Chapter 15

It takes a barrage of news and a tidal wave of brutal honesty from Rophelius, but the Waterlord returns to his old self. Lord Constance will stop the enemy.

Chapter 15

            Lord Constance sat alone at the point of his tear-shaped council table. Mayson stood behind him, as present and intimidating as ever. The large chamber, normally host to any number of people, was quiet enough to hear the falling water far beyond the walls. Quento looked straight ahead at nothing. His face was empty. It was impossible to tell exactly what the Lord of The Tear was thinking. Normally he kept his emotions in check, hiding them as much as possible. Recently he had fallen even deeper into that habit. Ever since Omily had left, Quento hadn’t been himself.

            At first, he had a horrible blood vengeance set against Corson Xull. The skilled light adept who had fought and served so well had stolen his daughter. There was no way, in Quento’s mind, that Omily would leave her home voluntarily. She had roots here, and family, and friends, men and women with whom she had trained and fought. Her betrayal was great. The embarrassment it caused her family was hard to accept. Quento felt as though his own name had been besmirched. What kind of lord could not keep his own daughter happy? What kind of lord let his daughter disappear?

            Quento sent Harmon Fachon out with a small until to scour the hills, his orders to bring Omily home under any circumstance. Corson’s fate depended on his actions. If he offered any sort of resistance Harmon was to kill him. As more time passed Quento began to understand why she left, and accepted that she was in love. She and Corson wanted to be together. And while Quento had no intention of bending the laws and allowing them to wed or bear children, he had convinced himself that he would accept their togetherness. It would pass, he thought. It was a whim, he told himself. Omily had never acted out, and this was the one thing in an entire lifetime that would make a father shake his head. The rebellion would soon end, and Omily would move on to find a new love, a real love, a natural one in which water met water.

            Quento looked up with peaked interest when the heavy wooden doors opened. He wanted to see Omily’s fine brown hair flowing over her shoulders. Only men entered the room. Rophelius walked in first. He looked around and pondered over the emptiness. He reached the table quickly and sat next to his lord. Harmon, absent from the last couple of meetings, reclaimed his seat. He looked exhausted, his body heavy. Quento eyed his lieutenant with quiet disappointment. The rest of the table quickly filled out with the rest of the highest ranking water and light adepts that called The Tear home.

            “Good morning, adepts,” Quento said. He wasted no time in turning his attention back to Harmon. “You found nothing?”

            “The only human life we came upon was remote hill tribes. They offered no resistance, and even let us search their hovels,” Harmon told him. “We ventured to every valley, big and small, and climbed to all the hilltops that would have been livable. Unless Corson and Omily became skilled nomadic rangers capable of covering their tracks, they are not in the Hillands.”

            “I wish you could have come back with better news, Adept Fachon.”

            “As do I, my lord.”

            “Nonetheless, your duty is appreciated. You will rest while I send another on the next search. What is next, Rophelius?”

            The room remained quiet. Men and women around the table glanced back and forth at one another, uncertain. Rophelius only looked at his lord, his stare blank. Quento looked back, waiting, and then his face changed to annoyance.

            “Adept Immellion,” he prompted.

            “My lord, is that really wise?” Rophelius snapped out of his daze. “Or necessary?”

            “Yes,” Quento answered indignantly.

            “I’ve submitted the reports of mage scouts across the realm,” Rophelius said. “These are not dumb villagers who can’t tell a donkey from a firesteed. This is a potential threat that we need to take more seriously. Sending men on a wild hunt across the lands is not conducive.”

            “Do not dare to tell me about priorities, Rophelius. I will not have it.” Quento’s voice was severe, and the rest of the table remained quiet, as if they weren’t even there. Some even chose to look away at empty corners of the room.

            “Harmon was too valuable to send away for that long. You must see that.”

            “Perhaps that’s true,” Quento submitted. “Shall I send you into the forest?”

            “The forest?” Rophelius asked, shocked. “They would be fools to have ventured there.”

            “Love makes a man a fool, yes,” Quento nodded.

            Peatross Gergens rose to his feet, his position at the middle of the table ideal to grab everyone’s attention. “I would be honored to perform this duty, lord.”

            “Peatross, you can’t�"” Rophelius started.

            “Very well, Gergens,” Quento nodded. “You will take Darwen Cacullio with you.”

            Rophelius looked at his lord again, confused and offended. “That is not necessary. Darwen is not done his personal training under me.”

            “Not under you, Ro. By Varello’s account, he is above and beyond the rest of the trainees. He deserves a break, and perhaps some real world experience.”

            “When shall we set out, lord?” Peatross asked.

            “Now,” Quento told him.

            Peatross bowed and made his exit.

            “And will you send Adept Klemons off to scour the Marshlands?” Rophelius lashed. “Perhaps Corson has built a mud hut on a peninsula.”

            “Enough!” Quento shouted, his fist hitting the table hard. “Idriod will remain here, at this table, but as the new leader in the investigation and extinguishing of these supposed mage scouts. You have lost daughters, Rophelius, and sons, too… in your wife’s womb. It is a tragedy, a truly cruel joke of whatever higher powers lie in the clouds or swim beneath Darkfalls. But you have never raised a daughter. You have never watched her grow, molded her into a woman of great skill and beauty. And you have never lost a living, breathing part of you. She was snatched from me, Ro! My own daughter was stolen! Until you come to know my heartache… take your leave.”

            The last three words were uttered quietly, almost under his breath. But Quento’s eyes squinted and his lips quivered when he said them. Rophelius looked at the men and women at the table around him. None of them spoke up to try and speak reason to their lord. They only stared back at their captain, waiting to hear his response. But he hadn’t the courage to say what he wanted. He knew it would hurt not only his lord, but also the uncle that he used to be. Quento was becoming lost in his despair. The only logical response Rophelius could think of was a silent one. He rose to his feet, his chair sliding across the floor with a slow and painful screech. He turned from the table, and without a glance back left the chamber to its quiet insanity.

            Anabelle placed the tray on the oval table situated in the middle of the four plush sitting chairs. Old Hab dropped a sugar cube into his tea and gave it a slow stir while Cyann sipped hers plain. The room was quiet, save the servant’s soft steps as she exited. Old Hab bit off a corner of one of the biscuits she had brought it. He sipped his tea again, letting it linger in his mouth to soften the morsel. The engineer grinned and nodded at Cyann, indicating his thanks.

            “You look well, my dear,” he said.

            “Thank you, Hab,” she smiled. “It’s been quite some time.”

            “Yes. For that I apologize. The Conduit keeps me quite busy.”

            “As do the warphans me. One’s duty can do that.”

            “I was saddened to hear of your losses the last few years.”

            “The most private information can still find its way so far north, I see,” she chuckled.

            “It is such because people love you so,” Old Hab nodded. “Does this one feel different?”

            Cyann leaned back a bit to let her belly breathe. “This child has grown faster and stronger than all the others before.” She rubbed the large bump through her linens.

            “Rophelius must be excited.”

            “Of course. So am I. But we’re also both scared. We’re just very good at hiding it.”

            “Sometimes that makes the most powerful sort of person.”

            Cyann smiled and took another sip of her tea. She jolted a bit as the chamber door swung open and Rophelius strutted through it. The anger on his face was immediately evident. He tried to cover it when he noticed a guest. Old Hab had spotted it still.

            “Adept Immellion,” he said, beginning to rise.

            “No need,” Rophelius told him. “Stay comfortable.”

            “The council meeting�"”

            “Has ended early,” Rophelius cut off his wife. “For me.”

            “Shall I go?” Old Hab asked, uneasy in the situation.

            “No, no, of course not,” Rophelius told him, moving towards the chair next to his wife. “Anabelle!” It only took the servant a few seconds to step into the room. “A triple of Antiwater with raspberry extract, if you will.” She bowed quickly and left immediately.

            “What happened?” Cyann asked.

            “Where are my manners?” Rophelius ignored her, and looked at Haberdeen. “Would you like a drink, Hab?”

            “The tea is fine,” he answered.

            “You look weary. A drink will take the edge off, I assure you.”

            “The road was quite long, and bumpy in the back of the carriage.”

            “You just arrived?”

            “Only an hour ago,” Cyann said. “He sought Lord Constance, but wasn’t allowed into the council chamber.”

            “I came and visited a dear friend in the mean time,” Old Hab smiled.

            “What business have you with Quento?” Rophelius asked, grabbing the goblet that Annabelle held over his shoulder. “Is the Conduit performing correctly?”

            “Yes,” Old Hab answered. “For now.”

            “That is a grave and vague answer, Hab.”

            The engineer only seemed to close his mouth tighter. He looked at Rophelius for some time, and then over at Cyann, before returning his attention to the adept.

            “Perhaps,” Cyann started as she stood, “I will go check in on Patzia. She can get quite frazzled when dealing with the warphans single-handedly.”

            Old Hab nodded. “I will be sure to see you again before I return north.”

            Cyann gave him a warm, thankful smile and bow as she stepped towards the door and left the chamber. Rophelius took a mouthful of his drink in, letting it stew for a few seconds before swallowing it in one gulp. It stung, but he loved that.

            “There has been foul play afoot in Lightning Bay, Ro,” Old Hab spilled.

            “Of what sort?” Rophelius leaned forward.

            “Carter Libson, of the guild.”

            “I’ve met him in passing,” Rophelius nodded. “A curmudgeon, but a genius.”

            “A genius with weak willpower, it seems,” Old Hab said, taking the last sip of his tea. “The story goes that the Greatmage’s newfound sorcery was able to reach Libson through the mere presence of a fire. He was gathering information on the Conduit for the enemy and supposedly taking steps to disable it.”

            “He was found out? He must be more a fool than I thought.”

            “It was only a hunch at first, believed by myself and a small group. We convinced Lord Venyo to pursue it. When Perriodon Nord went to fetch Libson for questioning, he killed a guard and nearly Nord.”

            “Nord…” Rophelius reflected. “He is a good man. Training now, correct?”

            “The only Lightutor we’d need if there weren’t so many students,” Old Hab said. “He is that skilled.”

            “How much did the Greatmage learn?” Rophelius asked before another sip.

            “There is no way of knowing. Libson was smart enough to leave any of that out of his notes. But the Greatmage’s interest alone in the Conduit is enough reason to cause alarm.”

            “And you travel here in hopes of…”

            “Of gaining Quento’s insight into the matter. Between this and the scout sightings�"”

            “Things are in motion.”

            Old Hab nodded slowly.

            “I don’t think our Waterlord will have much to say,” Rophelius informed him. “At least not what you want to hear. He excels at that these days.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Since Corson ran off with Omily�"”

            “Yes,” the old man nodded. “I remember Liaison Bristol was charged with scouring Lightning Bay and the surrounding regions in search of the girl. Still no sign?”

            Rophelius shook his head. “Since they disappeared Quento has been a man whose priorities are entirely out of order. He sends adepts of great intelligence and skill on hunts through hills and forests. He’d like to think that these scout sightings are nothing more than paranoid villagers.”

            “My own nephew�"”

            “He carries little weight in the water court.”

            “But you…”

            “I may have just lost it.” Rophelius took one last large gulp of his drink. “Another, Ana!”

            “I could talk to him,” Old Hab said. “Quento and I have known each other since childhood. His was more recent than mine, however.”

            “He will listen to you, yes. But he won’t hear you. What would you suggest to him?”

            “That he sends men to strengthen the defenses in and around Lightning Bay and Greatfort against a potential attack.”

            “Will those men be allowed to scour the mud pits around the bay? Will they be permitted to dive to the bottom of the bay to search for Omily?”

            Old Hab said nothing.

            “No? Then he will send no one to Lightning Bay.”

            “What should I do?” Old Hab asked. He knew it was likely that Rophelius was right.

            “It might seem like plenty has happened already. Unfortunately, it will take much worse for Quento to find reason,” Rophelius said. “So my advice is simple: wait.”

            The forest was nothing more than a green lining on the horizon as they strode toward it. Their aquoxen were both loaded on either side with heavy sacks and cases. Still, even with the weight of each man, they moved faster than they would with a carriage in tow. The aquoxen were obedient, as always, and their strength and endurance would be more than necessary for this journey. Darwen, however, had no desire to be obedient. He wanted to resist this task and continue his advanced training. It was going to be difficult to find motivation riding along Peatross towards an odd destination with a meaningless objective.

            They took the main road east. It was clean and straight and even. Most of the other roads in the region were not so. Then again, most of the other roads were traveled regularly. Often vendors from small villages and towns would take their goods and services to The Tear or other towns to the west. But the villages east of The Tear were few and far between, rarer and rarer as the forest line grew taller and taller. The people of Lightwater said the closer one lived to the forest, the less successful one would be in life. While these people living by the forest, or even in its general area, were kind and peaceful, they were undoubtedly meager. Darwen had grown up south of The Tear, closer to the mountains, in a more densely populated and prosperous region. This part of Lightwater was almost entirely new to him.

            “I hope you’re not a coward, Darwen,” Peatross said as they continued onward. He couldn’t take his eyes off the beckoning trees, small and far as they still were. “The forest is no place for a coward.”

            “I hardly think Lord Constance would send someone into the forest if he didn’t trust in his abilities,” Darwen countered. “I’ve never been in the forest, true, but I have no fear.”

            “Perhaps you should.”

            “Have you ever ventured into the forest?”

            “No,” Peatross said, annoyed. “But my father did.”

            “Much like you are today. He would be proud.”

            “No, not like me at all. He trusted his companions.”

            Darwen looked over at Peatross. He was sneering at him. Darwen didn’t take the comment personally. He knew that snide people were as present in this world as kind ones. Instead, he turned his focus from Peatross and looked ahead, further down the road. The trees had already grown taller. Above the forest, in its northern portion, the sun sat like a slow comet.

            “My father went into the forest when he was quite young,” Peatross said, much to Darwen’s surprise. “He had just finished his training, and was immediately considered one of the great adepts of his time. He had the potential to become a captain. But when he returned from his journey, he was a changed man.”

            “How so?”

            “He was touched, they said. Touched by the forest.”

            “What happened?”

            “Nothing,” Peatross said, shaking his head in uncertainty. “At least, that’s what all his companions said. That’s even what he said.”

            “Why did they go into the forest?”

            “Lightwater was growing fast, too fast. Its population boomed then, decades ago. It has steadied out since then. But at the time there were so many men who wanted to become adepts, and a growing number of women since it had been decreed acceptable not long before. Everyone was thankful for that, of course. It meant there would be more adepts suited to defend our lands, to keep the peace and fight off any enemy. With more adepts, however, they needed more turquoise. Today, it is impossible for any adept to harness their power without the proper jewel. It was possible back then, but becoming more and more rare. And so the lord at the time… his name escapes me… he sent expeditions into the forest at multiple points, and a few into the mountains, and even one into the Hillands, still volatile at the time. Turquoise became quite plentiful because of that lord. A group was able to tap into a great concentration of it in the mountains to the southeast. We still mine that area today and have a surplus of the jewel. The men in the Hillands came back empty-handed, of course. The groups that had ventured into the forest, hoping to miraculously find a cave full of turquoise, took much longer to return. But they did, one after the other, with no lives lost. My father’s group was the last to return to The Tear. Every man who had ventured into the forest said that it was not… normal. The ground there didn’t work the way it did here. They claimed to have gone in circles despite having kept a straight and steady path. They heard unearthly noises and swore to have seen creatures straight from a child’s night horrors.  There were no caves to be found, and no people to direct them even if there were. But ancient legends, and even old maps, all indicated that there were plenty of caves lining the other end of the forest. Only the men never found the other end. They were all thankful they managed to find Lightwater again.”

            Darwen had looked over at Peatross often as he spoke. The older adept kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, looking at the forest as it grew taller still. “Your father told you this?”

            “No. He almost never spoke of it, and certainly not while I was around.”

            “In what way was he… touched?”

            “Not only did he rarely talk of the forest, but he rarely talked at all. He kept to himself… growing distant from my mother… and lost that certain something that makes an adept a legend. Apparently there were times he would just stand and stare to the east, even if the forest wasn’t within sight.”

            “Truly?”

            “I never saw it myself. None of the men that went in the forest enjoyed talking about it. It took me some time to learn everything I know. Old Varello, your Watercoach, told me the most, though he did so reluctantly.”

            “Hmm,” Darwen hummed, expecting that to be the end of it.

            “My father disappeared for some time when he was… sixty, I think. A scout found him in the dead of the night, on the edge of the forest, still and silent, just staring into the black between the bark.”

            “Why?”

            “He never said.”

            “And none of this makes you scared to go into the forest? Did you not tell Lord Constance all of this?”

            “Of course not. He would react the same way you are,” Peatross said, finally turning his head to meet Darwen’s eyes. “I’m not scared of going into the forest. I’m not even scared of possibly never coming out. If you are, turn north and I will never tell a soul. Otherwise, understand that I’d rather be lost forever, as long as I find some answers along the way.”

            It was dark when guards roused Rophelius from his rest. Cyann was halfway through a raggedy book, and he was halfway through another goblet. He had been drinking them since his conversation with Old Hab. The speed with which he drank had slowed considerably, however. Far from drunk, he felt warm and fuzzy and comfortable. Anabelle had tapped on their bedroom door. Instead of calling her in, Rophelius got out of his bed and cracked the door open. She said a pair of guards was at the chamber door, asking for him. Rophelius was close to telling her to relay that he was retired for the night. That changed when she mentioned that Harmon Fachon had sent the guards. While Rophelius was disappointed that no one had spoken up during the morning’s council meeting, he understood the reasoning. He knew that Harmon shared his opinion. Harmon had had no desire to venture into the Hillands to look for Omily, citing that it was pointless and wasteful. He had told Rophelius just as much before he left.

            The guards woke Old Hab as well. Rophelius offered the engineer their daybed instead of one of the cramped guest chambers normally given to visitors. The old man fell asleep early, but his curiosity brought him out of his slumber quite fast. He walked behind Rophelius and the guards as they weaved through halls and down stairs and sloped corridors. Soon they were on the main grounds of The Tear, walking towards the western gate, the tallest and thickest and most heavily guarded. Many of the adepts were huddled around it in small groups, talking amongst themselves. They hushed in turn as Rophelius drew closer.

            “What is going on?” he boomed, a bit louder than he had intended.

            “Ro!” Harmon shouted, reaching the bottom of a set of stairs leading to the wall. “There is a group of three beyond the waterwall. They’ve been throwing stones at the gate for near an hour. An old man and two children on horseback.”

            “The gates are closed to all vendors and visitors until first light. That is known. Did you truly think it necessary to call on me for this?” Rophelius felt tired suddenly, bored, and a slight dizziness hit him as the amount of alcohol he had drank began to dawn on him.

            “They come from the Whisperwinds,” Harmon said in a low voice. “And they wish to speak with Lord Constance. The old man’s been shouting that… between the stones.”

            Rophelius stared at Harmon for a bit. He looked just as unsure of the situation. Rophelius looked over Harmon’s shoulder, looked at the gate, solid and reliable as any other in the realm. He was wary about opening it at such an hour, and concerned of the consequences should word reach Quento’s ears. And then he felt dizzy again, and he belched, feeling the Antiwater burn his throat, the flavor lingering in his mouth again. “Get the men back to their posts. And bring them inside.”

            It was a few minutes until the three were actually within The Tear. Opening the gate was quite the process. Its multiple latches took two men a piece to undo. Once it was heaved open, a ten-some of guards had to open the waterwall. It was thickest and steadiest here. A couple of adepts formed a tunnel in the wall. The other eight formed a human tunnel along the inside, a harrowing wall of skilled adepts surrounded by tons of vehemently charged water.

            “One at a time!” Harmon shouted from one end of the tunnel to the other. “And lead your horses in with you, slowly. Make sure not to fright them.”

            Onvolio walked in first, his robes a bit tattered and dirty at the bottom. Tatello followed him, his eyes wide with wonder and anxiety. Jazella walked in last, the grip on her horse’s reign tight, and she looked back and forth at each hulking waterguard as she passed. None of them moved or acknowledged her; they were so statuesque. Harmon indicated for them to hand their horses over to a pair of waiting waterguards. They were shorter and thinner, but still intimidating in their weapon-clad and turquoise-adorned armor.

            “This is most unusual,” Harmon said, walking back to the gate with the three behind him. Even more guards walked on either side of the group, while the bigger men lumbered back at a much slower pace.

            “For us as well, sir,” Onvolio said, amused.

            “And who might you be?”

            The old man looked around at the guards, a few of whom were looking at him, waiting for a response. “Perhaps… in a more private setting?”

            “That’s not for me to decide,” Harmon said, walking through the gate.

            Rophelius stood in waiting, Old Hab just a foot behind him. The two old men looked at each other curiously. Their age, and the way they carried themselves, felt eerily similar. They had knowledge in their eyes, and acknowledged it in one another with nothing but a glance.

            “Come with me,” Rophelius said. He turned and led the three towards the first tier of the capitol. Harmon walked at the back of the group, Old Hab by his side. The four guards that flanked the visitors looked at Rophelius for further instruction once they reached a door. “Wait here, and keep your ears open.” His eyes looked a bit glossy. “But not too open.”

            Their confusion was of no concern to the captain. Rophelius knew Harmon and he were skilled enough to disable an old man and two children, no matter what tricks they may have planned. The room the six of them entered was dusty and sparsely decorated. It was used as a rest area for vendors and visitors, a place to eat or advertise or interact between the repetitiveness of business. Rophelius motioned for them to sit down. The children looked wary, but when the old man did so, they followed.

            “I normally offer food and drink to my guests, especially if they look weary from travel,” Rophelius said. “But that is only if I know them… or their business.”

            “Is Lord Constance available?” the old man asked.

            Rophelius looked at him, though it was more of an inspection. After a shared glance of amusement with Harmon, he took a step closer. “An old man with a boy and a girl, come knocking on the waterwall after the sun has set and the capitol falls quiet… and they expect audience with the Waterlord without explanation?”

            Onvolio took his turn to inspect Rophelius. He let out a deep breath, and went on to introduce himself and the children on their behalf, much like Ruxson had done in the cell at Marshfort. “Tell me your name, sir,” he ended.

            “Captain Rophelius Immellion,” he said after a moment. “And this is my lieutenant.”

            “I traveled with a captain for some time,” Onvolio said. “Until we were captured by a group and held captive in the Marshfort, we were well on our way to knocking at the waterwall as a full group.”

            “And you managed to escape?” Harmon asked, still amused.

            “They let us go,” Onvolio said. “And kept the four windmen.”

            “Wind mages?” Rophelius laughed. “You traveled with wind mages into Lightwater?”

            “They were only named mages after our alliance with the Blazelands. And we have absolved those bonds.”

            “According to whom?” he snorted.

            “Our hearts.”

            Rophelius looked to Harmon, who looked more annoyed than amused by this point. “What has that got to do with us?”

            “We were hoping quite a lot,” Onvolio said. “A great man, true and honorable until the end, was condemned by the Greatmage. His wife and daughter, a girl of only fifteen, were taken from their village in the Whisperwinds, a village now nothing but a scorched mark of villainy on the earth. These children are its only survivors, and the men I traveled with the only ones with the courage to seek a better end.”

            “And what end is that?” Rophelius probed, interested despite his conscience.

            “Helping you,” Onvolio started, “so you can help us.”

            “What help could an old man from the Whisperwinds hope to offer us?” Harmon asked.

            “The Greatmage will not be in Blazelands much longer. And when he leaves, so will the entire might of his force. Fire and wind are growing together, even as I speak, but there are some winds that blow astray. Help my men seize Lord Enzio, and the winds will once again blow in your favor.”

            The room was quiet. Tatello shifted his foot on the dirt ground, and the gravelly noise turned Old Hab’s attention onto him. The engineer met the boy’s eyes for a minute before he shot them down to look at his feet. The girl next to him had no trouble looking at the man who was looking at her brother. She blinked a few times, and Old Hab saw neither fear nor deceit on her face.

            “You want us to march on Windhaven?” Harmon finally said. “For four mages?”

            “For four men that could turn a thousand mages back into the men they deserve to be. Good men, ones capable of following their own destiny and not one lit by the flames of sorcery.”

            “A word, Rophelius…” Old Hab whispered. He was still standing by the door. Rophelius turned and walked to him, leaning in so he could hear him as he talked in his lowest voice. “With this… potential to weaken the Greatmage… and Libson’s betrayal… and the scout sightings… perhaps Quento will find his way once more.”

            It took Rophelius a few seconds to process it all. But once he did, he nodded continually, even as he turned around to address the three sitting on the bench. “I will try my best to grant you audience with Lord Constance, but not until morning.”

            “You say it as though it is hard for a captain to gain his lord’s attention.”

            “These days, he’s…” Rophelius started, but then he trailed off and stopped himself. “In the morning. Harmon, make sure they’re fed and comfortable.” The captain turned from them and opened the door. Before he stepped back outside, he added, “and guarded.”

            Quento’s stomach was empty and his head ached. The light coming in through the glass dome above him was bright. Dark clouds loomed in the distance, a promising gloominess that would accompany a soaking rain later in the day. Quento felt the heaviness under his eyes and the weariness in his bones. Another restless sleep had plagued him the night before. When he could sleep, he saw his wife or his son or his daughter. He only saw them for a few minutes, before reality woke him and he reminded himself that each and every one of them were lost. His wife and son had flown down the Darkfalls long ago, their bodies and souls on whatever path the waters of the underworld decided to take them. Omily, however, only lost her way. She was still alive, or at least that’s what Quento felt in his bones. He wasn’t sure the world would let him go on if the only person he had left in it was gone forever. While she was off with Corson, Quento still held onto the idea of seeing her again.

            His throne was cool beneath him. It was still early enough in the day that the rays of the sun had not heated the stone. He woke for the last time before the sun even rose, and was out of bed and on his curved balcony while the stars still shone in the sky. A servant brought him creamed oats with orange zest to eat as the sun crept. The warm and citrusy meal brought life to him at first, but he could only stomach a few spoonfuls before he slid it away and spent the last few minutes of the sunrise feasting on nothing but his thoughts. He wondered where Omily was, and envisioned her waking with the sun as Corson held her in his warm arms. It made him nauseous, the thought of it, and he cleaned and dressed himself with a cold deliberateness.

            Now he sat, at the highest point of The Tear, with an entire population of adoring adepts and averages below, and he was still lonely. Even his servants were no longer with him. They were cleaning his linens and gathering the goods for his next meal. Not even Mayson was present. The lumbering royal guard was not expected to meet his lord until the day’s eighth hour. He would often be the one waiting for Quento. Today, it was opposite, and Quento wondered if his guard ever felt the same loneliness he did. The thought had never occurred to Quento before. He knew as much about Mayson as he did the lowliest vendor rolling his goods under the waterwall. Quento knew that Mayson lived to serve the Waterlord, and that the guard would die for him if it ever came down to it. Quento wondered if that was enough substance to consider it a life worth living. Mayson’s footsteps preceded him as always, and the sound of his spear on the marble stairs rang through the quiet room.

            “Morning, Mayson,” Quento muttered.

            “Lord Constance,” Mayson sounded shocked. “I apologize for my lateness.”

            “You are not late. I was simply early. Tell me… do you feel alive?”

            “My lord…” Mayson said quietly. He looked as confused by the question as Quento did by asking it. “I do.”

            “Consider yourself fortunate,” Quento muttered, not caring that Mayson may have lied.

            “Guests await you, Lord Constance,” Mayson told him.

            “So early?” he complained. “A quarrel on the grounds?”

            “Adept Immellion,” he said. “With First Engineer Haberdeen and three visitors arrived last night from the Whisperwinds.”

            “What is their business?” Quento asked, raising an eyebrow at the last of the list.

            “They will not say. They’ll only speak to you. They wait downstairs.”

            “Bring them to me,” Quento said, straightening himself in his seat.

            He watched Mayson return to the bottom of the steps. Quento was excited to hear of his daughter’s venture to the Whisperwinds. It was unwise of them to travel west into the arms of the enemy, but he was sure they were able to find safe haven in those simple, poor lands. Now their fantasy had come to an end, and Lord Enzio sent men to deal with him. There was no price Quento wouldn’t pay to bring his daughter back to The Tear. He told himself he’d pay much less for Corson, and would let him stay behind as the enemy’s play thing if they asked for too much. Quento felt himself rejuvenating as he heard the collection of footsteps climbing up the stairs. Three were armed, while the others were lighter, surely those of weak men who dealt in words. He was already closer to Omily than he had been in some time, and he let himself smile for once. It was a feeling he had nearly forgotten. Mayson led the way, with Rophelius next, Old Hab’s arm in tow to help him up the stairs. Another old man, just as wearied to the eyes as Old Hab, was next, followed by two young children, a boy and a girl with no meat on their bones.

            “Lord Constance,” Old Hab said, bowing as much as his weak back would let him. “You look well. It is a delight to see you, and an honor to be a guest in this hallowed hall.”

            “Haberdeen,” Quento nodded. “Mayson, who are these… three?”

            “We come from Windhaven,” Onvolio answered for himself.

            “What do you want for my daughter? You haven’t hurt her, have you?”

            Rophelius caught the puzzled look on Onvolio’s face as he glanced at him for an explanation. The captain offered him none, and instead took a step forward to address his lord. “The Marshfort captured them. Five wind mages, one of whom is now dead, were with them. The eight of them claim to have absolved their vows to the Windlord, and more importantly, the Greatmage. Others feel the same, but haven’t the courage to do anything about it.”

            “We are a people and land divided,” Onvolio said. “And we seek your help.”

            He studied the men and children who stood before him. Mayson looked at them, as confused and unconvinced as his lord. Quento met Onvolio’s eyes. “An old man and two malnourished children,” he muttered, “with no news of my daughter and an expectation of us to vanquish the evil from their land. Tell me, how simple do you think it is to keep the fires of Blazelands from spreading into Lightwater? And you expect us to just extinguish those that are already deep-rooted in the Whisperwinds, a weak and pliable land whose people are just as pathetic? Leave this room, and this city, and this realm.”

            “Fire has spread to Lightwater, Lord Constance,” Old Hab said. “My colleague Carter Libson sought to sabotage the Conduit under some foul sorcery that the Greatmage has reawakened. He killed a lightguard and nearly took Perriodon Nord’s life.”

            “And the scout sightings all over the north, as far east as Boltown, are also proof that the Greatmage seeks to expand his empire,” Rophelius said.

Quento looked at each of them in turn, more and more disgust growing on his face. “I will not address these sightings again. Stray mages on horseback are of no concern to me. This Libson went mad, a feeling with which I can sympathize these days, strengthened by the fact that he lives in the dismal stone fort of Lightning Bay. And you three,” he said between clenched teeth, “will betray me with the candor you fail to present today. I don’t believe you. Mayson, put them in a cell.”

“Lord,” Rophelius beckoned. “You must�"”

“You must stop gripping at straws!” Quento shouted. “You must remember your position as my captain, not my lord. Remember it, Rophelius, and help Mayson accompany these three to the prison or find yourself in it with them.”

“It has already started,” Onvolio dared. “I can’t see into Leonia. The sorcery that grows within will not let me. Lord Enzio, with thousands behind him, has ordered a mass exodus out of Whisperwinds, and they crawl towards their master like blind, deaf, dumb slaves.”

“You see?” Quento asked. “What do you mean?”

“I was Lord Enzio’s Grandseer. I am a seer still, but no longer under his control. The Windlord’s caravan could soon reach the Burning Bride, and I’m sure it’s not the only group being called to Leonia,” Onvolio said, and he noticed Rophelius looking at him with a dropped jaw. “My apologies for not informing you, Adept Immellion. I wasn’t entirely sure until I was able to get a true sleep. When I woke this morning, everything was much clearer to me.”

“Enough of this show,” Quento said, standing. “Leave, before I drown you with the saliva you hold in your mouth.”

“Lord Constance!” a desperate voice shouted as heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs. Harmon took a place in front of the group, and he unrolled a parchment grasped in his hand. “Under the next Bloodmoon the Greatmage sets out to strike Greatfort and Lightning Bay. His massive caravan will bring the Lightlord to his knees. The sorcery that is once again alight in the bowels of Leonia cannot be taken lightly, and so I hope this message reaches you in time.”

“Where did this come from?” Quento asked after some silence.

“By blackbird,” Harmon answered. “Just now.”

“The Blazelands is the only true home those birds know,” Onvolio said.

“The next Bloodmoon rises in little over a week’s time,” Old Hab said.

“That is all the proof you need,” Rophelius said. “We must call to arms across the land. Lightning Bay is in danger.”

“GET OUT!” Quento shouted. “The lot of you! The Greatmage is a coward, hiding beyond that forsaken chasm. He is a weak man, only fluent in fear, incapable of all else!”

“Quento!” he shouted back, stepping closer to the throne than anyone was permitted. “Your daughter left, most unfortunately, and you are a wounded father. But you are a lord still, a capable one, fluent in all the ways of the world. I beg of you to remember that. Remember that evil still lurks in the darkest, most silent corners of this realm… and ensure that if your daughter ever does return, she returns to what she remembers, a Lightwater of strength and prosperity, protected by a lord with the might of thousands willing to risk their lives swatting at flies over a campfire, if not battling a Greatmage who dares reach too far beyond his means.”

Quento looked defeated, but only for a moment. The look a child made when reprimanded severely for the first time quickly disappeared. He cleared his throat. “He will never reach Lightning Bay.”

“Command us, my lord,” Rophelius said, relieved.

“Gather as many adepts as the south and east and west can spare, and take them north, into the Hillands,” Quento said to Rophelius. He looked at Harmon next. “Take Old Hab back to Lightning Bay on the afternoon sun, and lead our full fleet out of the bay, westward along the shores of the Shadowsea. We will strike this caravan from north and south, and drown the life out of it as only we can.”

Harmon was ready to leave the room, Rophelius behind him, but Onvolio spoke up instead. “The Whisperwinds can help you, Lord Constance. There is no way of knowing how many, but even four are enough to contribute. Let me return to the Marshfort, and let my companions rouse the men of the wind who still have heart and conscience.”

“Go,” Quento said sternly, eyeing the man with a new rush of mercy.

Rophelius helped Old Hab down the steps, Onvolio and the children following. Harmon left last, eyeing his lord, bowing low, gracious to have him back. Lord Constance watched them leave and let Mayson take his place by his lord’s side before he fell back into his throne. The Waterlord was still tired in every way, and he missed his daughter more than before. But Rophelius was right. What kind of father lets the world his family knew collapse around him? Even if he never saw Omily again, he would die before seeing her world fall into flames and darkness.

END OF PART ONE