The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 (17 page)

The little yard was littered with the debris of a full and harsh winter, but here and there the bulbous heads of flowers were beginning to poke through the ground. It would be summer soon, and all would be light and warmth. The gutters were choked with leaves and there were tufts of brown grass sticking up through the cobblestones. There was work to do here definitely, but it would feel good to set things right. The cottage was hers now. She had the deed in her hand and a letter, signed by the King, which named her as the Captain’s legal heir and successor.

Torus brought her trunk from the coach and sat it on the path near the door. She could tell it wasn’t comfortable for him to be here. He shifted from one foot to the other, peering around the little yard, looking anywhere but directly at her. How long, she wondered. How long would his ghost linger for all of them?

“Well,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “I guess this is it then.”

She nodded.

“I suppose it is.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, a songbird whistled out its beautiful tune. The air was warm and thick with the smell of life and fresh grass. They stood, listening in silence, until the song faded into the distance. Torus cleared his throat, filling the space between them.

“I’ll see you around, Tiadaria.” His voice cracked as he turned toward the coach. “If you’re ever in Dragonfell...”

Tiadaria stepped up to him, wrapping her arms as far around his massive frame as she could reach. He patted her back with a gloved hand, as if he was afraid she was going to break apart. It was an awkward gesture, but one she appreciated all the same.

“Thank you, Torus,” she said into his chest. “Thank you for everything. I’ll come and see you soon, okay?”

“I’d like that,” he said, nodding. “I’d like that very much.”

He made his way back to the coach with jerky steps and climbed to the driver’s seat. He gave her a curt wave, flicked the reins, and was gone. Tia ran to the gate and into the road, watching the coach draw away until it turned onto the trade road and was gone. The cottage was quiet and still, save for the murmurings of the insects and birds.

Tiadaria was alone for the first time in months. Her fingers went to her collar, as they often did now when she was upset or nervous, tracing the smooth cool metal around the base of her neck. She missed the Captain so much that her heart ached almost constantly. There was an empty place where he had been and she wasn’t sure that place would ever be adequately filled ever again. The crushing pain of his loss, however, had passed. She could think about their time together without wanting to curl up and cry.

Walking to the door to the cottage, she fished out a tiny brass key from inside her tunic. Its length of black ribbon was worn, but the myriad array of gears, nubs, and depressions shone as brightly as ever. She slid the key into the lock and listened as the mechanism whirred and ground, clicked and tinkled. The latch gave and the door opened with a faint click.

Tiadaria was home.

# # #

A thin green tendril snaked upward out of the earth. It slithered toward its prey, silent and unnoticed. The constriction started as a gentle squeeze, increasing rapidly as it took hold, threatening to choke the life out of its chosen victim.

Tiadaria grasped the weed just above the root and yanked it out of the ground. She shook the dirt from the bundle before tossing it over her shoulder into a growing pile on the cobblestone pathway. Spring had come to the Imperium and already birds were singing in the trees at the edge of the fence that circled the cottage.

Winter had been cold and dark, with the loss of the Captain being harder to bear during the bleakness of the frozen months.

Still, with time, the sharp pain of loss had been reduced to a dull ache. Two years had passed since that fateful night on the battlefield outside of Dragonfell. The events of that night had forever changed her, but as that first winter had changed into spring, she found the loss easier to bear than she would have imagined. The time she spent in Dragonfell after his death had helped immensely. This past winter had been easier still. She supposed it was true; time heals all wounds.

She still felt the Captain’s presence in a very real way around the cottage. Although she was frequently called to Blackbeach or Dragonfell on Imperium business, she had no desire to live anywhere but King’s Reach or the little home she had inherited from her former mentor. A new constable and magistrate kept things quiet in the tiny hamlet and it was a welcome respite from the constant flurry of activity in the capital.

There was a creak from the end of the path and Tiadaria was instantly alert. The gate hinge was left unoiled for precisely that reason. It was an innocuous warning, a first line of defense against anyone who might seek to sneak up on her. True, they could just jump the fence, but even King’s Reach, so far from the heart of the Imperium, was mostly civilized.

The man who stood at the end of the path was tall and lanky. His curly brown hair peeked out from under the wide-brimmed hat he wore pulled down over his eyes, casting a shadow over his face. He wore a dirt-stained coverall and was stooped over, a common posture ailment for those who walked behind the plow. His dirty hands also lent credence to the image, but the little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Something told her this was no simple farmer. She shifted into sphere-sight. It was second nature now. She cast out toward the man standing at the end of her path and inspected him in minute detail.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Lady Tiadaria,” he said in a soft voice, very much at odds with his appearance. “I assure you that I am no threat to you. However, I suspect you’ve already allayed yourself of that worry.”

Tiadaria shifted her sight back to the physical realm. Her cool blue eyes ranged over him as she pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet. She brushed her palms against the thighs of her breeches, loosening the worst of the dirt that was caked on her hands. Her visitor didn’t seem concerned by her dirty attire and unkempt hair. The latter she twisted into a crude blond knot at the base of her neck.

“I don’t believe we’ve met…” She trailed off, silently prompting him for a name, since none had been offered.

“Cabot, Lady Tiadaria, with the Imperium Intelligence Service.” He glanced around and nodded to himself as if satisfied. “Do you think we could speak? Inside?”

Tiadaria led him into the little cottage, stopping only to fit a tiny brass key into the complicated lock set in the door. Cabot’s eyes widened slightly as the lock made its customary series of pops, snaps, and twangs before the key, turning on its own accord, unlocked the door. She pushed it open and gestured for Cabot to precede her into the common room.

“To what do I owe the honor of a visit by Imperium Intelligence, Cabot?” she asked, ushering him onto a stool by the long trestle table. There were neat stacks of parchment at the end of the table and the far wall had a myriad of maps pinned to it. Weapons and armor of all types hung from pegs around the room. Cabot’s awestruck expression was almost comical, but Tiadaria could forgive him that. It was an impressive room. It had been so when it was the Captain’s and it remained so under her care.

“My Lady—“

“Tia is fine, Cabot.” She felt a little silly correcting someone several years her elder, but as he had made no attempt to drop the title, she did it for him.

“Tia then,” he said, inclining his head in thanks. “Master Faxon Indra at the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences sent me to you. He says it is of vital importance for you to have my full report. Since I’m on my way back out on assignment, Master Faxon asked me to visit you.”

If Faxon had sent Cabot to her, there must be something foul afoot. There was a standing joke between Tia and the quintessentialist that the only time Faxon summoned her to Blackbeach was when something horrible was about to happen. Or already in progress. She sighed.

“Alright then,” she said, slipping onto a stool and leaning forward over the table. “You’d better tell me all of it.”

“I’m afraid all of it isn’t very much.” Cabot spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “All we have to go on are rumors and hearsay. The Xarundi have apparently been licking their wounds and they are striking out again, attacking some of the smaller human settlements nearest to the Warrens. We know that they were badly fragmented after the battle at Dragonfell. We have a mole within the Shadow Assembly—“

“Really?”

“Yes, Lady…I mean, Tia. We have several moles that have infiltrated the lower ranks of the Assembly. Most of them report to lower functionaries, which is part of the problem. There is talk that one of their seers has had a vision of a great and powerful artifact. Others dismiss this as rumor and misdirection. Either way, we don’t know what the artifact is, or where it might be.”

“But if the Xarundi are seeking it out, there’s a good chance that it doesn’t bode well for the Imperium. Or me.”

“Exactly. So Faxon—“

“Wants me to get near enough the Warrens to see what’s going on and what we can do to stop it,” she finished for him. Cabot slowly shook his head.

“No, not exactly. He wants you to meet with him in Blackbeach so the two of you can go through the Great Library and see if there are any clues as to what the artifact might be and where the Xarundi could be looking for it.”

“Ugh,” Tiadaria groaned. “Research. What is it with quints and their research? I’ll take a blade in my hand over a book any day.”

Cabot smiled tolerantly. “I’m not inclined to disagree with you, Lady Tia.”

“If that’s all then?” Tiadaria pushed off the table and got to her feet, extending her hand to Cabot as he did the same. He grasped it tightly and smiled.

“I have nothing more,” he said. “It was nice to meet the heroine of Dragonfell in person, though. Not very often that a man gets to say that he was in the presence of greatness.”

“Oh stop it,” Tiadaria snapped, her cheeks burning red. “There were many on that battlefield that night.”

“True.” Cabot nodded. “But not many who laid out two score of Xarundi before the rest of us could find our daggers.”

“You were there?” She asked, touching his shoulder lightly.

“Aye, Lady.” He sighed. “A shame about the Captain, but he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. May we all be so lucky when our time comes.”

“Indeed.” Tiadaria’s throat was tight, her chest aching.

Cabot seemed to shrug off his melancholy.

“Anyway, it was nice to meet you, My Lady. I’ll see myself out.”

Tiadaria stared after him long after he had slipped out through the exquisite door. She went to the window and watched him take the path away from the cottage with long strides, his farmer affectation a memory.

Cabot’s innocent remark had stung her in a tender place. How long, she wondered, would old ghosts continue to haunt her?

* * *

“Cabot found you then, I presume?” Faxon spoke to her without raising his eyes from the paper laid out in front of him. His chambers in the Great Tower were crammed, floor to ceiling, with books, sheaves of parchment, and all manner of contraption, both magical and mundane. Tiadaria had never been particularly claustrophobic, but walking into this man-made cave gave her vivid visions of the entire mass crashing down on them at any moment. She was already fairly disagreeable after a week on the road and his nonchalance wasn’t helping her disposition in the slightest.

Faxon gestured absently to a buried object in front of his desk that might have been a chair. Tiadaria lifted stacks of paper and looked for someplace to put them. She was completely at a loss. There was literally nowhere in the cramped room for her to put the pile down in any meaningful way.

“Faxon?”

“Hmmm?”

“Where should I put these?”

The quintessentialist finally looked up from the papers and seemed to really see Tiadaria for the first time. He looked from the chair to her hands and back again.

“Oh, right,” he pointed to the gently smoldering hearth in the corner of the room. “You can put them there. Yes, that will do fine.”

“Really?” Tiadaria looked from the papers to the fireplace, uncertain.

“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand, lost again in the paper spread out on his desk.

Tiadaria went to the hearth and shifted the papers into the crook of one arm. She prodded the glowing coals to life and then tossed the entire sheaf into the fireplace. It took a moment, but the edges of the paper began to blacken. Before long, orange tongues of flame licked up around the edges and the fire started burning in earnest.

“What are you doing?” Faxon cried, leaping to his feet, toppling his chair backwards. He rushed to the hearth, his face contorted into a mask of alarm.

“What you told me to do!” Tiadaria shouted, dropping to one knee. She was about to reach into the flames when she heard Faxon’s rumble of laughter.

“Relax, Tiadaria,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “I was just teasing you.”

She brandished the poker at him, backing him against the wall. “You gremlin-eared, goblin-toed, stinking, filthy ice pig!”

Faxon threw his hands up in surrender, still laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“Alright! Alright,” he said, getting himself under control. “Oh, but if you could have seen the look on your face.”

Tiadaria shook the poker at him again, and then dropped it into the rack by the hearth. “Not funny, Faxon.”

“On that, young Tiadaria, we will have to agree to disagree. However, scarring you for life wasn’t my intent in calling you here. I trust that Cabot filled you in on what we know?”

“What he knew of it. It seems to me that we don’t know as much as we need to.”

The quint nodded, leaning against the edge of his desk. “From what Cabot tells me, there are a number of Xarundi packs harrying the settlements around the Warrens, the few of them there are. It seems like they’ve recovered from the thrashing we gave them at Dragonfell and now they’re looking to expand as far and as fast as their furry little feet can carry them.”

“That’s not funny either, Faxon.”

“No,” he said, sobering abruptly. “It’s not. It is, however, the way things are. Add to that the rumor that they’re looking for something, but we don’t know what. I’ve been going over every record we have in the library and there are vague mentions of ancient Xarundi seeking out an object of great power in the icy wastes of the Frozen Frontier, but no concrete statement of what it is, or where it might be.”

“Surely the records here can’t be all we have to go on,” Tiadaria said uncertainly. “If there isn’t any information here, maybe there is in Dragonfell. I can go to the capital and—“

“No need,” Faxon interrupted. “King Greymalkin had all the documents pertaining to magical history, theory, and such moved to here from Dragonfell. He felt that they were…safer…in the hands of those who were trained in the arts and sciences.”

Tiadaria wrinkled her nose. “In other words, he was afraid that a rogue mage would get hold of something nasty and do something horrid.”

“Something like that,” Faxon agreed. “Regardless, all the documents that refer to any magical relics are either here in Blackbeach or in Ethergate.”

“Ethergate?”

“Blackbeach isn’t the only quintessentialist city. It just happens to be the largest one in the Imperium. Ethergate is farther north, outside the Imperium’s borders. Here in Blackbeach, we deal with education and research. Ethergate deals more with practical application.”

Tiadaria ran her finger along the thin gray witchmetal collar around her neck. It was a habit she had developed as a former slave under the Captain’s care. Now it was a source of comfort when she was nervous or agitated. It helped temper the unknown with the familiar.

“So,” she finally said. “Ethergate is where you test the things that you don’t want the King to know about, or that you want to be able to disavow.”

The papers in the hearth had died back down to embers. Faxon took the poker and prodded them experimentally, watching them crumble to ash before he replied.

“Not officially,” he said at length. “But there are those quintessentialists who…shall we say bend the rules from time to time.”