Fall of Creation

By Kenneth McDonald

In the final book of The Godswar trilogy, the mad god Hailidel is nearing the fruition of his plan to undo the work of the Creator and seize the greatest power of the universe for himself. But even as Hailidel moves his mortal pawns into position for the final push, the other gods’ Chosen are rallying their own forces to stop him. As the armies of the western nations march to war, Izandra Colton, Robert Small, Ahlen Corander, and the other Chosen must fight their own battles against an enemy that will stop at nothing to gain his ends—even the destruction of the world itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Nov 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466093294

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

Book preview

Prologue

Count Estevar Roghan was beset with plenty of distractions, but he forced himself to pay heed to the crowd as he and his small escort rode through the streets of Sindaron. He was born and bred a member of the ruling elite of the most powerful empire on the Rorean continent, but one lesson that he had never forgotten was the humbling power of the mob.

The people of Sindaron were a diverse lot, all three hundred thousand of them, dwelling within the three concentric rings of its walls, spread out on the hills that surrounded Anchor Bay. Sights, smells, and sounds rushed over him, a familiar medley that greeted him like the presence of an old friend. People made way for him and his escort, but he could see the questions in many of the faces that looked up at him as he rode past, questions and uncertainty born of troubled times.

The crowds thinned as he made his way higher through the streets, into the more rarified districts where the people who shared his noble blood made their dwellings. The pedestrians here wore better clothes and more expensive decorations, and the streets were somewhat cleaner, but the looks on the faces were not that dissimilar. He saw a few people that he recognized, but he did not slow down at their hails, pushing on toward the palace complex that loomed over the city on the high cliffs that overlooked the sprawling harbor below.

The guards at the gate–twice as many as had been posted even a week before–stepped aside to let him and his escorts through. The sun had already dipped behind the level of the walls, and the lamplighters were already about their duties, touching the ends of their long staves to the hanging globes that ringed the broad courtyard. Liveried men hurried out from the stablehouse to take his mount, while another offered a bowl of water and a clean cloth. He nodded to the leader of his escort as he wiped the dust of the road off his hands and neck, dismissing them, then passed through the high arched doors that led inside.

His Majesty awaits you in the Small Library, my lord Count, the domon said, bowing deeply as the high lord nodded and walked past. Estevar walked alone through the cavernous halls of the palace, the plate heels of his boots clicking on the hard marble floors, echoing off the distant walls of the wings that he passed. The palace, amended in turn by each of the twenty-three dynasties of Rigal’s monarchic history, was a chaotic amalgam of architectural styles, a mazework that had confused more than one visiting dignitary with its extent. But Estevar was a veteran of its vaults and corridors, and it took only a matter of minutes for him to reach his destination. The royal guardsman warding the door to the Small Library nodded at his approach, and one reached over to pull the ornate, heavy door open.

The Small Library was little only by contrast to some of the larger chambers within the palace; a few peasant cottages could have easily fit into the interior of the space. The library consisted of two stories, its upper level comprising a railed gallery that was accessed by a narrow spiral stair of black iron. Bookshelves covered the walls of both tiers, containing perhaps a few thousand volumes in sum. Dozens of lamps dangled from chains set into the ceiling high above, their light augmenting that which came from the fire that burned in the considerable hearth. One wall was covered with tall windows at both ground level and on the upper tier above; the curtains had not been closed, so Estevar could see the fading glow of the dying day through them, the outlines of the palace buildings outside already becoming vague with shadow.

The interior space of the room was dominated by a number of desks, small tables, and an assortment of chairs that ranged from plain and rigid to padded and plush. The arrangement was just shy of cluttered, and the Count’s lips pursed slightly in reflexive disapproval, as he was a man who preferred minimalist order in life’s more mundane arrangements.

The King stood at one of the bookshelves, paging through a volume that might have dated back ten years, or five hundred. There were several more books on the table behind him, along with an empty glass, slick with condensation despite the heat from the fire.

Talmar Roghan looked up as his uncle stepped into the room, and smiled. He was a young man, still shy of thirty, average of height and build. The light from the fire glinted off his spectacles, and he removed them as the Count entered the room, putting them down along with the book he’d been reading on the table next to him.

Uncle, the king said, gesturing the Count toward one of the two padded armchairs that faced the hearth. The monarch flung himself into the other, grimacing slightly; he suffered from an ailment of the spine that produced uncomfortable backaches for which even the best bios mages had been unable to provide permanent relief. But he betrayed only that briefest moment of discomfort, a level of control that the Count noted and approved.

Estevar paused at the small bar aside the hearth, and poured himself a small measure of liqueur from one of the bottles there. He lifted the bottle toward Talmar, who shook his head. I’ve already had my evening dose, the younger man said. Tallia will make her displeasure known if I come to bed smelling of drink.

A wise woman, the queen, the Count said, returning the bottle to the rack. He walked over to the other chair and sat down, looking slightly uncomfortable in the deep padding of the seat.

So, what word from the nobles?

The mood at the gathering was dark, Estevar said. They are displeased by Your Majesty’s recent policies.

Hardly surprising. The surcharge on their lands is a pittance compared to the taxes I raised on commercial enterprises, yet they cry ten times as loud as the merchants.

The commons are more alarmed by the news coming from the south.

My bloody nobles have blasted short memories, then. The Dark War wasn’t that long ago.

True, but the aristocracy is bred toward conservatism. They don’t like to accept the possibility of change.

Yes, especially change that threatens their blasted privileges. Well, I don’t see how they can ignore this madman Hrathgar any more, not after he humbled the best general the lowland baronies could field.

They see a civil war in Roron as only a boon to us, Majesty. They see your policies as... an overreaction. Or as an excuse to expand your own power, at their expense.

I should bring back grandfather’s notion of a popular assembly, just to see them squirm.

You will need their cooperation, if not their outright support. It would be aided, perhaps, if they felt more of a sense of common cause with the monarchy. If you attended the gatherings...

No, I disagree with a lot of grandfather’s reforms, but that is one that I stand behind. I am King of all the people, not just the nobles, or the merchants, or any of the various factions that make up Rigalian society. Besides, uncle, I feel secure with you as my eyes and ears among the nobility. And my voice, if it comes to it.

The Count nodded. As you say, Majesty.

Besides, adding two new legions to our military might should offer a few opportunities for the scions of the aristocratic set. An outlet for the energies of younger sons, and all that. I am sure you can sell that as an advantage to a few of our key allies among the peerage. Glory through military service, et cetera.

Such glory tends to be associated with actual conflict, Estevar said. And I hope we can avoid that.

A hope I share. But with a civil war being fought on our doorstep, we must be prepared for any eventuality.

The Church is behind you one hundred percent, at least.

Aye. Corander has lived up to his word in that respect.

He is a dangerous man.

Talmar paused a moment before responding. Hard words, about a man in his position. Do you refer to his influence over the people, or something else?

You have spent as much time with him as I have, of late. Surely you have noted the new potency of his... presence.

I have. When we meet, I sometimes find myself having to remind myself who is king and who is priest.

I have observed the same phenomenon. I have spoken to a number of people who have reported a most profound effect upon interacting with him.

A gift from the Bright God, it is said. You do not believe him, then, when he says that he was chosen by Merikkose to warn us of the coming storm?

It does not matter what I believe; what matters is that the people believe it. The effect he presents, however, could be the result of sorcery.

The thought had occurred to me. It would be a useful skill to possess, for a monarch. The ability to sway the minds of people to follow me...

People follow you because of who and what you are, because of your divine right, and a thousand years of tradition! The Count had only straightened in his seat, and had only raised his voice slightly, but he waved his hand in irritation. Forgive me, Majesty. I did not mean to lecture.

Your lectures are always useful, uncle. But as to our prophet... what action would you recommend?

As you have said, Majesty, his support has been useful, and with it comes the allegiance of the commons. But if your paths were to diverge...

Well, Talmar said, rising. Opposite him, the Count did the same. His glass remained in his hand, untouched. I suppose that we shall have to make sure that they remain in parallel, the King said. He clasped his uncle on the shoulder briefly. Good night, my lord Count.

* * *

The steps of the baronial castle at Bulwark rose in a steep, winding arc to where the fortified gatehouse waited above. The citadel, with its twin keeps, fourteen towers, and walls ten paces thick, sat atop a tor of solid granite, overlooking the town below and the surrounding countryside. The route was a treacherous one, with every one of the four hundred and sixteen steps within full view of the castle’s garrison on the walls high above. Goods and less mobile guests were transported up to the castle by means of a lift that connected the top of the bluff with the ancillary complex at its base, where the barracks, smithy, stables, kennel, and other supporting structures were located.

Bel Karzon ascended the steps alone. He was careful of the omnipresent wind, which tugged greedily at his cloak, and of the slick spots where moisture from the most recent rains had lingered to make the already steep steps even more hazardous. The sun had already set, though the light was still bright enough to see clearly. It would not remain so for long, he knew. He had left his officers down below, both as a sign to those who waited above, and as a practical concession to the difficulties of the ascent. Like them he had ridden for the better part of a day to get here, but he would not wait for the morning, could not wait.

His legs, already stiff from a day spent in the saddle, were complaining more strenuously by the time he reached the gatehouse. The men there were deferential, and they let him through with only a cursory examination of the satchel he carried at his hip. They directed him to the High Keep, so it was more stairs, though he waited until he was out of their hearing before he let out an exasperated sigh.

It would have been much easier to hold this meeting at the low citadel at the base of the bluff, but he could understand why those who had summoned him had chosen to come all the way up here. As he gained the high courtyard and the surrounding walls fell away, he paused a moment to take in the impressive view. The town spread out before him expansively. It held thirty thousand people in normal times, with maybe another ten thousand crowding in because of the recent events. The innkeepers were likely making a fortune off of the refugees, and there had been plenty of displaced hands to fill the quotas he’d sent for his recruiters. But he was sure that the lords that sat in their high perches in castles like this one across Roron were anything but happy right now. Nor would they be pleased when he delivered his reports.

The guards at the main doors of the High Keep pulled them open at his approach, letting a blazon of light and noise and warmth out into the gathering night. He entered, drawn to the noise of the main hall, but a waiting servant intercepted him, and directed him toward yet another set of stairs, this one winding up to a familiar chamber, a broad rounded space with windows that overlooked both the town and the darkening landscape beyond.

It’s about damned time, one of the men waiting in that chamber spat.

My lords, Karzon said, offering a deferent nod as he stepped into the room.

They were all there, scattered about the room in small clusters, with a few near the hearth, others by the map table, still more over by the window that offered the best view westward. Only one stood alone, refilling his drink by the sideboard. He remained there, sipping the alcohol. Karzon couldn’t blame him for remaining apart, or the others for distancing themselves from him. Baron Pavol Brogovic was an unwelcome reminder of what could happen to the rest of them. He wondered if Hrathgar was at this very moment sampling the beverages from a similar bar in Brogovic’s own keep. From what he’d heard, the highland baron was already stripping everything else of worth from the Westmarch.

At least he lived. Viktos Draskonov of Barony Goldenvale was either dead or a prisoner of the upstart; the accounts weren’t quite clear on which. Hrathgar hadn’t lingered long there, swinging his army quickly through Goldenvale before descending on the Westmarch with impressive speed.

The other eight barons, the most powerful men in Roron, collected around the map table as Karzon stepped forward into the room. The last time he’d stood here, just over five months ago, most of the men had been proxies, with only Droghan and Zrathul himself present as host. Stafan Droghan seemed somewhat self-satisfied, Karzon noted, perhaps now that his earlier warnings had been vindicated. Droghan’s barony of Eastmarch, on the edges of the Black Mountains, were farthest from Hrathgar’s armies, but the man had evidenced a degree of foresight that had won Karzon’s appreciation.

Well? the man who had spoken earlier said.

Karzon schooled his face to neutrality as he met the hostile stare of Baron Prokolev. The lord of Seven Falls made no effort to conceal his own anger; his lips actually trembled as he met the gaze of the general. Karzon had to remind himself that while Seven Falls was the southernmost of the core baronies, the fall of Westmarch had made him vulnerable to Hrathgar’s armies. Not that he expected him to turn south; no, he would continue east, to the coreward baronies, seeking a decisive victory that would decide the outcome of the war.

It was what he would have done, in Hrathgar’s place.

Assembly of the new army is almost complete, he said to the barons. As soon as the contingents from Northgate and Eastmarch arrive, he continued, nodding at Barons Tabroshk and Droghan respectively, We will be ready to march. Five days, a week at most, to consider any possible delays.

Hrathgar could be here in a week, the way he’s been moving of late, Robovich of Barony Crossroads said. He was a warrior of the old caste, though the years had bent him somewhat, his famous curled mustaches gone entirely to gray. The man defies the rules of war.

Through sorcery! Prokolev said. The bastard has given himself over to the black arts!

Admittedly, one could not have anticipated his use of the frost warriors, or his sudden ability to tame dragons, Karzon said. But the bulk of his army remains his soldiers, ordinary men, if hardened by the sheer reality of existence on the frontier. He has pushed them hard to get as far as he has, as quickly as he has. They will need to rest and resupply before they will be able to march again, let alone fight.

Supply will not be a problem for them, not with the granaries of Goldenvale at their disposal, Mikos Tabroshk said. He had the good grace to clear his throat slightly; all of the barons made a point of not glancing aside at the pathetic figure of Brogovic, still lingering back from the group. Tabroshk was the youngest of the assembled company, just shy of his thirtieth birthday. He seemed nervous, an understandable emotion from Karzon’s perspective, as his barony covered most of the border with their old enemy, Rigal. What were the northerners making of all of these events, the general wondered.

How many men does Hrathgar have now? Ianos Zrathul asked, his voice cutting through the low chatter that had followed Tabroshk’s comment. The baron of Rivermeet was a big man, like his father, who according to legend had strangled the last descendent of the barony’s former ruling house in the great hall of the same citadel where they now stood. His physical presence belied a cunning mind, and a considerable grasp of both military and political strategy. Karzon knew that his own continued presence as leader of the army of the so-called Plains Confederation was largely due to Zrathul’s sponsorship, so he responded quickly.

Best estimates are between fourteen and fifteen hundreds, he said. The core is made up of his loyalists from the Kol Hills, veterans the lot of them. He suffered heavy losses in the highland campaign, but he’s continued training and recruiting; I can’t imagine that there are many men left up there now. Our best estimates are that this cadre consists of maybe three hundred men. Another three hundred each from Foresthill and Rockridge, though many of those are conscripts, lacking training and experience. He has also begun impressing men from his latest conquests, though it is doubtful that he will get much use of them before the issue is forced.

Fodder is still fodder, Robovich said. They can absorb arrows, if nothing else.

The men of Westmarch will never serve that bastard! Baron Brogovic exclaimed. As all eyes turned toward him, the man seemed to shrink noticeably, until he turned back to the bar, reaching for the bottle with shaking fingers.

The balance is made up by mercenaries, Karzon continued. Most of them are fairly recent additions to his army.

They flock to his banner like vultures to carrion, Baron Kameschev of Dragonmarch said. The rail-slender lord of the sodden expanse that wags called Dragonmarsh sneered. On the map his barony was one of the largest, but only a few slender fingers of land were actually viable, and hundreds of square leagues of swamp did not make for great wealth. They will be the first to flee once the upstart’s fortunes start to turn against him.

An outcome that we have yet to secure, Droghan offered dryly.

Continue your report, general, Zrathul said.

We know little of the mercenaries at this point, save for one, a southern company led by a man named Trovo.

We know of the man in the Dragonmarch, Baron Kameschev said. He’s little more than a bandit.

So we’re up against a thousand soldiers, maybe half of whom are untrained conscripts, and half again as much merc scum, Tabroshk said.

Prokolev slammed his glass down onto the table, hard enough to splash the liquor, which seeped into the edge of the map. You ignore the real threat, all of you! Where is talk of his frozen wights, of the dragons who slay at his command, and whatever foul enchantments are commanded by that bitch sorceress of his?

There was a moment of silence that stretched on, as the men at the table shared a few uncomfortable looks. I was about to get to that, baron, Karzon finally said.

It is true, Hrathgar has access to some... atypical... resources. They are the reason why we are here, at this course. But they can be countered. The so-called frost wights are defeated easily enough with fire, and they will be less of a factor in the lowlands, especially with the coming of spring. And the dragons, while impressive, are just beasts; they can be killed.

A fact we in the Dragonmarch well know, Kameschev pointed out. But the levies, the common conscripts, for them the danger is one of fear, and superstition. Hrathgar’s access to magic weakens the resolve of the men in the ranks.

It will be essential to bolster our own magical resources, of course, Karzon replied. Jakhos Kuul’s engines were effective enough, and nearly broke Hrathgar’s rush in the highlands. Had we been forewarned of the wights, we would have been victorious.

Hrathgar has his own war mage, does he not? Baron Schrett of Ambermead asked. He and Baron Barrhild of Coremarch stood at the end of the table, segregated due to the relative modesty of their territories. In the glory days of the Roronian Empire, the two baronies had been the center of Roron’s strength. The fact that their lands had been fought over dozens of times in the decades since its collapse probably helped to explain their current status. Both men claimed bloodlines that ran back to the old imperial family, though that counted for little in reality.

Droghan dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. The man left Roron some time ago, purportedly on some private mission for the baron. It’s likely he’s left Hrathgar’s service.

A point of wisdom in his favor, Tabroshk said. General, what will be the sum tally of the forces available to us, once the new levies join with your army here?

Counting the mercenaries we ourselves have been able to recruit, to augment the forces raised from each of the baronies, the total will be just shy of seven thousand.

Seven thousand! Prokolev exclaimed in disgust. Why not just anoint him king now, and save us all the time! Your ambitions for winning a title of nobility are well known, Karzon!

Several barons started to speak at once, and the din grew until Zrathul’s booming voice cut through it. Enough! We waste time and effort with this useless bickering. We can discuss the spoils once we win this war, and not before. As to your concern, Baron Prokolev, it will be met. An army the likes of which Roron has not seen since the days of the Dark War will require... supervision.

I should say so, with the better part of two Rigalian legions’ worth of men under one banner, Tabroshk said.

It takes more than conscripting men and handing them spears to make a legion, Robovich said.

We all know the handicaps under which we have to work, Zrathul continued, silencing the others with a long look that traveled around the table. That is why the task is in the hands of someone who practices war as a profession, and not someone who does it as a hobby. The last statement was concluded as the baron’s gaze ended at Prokolev, who bristled, but who didn’t challenge the much larger–and more powerful–Zrathul. He swept his eyes around the table once more before fixing them on Karzon. When you march, you will be accompanied by a body of advisors, men who represent our... interests. My own son, among them. We do not seek to hinder your command, general, and you shall have full authority in matters military, of course. But the presence of our representatives will add legitimacy to your title, given that the men you will lead come from each of the ei—nine baronies of the Plains Confederation.

Karzon doubted very, very much that it would be that easy, but he only bowed his head. As you say, my lord baron.

And what of the sorcery? Prokolev said. I doubt that the Guild will be much eager to hire out another mage to this conflict, after what happened to their last champion.

They are a mercenary guild like any other, Droghan said. They will not sit out the most profitable war on the continent.

The matter is already attended to, Zrathul said. I have already secured the services of the Red Circle.

Several of the other barons started in surprise, but Karzon noted that the astonishment of Droghan, Tabroshk, and maybe Robovich was feigned. Wheels within wheels, the general thought, suddenly tired of the intricacies of baronial politics. In contrast to what went on at meetings like this one, the maneuvers that someone like Hrathgar offered seemed refreshingly honest in comparison.

He had heard of the Red Circle, of course, and the introduction of this new factor was already whispering new ideas into that part of his mind that never truly ceased calculations of strategy and tactics. But he left those thoughts far in the background, focusing his attention on the barons.

That is... generous, Baron Zrathul, Kameschev said. Does Rivermeet intend to cover the costs of such an expensive contract itself?

Zrathul laughed, a crisp, dark sound without humor. Let us rather say that we are advancing the cost. We will extract our fee, with interest. He took up a small knife used to sharpen quills, which was lying on the edge of the table. He stabbed it down, into the small oblong on the map marked, Kol Hills, so that the knife penetrated the parchment and stuck through the wood, the end quivering as he drew his hand away.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Izandra Colton felt a cold, clammy pressure upon her chest as she descended the curving stairs that took her underground. The steps and the landing below were both brightly lit by decorative lamps, the walls were decorated with colorful drapes and pleasant carvings, and the atmosphere of the place was anything but unpleasant, but she still felt uncomfortable at being in cramped, confined spaces, a legacy of her experiences in the ancient Ilfann citadel of Ælfang.

She paused halfway down the stairs, and used a meditation technique that Pallonander had taught her to master her fears and regain control over her body. Her breathing became slow and easy again, and her hand did not tremble as she reached out again for the slim wooden banister that was affixed to the stone of the wall. The wood was reassuring in her hand, solid and real, a contrast to the shades of memory that roiled in the back of her thoughts.

The stairs ended at a landing that split into two identical corridors. She knew where she was going and selected the passage on the right. The soft soles of her shoes made barely a sound on the bare stone as she walked, and the light robe she wore flowed around her body, gliding over muscles toned from exercise and healthy eating. The training she’d undertaken with the Ilfann was physical as much as mental, part of a philosophy that linked both body and mind with the practice of magic.

Her training did not give her much time for idle thoughts, but when she had time to contemplate, even a few brief moments alone like these, she marveled at the course that her life had set for her. She had been here among the Ilfann for nearly four months now, had trained for little more than two. When she had arrived she had been... wild was maybe the best word for it. The Ilfann had kept her imprisoned, shielded, for her own protection as well as for those around her. With her innate talents for magic, bound to the dangerous surges of violent anger that had increasingly wracked her since Ælfang, she would have destroyed herself before long, possibly hurting those she cared about in the process.

Pallonander and the other Ilfann had helped her. She still felt those surges of emotion, but could better control them now. They had instructed her in the principles of phuskios, the magic of the physical world, the most abstract, yet in many ways the most potent, of the three schools of magic. Phuskios governed the very rules under which the universe worked, and while she could yet only manage the most basic manipulations of that fundamental order, she knew that she was on her way to becoming a full mage, a title that took most practitioners decades to earn.

She caught herself letting stirrings of pride take hold, and deliberately smoothed her thoughts, the calm emptying of the mind now almost reflexive for her. She was also excited, a sensation that was somewhat more difficult to control, given what opportunity this most recent test could mean for her.

The corridor culminated in a small sitting room, apportioned with a pair of comfortable-looking couches. The walls had been carved with recessed compartments that resembled windows, down to faux casements set with panels of colored glass. A soft light filtered through them, adding to the illusion.

An Ilfann man stood by the room’s only other exit, a carved wooden door in a niche in the far wall. He wore a robe and carried no evident weapons, but she recognized him as a guardian nevertheless. He did not speak as she entered the room, but he opened the door for her, stepping aside as it swung inward.

"Mahalaste," she said quietly, as she walked through the door. The guardian did not reply, only bowed his head as she passed him. As she stepped through the threshold of the door, she felt a tingling sensation pass across her skin, an aura that caught her up briefly in a paroxysm of ecstatic awareness, of sheer power. She had been here once before, and had experienced the sensation, but this time it was ten times stronger, a raw surge of energy that felt like the heat of a firestorm surging through her. It passed quickly, or at least faded enough for her to regain control. She stepped forward, and the door closed behind her with an audible click.

The room beyond the door was starkly plain in contrast to the outer chamber, the walls bare stone, the lamps plain globes of brass and crystal. The entry was actually just the first in a series of interlaced rooms that curved around the circumference of the chamber in the center, the focal point of this place, and the reason that she was here.

She heard voices from the next room ahead, and proceeded to find two Ilfann there, engaged in quiet conversation. They were turned partially away from her, but she knew them from the familiar feel of them, the subtle aura of practitioners that she’d just begun to learn to read. With this pair it was almost a reflex, born of frequent association.

They turned as she entered, aware of her in much the same way that she had sensed the two of them. Their reactions were as divergent as the two mages themselves. Pallonander’s smile was genuine, his aura as welcoming as the look in his eyes. The Ilfann mage had gone from being her jailer to her teacher, and somewhere in the midst of that transition, her friend as well. He had removed his robe and hung it from one of a row of iron hooks set into the far wall, leaving him with just a plain, sleeveless tunic and a set of trousers with leggings that wrapped tightly around his ankles.

The other Ilfann regarded her with a suspicion that she made no effort to conceal. After all the time that she’d spent among the Ilfann, Izandra wondered how she could have ever thought them inscrutable. Seanaralisa’s face was bland, her lips tightened into a slightly sour purse, but her eyes were accusatory, holding a message that Izandra received clearly. She did not revisit the argument that they had concluded the day before, when Pallonander had told her of the permission granted for her not only to visit this place, but to access its power herself.

Or to attempt to, she reminded herself, as she joined the others and removed her own robe, leaving just simple garments similar to those worn by the others. Close-fitting clothes was just one of the rules of the nodus, one of a series of safety provisions that had been drilled into her well before her first visit a few weeks back, then just as a closely-watched observer. There were no guards at her back this time, unless one counted Seanaralisa. The rules included a provision that at least two senior mages accompany every visitor to the nodus, and she had a pretty good feeling that Seanaralisa was there on behalf of the High Council, to make sure that their resident human problem did not get into any trouble.

Or more precisely, half-human, for despite her outward appearance, she and her brother Ezran were kobalos, degenerates of mixed blood, part human, part Ilfann. Only the leaders of the Ilfann knew the truth, a truth that she herself had only learned shortly before her arrival in Tilden Arbor. It was a truth that still settled uncertainly in her gut, an unpleasantness that no meditation exercises or Ilfann rituals could purge from her thoughts.

Pallonander’s eyes were sympathetic, as if he could read the turmoil behind her shell of composure. Are you prepared? he asked her.

I am.

You carry no metal upon your person? Seanaralisa asked. No object that has been manipulated by magic?

No, and no. I was listening, before.

We treat the rules as a mantra because of the consequences for violating them, Seanaralisa returned.

Come, Pallonander said. As they walked into the next room, he told her, Remember that the magic of the nodus can be somewhat unpredictable. Do not feel discouraged if it does not respond to you today.

We will be there if it escapes your control, Seanaralisa added from behind her.

Thank you, she said, refusing to be baited.

The door came into view as they made their way into the next room, this one lacking any ornamentation at all save for a single lamp that burned with only a faint glow from the far wall. The door was set deep in a recessed threshold in the inner wall to her right, which bulged out into the room with a noticeable curvature. The other two mages stepped aside to let her proceed alone. She glanced back at them briefly; Pallonander’s look was encouraging, while Seanaralisa’s seemed to suggest that Izandra would fail here, at the first test.

The door was a solid slab of iron, apparently seamless, with neither handle nor keyhole, or any other apparent locking mechanism. She now knew how rare metals were in Maletai; the Ilfann worked only a few mines in the foothills of the Black Mountains to the east, and this door alone represented a considerable commitment of effort.

It also represented a considerable barrier, at the moment.

She paused before the door, aware of the mages observing her from behind. On her sole prior visit, another mage had attended to the portal, and she’d been distracted enough that she had not clearly observed what he had done to it. But she also had a better idea now of what she could do, what physical effects she could accomplish through the manipulation of phuskios magic.

She took a deep breath and released it, and extended her perceptions toward the door. The potent aura of the place, the transition she’d detected earlier, roiled within her awareness, and she had to concentrate to get past it. There was something amazingly powerful behind the door, but for now she focused on the door itself. The seams in the metal plate, cunningly fashioned, gradually became distinct, and she continued until she could discern the mechanisms within the door itself. The locking system was not complex, but it was heavy and durable, and entirely enclosed within the shell of the door, inaccessible to anyone who lacked her abilities.

Telekinesis was one of her stronger talents, but it was still difficult working the mechanism through the substance of the door. To her mind it felt like trying to sculpt falling water, and her head had begun to ache when she finally felt the metal disk turning, the locking arms pulling back as the gears holding them in place worked. The door issued a groan and then began to part, the various pieces retracting into the surrounding stone, moving on concealed tracks in response to the tug of unseen counterweights. The door would start to close again once those panels completed their course, so she didn’t linger, stepping through into the chamber beyond. Behind her, Pallonander and Seanaralisa followed silently.

She had seen it before, briefly, and not in use, but even inert the nodus was impressive. The chamber was a sphere, its walls perfectly smooth, coated in a sheen of material that wasn’t quite stone, but not quite metal, its matte surface shimmering slightly as it reflected the light from the room. That light came from an assortment of crystalline spheres attached to the walls by slender struts of varying length. The spheres ranged from the size of her fist to slightly larger than her head, and there were at least fifty within view. They were connected to each other by slender strands almost like spiderwebs, part of a network that formed a latticework around the edges of the room. There was a partial floor that bisected the sphere, a wooden frame that was little more than a catwalk. It extended from the door to the center of the space, where it expanded to form a platform large enough to accommodate perhaps a half-dozen persons, if they were willing to stand close. A light wooden railing surrounded both the catwalk and platform, and there was a small seat at its center, little more than a raised bump.

The mages did not speak as Izandra led them across the catwalk toward the platform. The silence seemed appropriate to this strange environment. Izandra reached the center of the sphere and stood there a moment, struggling with a flurry of conflicting emotions and memory. Her thoughts dragged her back to another sphere within the rock, a place of power where she’d been held prisoner, and when her magic had been unleashed against her will to destroy something she still did not fully understand.

A hand on her shoulder drew her abruptly out of her reverie. She glanced back and nodded in thanks to Pallonander, then sat down on the raised space in the center of the platform. The spheres flickered slightly, as if in greeting. She did not look at them, not yet, and instead closed her eyes, focusing on steadying her breathing. Even with her eyes closed she could discern the tendrils of power that flowed through this place, faint lines that were superimposed on her perceptions like the afterimage that followed a sudden flare of light.

She had practiced this, with Pallonander, and she had been given a number of scrolls that dealt with the nodus, so she knew how to proceed. Gently she drew upon her magic, drawing in power from the surrounding world, pulling in currents of energy through the nodus. The flickers she had seen before were echoed now in the darkness behind her closed eyelids, pulses that penetrated beyond her mundane senses, to the part of her that could perceive the flows of phuskios. That was her gift, the corruption of which her former mentor, Ethander, had dedicated himself to for his own foul ends. Now it was hers alone, and the realization of that sent a tiny thrill through her.

She opened her eyes, and sucked in a sudden breath. The nodus had come alive, filling the room with light. The material within the crystal spheres, energized by the energies she’d summoned, had reacted and interacted, filling the delicate glassine strands with flows of gas and liquid. Pallonander had told her that the spheres were full of various rare materials, such as quicksilver, which the Ilfann called merkur. She did not understand all of the mysteries that had been mentioned in the scrolls; much of it seemed more akin to khemeia than phuskios. The former was based on the natural properties of minerals drawn from the earth. Those were as arcane to her as the workings of raw magic were to others who lacked her abilities. But through her own gift she could witness what the nodus was revealing, as a latticework of energies began to assemble around the physical construction of the device.

Stabilize the flows, Pallonander reminded her, and she set herself to the task, ensuring that the complex weaving did not break free of the structure of the nodus. Her perception of the matrix of spheres and channels began to fade slightly into the background as she focused on the web of phuskios, and it seemed to take on solidity as her awareness split into two. She could still feel the hardness of the wood beneath her, the curving line of the banister, the presence of the two Ilfann at her back, their magic like a beacon to her second sight. But those things seemed to become more unreal as her attention was drawn into that other realm. The globes and their internal light became the echo; what was real was the intangible glow of the nodes. She knew that the nodus was just a representation of something else, a map of the flows of raw magic through the substance of the world, but here, within the matrix, it was possible to believe that she was really looking upon that grid itself.

This must be how the gods perceive the world, she thought. She had started to reach out toward one of the nodes before she caught herself, and let her hand drop, a bit chagrined. The grid quivered a bit as her concentration wavered, but she steadied it almost by reflex. On one level the map was simple, nodes connected by strands of light, lines of power. It was that network that powered the magic of all of the practitioners of phuskios in the world. But beyond that simplicity lay something far more complex, interweaving tendrils of energy that grew more and more detailed as she focused her attention upon them. She thought that she could spend her life here, studying them, and not comprehend them all.

Careful, a voice came to her, as if from a great distance. She realized that she had zoomed in close, so close that the nearest node was a great blazing ball like the light of the sun. She drew back, an effort of mind that had the same effect as walking backward from a bonfire might have had. Once again she witnessed the whole, and for a few moments just let herself take it all in.

Do not strain yourself, this first time, Pallonander’s voice came again. She could no longer place him or Seanaralisa; the voice came to her as if from a great distance, somewhere in the void. He had spoken to her of the dangers of the nodus, of pushing that disassociation, but there was one more thing she wanted to see before she withdrew.

She focused on a part of the network, which again seemed to grow as her attentions were directed upon it. The brilliant nodes dominated the map, but not all of them were identically bright. There were even places where a gap existed, part of the net, still connected to the whole, but no longer active. Pallonander had told her that the web of magic was not a static thing, that the nodes shifted and relocated over time, in a way that the Phel’aramar—the society of advanced practitioners of phuskios among the Ilfann—had never learned how to predict. Even finding those dead nodes using the nodus was not easy, but the one that Izandra sought seemed almost to call to her. As the active portions of the web drew closer, the multicolored suns of the nearby nodes blinding her magical senses as they drifted past, she could see the dead space there, ugly and black. The nodus lacked physical clues, at least any that were obvious to a novice user such as herself, but she knew what she was looking at.

Ælfang.

According to the Ilfann, the node at the ancient Ilfann outpost had been dead for decades. Once the heart of their magic, it had just faded away, immune to any attempt by mere mortals to stop or change it. Once it was completely gone there had been no reason to remain, and the place had fallen out of use, and out of the memory of most of the forest folk. There was nothing left there, not even an echo of the magic that had once radiated from the node like light and heat from the sun.

Only something had been there, when she had been brought there, lured by deception and treachery.

She studied the node, which was dark, the connections still binding it to the network empty and dead. The Ilfann mages had sent an expedition to Ælfang to verify her story; Seanaralisa had been among them. They had found nothing to confirm her tales of powerful magic, of a great living darkness that had dwelt within the huge vacant chamber, a sphere under the mountain that made the nodus chamber seem like a tiny afterthought by contrast. But she had seen, would never forget the magic that she had unleashed there, a magic that had been drawn through Ethander, cutting into that orb of utter black that had been there, deep under the ground...

What is she doing?

Seanaralisa’s words drew her back into sudden awareness, and she realized that she’d let herself get drawn in again, so close that the empty black of the dead node loomed huge over her, almost like the blackness that she had witnessed within Ælfang. It was not the same, of course; this node was dead in truth, not alive like that shadowed entity. There was nothing here to perceive, certainly not the waves of power she’d felt then. No. There was something, something that had drawn her in, something beyond just memories and musings. She focused on it, letting her attentions shift naturally, following instinct now rather than the instructions she’d been given on how to manipulate the nodus. She was dimly aware of Pallonander and Seanaralisa speaking behind her, but could not make out the words as perspective shifted around her, and she saw what she was looking for. A new thread, a connection that was not part of the network, one that tunneled through the black and across the span of the glowing intricacies of live lines and bright nodes. She followed it almost by reflex, drifting along the invisible pathway without conscious effort. The part of her that was still anchored in the real world was dimly aware of voices, shouts, but she ignored them, drawn to something ahead as the miniscule connection approached an active node, located on the opposite side of the nodus from where she’d begun. This one blazed brightly, but once again she detected something else, something substantial but slightly unreal, superimposed on the network of magical energies that comprised the grid. Tentatively, she probed at it.

The attack came without warning, and nearly overwhelmed her in that initial instant of contact. She somehow was able to fight it off, raising a shield that barely withstood the impact of a surge of energies that nearly blinded her inner sight as they erupted around her defenses. She was driven back, out of the paths of the nodus completely, but the unknown attacker followed, developing new tendrils of power that slashed and tore at her. She knew instinctively that if they got to her, if those attacks penetrated to her consciousness, that she would be extinguished. She continued to retreat, the bright node she’d visited fading back into the broader web surrounding her, but the enemy seemed to have no difficulty keeping pace. It was everywhere and nowhere, a presence that she could not even separate from the black emptiness of the mental realm that the nodus had allowed her to enter. She tried to find her way back, but the presence of her own body was somehow masked, and she couldn’t sense anything from the real world, trapped in a prison within her own mind. There was no escape.

As if drawing strength from that realization, the other entity came at her again, swelling as it enveloped her, attacking her from every quarter. Her magic came easily in this battleground of the mind, surging through her in a pure, ecstatic stream, but the enemy’s attacks pressed inexorably at her defenses. Her shields reverberated against impacts of sheer power; there was no physical body to shudder from those batterings, but she imagined a castle gate being assaulted by a huge ram. Even as she met that assault she could feel more subtle tendrils working their way through her wardings, tiny threads that blossomed into sharp, real pain as they penetrated into the outer precincts of her consciousness. She could not scream here, or at least not with her natural voice, but that pain echoed through her being as she formed a wedge of magic and sliced through the driving tendrils. They disintegrated at her touch, but more formed almost instantly in the wake of her strike, and still more were coming at her from every side, in addition to the frontal assault that was gradually wearing her down. She looked for some way to counter, to drive off the attacker that was doing this to her, but she still could not perceive the source.

She knew that she could not hold out for much longer; her magic was strong, but under it the inherent coherence of her consciousness was starting to waver. She remembered Pallonander’s warning about coming into the nodus so fully, and felt a momentary twinge of regret. Once again the unseen entity that had trapped her seemed to swell, and she could perceive an attack that dwarfed what had come before, coming into being all around her, until there was nothing else besides her and it. Unable to do anything more than what she’d done thus far, she just watched it and waited for the hammer to fall.

But as the massive swelling of power surged at her, a new presence abruptly appeared. It caught her by surprise, seizing hold of her consciousness before she could even think of shifting her shields to counter it. She felt another massive pulse of pain, an agony that sliced through her as part of her mind was torn away from this place, leaving behind pulsing rents that oozed awareness. She tumbled, falling, bound in with whatever had taken her. She was dimly aware of the hostile presence in the nodus falling away behind her, and thought she imagined a brief flicker of rage, and then everything was lost in a sudden return of physical awareness as she was driven roughly back into her body.

She was lying on the hard wood of the platform. She felt pain, pain everywhere, and tasted blood in her mouth. She tried to move, and only managed to groan as the effort awakened a fresh barrage of agonies. She blinked, and the blurred outlines of the chamber gradually drifted back into clarity. She was still in the room with the nodus. The magical device had returned to quiescence, the globes returning to their natural state, the soft glow that had greeted her when she’d first entered the room, what felt like a lifetime ago.

She managed to move her left hand, then her arm, partly pinned under her body. The motions were still painful, but she found that she could manage them. Rolling slightly, she got both hands onto the reassuring solidity of the platform, and pushed herself up. The railing and the nodes beyond swayed and shifted slightly, but she clenched her teeth and waited for them to reestablish before she turned her head, fighting a bit of vertigo as the room spun unpleasantly at the motion.

The others were there, but it was clear that they had been affected as well by the disturbance in the nodus that she’d released. Seanaralisa clung to the railing, her usual equanimity shattered, her expression bewildered as she looked around, loose strands of hair falling down around her face. Pallonander was kneeling just behind her, his head lowered, but as she turned he lifted his head, the effort of it clearly costing him, and he managed a soft smile. It was that smile that finally allowed her to fight through the lingering pain and instability that fogged her mind, and she used the nearby seat to pull herself up, leaning at an angle against the reassuring solidity of it. She wasn’t quite up to standing, just yet.

Pallonander rose, gathering himself as he did so. He held onto the rail, and gently touched Seanaralisa, who was starting to regather herself.

You pulled me out, Izandra said.

Pallonander nodded. We almost could not get you. You were embedded deeply in the nodus, almost beyond the reach of our reality.

Foolish, Seanaralisa said, but the word was all she could yet manage, though she clearly wanted to say more.

You... you felt that, didn’t you? Izandra asked them. All of it?

I don’t know if we perceived everything that you did, but yes, we sensed it, Pallonander said. Such a thing has never happened before, an outside entity reaching through the nodus like that. I did not even know it was possible. The nodus... it is just a viewing tool. It’s not supposed to allow that kind of contact.

She... did... something, to it... Seanaralisa said. She straightened, trying to restore her dignity, angrily tucking back a dangling strand of hair that had fallen forward across her face.

Izandra felt a twinge of anger, but it faded at the realization that what she’d done had nearly cost her life. I did not intend harm, she said. But I sensed something at Ælfang, a latent connection that I could just barely sense through the nodus.

I saw you drawn by something, Pallonander said. It is difficult to see when someone else is using the nodus, but I suspect that we would not have sensed it, in any case. He looked aside at Seanaralisa. The Ælfang was scanned in great detail, after you arrived here with your account of what happened to you there. Seanaralisa looked sour, but she didn’t offer comment.

Izandra’s eyes traveled across the room. She rose, a bit unsteadily, and crossed to the railing, a few paces over from the Ilfann. Even without the nodus being active she could sense what she was looking for, the node that she’d been drawn to. It was below the level of the platform, not visible from where she’d been sitting before. It was half-buried within the weave, a small, unremarkable bulb almost close enough to the metal shell of the sphere to touch it. It was connected to the web by only a few strands, and its latent gleam was so faint that it could almost be thought a dead node. A minor part of the web by the standards of the nodus, but she had seen it shining brilliantly, and then there had been that presence, lingering over and around and within it...

The others had come over to join her in looking at it. What node is that? she asked.

It represents a place far to the west, in the mountains that you humans call the Ralos, one the edge of the once-nation of Roron, Pallonander told her. We have not given it a name. It has been a fairly stable but minor connecting node, I would have to consult the archives to determine if there have been any fluctuations more than fifty years back.

Fel Darian, she said.

Excuse me? Pallonander said.

Izandra blinked. The name had just come to her, but once spoken she felt a ring of certainty in her mind. There is a dark power gathering there, she said, almost to herself.

The Ilfann stared at the node, Seanaralisa dubiously, Pallonander thoughtfully. We have to notify the High Circle of what happened here today, he said.

Izandra nodded. It seemed as though she’d found a way to complicate her life even further.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Alec woke up feeling more exhausted than when he’d laid his head upon his pillow, if such a thing was possible. The curtains were drawn back, and the darkness outside the window suggested that only a few hours had passed since he’d finally returned to the guest quarters that the Ilfann had provided for him on the outskirts of Pergalia, the small riverbank settlement where he’d spent the last several days. It was only the latest in a series of villages that had formed a steady southern progression since he’d left Tilden Arbor, drawing him further away from his purpose here, and his mission in coming to the forest nation of the Ilfann. It seemed almost impossible that almost a month had passed since then, but each time a new outbreak had drawn him on, a lure that someone like him could not resist. And it wasn’t as if the Ilfann High Circle looked to be ready to respond to his request in any case; his written queries continued to return to him without reply.

He barely had time to think about falling back asleep when the sound that had yanked him awake was repeated, a sound and insistent knocking on the door of the small cottage. The noise sounded louder than anything that Janalandre would have made, so he rose hastily, bumping his knee on the table near the bed as he reached for the blue robe that hung from one outstretched door of the armoire beyond. He’d been so tired when he’d returned, just after midnight, that it was remarkable that it had ended up anywhere but on the floor. Janalandre had tried to convince him to take quarters closer to the center of the community, but she hadn’t tried too hard. She could see the reluctance on the part of the Ilfann here to have anything to do with him, at least beyond the healing that he offered as part of his calling.

He had barely pulled on the robe—starting to get a bit tattered now, but still his best one—when the knock sounded again. Coming! he yelled, reaching for the small brass lamp above the cold hearth. It was still technically winter in Maletai, but the brief period when snow fell in the forest had already passed, and in any case he’d gotten accustomed to the chill. He managed to get the lamp lit, and turned to the door, drawing back the latch to let the oval-shaped slab of wood swing open.

He was surprised to