War Maid's choice

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“I don’t like this one bit,” Brandark Brandarkson said quietly, sitting in the saddle and peering into the misty rain. His cap’s jaunty feather drooped under its own sodden weight, and a thin, persistent stream of droplets dripped from its end. “I know it rains more down here, close to the river, than it does up on top of the Wind Plain this time of year, but this is just plain wrong.”

“Aye, it is that,” Bahzell acknowledged grimly.

The Horse Stealer stood leaning against Walsharno’s shoulder, his oilskin poncho gleaming with wet, and the courser’s ears moved restlessly as both of them strained to sense and identify what instinct told them was out there somewhere. Bahzell’s ears were almost as busy, but Brandark’s were half-flattened, and his warhorse stamped uneasily as it sensed its rider’s mood. The Bloody Sword had returned to Hurgrum from Dwarvenhame six days before, bearing with him greetings, letters, a fresh supply of books for his library, and a brand new specimen of the dawrves’ latest musical invention. He’d been welcomed warmly on his arrival (despite his new instrument), yet he clearly didn’t care for what he’d heard-and seen-since then. He’d come ahead with Bahzell to join Yurgazh and the field force on the Ghoul Moor while Trianal personally returned to Balthar to raise the riding’s first levy. The additional Sothoii should be arriving in the next few days, and Vaijon would be close behind them with Bahnak’s infantry reinforcements, but summer or no summer, there was a cold, ugly feel to the air. A sense of something building, of a malevolent force biding its time and assembling its strength before it struck.

The expeditionary force had encamped along the bank of the Hangnysti while it awaited its reinforcements. Its dwarven engineers had laid out, and human and hradani fatigue parties had constructed, field fortifications that would have done the King Emperor himself proud, and the small army should have been secure against anything the Ghoul Moor had ever produced. Yet every man in it knew no one had ever seen or heard of ghouls acting as their enemy was acting now, and that left them feeling unanchored despite their fortified camp. Off balance. It wasn’t fear, but it was uncertainty, made all the worse because ghouls had always been so predictable before.

And the weather wasn’t helping, Bahzell thought. Brandark was right about that. The wet, sloppy mud and rain was more like what one would have expected in late fall or even early winter, not this time of year. It would have been enough to depress anyone’s spirits at any time; coming now, in what was supposed to be high summer, the effect was even more pronounced. And the eerie emptiness around them, the lack of activity from the ghouls who should have been swarming about their fortifications, trying to pounce on scouting parties, gibbering and hooting their challenges from the weather’s concealment, only made that even worse. Yurgazh and Sir Yarran were undoubtedly right about the need to patrol aggressively-as much to keep the men focused as to seek contact with the enemy-but those patrols persistently found nothing. It was almost as if the ghouls knew about their army’s expected reinforcements and were deliberately waiting for them to arrive before offering battle, and wasn’t that a cheery thought?

Well, it was your own stiff neck got you out in the muck and the mud today, he told himself sardonically. There’s more than a mite could be said for sitting snug with a fire on a day like this, but could you be doing the smart thing? He snorted mentally. Of course you couldn’t! And if you and Walsharno were after being so bent on wading about out amongst the weeds and the rain just to see for yourself as how there’s never a ghoul stirring, of course the little man had to be coming along with you, didn’t he just?

“I wouldn’t want to say this kind of weather was deliberately designed to make horse bows less effective,” the Bloody Sword continued now, “but it does rather have that effect, doesn’t it?”

“Aye,” Bahzell grunted even more disgustedly.

Bows were less susceptible to rain than some people thought, but even a Sothoii’s well-waxed and resined bowstring lost power when it was thoroughly saturated. Fletching tended to warp and even come completely unglued, for that matter, which did bad things to accuracy. Because of that, the Sothoii rode with their bows unbent, strings tucked into their ponchos’ inner pockets to keep them dry, and their quivers capped to protect their arrows. That meant they were going to be slower-much slower-getting those bows into action than they might have been otherwise. Even worse, these blowing, misty curtains of rain reduced visibility badly, and that meant they were likely to have less warning before they needed those unbent, unstrung bows.

It wasn’t quite as bad for the hradani’s Dwarvenhame arbalests, with their steel bowstaves and wire “strings” and their quarrels’ wooden slot-and-groove stabilizing vanes, but even they found their effective range reduced in this sort of weather, simply because of the visibility. And given that even a Dwarvenhame arbalest was slower-firing than a horse bow, their front ranks were likely to have time for no more than a single volley before they were forced to sling their missile weapons and bring their shields and swords into action.

It could have been worse, of course. For example, they could have faced a hard, driving rain rather than this billowing grayness. But it was quite bad enough, even if Brandark hadn’t been right about the unseasonable nature of it. This was the third straight day, with no end in sight, and the sense of being closed in, half-blinded, was enough to make a man’s skin itch.

‹ Especially when both of us know something ’s on the other side of it,› Walsharno murmured in the back of his brain. ‹ And Vaijon, too.›

‹ Well, it’s not as if it was after being the first time we’ve smelled such as that,› Bahzell replied silently. ‹ Mind, it’s happy I’ll be to have Vaijon along this time, but there’s times I wish as how himself could be telling us just a mite more before we’ve stepped full into it.›

‹ I wish that, too, Bahzell,› a far deeper voice said. ‹ Sending those who trust you and who have proven you can trust them, even to the death, into battle without all the knowledge you possess…that’s a hard thing, my Swords, even for a god. Perhaps especially for a god.›

Most people, perhaps, might have flinched just a bit when a god’s voice rolled through their brains with no warning at all. Bahzell and Walsharno, however, had become accustomed to it over the years, and the hradani’s ears didn’t even twitch in surprise.

Anymore, at least.

‹ As to that, it’s no god I am,› he said, ‹ yet I can see as how it could eat on a man.›

There was no recrimination in his tone, only acceptance of the way it must be, and he felt a vast, immaterial hand rest lightly on his shoulder.

‹ I don’t think you have anything to worry about today, › Tomanak’s voice rumbled in his mind. ‹ I can’t be certain of that, however. You’re right that there’s something ugly, something powerful, behind this rain, yet my nephews and nieces have prevented me from seeing as clearly as I might otherwise. What I do see is bad enough, though.› The voice was deeper, grimmer. ‹ When it comes, my Swords, it will demand all that all of you have to offer…and perhaps even that will be less than enough this time. I know you’ll give all I could possibly ask of you, yet the Dark has planned better this time, and I see too far and too deeply to see clearly. There are too many possibilities, too many strands weaving together, for me to see any one of them unambiguously, and this time battle is fully joined beyond the edges of your universe, as well as within it.›

Bahzell’s ears flattened and he turned his head far enough to meet Walsharno’s eye, remembering a cold, windy night in the Empire of the Spear when Tomanak had explained to him why the gods dared not contend openly with one another, strength to strength, lest their unleashed power destroy the very reality for which they fought.

‹ No, Bahzell, › Tomanak said. ‹ We do not contend in your universe, nor for this universe alone. We meet between them, beyond their fringes, and it’s less a matter of sheer strength than of…leverage, perhaps. Balance. The proper grips and counters.›

It was evident Tomanak was seeking the best way to describe something in terms a mortal might grasp.

‹ When a mishuk grapples with another mishuk, the outcome depends far less on who has the most powerful muscles, the longer reach, than on who has the superior technique,› Tomanak continued. ‹ All of those other factors matter, but in the end, he who’s more skilled-and experienced-has the greatest advantage. Yet in the struggle between Light and Dark, there are still more factors which must be taken into consideration. There’s a tide, a current-a flow-to the seas of possibility and the current of history. Deities see that flow far more clearly than mortals, and with that clarity we can assist the mortals who must contend with it, yet we ourselves can never lay hand upon it and shape it as we will. For us, much of the struggle lies in not simply what we can perceive but what we can prevent the other side from perceiving. And when too many strands, too many possible outcomes, flow together it becomes harder for us to see clearly ourselves…and easier for the other side to blind us to critical possibilities.›

Bahzell gave a slow mental nod and sensed Walsharno’s understanding along with his own.

‹ For the last twelve centuries of your universe, › Tomanak continued in the voice of someone choosing his words with exquisite care, ‹ events have been spiraling through the echoes of the last great clash which doomed Kontovar and gave birth to most of the evils which have afflicted Norfressa since. It took far too many of your years for those echoes to be damped, but now they have, and they’re poised to rebound. There are literally uncountable variations on how they may rebound, but there are really only two basic outcomes. Either the Light will hold its ground, strike back, and reverse the verdict of Kontovar, or else the Dark will conquer all. One way or the other, my Swords, the decision will be reached in your time. If you fail, if you fall in your current struggle, the Dark triumphs; if you succeed today, then it will only be to face another and still sterner test in the uncertain mists of your future, but that other test will come to you. All I can tell you is that you have the strength-the strength of will, of heart, of mind and courage-to meet Evil sword-to-sword. You have my trust, and my confidence, and you have the power of your own belief in what’s right and your willingness to fight-and die-for it. That, my children, is all anyone, god or mortal, can ask of anyone else or demand of themselves, and I know-I know, if I know nothing else in all the universes that may ever be-that you will give it. And when you do, I will stand beside you and give you of my strength. There’s no shame in defeat, my Swords; there is shame only in surrender, and that is something neither of you, nor Vaijon, know how to do.›

Neither hradani nor courser said anything. They simply reached back to their deity, feeling the bonds between them, the interweaving of their very essences with Tomanak’s, and that was enough.

Bahzell never knew exactly how long the entire conversation had lasted, although he was confident the interval had been far briefer for Brandark than it had for him and for Walsharno. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, as Tomanak withdrew once more, and then he turned to look at his friend.

“Well, I’m thinking we’ve splashed about mud enough for one day,” he said.

“Really?” Brandark cocked his ears. “Odd, I didn’t think it was my idea to go out and squelch around all day.”

“No more it was,” Bahzell agreed. “Still and all, I’m thinking that was because it’s so very rare for you to be having an idea at all.”

“Given the handicap under which you labor, that actually wasn’t such a bad effort,” Brandark said judiciously. “Not very subtle, a little heavy-handed, but overall, and bearing in mind it had to work its way through a Horse Stealer’s so-called sense of humor…”

He shrugged, and Bahzell chuckled and swung back up into Walsharno’s saddle.

“Such a small, nasty attitude,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll not be making any comments about lack of size and the smallness of brains that might be coming along with it. But I will mention as how I’ve just this morning taken delivery of a brand-new bottle of thirty-year whiskey-the Silver Cavern Granservan Grand Reserve, as it happens-courtesy of old Kilthan. If it should so happen you could be minding that silver tongue of yours-aye, and leaving that curst ‘banjo’ of yours in its case! — it’s pleased I’d be to share it with you while I’ve the writing of a letter to Leeana.”

“Granservan Grand Reserve?” Brandark’s ears perked up instantly, and he squared his shoulders and gathered up his reins. “Well, if that’s the case, why are we still standing here?”

“It’s good to see you home, Brayahs,” Baroness Myacha said, smiling as her husband’s nephew entered the sunny breakfast chamber. “It does Borandas’ heart good whenever you can find time-and whenever the King lets you go long enough-to visit us.”

“Well, it’s kind of you to say so, at any rate,” Brayahs Daggeraxe said, crossing to the table to kiss the back of the hand she held out to him. The sunlight spilling in through the windows lit a dancing sparkle in her amethyst eyes, and he smiled back at her as he straightened. “Still, I remember the occasional conversation he and I had when I was only a lad. There’s not so very much difference between forty-seven and fifty-eight, but there was a world of difference between eight and nineteen!” He shook his head. “Frankly, I’m amazed sometimes that I got to grow up after all.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say!”

There was an extra edge of something like gratitude in Myacha’s laugh, for Brayahs was one of the very few people who could remind her of the difference between her own age and her husband’s without ever making her wonder if there was a buried edge of malice in it. Of course, it was tactful of him not to mention that she was eighteen years younger than he was, as well, she supposed.

On the other hand, she thought, her humor fading, he was one of the even fewer people-especially male people-who’d never been tempted to dismiss her intelligence because of her youth. Even her “son” Thorandas seemed to want to pat her on the head sometimes, as if even he couldn’t quite get past the notion that her primary function was simply to warm his father’s bed and adorn the baron’s arm suitably on social occasions. To be fair, she believed Thorandas honestly tried not to think of her in those terms, but he didn’t always succeed. And if her opinion happened to differ from his, he was far more likely to fall back into the thought patterns of a traditional Sothoii noble man rather than considering the possibility that she might actually be right and he might actually be wrong.

Stop that, she told herself sternly. You know how hard it must be on him to have a stepmother two years younger than he is! Under the circumstances, he does remarkably well. Even if he is being especially stupid at the moment.

Brayahs cocked an eyebrow at her, his expression speculative, but she only shook her head and waved him into his chair across the table from her. His breakfast materialized before him with the silent, smiling efficiency of Star Tower Castle’s servants, and he began spreading butter onto a scone while he regarded her through the faint wisp of steam rising from his cup of hot tea.

“And where is my esteemed cousin, if I might ask?” he inquired.

“He finished breakfast early and asked me to wait and keep you company,” Myacha replied, sipping from her own cup of hot chocolate. “He had an appointment with Sir Dahlnar this morning. They’re still catching up on the reports Thorandas brought home from Sothofalas.”

“I see.” Brayahs finished buttering, took a bite of the scone, and rolled his eyes in bliss. “Semkirk, I miss Mistress Shahlana’s baking! I tried to get her to run away and live in sin with me in Sothofalas, you know.”

Myacha choked on a sip of chocolate. She set the cup down hastily, mopping her lips and glaring at him, and he smiled unrepentantly. Trelsan Partisan had been Star Tower’s butler for better than thirty years, and his wife had been the castle’s housekeeper almost as long. She was a woman of immense dignity and ability as a manager and organizer, but she’d started as a cook, and she still loved to bake. Of course, she was also at least fifteen years older than Brayahs, and she and her husband-who doted upon her-both tended to regard House Daggeraxe’s mage as the rapscallion teenager they remembered entirely too well.

“If you did manage to get Shahlana to leave Star Tower, I’m sure Borandas would put a price on your head!” Myacha said severely. “And rightly so, too. If that didn’t constitute an act of high treason, I can’t think of anything that would!”

“Oh, come now! Surely that’s being at least a little too severe. Remember, I’ve just spent the last three months in Sothofalas, Milady!” Brayahs grimaced only half-humorously. “I’ve had a chance to see real treason being contemplated there.”

“Oh?” Myacha cocked her head, amethyst eyes narrowing, and Brayahs kicked himself mentally. He did know how sharp a blade she was. He should have known she’d pick up on that.

In fact, I wonder if I actually wanted her to? Not exactly the most subtle possible way to ask her about Thorandas, I suppose, but then, I’m a Sothoii. We’re not supposed to be subtle.

“Sorry,” he said out loud and bought a moment by taking another bite of scone, chewing, and swallowing. He washed the mouthful down with another sip of tea and smiled a bit crookedly at her. “It’s just that the summer session of the Council was a lot worse than usual this year.”

“Tellian and his canal, I suppose?” Myacha shook her head, her eyes darkening despite the sunlight.

“And Cassan and Yeraghor’s plans for strangling it in its cradle,” Brayahs agreed. He shrugged. “I suppose I understand their positionI’d certainly be worried if I were a baron and one of the other barons was about to gain such a decisive advantage. Especially if I’d gone as far out of my way to piss him off as Cassan has where Tellian is concerned. I mean, it may be unreasonable of me, but I’d think trying to have someone murdered might constitute a legitimate reason for him to be less than fond of the fellow who did it.”

It was a mark of his comfort with Myacha-and of his respect for her-that he permitted himself to speak to her so frankly, and she rewarded him with a faint-very faint-smile. It was brief-lived, though.

“Borandas says Thorandas’ reports suggest the King is going to grant Tellian his charter,” she said, her tone making the statement a question, and he nodded.

“That was the rumor running around court,” he confirmed. “And my own reading of the situation suggests it was probably accurate. It makes too much sense from the perspective of the Kingdom as a whole for Markhos not to approve it, frankly. And, for that matter, there isn’t any way he could stop the canal portions of it even if he wanted to, since they run across hradani lands and then down the Hangnysti without ever going near the Wind Plain. Bahnak of Hurgrum is going to drive this project through, one way or the other, so it only makes sense for the King to give it his blessings and participate in it. If nothing else, that should put him in the best position to have at least some influence on how the whole thing operates. Not to mention providing a very nice addition to the Crown’s revenues!”

“I can see where that would make sense,” Myacha said after a moment. “Thorandas seems less convinced it will be good for the North Riding, though.” Brayahs looked a question at her, and she shrugged. “You know he’s never been happy about Tellian’s dealings with the hradani in the first place, Brayahs! Part of that’s hardheaded pragmatism and the memory of how much blood we’ve shed on hradani swords over the centuries, but another part of it-and a bigger one, to be honest-is plain old-fashioned bigotry.” The baroness smiled with an edge of unhappy humor. “He’s been fairly careful about how he’s allowed himself to phrase it in front of me, but these rumors about Leeana Bowmaster and Prince Bahzell haven’t exactly made him deliriously happy, you know.”

“No, I can believe that.”

Brayahs grimaced and reached for his fork. He cut a neat forkful from the omelette before him and chewed slowly, remembering his conversation with Bahzell Bahnakson and Brandark Brandarkson in Sothofalas. A mage learned to trust his instincts where another’s character was concerned, and even if he hadn’t, he was talking about a champion of Tomanak, after all.

“That’s not the only reason he’s worried about Tellian, though,” Myacha continued. “And from a logical perspective, I have to admit he’s got a point. Tellian’s already the most powerful and influential member of the Great Council. If he succeeds in getting his charter, his ascendancy’s only going to become greater. And as the West Riding becomes more dominant-”

“-all the other ridings lose ground, whether they’ve done anything specifically to piss him off like Cassan or not,” Brayahs concluded for her.

“Exactly.” Myacha picked up a jeweled butter knife and toyed with it, the cut gems sparkling in the sunlight. “As I say, he has a point. But I’m still-”

She cut herself off abruptly, and Brayahs looked at her speculatively. He didn’t need his mage talents to sense her unhappiness. Nor was he unaware of the reason she’d stopped so suddenly, and he felt a surge of sympathy for her position. Much as she had to know Borandas loved her, there was still an inevitable awkwardness whenever she might find herself in disagreement with her husband’s son.

“The North Riding’s policy is for Borandas to determine,” he said, after a moment, “and Thorandas is his logical advisor, not to mention his heir. For that matter, I’m officially in the King’s service now, and that means I have a tendency to look at these things from the Crown’s perspective. Borandas would have to take that into consideration when the time came to think about any advice I might have for him. Having said that, however,” he looked directly into her eyes, “I can’t escape the feeling that having Cassan in a position of ascendancy would be far worse for the Kingdom- and the North Riding-than having someone like Tellian there.”

“I know. I know.” Myacha put down the butter knife and reached for her chocolate cup again, but she didn’t drink from it. She only held it cradled between her palms, as if for warmth, and her expression was worried. “And I think Borandas feels the same way. In fact, up until a few weeks ago, I was certain he did. To be honest, I’m still certain he felt that way…then.”

“Oh?”

Brayahs wanted desperately to push for more information, but he wasn’t about to ask her to violate her husband’s confidence, so he kept his voice as close to merely politely interested as he could. Unfortunately, Myacha knew him as well as he knew her, and she laughed harshly.

“Borandas has asked my opinion, and I’ve given it to him,” she said. “In most ways, that’s that, as far as I’m concerned. But…but he doesn’t seem truly at ease in his own mind over this, Brayahs. I think…I think his instincts and his reason aren’t in full agreement. And I think this betrothal between Thorandas and Shairnayith Axehammer worries him more than he’s prepared to admit even to himself.”

“I haven’t spoken to him about any of this myself, yet,” Brayahs said slowly. “I know he’s going to want my impressions of the summer session, and I’ll give them to him, of course. But he is Baron Halthan. When it comes down to it, the decision’s his, and in fairness, I don’t remember the last time I saw him make a hasty judgment when it was something this important. I may not always have agreed with his logic, or even the decision he ultimately reached, but he’s a good man, your husband, Myacha. He takes his responsibilities seriously.”

“I know.” Myacha blinked, her amethyst eyes bright with unshed tears, and inhaled deeply. “I know. But…there’s something odd going on, Brayahs. Something that…worries me.”

“Odd?” Brayahs repeated. That wasn’t a word he was accustomed to hearing from Myacha. Nor was the youthful baroness in the habit of jumping at shadows or seeing “odd” things that weren’t actually there. “What do you mean, ‘odd’?”

“It’s just…”

Myacha stared down into her cup for several seconds. Brayahs could almost physically feel her tension across the table, although he couldn’t begin to put his mental finger on its cause. It was certainly more than any simple concern over her husband’s peace of mind, however; that much was obvious.

“I’m worried about Sir Dahlnar,” she said finally.

“About Dahlnar?”

Sheer surprise at the sudden shift in direction startled the question out of Brayahs, and her eyes lifted from the inside of her cup to his face. He looked back at her for a second or two, then shook himself.

“I’m sorry. You just…surprised me.” He smiled wryly. “Dahlnar Bronzehelm has to be one of the most levelheaded men I’ve ever known.”

“I agree,” she said softly. “But something’s…changed, Brayahs. Last winter, even earlier this spring, he was consistently urging Borandas to be wary of Cassan. And Yeraghor, of course, but mostly of Cassan. In fact, I remember Borandas saying to me that Sir Dahlnar had told him Cassan had to be growing desperate over Tellian’s growing successes, and that desperate men made dangerous allies.”

“I can believe that,” Brayahs said. In fact, he could almost hear Bronzehelm saying those very words, just as he’d given similarly astute advice so often in the past.

“Well, he’s changed his mind,” Myacha said flatly. “He’s actually in favor of Thorandas’ betrothal, despite how closely that’s going to bind the North Riding to the South. And he completely agrees with Thorandas’ concerns over Tellian’s growing power base. In fact, I think he’s even more concerned about it than Thorandas is, and he’s entirely ready to support Cassan-tactically at least-as a means of slowing Tellian down.”

Brayahs blinked in astonishment. That sort of shift in position, especially in such a brief period, was very unlike Dahlnar Bronzehelm. The seneschal was almost maddeningly deliberate and analytical. That was exactly what made him so valuable to Borandas. So unless he’d become aware of something Brayahs had seen no indication at all of from Sothofalas, why would he have-?

“You’re not suggesting Cassan’s influenced him,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“No, of course not.” Myacha tossed her head impatiently. “If there’s one thing in the world I’ve never worried about, it’s Sir Dahlnar’s integrity. In fact, that’s what concerns me so now. It’s not as if any of this-except, possibly, Leeana’s relationship with Bahzell-came at him suddenly and without warning. And, unlike Thorandas, he’d never allow his…prejudices to color his advice on such an important question. I’m not saying Thorandas does that on purpose; I’m only saying Sir Dahlnar would consciously make sure he didn’t do it. And yet he’s completely changed his position on cooperating with Cassan and Yeraghor.”

“Well, it’s always possible he’s actually been inclining in that direction gradually for quite a while,” Brayahs pointed out. “He’s not the sort to give radically different advice without having spent the time to consider it carefully first.”

“No, he isn’t…even if that does seem to be exactly what he’s done.”

Myacha set her cup down very precisely on its saucer, folded her hands on the edge of the table, and leaned over them towards Brayahs.

“It’s not just the change in his position that concerns me,” she said very, very quietly. “It’s that…it’s that when I look at him, there’s something… wrong.” Her expression was frustrated, and she gave her shoulders an impatient shake. “It’s like…like he’s casting two shadows, Brayahs. I know that doesn’t make any sense, and it doesn’t really describe what I feel like I’m seeing, but it’s the closest I can come. It’s just…wrong,” she repeated.

Brayahs sat very still, his own expression blank, as only a master mage’s expression could be, yet a sudden, cold tingle went through him.

The magi of Norfressa, the Order of Semkirk, knew far more about the art of wizardry than anyone outside the Order probably even imagined. Among other things, the Axe Hallow Academy was the keeper of the entire library Wencit of Rum had managed to save out of the wreck of Kontovar. No mage could use wizardry, of course. Indeed, the mage talents and wizardry were mutually exclusive, and that was one thing which had made the Axe Hallow Academy and the Council of Semkirk the logical keepers and protectors of Wencit’s manuscripts and notes.

As long as the object was to keep them out of than hands of other wizards, at least.

Brayahs had wondered, on occasion, why Wencit had never attempted to reconstitute the White Council of Ottovar here in Norfressa. Oh, immediately after the Fall, in the face of the refugees’ hatred and distrust of anything smacking of wizardry-aside from Wencit himself, perhaps-the decision against training a new generation of wizards had undoubtedly made sense. But that had been twelve hundred years ago, and Brayahs knew of his own personal knowledge that the “art” was far from extinct among the descendents of those long-ago refugees. Surely Wencit had to have at least considered the possibility of rebuilding the White Council, training wizards to support him against the threat of Kontovar and the Council of Carnadosa!

Yet he’d never made a single move in that direction. Instead, he’d devoted himself to building and training the Council of Semkirk, as if he, too, had concluded that wizardry was simply too dangerous. That if the Empire of Ottovar, with all its power and all the legacy of Ottavar the Great and Gwynytha the Wise, had been unable to prevent its abuse in Kontovar, then no one could. He didn’t want to create a new generation of wizards; he wanted to exterminate the art of wizardry entirely, and in the magi he’d found a counterweight, possibly even the weapon which ultimately, in the fullness of time, would accomplish that extermination.

Whatever his thinking, he’d seen to it that the Council of Semkirk had all the information he could give it about wizards and wizardry, and Brayahs Daggeraxe was a wizard sniffer. He probably knew more about the art of wizardry than any other nonwizard ever born, and that was why Baroness Myacha’s words had sent that chill through him.

Myacha was no mage. He was certain of that, and, for that matter, no mage would have perceived what she seemed to be describing the way that she’d just described it. But someone with the Gift, someone who with the proper training, the proper awareness, could have become a wizard herself, might well have the True Sight. And someone who had the True Sight might describe a glamour, or an enchantment, or even-if they were sensitive enough-simply the residue of an arcane working, in exactly that way.