Lord Of The Freeborn (Book 7) (2 page)

Garrick waited.

Ellesadil’s face split into a broad, wild-eyed smile and he ran his hand over his hair as he looked for words.

“If you think the Freeborn can be led, you are truly insane. Your Torean mages are far more interested in their own freedoms than in the greater good.” Ellesadil held up his hand to forestall Garrick’s complaint. “Or, to give them the benefit of the doubt, they merely wish themselves to be completely free to make assess of themselves however they will. We can debate for weeks and weeks as to whether that idea works or doesn’t, but the fact will always remain that the average Freeborn mage does not want to be managed.”

“That’s not true.”

The corners of Ellesadil’s lips curled upward and he gave a gentle shake of his head.

“Good luck to you, Garrick. I think this conversation is finished.”

“You have to reconsider.”

“No,” Ellesadil said, stepping around the table. “I do
not
need to reconsider. But if I
did
reconsider, I might
well
decide to bring charges against you. I thought about doing this already, but prosecuting you would just serve only to create a new martyr, and I don’t want to be the cause of whatever would come of that.”

Garrick nodded. He had lost.

“How much time do we have?”

Ellesadil’s gaze was steady.

“It’s going to be a long winter. I want to see plans for the order’s departure before the month is over. I expect you to march within a week of first thaw.”

“It’s fair,” Garrick finally said.

“I’m glad you see it my way.”

Garrick turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Good bye, Garrick.”

Garrick knew he should be upset. Ellesadil had spurned his order, and denigrated his mages. He should be bitter.

But this life force that boiled inside him would not allow anger to pollute his mood—perhaps he should be angry that he couldn’t get mad. But instead of biting, or punching, or otherwise stewing, Garrick merely walked through the government center’s hallway, down the spiral stairs that swept into the grand entryway, and out of the doors that led him into the city’s streets.

This was his new life. Leading the Freeborn. There was so much to do, so many decisions to think about.

He needed to speak with Reynard, of course. The thin mage was prickly sometimes, but he was second in command and he had been with the Freeborn since the moment Sunathri had birthed it. Perhaps the Toreans could go to Whitestone, or maybe somewhere more isolated—Red Marsh to the east, or south where he had grown up amid the sugar cane, maybe even the underground ruins of Arderveer.

That is, if he could live in a place that gave him daily reminders of his first battleground. He didn’t know if he could that, but all ideas had to be up for consideration at this point.

He stopped on the street, inhaled cold air, and watched as Dorfort came fully awake. It was a good city. It could have been a good place to grow into if he had realized it earlier. No one had ever accused him of having much in the way foresight before now, though. Until now, a place had never seemed to be more than a moment in time.

Yes, there was much to do.

But, first, Garrick knew he had to see Darien.

The conversation with his friend would be uncomfortable, of course, which was probably why he had already delayed it this long. Darien understood Dorfort. He understood tactics, and would have good ideas on where the order should go next. But mostly, Garrick knew he needed to see Darien because he needed to apologize. He had stripped Darien of his order, and had done so in such a visible way that he knew Darien had to be hurting.

It had not been his intention to do that in front of the whole of the Freeborn membership.

He realized now exactly how big of a task he had, how hard it would be from this point forward. Every action he took would change the lives of those around him in ways he could not predict. This newfound weight fell upon him like an omnipresent cloud.

He sighed, pulled his cloak over his shoulders, and moved on.

Around him, it began to snow.

Chapter 2

Neuma, the young mage who now considered herself to be the high superior of the Koradictine order, gathered her spell work carefully. The magic was similar to those she had worked before, but powerful enough that failure would be painful.

Her room was lit by only a few sputtering candles. And it was small, built into the rolling hill at the foot of Mount Tara, the volcano that—if you believed the stories—was named after the only woman Commander de’Mayer had ever truly loved. Ettril Dor-Entfar, the deposed high superior, had assigned her these quarters when she was a new adept. She would move into Ettril’s palace soon enough, but for now Neuma had delicate work to accomplish, and she felt more comfortable here. She considered the room to be a part of her, like her little finger, or like her liver, like her pancreas. It was an organ deep inside that no one else could see.

There was something simple and pure about the room that made it feel right to cast this spell here. Its earthen brickwork was mossy and thick with the smell of island. Its roofing, thatched with saw-toothed fronds that raked the wind, raised whispers in the evenings that helped carry her mind away as she slept. A pot boiled in the fireplace, steeping sage and wild onion. Open braziers lay at each corner of the room, simmering with other spices from across the plane.

She sat on a thick mat of woven rawhide, a flat pan made of clay before her, her palms open and upturned on her knees.

Ettril Dor-Entfar’s notes had been detailed, and very explicit.

She remembered them precisely.

Neuma set gates, reached for her link to the plane of magic, and trickled magestuff into the braziers. Heat rose with the aromas of cinnamon and saffron. There was darkness hidden between those spices, though, the edge of danger and fear that Ettril’s notes warned would be overwhelming if she allowed them to bleed too far into this world.

She dribbled water into the pan.

The liquid beaded and ran like minnows in a pond until a slick surface filled the bottom of the basin.

Images swirled in the water. They were shadowy, irrepressible hints of a woman with hair that floated as if she were under water.

“Hezarin,” she whispered.

The planewalker came forward like an apparition—faint, and with a touch that was ghost cold.

“I wondered when you would call,” she said.

“I waited until I was prepared to serve you,” Neuma replied, so pleased to know her call was expected.

“And you feel prepared, now?”

“Yes, Lordess, Highest of Superiors. I am ready to take my place at your side.”

“And why should I select you?”

“I am of ranking power.”

“Power can be developed.”

“I am a good thinker, too, strong enough and wise enough to call you here rather than chose a different course.”

“Yes,” Hezarin said. “That much you have proven.”

Neuma smiled, pouring more energy into the spell. She matched her breathing to the phrasing she had heard in Hezarin’s inquiries. With each response the planewalker had drawn closer, with each question she had become more substantial. That closeness told Neuma her expectation was right, it told her that Hezarin needed her. If she played this well, the Koradictine order would be hers.

If Hezarin had wanted only to see Garrick annihilated she would simply have used Neuma as her conduit rather than take the risk of walking the plane. But this was bigger than Garrick. Her brother’s champion had defeated her mage at God’s Tower, and had now managed to destroy Ettril Dor-Entfar in Nestafar. The whole of Adruin needed to see that her powers were still strong, and the whole of Existence had to understand she would not sit by idly while Braxidane ran roughshod over her.

Hezarin would, of course, take glee in watching Garrick crumble, but as she defeated the human she would think of her brother and his dogmatically bizarre adherence to the plank of “action and consequence”—as if action was devoid of intent, and as if consequence came without guilt.

Hezarin stifled her mirth at Neuma’s call.

This neophyte actually thought she needed help to step into the plane. Her naiveté was quaint. Youth was no crime, though. Neuma had, after all, managed to be among the few left standing in the rubble of Ettril Dor-Entfar’s breakdown, and the idea that Hezarin could use Neuma’s ambition to enact her own revenge sent desire roiling through her. And, in truth, being invited did make things easier. There could be value here, Hezarin thought as she drew a protective flow of energy about herself.

The aroma of magic grew headstrong as the planewalker stepped into the room.

Yes.

There could be value in this one.

Neuma’s skin tingled as mist from the braziers crawled across the floor to caress the hem of Hezarin’s scarlet robe. Hezarin was the most beautiful woman she had ever set eyes upon. She was tall and thin. Her chestnut colored hair fell past her shoulders in loose curls, and her eyes were the green of spearmint.

“You think I needed your aid to step upon this plane?” Hezarin said.

Neuma’s jaw worked, but no sound came forward.

“My Mistress,” she said, finally finding words. “I merely wished to support you.”

Hezarin’s eyes sparkled. “Come now, Neuma. You can be more direct than that.”

Neuma cleared her throat. “I … I feel I can best serve you by building the Koradictine order back to its prominence, back to the power it once was.”

“That’s better.”

A delighted smile came across Hezarin’s lips. Her voice became a cat’s purr. Hezarin moved like a phantom, gliding through the misty remnants of spell work to stand before Neuma, coiling her arm around the mage’s waist to pull Neuma’s body against hers.

“No secrets between us, right?” she said.

“Quite right, Lordess.” Neuma bowed her head slightly, trying to contain her reaction to the pressure of Hezarin’s touch. “No secrets.”

“For my part,” Hezarin said, gazing down at her, “my first revelation will be, perhaps my finest.”

Neuma’s eyes grew wide and her throat cottony as Hezarin bent to kiss her.

“Certainly,” Neuma murmured before their lips touched, “it will be the most anticipated.”

Chapter 3

Garrick arrived at Darien’s chambers only to find Will standing there, clutching a collection of papers under one arm and balancing a thick stack of notebooks in the other. The boy had grown over the months, but his eyes were still his most startling feature. They glistened at him now, wide with worry.

“Where is he?” Garrick said.

“Master Darien is gone, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“He left the city last night. Reynard told me to gather up his notes.”

“Gather his notes?”

“He said he wanted to see what Darien was up to.”

Garrick gave a grunt. “As if Darien ever held much back.”

He looked around the chamber and saw the ornamental robes and gilded dagger that Ellesadil had given Darien during celebrations of their victory at God’s Tower. The robe was precisely folded, and sitting on the dresser. The blade, wrapped in its scabbard, lay primly over it. This brought him worries. These were ritualistic symbols, and Darien came from a family that cherished such things.

“Leave the notes here,” Garrick said.

Will hesitated.

“Tell Reynard that if he wants to see Darien’s notes he can make arrangements for us to do it together.”

“Yes, sir, Master Garrick,” Will said, putting the scrolls and manuals down.

Garrick considered correcting Will’s use of “sir” and “master” once again, but in this case it seemed somehow appropriate.

“Shall I go,” Will said. “I still have stable work for the morning.”

“Yes,” Garrick replied. “You should go.”

Will scampered away, and Garrick took a moment to walk around the empty chambers.

It felt cold here, cold beyond the chill of winter. The room felt of emptiness, of the hollow shiver of abandonment he had known so well growing up in the streets.

Darien had taken his demotion hard.

Of course he had.