Rod of Melbarth: Book 4 of The Redemption

By Clyde B Northrup

In this fourth book of The Redemption series, the chosen continue their search for Melbarth's rod while the general populace actively seek to destroy them; they locate the missing rod and confront the rod's terrible guardian.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clyde B Northrup
• Release date: Oct 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301541997

Clyde B Northrup

Who am I?–a question I often ask myself, without ever coming up with a satisfactory answer: am I just a husband, father, professor, scholar, writer, poet, or some combination that changes from moment to moment, depending on the day, and time of day. . . . Nah, not really–but it is an intriguing way to begin–kind of mysterious and tormented, with a hint of instability that promotes empathy in the reader, and lets all of you know that I am a professor of English, down to my bones, and I cannot help but play around with language. My areas of specialty are 19th-20th century British Literature, the novel, Tolkien & fantasy; my dissertation was on Tolkien’s 1939 lecture “On Fairy-stories” in which he created a framework, as I discovered, for the epic fantasy that I used to critique several modern/contemporary works of fantasy, including Tolkien’s. I have taught at the university level for 14 years. My wife, of 30+ years, is an elementary school teacher.As a poet, I am much like Wordsworth, while as a novelist, I am more like his pal Coleridge, both of which illustrate the influence of my education and areas of expertise. My poems are predominantly narrative in nature, reflecting, no doubt, the overwhelming impulse to tell a story, using the compact, compressed form of the poem to narrate significant moments in the daily life of the poet. As a novelist, my biggest influence is Tolkien, flowing out of my study of his ideas for what he called a “fairy-story” for adults, what we term epic fantasy.

Book preview

Author’s Preface

The chosen, have collected two of the three keys: will-giver, the sword of Sir Karble, given to Blakstar on the Mountain of Vision, and breath-giver, retrieved by the chosen from the tomb of Shigmar. The third key, which they have learned is named thought-giver, is in the hands of the morgle named Motodu, who fled the battle before Shigmar just before Klaybear unleashed breath-giver’s most terrible power; they tracked the morgle to his lair in the Mariskal, a partially sunken dome called Morokolu. With the aid of the fabled seklesi Seventh Legion, reformed by Feragwen Feltha and led by two of the chosen, Delgart and Marilee, the chosen infiltrate the Mariskal, beating back the sponsum attacking the Forsaken Outpost and destroying their queen, Spenthronsa, which gives them entrance into the bowels of Morokolu. After escaping traps meant to destroy them, and finding their way to the top of Morokolu, the chosen discover that Motodu is not who he appears to be, that the real Motodu was destroyed by thought-giver; a transformed red kailu took his place, with a duplicate rod. When his mask is pierced by the chosen, the red kailu flees from Morokolu, taking Sutugno with him. The chosen discover a concealed room that contains wealth unimaginable, a set of armor and weapons for Rokwolf, with a sentient sword named Gwoneru that indicates to Rokwolf the sword’s mission is to destroy evil aperum. The chosen split-up at this point, carrying the wealth they found back to their sanctuary beneath Shigmar, where Klaybear and Klarissa wait. Delgart and Marilee return with the gwenakso to report their successes to the Feragwen; Thal, Blakstar, and Rokwolf head for Thal’s tower, where Thal will research information left for him by his parents, trying to learn where thought-giver has been hidden. Blakstar and Rokwolf plan to search for the missing Sutugno and Kovaine, traveling to the red kailu fortress across the river from Belford. Tevvy and Elanor return to their school’s safe house to make plans to retake the school from the local Guild. Thus begins the Rod of Melbarth.

We acknowledge the help of many people in making this work’s publication possible: our cover artist for another wonderful image, our many readers who gave us valuable feedback, my wife as first reader and the voice of reason, reminding me when I have taken the narrative ‘too far,’ and finally, all of our readers who have taken a chance on a relatively unknown author–thanks! We wrote it for all of you; may you find as much joy in the reading as we have had in the telling of the story!

Clyde B. Northrup

May 2013

Prophecy of the Chosen

At the center of the ages come those chosen of the One, they who will end Gar’s dominion; two from my own order: one more powerful than all others, doubled of another; one who opens the forbidden way, sprung from my home; one from Karble, myth reborn, dear to the people, bearing the living waters; one from Melbarth, fire of logic burning in his mind; three from the new order, one king, one queen, mirroring each other, one aperu slayer, sacrifice for another; and the cunning mouse, who penetrates all secrets; all maimed and marked by the burden of their choosing.

Darkness and evil go with them, light guides them, rumor precedes them, destruction and disturbance follow them; choose to aid them to suffer, choose to oppose them to die. . . .

Prophecy of Shigmar

Prologue

Atno 3522, Late Winter

An ancient wetha, with pure white hair, opened the shutters to let in the cool afternoon breeze moving beneath the huge, ancient trunks of the reuthoderum. She threw back her hood, the color so faded that it looked dull gray, to allow the light filtering down through the branches high overhead to fall upon her face. She wrinkled her nose, just smelling the reek of the swamp beneath the strong scent of the forest, a warm, wet odor of moldering needles and leaves, new grass, new buds, and tiny white flowers. Soon, she thought, very soon, the one who would take her place would come, and she could finally rest in the sleep of death with her ancestors in the catacomb beneath the cottage. She sighed and turned heavily from the window to regard her current charges. There were only two sick and injured in her home at this moment, and she doubted that either one would notice the underlying smell of the swamp. One of her patients was a methaghi sent down from Metarb, another who had contracted the strange wasting sickness that caused the flesh to rot and fall off, and the limbs and spine to twist. She knew of only one cure, and that cure was legend; until that legend walked again, all that she could do was strengthen the body’s ability to fight, as also the mind’s. This maghi was fighting, but very few ever survived; she put that thought out of her mind, turning back to the window, thinking instead of how warm the sun’s rays felt on her ancient face.

The second patient was a stranger case; she was a pleugle, injured in the swamp by one of the vipers as she collected the leaves of the skrufoti plant, but she was brought by a morgle, the larger of the two species, and the more powerful, who claimed that she was part of his clan and required healing. This demand did not bother the old wetha, for she would heal all who came to her, but what was strange about this pair is that the morgle insisted on returning frequently and checking on her, arguing with much hissing and bubbling that his own life depended upon her recovery, which was why he returned often and constantly badgered the old wetha. His immanent return brought the old wetha to the window; the last few times he had visited, she noticed something odd about him, like his shadow had gotten larger and darker, but it was not visible when one looked directly at him: she only glimpsed it at the edge of her vision, and it troubled her. So she stood at the window hoping to see something, anything, that might give her a hint to unravel this mystery. She felt a prickling on the back of her neck, then, as she turned around, heard movement behind her.

I did not hear the door, her voice, low and rough, said, how did you get in? she asked.

Never mind that, the voice hissed and bubbled from the shadows, I’ve come to check on her progress. My clan leader demands another report. The figure came out of the shadows but his face was obscured by the black hood.

Her condition is unchanged, the old wetha growled, and has been unchanged the last five times you have checked! Come back tomorrow at this time, and I might have news for you, she finished, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

Surely there is more you could be doing, he went on, "since you are, purportedly, the greatest kailu healer still living? Isn’t there anything you can do to speed the process?"

We’ve been over this a dozen times now, she replied wearily, I have done all that I can, all that I dare; any more will kill her. Do you want her to die? she asked, pointedly.

He hissed and bubbled in a way that must have been the equivalent of spluttering, but there was something about his action that seemed to her as false. Of course not, he finally managed to say, and as he spoke, something slid into his two-fingered, green-skinned hand from inside the sleeve of his robe. At the same moment, a shadow detached itself from his shadow and started to fly around the room toward her. This distracted her eye long enough that she did not notice, until too late, that what slid into the morgle’s hand was a brilliantly glowing, diamond-topped platinum rod, pointing directly at her; a beam of green light crashed into her before she had time even to raise her own staff to shield herself, and the orthek snuffed out her consciousness; she slumped onto the floor beneath the window, her staff clattering on the stone floor.

The shadow coalesced into the tall form of a hooded and cloaked figure; he waved his hand once, and the figure of the pleugle vanished. The morgle strode toward the old wetha, his bare feet slapping on the stones; the second, taller figure moved to her other side.

Your ploy worked, my lord, the morgle hissed, "and it allowed me to carry you past her teka barrier."

Only someone bearing an injured person, the second noted, could pass her defensive barrier, and once you had done so, several times, it was easy for me to become your shadow and enter, without arousing her suspicion. The light coming through the open window fell on the lower half of the second figure’s face, revealing a triumphant grin. "Now we can take care of another matter with which this meddler will become involved. The trigger must be buried deep, and its application so subtle that none of the chosen will suspect."

The morgle raised the rod. I understand, my lord, he noted, allowing his mind to sink into the mind of the old wetha, but a brilliant white light burst from her and hurled the morgle back, knocking him from his feet. He climbed slowly back to his feet, his black eyes wide with surprise, the tentacles covering his mouth writhing furiously. His large, bulbous, squid-like head sagged and had lost some of its green color. My lord, he began, I do not know what happened . . . , but stopped, seeing that his lord was not looking at him, but had his head turned toward the old wetha, and the corners of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting not to grin.

The morgle moved again to the old wetha’s side, raised the rod, and tried a second time to enter her mind, but like the first time, brilliant white light exploded from her forehead, blasting the morgle from his feet; the light was so powerful this second time, that it hurled the morgle into the far wall, knocking him unconscious; the rod slipped from his two-fingered hand and went dull. Gar was also knocked back but managed to keep his feet, staggering drunkenly until the light winked out, but the grin playing at the corners of his mouth had vanished, replaced by a sneer.

Elos, Gar whispered to himself, looking around for the source of the interference. Seeing no one, he spoke. Show yourself, my ever meddlesome brother! Gar shouted to the air.

A point of light blossomed at the feet of the old wetha and grew so bright that Gar had to cover his eyes; the white brilliance formed into an archway out of which stepped a figure like, and yet unlike, Gar. This figure was slightly taller, with curly blonde, shoulder length hair, fair skin, and bright blue eyes. His smile was that of a laughing boy, on plain features, and his build was thin but not skinny. He wore white robes and his feet were bare; he pushed back his hood and looked once around the room. With one wave of his hand, he healed the methaghi, then flicked his wrist and sent him to his home; he lifted the morgle to his feet, returning his skin from the gray hue to its natural sea-green. The morgle stood wide-eyed, frozen to the spot; Elos looked down on the old wetha and shook his head sadly, the smile leaving his lips. Another of your despicable deeds, my brother, he noted, and his voice had a rich, musical quality to it. He lifted her to her feet, healing her, and before she realized what had happened or who he was, Elos waved his hand again, and he, Gar, and the morgle disappeared from the room, reappearing on a hilltop some distance away.

I cannot allow you to do what you attempted, Elker, Elos said without preamble, in this one instance you have gone too far.

Gar’s eyes flashed red. "I am Lord Gar! I rule here! he shouted. I will do as I please, so do not meddle in my affairs!"

Elker, Elker, Elker, Elos laughed as he slowly repeated his brother’s name, ever the fool. Do you still believe that you act on your own? Do you still think that you can do anything that Father does not allow you to do? Again, Elos laughed at his brother. For all of your knowledge, all of your power, and yet, after all this time, still you have no wisdom. He thought better of his mirth and shook his head sadly, then turned to the morgle. You, Motodu, he said, should have no more dealings with my errant brother. You should return that rod at once, for it will not endure your hand for long before it rejects you, and when it does, you will be destroyed. Elos waved his hand and the morgle vanished; Elos turned his gaze back upon Gar. When will you let go of pride? Father and Mother will welcome you home with open arms if you turn from this path upon which you walk, he noted, and his voice softened as he went on, and you are on the path that leads to eternal destruction; turn back before it is too late, my brother.

Gar laughed mirthlessly. "I know something of that path, he mocked, particularly your fate, brother: it leads to your destruction, not mine, and it will be my hand that destroys you," he added, grinning widely; his eyes went from red to deep violet.

Elos shook his head. In all things, Elker, you see only what you want to see, he noted sadly, your vision ends when you have found what you seek, never bothering to look beyond at the implications of what you have seen. From the beginning you have suffered from tunnel vision, and the millennia have not taught you anything. Thus, you are doomed to repeat the same mistake, over and over again.

The grin on Gar’s face became a sneer, and his eyes went red again; he raised both his hands, drawing on the teka that came easiest to him: fire and the Void, weaving them together into an explosive ball that would annihilate the hilltop upon which they both stood. A ball of black and red forces burst into life between his hands, held over his head, and he arched back, intending to hurl it at his grinning fool of a brother, who stood calmly watching him.

Is now to be the time? Elos asked in a quiet voice. Surely you must realize that the forces you wield will have absolutely no effect upon me at all, since the conditions have not been met?

Gar halted mid-throw, holding the red-black ball of power, angrily humming, above his own head.

Or perhaps, Elos went on, "you wish to duel again? Have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried this action, how the very heavens were split asunder, and how you were humiliated and cast into the underworld? Should you make the attempt here, now, on this world, then the world and all of Father’s children will be destroyed, and what are the implications of that destruction? Have you considered what that would mean? If there are no chosen, and no keys, then there can be no sacrifice, which in turn means that you will be robbed of what you believe will be your victory. Are you prepared to sacrifice all of those things in order to satisfy your anger, whose root is your over-weaning pride?"

Gar snarled and arched back a second time, preparing to hurl the ball.

As you wish, Elos sighed, holding up his own arms that now glowed with a light as white and bright as Gar’s was dark and red. I suspect, however, Elos added, that Father will not allow you to do this terrible thing to His creation, so be prepared for the forces you are about to unleash to rebound upon you: goodbye, my brother.

Gar took one step forward, fully intent on his action, when the final words Elos had spoken sank past his fury; he stopped mid-throw and released the elemental forces; the reddish-black ball of force winked out. He stood up and let his hands fall to his sides. No, he hissed, with a shake of his head, "I will not let you bait me into attacking you, since that is what you want me to do, that is why you have brought me here and spoken to me thus: lies meant to goad me into this attack, so that you could finish me off. Gar looked up at the sky. It won’t work! he shouted. You will not get rid of me so easily! I’ll still be here, thwarting you at every turn; whatever you attempt, I will be lurking in the shadows, and I will undermine your purpose the moment your back is turned! He shook his fist at the sky. You will have a hard time repairing the damage I have done to your chosen already," he gesticulated again, but then looked at his brother and stopped.

Elos was laughing again. Ever the fool, my brother, ever the fool, he said, still laughing. Everything you have done, Elos went on, no longer laughing, "you were allowed to do. The damage, as you have called it, to the chosen, will, in the end, be turned to good, a greater good for them having to rise above the challenges you have imposed upon them. All you have done is created the weapons that will one day destroy you, and ultimately, you have done Father’s work, as you have ever done, and as you will ever do."

Gar’s eyes flashed red and his hands twitched, but he quickly mastered his anger and laughed in turn. You are trying it again, brother, he laughed, but it was forced and unnatural, "trying to goad me into a fight, but this time you are right: now is not the proper time or place; I have waited this long; I can wait a little longer, but it is you who will be destroyed, for all your pretty words and worn-out arguments. I know the plan as well as you, so I know your fate. You cannot sway me with empty offers of forgiveness: I know only too well the chains that would come with your so-called forgiveness, and I want no part of it; it is better to be a free exile than a slave at home, and I will not return to servitude, no matter how pleasant," he finished, and before Elos could respond, an archway formed of absolute darkness in front of Gar, he stepped through, and the archway vanished.

Elos stood for a moment silently contemplating the place where his brother had disappeared before he, too, opened an archway of pure white light and stepped through, the tears glistening on his cheeks in the brilliance of the place beyond the archway, which was momentarily revealed.

Chapter 1

It is not in the nature of the kortexem to consider or participate in covert operations; their fundamental belief in their own towering strength and prowess is a founding tenet of their order. . . . It is impossible even to imagine any kortexi sneaking up upon a foe. . . .

from The Higher Orders, written by order of the Fereghen, atno 1739

Atno 3524, The Great Year, Late Spring

Xythrax entered the cavern with reluctance; he was still shaken from his meeting with the Great Lord, and even more shaken by what he had been shown: the black dagger that would slay even an immortal; what added to his shock was the casual way the Great Lord had demonstrated it on one of his most trusted servants: one of his rapidly dwindling supply of ponkolum. Xythrax shuddered, recalling how the fiend willingly, even eagerly, allowed the Great Lord to drive the black dagger into his chest; how the ponkolu, with its dying gasp, had thanked the Great Lord for releasing him into oblivion. The purgle looked carefully around the red-lit cavern for the narrow path that led across the bubbling lake of molten rock to the island at its center where Gwenatera dwelt. In this moment, Xythrax was glad he no longer breathed the way normal wethem did, for the air here was poisonous, filled with the gases expelled from the ever-boiling lake of liquid rock; eyes would water and blur, noses would be burned and seared by heat and fumes, and lungs would fail, unable to draw enough life-sustaining oxygen from the reek filling the cavern. Only other aperum, like Gwenatera herself, could enter and survive here, and the only other creatures who lived here were the Fire Queen’s mining thralls, the themen, whose existence was remembered only by the scholars who kept the great libraries in Melbarth, Eklor, and the three towers of the methaghem, Methpag, Metarb, and Mestoimo. Xythrax saw several of the themen, short, broad, and strong, as tough as old stone from which they arose, with wide flat faces, dark eyes, great, bushy beards, arms that were long, ending in large, strong hands. They eyed him as he passed, grunting to one another in their language that sounded like growling, but they did not stop or hinder him, since they had seen him before and had been apprised of his immanent arrival.

Gwenatera did not allow anyone to teleport into her presence, not even the aperum with whom she mated, so Xythrax was forced to make the long, slow journey across the narrow causeway; he moved as quickly as he could, knowing that somehow, his lord was watching him, making sure that he did as he had been instructed. If only he knew how his master kept such a close watch on him, but every attempt he made had been thwarted, so Xythrax ground his teeth and marched on, across the boiling lake of fiery, molten rock that was Gwenatera’s home deep in the bowels of Aperkolu. The Fire Queen’s island was just visible in the red illumination as a dark patch among the reeking clouds, the only solid ground anywhere within this huge cavern. He finally strode past two pillars of obsidian, and the crunching of the gravel on the causeway changed to the glassy, hard clinking of solid stone underfoot, the floor made of the same material as the pillars. The light on this island darkened although the cavern overhead was still lit by an orange glow, and Xythrax stopped to look around. He heard a scraping, screeching sound, followed by a low rumble that announced the Fire Queen’s presence.

Why have you come? a voice rumbled, a voice that was loud and filled the cavern with sound, but was more musical than one would have thought possible.

Xythrax gave a simpering bow toward the voice. Our master sent me with instructions, Xythrax said.

A rumble followed this declaration; the red light brightened partially illuminating the Fire Queen’s huge form. I hold no allegiance to you or anyone else, Gwenatera rumbled in what was unmistakable, aperu laughter.

Xythrax inclined his head. Nevertheless, he replied mockingly, "The Great Lord suggests that you would be wise to redouble the ortheks masking what you hide here."

The rumbling grew louder; the red light grew brighter around Gwenatera’s form revealing her huge head, only feet above Xythrax and grinning down at him with a wide and toothy, reptilian smile. "Perhaps I should just let those ortheks expire," she said in a voice that sounded smooth but dripped acid, and her face was close enough that the purgle could see venom dripping from her fangs, falling to the obsidian floor, hissing and turning to steam, adding to the noxious fumes of the cavern.

Xythrax tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a nervous cough. That would be foolish in the extreme, he noted, "since you know, as well as I, that it would bring the chosen, and that would mean your death."

The Fire Queen threw back her head and laughed. Death is nothing to me, she laughed. "Unlike you, I did not sacrifice my soul to gain an eternal unlife; to me, death is just a doorway into another world, another life. I do not fear death," she finished, controlling her mirth and bringing her muzzle back close to Xythrax’s face, hidden beneath his hood, the purgle cringing back from the heat of her breath. "I notice that you fail to add the other half of that prophecy, the half involving you: that once the chosen have killed me, they will come looking for you, and you they will destroy utterly," and she said this last phrase in a whisper.

Xythrax shuddered again; he wondered how Gwenatera could have known that those were the Great Lord’s words. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Fire Queen spoke again.

And what about your end of the bargain? And Gar’s? she asked, her anger no longer masked.

Xythrax feigned ignorance. The Great Lord never mentioned . . . , he began, but she interrupted him again.

"Don’t lie to me, purgle, she said, you know exactly what I mean. Now that Morokolu has been taken, and your morgle ally lost, who keeps the chosen from finding the weapon I told you to protect? Where is this weapon?" she said, mocking him.

Xythrax got angry. There is no such weapon! he spat. We searched the dome and found nothing.

Gwenatera made a scoffing sound, and when she did, a small ball of flame popped out of her mouth, causing Xythrax to jerk away from her. I told you where to look, she said, where it was hidden, and neither you nor Gar could find it? She paused for a moment. "You are weak, and Gar is weaker; you both deserve oblivion, and you both should pray that I do not change my mind and invite the chosen here to collect the one piece of the puzzle they are missing, the one object that will make them invulnerable to you both, and then we will see who laughs! The Fire Queen glared down at Xythrax, who was not foolish enough to glare back at her, or even meet her eyes; his action caused her to smile. Have you forgotten, she went on, or have you chosen to forget, that you only know of the prophecy because I told you? And I heard it from Melbarth himself, when I was as young as the world, she said and her voice grew soft and distant. We met and fought, and I thought I had beaten him, but he was too clever for me; he spared my life, because he had seen that I would not die until many thousands of years had passed, she paused, looking down at Xythrax. How long do those tiny, stinging flies that inhabit your charming swamp live?"

Xythrax gaped up at her. How long? he replied with anger. I do not know, nor do I care!

Gwenatera moved forward and sat upon her haunches, cat-like, all the time keeping her eyes fixed on the purgle, still smiling her wide, toothy, reptilian grin; she wrapped her tail around herself and came very close to striking Xythrax with the spiked end. With the rising of the sun, the egg hatches in a corpse, or a dung heap; by mid-morning, the larva eats its way out of the corpse and has grown its wings. Within minutes, the wings open, and it flies off in search of victims with hot blood to suck; sometime just after mid-day, if it hasn’t been eaten by a bird or a frog, the urge to mate becomes irrefuseable, so it goes looking for another of its kind. If it is a female, once it has been impregnated, it goes looking for more to eat, then at sunset, lays the eggs in whatever corpse or dung heap it can find. The male, on the other hand, continues to mate with other females until it tumbles from the air from sheer exhaustion, to be eaten by one of its predators. Once the sun sets, all that hatched that day are gone, either eaten or dead. To me, although your life has been longer than most of your kind, you are a stinging fly, and sunset fast approaches, Gwenatera finished, her tongue sliding slowly over her teeth.

Feragwen Feltha sat at the head of the table, with her sister, Malfa sitting on her left, and Delgart, commander of her gwenakso, sitting on her right; her legion commander still had his hood covering his head, and his face was wrapped in bandages to obscure both his scar and his appearance; there were not a few of the inhabitants of Karble who had seen the statues and would recognize him on sight. Of all the places to hold the Spring Meeting of the Council, Feltha would not have chosen Karble, nor should they be meeting here at this time, but for the urgent request come from the kortexem with news of recent events that included the death of their Wesento. Delgart had given her more information on what had happened, for his brother and his brother’s wife had been here and had tried to save the Wesento’s life, but Gar’s servant had done her work thoroughly, and now the kortexem were in disarray. She looked around the table and saw the two kortexi factions on opposite sides of the table, each refusing to acknowledge the other. Another reason for her legion commander to hide his face sat beyond the kortexi faction to her left: Mistress Storga Keney, the only member of the kailu council to survive the destruction of Shigmar, and one who would also recognize Delgart on sight and denounce him as both outlaw and traitor. Perhaps Malfa had been right: it was a mistake to bring him, but he needed to know what the council discussed and decided, since it concerned him and his fellow chosen. She would like to have brought Kalamar’s son, but again, Malfa had warned her that they played a dangerous game, that the traitor in Holvar was watching her every action. She frowned, seeing Storga in close conversation with the kailu to her left, Master Skerapi, her late-husband’s minister; she wanted to keep him out of this meeting, but he had so often attended with her late-husband that there was no graceful way to prevent it. Of all the things left by her beloved Wothgart, there was nothing else she would be more happy to lose.

Feltha looked up and smiled, seeing that the last essential member of the council had finally arrived: Kresgart, a tall, thin, white-haired white maghi, whose robes were resplendent with gold trim, carrying his platinum rod of office. His eyes met hers, and he smiled fondly. He nodded to the others as he passed them, but did not stop to speak to any of them; their eyes followed him as he moved to the head of the table, passing behind Delgart, and bowing to her.

Feltha, his high reedy voice piped, may I offer my condolences; I, for one, will sorely miss Wothgart. He took her hand and kissed it, which brought his white-haired head close to her ear. Keep talking, he whispered, there is something I must say to your commander, and the others are watching.

"Thank you, Sedra Kresgart, Feltha replied in a loud voice. My husband always spoke highly of you, too. I must say he looked forward to these meetings, just so he could hear you tell stories of your exploits."

While Feltha spoke, Kresgart whispered to Delgart, still holding the Feragwen’s hand with his twinkling blue eyes fixed firmly on Feltha. "Be ready, chosen. When the signal comes, take the gwenakso to the secret lair; the traitor knows of your quarters, and it is the only way to preserve your order, although it will be costly."

Delgart’s eyes gave no hint that he heard anything; he touched the arm of Feltha’s chair to indicate that he heard.

Kresgart laughed and released Feltha’s hand. Yes, he said out loud, he was rather fond of my tales.

You did tend to tell many stories, master, Malfa said, standing and passing behind Feltha’s chair to embrace him. It has been far too long, master, she whispered, kissing him fondly on the cheek.

Kresgart grinned impishly. Malfa, he replied, I have missed you. He went on in a whisper. Have you been keeping up with your studies?

Of course I have, Malfa chided.

Then you have apprised your sister of what to expect? he asked, again in a whisper.

Malfa smiled and patted his cheek fondly before returning to her seat. Kresgart turned and stepped behind Delgart, using the commander’s shoulder apparently to keep his balance; this action was, however, a ploy so that he could give the legion commander a reassuring squeeze. The old, white maghi sat down on Delgart’s right.

Now that we are all here, Feltha noted to the table generally and was shocked by the response of those seated around the table.

The four kortexem eyed her with disdain and open hostility; Storga was eyeing Delgart, and Skerapi was watching the kortexem.

"We do not recognize your authority to lead here," one of the four, the closest of the pair to her right, growled.

Yes, of course, Malfa noted drily, "the infamous kortexi prejudice against females."

Malfa! Feltha said firmly, we are here to help them.

Malfa gave her sister a cold look but said nothing more.

Kresgart spoke. "Historical precedent has always been that the Fereghen, he began, or Feragwen, lead this council. We have come here to help you, as the Feragwen, and he emphasized Feltha’s title, just pointed out, so it would be wise to lay aside these, our differences, in order to render what aid we can," he finished, taking each of the four with his eye and holding him for a moment until he nodded; the two on the left nodded quickly, while the two on the right were more slow to agree.

Feltha sighed. Now, if we could begin by . . . , but she was interrupted a second time, this time by Storga.

Why is he here? Storga asked, pointing at Delgart. He is not part of this council.

Technically, neither are you, Malfa noted.

Feltha shot her sister an angry look. I brought him for two reasons, she replied, first, to report on his recent campaign in the Mariskal, which has relevance to this council, and second, as extra protection for my person, as he is the best swordsman we have seen in many years.

Delgart bowed his head to cover his blush. "Thank you, my Feragwen," he whispered.

Feltha shot Delgart a smile.

This caused the kortexi who had spoken to exchange an angry look with his partner. You do not feel safe here? he asked, a dangerous tone in his voice.

I do not feel safe anywhere, Feltha replied, not even in my own throne hall, do you? She let the question hang in the air for a moment before going on. "If Gar can reach into the heart of Karble and poison your Wesento, if he can reach out and level Shigmar, destroying most of its masters, in spite of all that we tried to do, if he can slip into the maghi school at the center of Melbarth and steal Melbarth’s Rod, without anyone realizing it, can any one of us feel safe anywhere?" she asked, and with each declaration, those sitting around the table began to mumble.

"My Feragwen, Kresgart began, I assure you that Melbarth’s Rod is quite safe from Gar."

Feltha turned to Kresgart. "And I assure you, Sedra Kresgart, head of the white maghi council, she went on, that when you return to Melbarth and examine the rod held in the case, you will discover that it is a clever imitation."

Kresgart was shaking his head; the others continued to mumble. I will have someone check, Kresgart said, and his eyes grew distant.

Feltha looked back at the others. That, however, is not the only reason why we are here, she said, but first, if you will allow me to continue, she paused and looked around the table, "some introductions are in order: I do not recognize our four kortexem."

The one who had spoken nodded. I am Sir Sokosen Stolgwen, he noted and pointed to his partner, this is my brother-in-law, Sir Patorken Wistloto. These two young upstarts across the table from us, and at this the two younger kortexem made irritated sounds, are Sir Kenawon Gwendalto, pointing to the one farther from Feltha, and Sir Nepawon Spornasen.

Feltha looked at the two closely. Are you related? she asked.

They smiled and nodded; Nepawon, who was closer, and older, spoke. "Yes, my Feragwen, he replied, we are cousins: our mothers are sisters."

Feltha returned their smiles and nodded. Now, she said, how can we assist you in this difficult time?

Sir Nepawon waved his hand toward the other pair.

Thank you, Sokosen said with a hint of sarcasm, I am glad to see that you have not forgotten all of our traditions.

Sir Kenawon started to respond, but his cousin put one hand on his arm to restrain him; the two parties glared at each other across the table; Feltha exchanged a look with her sister and groaned inside.

"How much do you know about what happened to our Wesento?" Sokosen asked.

Feltha’s glance shot to Delgart before she replied. Probably as much as all of you combined, she replied with a smile.

Sokosen frowned and seemed at a loss for where to begin now.

Perhaps if you describe for me, Feltha added diplomatically, what is the source of the split between the two factions.

Sokosen nodded curtly. "The source is the so-called chosen that caused the death of the Wesento, he replied. We feel that Blakstar, and Feltha noticed that he deliberately left off his title, is responsible, and as he is a member of the kortexi order, that he should be arrested, returned to Karble, and tried for his crimes against our order."

You are old fools! Kenawon spat. "And how do you explain the fact that a statue of Sir Blakstar now stands at the entrance to this very citadel, facing a statue of the founder of our order, Sir Karble himself? What you are saying is that if Karble were here and had done what Blakstar did, you would try and execute him, too."

It is you who are the fools! Patorken retorted. "He used forbidden teka, and he said the word with disgust, to raise those statues, which should all be destroyed as abominations, as should he and all the so-called chosen!"

My partner is correct, Sokosen went on, "there were several of these chosen here in Karble when the Wesento was killed: one of them entered with Blakstar when he returned to Karble: a white maghi of Melbarth, Thalamar, son of Kalamar; the other two entered just before the Wesento died, also by means of teka, two kailum of Shigmar, who killed Fregren and left by some strange means with Blakstar and the maghi."

"These kailum, Storga asked, were they a wethi male and female?"

Sokosen nodded.

"Was the wethi large, heavy-set, with curly brown hair, she went on, and the wetha, small, with honey-flecked brown hair and a temper?"

We do not know about the temper, Patorken replied, but that describes them, yes.

Storga was shaking her head. The same group that destroyed Shigmar, she said, "the same group justly tried for bearing the mark of Gar, including your precious kortexi, the same group convicted and sentenced, but they somehow managed to escape, I suspect with inside help, probably the help of one or both of their former masters: Headmaster Myron and Master Healer Avril, both of whom are dead for their deed, justly punished, I would say, but there were others, too many others, who died because of these so-called chosen. I agree with Sir Sokosen and Sir Patorken: they all should be caught and executed before more people are destroyed."

Kenawon was laughing wryly. "Isn’t there a saying that goes something like, ‘there’s no fool like an old fool?’"

Patorken shook his head. No, he replied, "more appropriate would be, ‘who is more foolish? The fool? Or the fool who follows?’"

The four kortexem began at this moment to point and shout at each other; Skerapi waved them all to silence.

"My Feragwen, Skerapi said when they had fallen silent, there is certainly reason for investigation into this matter, he went on, looking not at Feltha but at Delgart, they should at the very least be taken and questioned in this matter."

How would your order try Sir Blakstar? Feltha asked, already knowing the answer.

By combat, Sokosen noted, as has always been our tradition.

Feltha was ready for this answer, so she turned to Delgart. Commander, Sir Blakstar went with your command squad into the Mariskal during your recent campaign, did he not? she asked.

"He did, my Feragwen," Delgart replied.

And what is your assessment of his abilities in battle? Feltha went on.

Nothing we faced could stand against him, Delgart replied in a flat voice, as they had planned, "not even one of the morgle."

The response was as they had expected: first, surprise, followed by disbelief.

Surely your commander exaggerates, Patorken protested.

Feltha and Delgart gave Patorken piercing glances. "Have you ever known a seklesi legion commander who exaggerated?" Feltha asked.

Well, no, Patorken admitted; the cousins across the table from him were grinning widely.

Commander, to what do you attribute Sir Blakstar’s prowess on the battlefield? Feltha asked.

Both his training and skill, Delgart replied, "and also, his sword, which is the sword of Sir Karble, also known as will-giver, which drains the will to fight from any opponent he faces; this alone gives him an incredible edge."

Then he will be deprived of his sword, Patorken noted.

Kenawon laughed. "Have you forgotten what happened outside the citadel? When one of our fellows tried to take Sir Blakstar’s sword? What is left of him is still there, to remind anyone so foolish what will happen should he think to take Sir Blakstar’s sword."

Sokosen was shaking his head. He will not be allowed to use it in his trial, he noted.

I do not think that would make any difference, Kresgart spoke for the first time in a while, since weapons of this nature, once possessed, do not need to be wielded by the owner to be effective; thus, even if he uses a different sword, any other sword you give him, the effects will be the same.

"The female kailu mentioned, Delgart put in, dreamed of the consequences of Sir Blakstar standing trial, which he wanted to do, I should add; in her dream she saw that he, alone, of all the kortexem would survive such a trial. That is why she, and the others, literally dragged him away from Karble on the day your Wesento died, to prevent the destruction of the entire kortexi order by just such a trial."

Bring him on! Nepawon exclaimed. "We could purge ourselves of the deadwood and then set him up as our new Wesento."

"Not while I am