the other end of the courtyard. To the left rose Oorlsal, where she had studied under Acallor, Spierel’s resident Loremaster; to the right stood Berrensal, which housed the council chambers and the high offices of the city’s Underseers; and finally the tallest, Onaysal, once the city’s only tower but now only housing the infirmary and guest rooms. Arched buttresses served as walkways between.
Stables and storehouses along the inside of the wall emphasized Spierel’s military predominance; yet prestigious homes along the far wall of the castle and occupying a wide plateau beyond recalled the splendor of Ekendoré. Behind this lay wilderness impassable to all but the hardiest: massive, blue- and white-marbled peaks trailing clouds in the upper winds, and precipitous gorges filled with tall pines and fathomless lakes.
The physician of Spierel, a middle-aged woman named Eya, emerged from a small door at the base of the central tower. Servants followed, carrying a litter. Caleb shrugged them off, and Telai’s fears heightened as they led him away, but Eya smiled in reassurance.
Tenlar guided Telai and Soren toward Berrensal, while the rest of the patrol went to find kennels for their teams. Tenlar had already called for an assembly, but Telai dreaded the encounter. As Grand Loremaster she understood her duty. But her decision to leave Ekendoré had damaged her reputation, and she was about to face the same Underseers who had judged her. And what about Acallor, her old mentor? Had those rumors soured his opinion of her, as his brother Anidrin had suggested?
After providing a much-needed wash and change of clothes, Tenlar led his guests up a steep flight of stairs winding along the inside walls of the tower. Hallways branched inward like the spokes of a wheel. Near the top they entered a shorter one ending at a pair of tall, richly carved doors flanked by Raéni guards.