House of Potimus: Book 6 of The Redemption

By Clyde B Northrup

In an attempt to minimize the influence of the red kailum on the people, the gwenakso, led by her commanders Delgart and Marilee, with the aid of their fellow chosen, infiltrate the red kailu fortress of Luflina, killing the red kailu masters and using their fall to convince the Red Guards to surrender and switch their allegiance. As the red kailu Magsamel lay dying, he hints at the fact that this fortress is not the home of their order, that the red kailu order is everywhere. In the process of taking the fortress, Klaybear is lost, taken by agents of Xythrax and imprisoned by the false Fereghen, Lord Krell, in the dungeons beneath the seklesi citadel at Holvar. Thalamar, Telvor, Rokwolf, and Blakstar, follow a red kailu initiate deep into the Wolpoti Swamp, hoping to find both the home of the red kailu order and the place where Klaybear is imprisoned. They reach and enter a hill called Nekrokolu, where Blakstar is tricked into entering a small recess inside Nekrokolu to rescue what he believes is a damsel in distress; instead, he triggers a trap that transports him to the citadel of Karble, captured by his son Whitesun. The three remaining chosen face and defeat the fabled black aperu, guarding the entrance to Xythrax’ lair, where the battle against the black aperu results in the accidental destruction of all Xythrax’s purgle minions, their spirits hidden in objects stored within the black aperu’s cave. In the fight with Xythrax, Rokwolf saves Thal’s life, Gwoneru explodes, and a shard destroys the object within which Xythrax has placed his spirit, destroying him. The destruction of the sword kills Rokwolf.

Meanwhile, Klare returns to the Healer’s Cottage to help a supplicant, and is captured by the black maghi, Melufa, who takes her to the hilltop just outside of Shigmar, where she kills both Klare and her unborn child, taking the Healer’s Staff and fleeing back to Eklor. The deaths of both twin-brother and wife hurls Klaybear into madness, allowing him to break free of his prison and destroying the seklesi fortress in Holvar. Before Klaybear escapes, Delgart, newly crowned Fereghen, goes with Marilee, Thal, and Tevvy to the throne hall of Holvar, revealing Lord Krell and his consort to be Gar and Rupansa. As the citadel begins to fall, Delgart sends the others to the hill north of Shigmar, where Elanor weeps over Klare’s dead body. Delgart goes to an isolated farmstead and retrieves Blakstar’s childhood friend, the real Marta, and takes her to testify to the kortexem that their Wesento, Sir Whitesun, has lied to them. Blakstar fights Whitesun, a battle of titanic proportions, finally defeating and killing the false Wesento; the kortexem go mad, killing each other, the fight and madness spreading throughout Karble, until only the false Marta, Demansa, remains alive.

Rokwolf and Sutugno are dead, leaving behind a newborn daughter; Klare is dead; Holvar and the seklesi order destroyed; Karble and the kortexi order destroyed; the chosen mourning over the loss of Klare and Rokwolf, sit disconsolate on the only living ground anywhere near Shigmar, the hilltop on which Klaybear enacted breath-givers most terrible power. Thus, House of Potimus begins. . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clyde B Northrup
• Release date: May 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310508691

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.

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House of Potimus

Book 6 of The Redemption

By Clyde B. Northrup

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Clyde B. Northrup.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my family, without whose undying support this work would not be possible.

Table of Contents

Author’s Preface

Prophecy of the Chosen

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Glossary

Dictionary

Fokortheku: Book of Ortheks

Maps

About the Author

Author’s Preface

In an attempt to minimize the influence of the red kailum on the people, the gwenakso, led by her commanders Delgart and Marilee, with the aid of their fellow chosen, infiltrate the red kailu fortress of Luflina, killing the red kailu masters and using their fall to convince the Red Guards to surrender and switch their allegiance. As the red kailu Magsamel lay dying, he hints at the fact that this fortress is not the home of their order, that the red kailu order is everywhere. In the process of taking the fortress, Klaybear is lost, taken by agents of Xythrax and imprisoned by the false Fereghen, Lord Krell, in the dungeons beneath the seklesi citadel at Holvar. Thalamar, Telvor, Rokwolf, and Blakstar, follow a red kailu initiate deep into the Wolpoti Swamp, hoping to find both the home of the red kailu order and the place where Klaybear is imprisoned. They reach and enter a hill called Nekrokolu, where Blakstar is tricked into entering a small recess inside Nekrokolu to rescue what he believes is a damsel in distress; instead, he triggers a trap that transports him to the citadel of Karble, captured by his son Whitesun. The three remaining chosen face and defeat the fabled black aperu, guarding the entrance to Xythrax’ lair, where the battle against the black aperu results in the accidental destruction of all Xythrax’s purgle minions, their spirits hidden in objects stored within the black aperu’s cave. In the fight with Xythrax, Rokwolf saves Thal’s life, Gwoneru explodes, and a shard destroys the object within which Xythrax has placed his spirit, destroying him. The destruction of the sword kills Rokwolf.

Meanwhile, Klare returns to the Healer’s Cottage to help a supplicant, and is captured by the black maghi, Melufa, who takes her to the hilltop just outside of Shigmar, where she kills both Klare and her unborn child, taking the Healer’s Staff and fleeing back to Eklor. The deaths of both twin-brother and wife hurls Klaybear into madness, allowing him to break free of his prison and destroying the seklesi fortress in Holvar. Before Klaybear escapes, Delgart, newly crowned Fereghen, goes with Marilee, Thal, and Tevvy to the throne hall of Holvar, revealing Lord Krell and his consort to be Gar and Rupansa. As the citadel begins to fall, Delgart sends the others to the hill north of Shigmar, where Elanor weeps over Klare’s dead body. Delgart goes to an isolated farmstead and retrieves Blakstar’s childhood friend, the real Marta, and takes her to testify to the kortexem that their Wesento, Sir Whitesun, has lied to them. Blakstar fights Whitesun, a battle of titanic proportions, finally defeating and killing the false Wesento; the kortexem go mad, killing each other, the fight and madness spreading throughout Karble, until only the false Marta, Demansa, remains alive.

Rokwolf and Sutugno are dead, leaving behind a newborn daughter; Klare is dead; Holvar and the seklesi order destroyed; Karble and the kortexi order destroyed; the chosen mourning over the loss of Klare and Rokwolf, sit disconsolate on the only living ground anywhere near Shigmar, the hilltop on which Klaybear enacted breath-givers most terrible power. Thus, House of Potimus begins. . . .

Again, we acknowledge the help of many people, especially those who have read and offered feedback on this book–their contributions have been invaluable; finally, we thank all of our readers for their willingness to continue with this tale: you keep us writing! Thank you!

Clyde B. Northrup

June 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 36, Late Winter

The storm raged around the young awemi, reflecting his mood; he had run away from home, run away from those who tormented him, run into the hills east of the village named Woikodem. He had the round, innocent face of all his kind, with curly blond hair and eyes a golden shade of brown; the hair on the backs of his hands, the tops of his feet, and his face was downy, reflecting his young age–barely fourteen. He was small for his age and had long, thin, and delicate fingers and hands, which lead to one of the nicknames his peers had given him, the one he hated the most: Korapu, which meant, girly boy. Even his own mother couldn’t see beyond his stupid hands, always calling him Paumus, little mouse, or Numolman, clever fingers, and these pet names led his father to name him, Numolmus, nimble mouse, and he hated the names, and was running from those who called him these and other names.

As he climbed higher into the hills, the storm grew fiercer, the air colder, and the icy rain became flakes of snow, driven by the wind and stinging his cheeks, but his anger kept him warm and drove him onward. He stumbled, tripping over a fallen branch, tumbling sideways down the hill and into a thorny bush; he jumped up, more angry than before, spitting out curses and dead leaves, clawing his way to the top of the hill and stopping to regain his bearings. He adjusted his course, heading for a cave he had heard of further east, a place in which he could shelter from the storm and think. As he started down the hill, he noticed a growing pain in his knees and hands and saw that he had torn the knees of his leggings when he fell, cutting his knees and the palms of his hands; blood oozed out of the scratches. He cursed again and quickened his pace, knowing that the scent of his blood would bring a pack of rock wolves, or worse, one of the skelkandi, who often wandered this far south from the Wolpoti Swamp. Either one would prove to be too much for one small, teenaged awemi. His anger faded, replaced by fear; he jogged down the hill, winding among the trunks of oaks and maples, wishing he had thought to grab a bow, or a sling, before he ran out.

A quarter of an hour passed, the wet snow soaking his clothes and hair, icy water running down his face and neck. He began to shiver from the cold, in spite of the heat of his running. The sound he feared echoed among the hills behind him, the mournful howl of a single rock wolf, coming from the place where he had tripped and cut himself. Moments later, another rock wolf howled, to his right and behind him, followed almost at once by a third howl, to his left and behind. Fear spurred the young awemi to run faster, the cold chill inside now more than simply the foul weather. Having no clear idea how much farther it was to the cave, he turned his path downhill, toward the valley, where he hoped he might find one of the farmsteads and shelter from both the storm and the rock wolves. His hunters continued to call to one another, the sounds eerie among the trees, mist, and falling snow. He ran flat out down the hills, faster than he could have run normally, and his increased pace and the unsure footing betrayed him, tripping him a second time. He tumbled and rolled down the hill, not catching himself until he crashed into a snow covered holly, drenching him, the thorns tearing his clothes and covering him with scratches. He spat curses that he choked on, hearing sounds that increased his terror: more howls from further downhill. He scrambled out of the holly, scratching himself even more and began clawing his way back up the hill, away from the howls of his pursuers.

The cold penetrated deeper, sapping his strength; he tripped more often as he fled, and lost all sense of his surroundings, only concerned with the howls growing closer behind him from three directions now. From somewhere deep in his mind, a dry voice told him he had become the hare, and the surest way to lose the race was to continue running away until exhausted, at which time he would be caught. Cold terror held him in a stranglehold, spurred him onward, heedless of anything but his abject fear. He ran. He tripped and fell. He stumbled to his feet and ran on, tripping, falling, and getting up to run again. The howls sounded loud in his ears; he could hear their panting over his own heavy breathing, hear their soft footfalls coming closer, and closer, and closer. He tripped a final time and fell hard on the icy, wet ground, striking his head against a rock.

When he awoke, he noticed at once that his clothes and hair were dry, and he felt pleasantly warm, although his head ached. With the caution of his kind, he lay motionless on the smooth stone, opening his eyes only a slit to see his surroundings; he was looking into the glowing embers of a fire, which blinded him to all else. Loud, cruel laughter echoed around him, and he knew that he must be inside a cave, but how he had gotten there, he could not recall.

I know you are awake, boy, a harsh voice spoke, so stand and face me; I am your savior.

The teenage awemi slowly pushed himself onto his hands and knees, then sat back on his heels, looking at the source of the harsh voice, but the appearance of the stranger seem to belie his voice, for he was a beautiful wethi, with long brown and wavy hair, beardless, with an ageless quality of skin. He wore brown robes with matching brown boots, and he lounged on what looked like a stone chair carved from obsidian. What set this stranger apart were his eyes, that at first seemed dark brown, but now were deep blue.

Where am I? he asked, looking around the cave, which was empty but for the stranger, his chair, and the fire burning between them.

Did you not understand that I rescued you from certain death? the stranger’s harsh voice asked. You should be thanking me on your knees for your life, boy! he barked, his eyes turning red.

The teenage awemi felt a sudden compulsion to kneel and bow his head to the stranger. Instead, he stood up. Thank you for rescuing me, he said, but you still haven’t told me where I am, or why you brought me here.

The stranger laughed, and his eyes returned to deep blue. The cave for which you were making, he said. I rescued you to give you an opportunity, Master Potimus.

My name is Numolmus, he replied, not Potimus.

Not yet, the stranger laughed, but you will change it, once you have become the greatest thief of all time . . . if . . . , he added, but did not finish.

Numolmus waited. If . . . what? he finally asked, shivering in spite of the fire.

The stranger leaned forward on his chair, his eyes turning violet. Swear yourself into my service, he began, his voice becoming menacing, and worship me.

Worship you? Numolmus replied. I don’t even know who you are.

Do you not? the stranger laughed, his eyes becoming golden, then changing to violet as he continued to speak. I am the lord of this world; worship me and I will grant you everything your heart desires. He waved his right hand as he finished, and the cave around him filled with gold and jewels, glittering in the light of the fire.

The awemi’s breath caught. He gazed longingly around him, seeing gold and silver coins, ingots of gold and silver stacked to the ceiling, unwrought gold, silver, and gemstones. His hands reached toward diamonds and rubies the size of his head, his will subsumed by avarice for the unmeasured wealth around him.

Does that mean you are accepting my offer? the stranger asked in a slow, quiet voice.

Numolmus froze, the wariness of his race pushing aside his greed. Why me? he asked, straightening up and forcing himself to look at the stranger, but his eyes kept straying back to the treasure.

I already told you, Potimus, the stranger barked, and I do not repeat myself. If you are too daft to understand the honor I am doing you, then I will leave you to your fate. He stood, and all the treasure shimmered and vanished; howls echoed from outside.

Wait! Numolmus snapped. You must give me time to consider your offer! He held out his hands imploring the stranger.

"I have given you plenty of time, Korapu, he spoke derisively, his eyes going black. Take it, or leave this cave and feed a hungry pack of rock wolves." The rock wolves’ howls outside the cave punctuated the stranger’s comment.

The name brought back all his anger; he stood straighter. The One would never force such a choice on anyone, he began, believing he had nothing to lose, which means you are the Lord of Evil.

Gar clapped his hands twice. Well done, boy, he mocked, "your mind is finally awake but that will not save you from your fate. Scorn the generous offer of the Great Lord to your eternal detriment. Goodbye, Korapu, for the last time." He turned to leave, opening a black archway; he paused and turned back, tossing something that glittered to the awemi, who caught it deftly. So that you do not die penniless, but die remembering what you could have had. He stepped into the blackness; the archway winked out.

Numolmus turned over the heavy gold coin, seeing the face of Gar stamped on one side, then stuffed the coin into his pocket. The howling grew louder outside; he ran around the cave, seeking an escape and a weapon, but there was no escape, no place to hide, and no weapon with which to defend himself. He backed against the far wall, turning to face the pack of rock wolves scratching and sniffing around the cave’s entrance. A triumphant howl issued from one of the rock wolves, taken up at once by the others, and Numolmus closed his eyes and braced for the impact he knew was coming. His heart pounded frantically in his chest, as if to lengthen the life left to him.

The rock wolves fell silent; Numolmus waited, holding his breath. Moments dragged, and he was forced to gasp for breath, holding it again in the silence, waiting for the end, but no end came. He opened his eyes and saw an old peddler he recognized as having visited his village on several occasions to sell his wares. Numolmus remembered him for his clear, laughing blue eyes, eyes that seemed to belie his appearance of age.

Why are you cringing there, young Numolmus? he spoke, his voice musical and bright, like his eyes. I will not harm you.

Where are the rock wolves? Numolmus asked, his voice quavering. How did you get past them? I thought I was about to be eaten! he exclaimed, sounding giddy; his breath coming in quick pants.

The peddler laughed, filling the cave with music, the sound calming Numolmus. I asked them politely to hunt elsewhere, told them you were too small and scrawny to feed the entire pack. He smiled, which also belied his aged appearance.

Numolmus relaxed and laughed at the peddler’s joke. You are right–I wouldn’t make much of a meal even for one rock wolf!

The peddler nodded. Come, young Numolmus, there is something I must show you.

What about the storm? he asked. Shouldn’t we wait here until it passes?

The storm will not trouble us, the peddler replied, and I have warmer clothing in my cart. He turned and left the cave.

Numolmus followed, leaving the cave and finding the peddler already seated on the front of his cart, the reins held ready. The young awemi climbed up beside the peddler, who clucked to his horse and shook the reins; the cart lurched forward down a narrow trail, just wide enough for the cart, winding down the hill. Numolmus looked around, noticing a small clearing before cave’s mouth, with no other way to approach the cave but the track they followed.

There are some warmer clothes laid out inside the cart, the peddler said, nodding over his shoulder. Numolmus climbed over the seat and under the canvas, finding a gray wool cloak, new leggings, and a tunic, all of the same stout gray wool. He quickly changed into the newer, warmer clothing, moving the items he had in his pockets. When he started to put the heavy gold coin Gar had given him into his pocket, the peddler spoke.

Just leave that coin with your old clothes, he called back, and I will deal with it; it is a dangerous trinket for one so young.

Numolmus turned the heavy coin over several times in his fingers, examining every detail, feeling the weight of the gold, recognizing how valuable it was; he decided to slip it into his pocket anyway.

Trust me, the peddler spoke again, "you don’t want to be found carrying anything bearing the mark of my brother–it will mark you as his."

Numolmus looked again at the coin, bearing the likeness of the Lord of Evil on one side, and his symbol on the other; he shuddered, slowly opening his finger and turning his hand over, allowing the coin to drop onto the pile of his old clothes with a loud thump. He crawled out from under the cart’s canvas top, seating himself next to the peddler.

You’re Gar’s brother? he asked. But you look so much older than him, old enough to be his father, or grandfather.

The peddler smiled, his blue eyes glittering. "Do not be deceived by appearances, my young awemi; I assure you that he is my brother."

Numolmus accepted this assertion, then looked around and gasped. They were no longer in the hills, but in a secluded valley, and the storm no longer raged around them. How did we get here, so quickly and so far from where we were? He leaned out beside the cart, looking back and seeing the hills covered with snow and dark clouds.

The peddler chuckled softly to himself. This is the place I must show you, he noted, a secret valley far to the east of your village.

Numolmus looked around, wondering why this valley was important to him.

Some day, in your future, the peddler went on, as if he had read the awemi’s thoughts, "you will build a special place–a place in which you will hide many important things. It will be filled with the most cunning traps that few will be able to pass, and only one will penetrate to the center of this place, one of your distant descendants. Only the two of them will exceed your ability, for, as my brother told you, you will be the greatest klitodweri of all time, save for those two."

"What’s a klitodweri?" he asked, confused by the unfamiliar word.

The peddler smiled again. "A thief in service of the One." He pulled back on the reins and stopped the cart, setting the brake and jumping down next to a large stone, the only feature on the valley’s floor. He waved his hand and the stone rolled over, revealing a concealed space underneath; inside the square stone box a small brass horn rested. The peddler stooped and picked up the horn, putting it to his lips and sounding it. The horn rang out with a pure clear note; the air before them shimmered, revealing a hazy shape, a ghostly image of a building that wavered. Numolmus looked at it closely.

It looks like a large house, he noted, feeling let down.

On the outside, the peddler agreed, but remember what I told you–appearances can deceive. He stooped and replaced the horn, then waved the rock back into place. "Remember this place and this horn, for it alone will cause this place to appear, once you have built it, and you will name it, Wesenu."

Numolmus frowned, still studying the image wavering before them. "Wesenu, he repeated, what does it mean?"

"The House," the peddler replied.

Numolmus laughed, looking at the peddler to see if he was serious. That’s not a very grand name for such an important place, he noted.

The simple name is part of the deception that will hide it, the peddler replied, protecting what it hides. You must not speak of this place with anyone, until the time is right for building it, and then you and your future companions will construct it, using only elemental forces.

How will I know when the time is right?

The peddler climbed back onto his cart, releasing the brake, and starting them moving again. You will know, he replied cryptically. For now, I must set your feet on the proper path.

Where are you taking me?

To Belford, where you will join the Thieves’ Guild and begin training.

Chapter 1

The Sedra then presented the council with the badges of office he had created for each of us, informing the council that, unlike our individual rods, these symbols would endure should any of us die or be killed, to be passed on to whoever took our place. . . .

from Annals of Melbarth, Council Minutes, Second Series

My lord, Demansa said, stepping out of a black archway, her voice not hiding the emotion she felt, which caused her to stumble over her next words, I have . . . news. A corpse floated before her, its neck and shoulder split open and its black armor stained with its own blood, just beginning to darken and dry at its edges, still bright red, but no longer flowing, surrounded by a softly glowing nimbus of purple light. Although Demansa had the appearance of a wetha, her fangs and red eyes belied her outward semblance.

My lord, a voice intoned, and Demansa looked up and saw her sister glaring down at her, look who has returned, and bringing along her dead offspring, to tell us, no doubt, of the death of the boy’s father, Rupansa mocked, "and the subjugation of the kortexi order."

"What happened to you, sister? Demansa asked, putting as much acid in the term as she could, stopping in front of Gar’s throne, where the Lord of Evil lounged, his eyes already turning red. You look as if you allowed an entire seklesi squad access to your bed at once; I had not realized your appetite for wethem had gotten so out of control, or is it an indication of your total victory in Holvar?"

SILENCE! Gar shouted, shaking the cavern and causing great chunks of stone to fall and shatter upon the floor; his eyes were brilliant red as he looked from one to the other, both Demansa and her sister cowering away from his wrath. This is the reason why both of you are never allowed into my presence at once! he growled, but his eyes had faded to a dull red, his fingers tapping the arms of his throne nervously. After several slow, pregnant moments, he finally looked again at Demansa where she stood in front of the raised dais upon which his throne sat, her head bowed and the corpse of Whitesun floating in front of her. Rupansa cowered on the steps of the dais leading up to the throne, in the shadows to Gar’s right, her eyes moving from her lord to her sister, and back again, as if she were unsure which should be the focus of her attention.

What news? Gar asked, his voice sullen.

"The kortexem have destroyed themselves, Demansa replied, their city and citadel is filled with corpses, blood, and howling ghosts, but the chosen escaped after killing his son," she added, pointing down at the corpse before her.

As I planned, Gar noted, smiling, his eyes turning blue, and Klaybear, he chuckled, "his twin is dead, his wife is dead, and he again did our work for us, leveling the seklesi fortress in Holvar more effectively than we could have. His laughter echoed, shaking the cavern and dislodging more stones from the walls and ceiling; Demansa cringed and dodged the falling rocks. Our plans go forward, he added, his voice now exultant and his eyes turning deep violet, soon, we will be freed forever from this, our prison, and the universe will again be ours to command! His eyes shifted back to blue, and he looked around the room. Where is my messenger? Bardu? Where is that imp hiding?" he called, still looking around.

Out of the shadows behind the throne a small fiend flew, looking like a miniature version of a ponkolu, Bardu only two feet tall. Yes, master, Bardu squeaked, somehow bowing as he floated in the air before Gar. You called me, master.

Gar frowned when he saw the imp, his eyes threatening to turn red. Go tell that useless Kaudorfu that it is time to flood the tunnels, and sink Melbarth into the sea.

At once, master, Bardu, replied, and the imp disappeared in a flash of red and a small pop.

Demansa grinned widely and saw Rupansa mirroring her grin. "Doesn’t that mean an end of the higher orders?" Rupansa asked, her final words spoken like a curse.

I think that is exactly what it means, sister, Demansa replied, and her smile gloated; she turned from her sister to Gar, and the smile fell from her face, seeing that the Great Lord was not smiling but frowning. M-my lord, she stammered, is there something wrong? she asked, then cowered under the glare Gar leveled at her.

Gar’s eyes turned red for a moment, then returned to their normal blue. That idiot, Melufa, he spat, did not follow orders when she captured Klaybear’s wife: she was only supposed to kill her, not the unborn child, nor was she supposed to take the Healer’s Staff, his voice rising ominously in volume, and she did both! His final words set the cavern to shaking again, causing Demansa and the others in the hall to reel about drunkenly for a time. When the shaking ceased, Demansa spoke hesitantly again.

My lord? Demansa asked.

Gar looked down at Demansa, but sat still, unmoved. Well, he finally said, she has sealed her fate.

Demansa exchanged a look with her sister; Rupansa tried to speak. My lord, Rupansa said, we do not understand.

Gar looked from one to the other. Don’t you? he asked in a superior voice. Then you are as stupid as Melufa! he snapped, his eyes becoming red again for a moment but then quickly cooling to blue. "The chosen will not rest until they have recovered the Healer’s Staff; they will raze Eklor to the ground once they have found Melufa and taken it back. His voice lowered at this point to barely a whisper, and he leaned forward, almost leaning out of his throne. Then there will be two Shattered Capes staring at each other across the Inner Sea; two heaps of ruins, silent witnesses of the power of the chosen to destroy all, especially those who try to aid them." He grinned, and his grin frightened Demansa, such that she cowered away from the Great Lord; he grinned down at her. He leaned back into his throne and laughed, a maniacal sound, that caused Demansa to go suddenly cold.

My lord, Demansa said several moments later, what about my son? she asked, pointing down at the corpse before her.

"We can do nothing for him until the chosen open the forbidden door, Gar replied, and we will remake him, but in the meantime, we have some unfinished business to attend to," he added, and his maniacal grin turned evil, his eyes going deep violet as he spoke.

My lord? Demansa asked, looking around confused.

Gar raised and waved his hands, and Demansa flew into the air to stand struggling before him, Rupansa beside her, as if both were bound tightly upright by invisible cords. Demansa stopped struggling when she looked up and realized that the Great Lord stood in front of them, holding a curved, black dagger in his right hand. Gar was testing the edge of the black dagger with one thumb; black sparks flared along the edge of the blade as he drew his thumb across it, causing Demansa to wince.

You, Rupansa, Gar noted without looking up from the dagger, "have done such an admirable job masquerading as the Feragwen, I wish for you to do so again, but this time as the new, true Feragwen." He stopped playing with the black dagger and waved his free hand over Rupansa, and the ponkola blurred into a wetha with blue-black hair in new golden armor and crowned helm, but her eyes were still red and her teeth still fanged, and she still had the frightened voice of Rupansa when she spoke.

My lord, Rupansa began, what new game is this? she finished, her voice shaking.

Gar ignored her question, turning instead to Demansa, who looked with narrowed eyes upon her sister’s new face and form. And you, Demansa, Gar said, waving his hand across Demansa, and she felt her form blurred into a new shape, you are now the wife of Klaybear, although she is dead. You see, I missed the pleasure of killing her myself, and now you will have the honor of giving me that pleasure yourself.

Horror filled Demansa. But my lord! Demansa exclaimed in her own voice, and her voice shook with undisguised fear. What have I done to displease you? I have fulfilled all of your commands! she implored, falling to her knees, although still bound by invisible cords.

Gar smiled down at Demansa and stroked her cheek gently with the flat of the dagger’s blade; she shied away from it, which caused Gar’s grin to widen again. My dear Demansa, Gar replied in a soft, loving whisper, this is no punishment, but a reward for your excellent service to me. He straightened and turned away from her while continuing to speak. "Why several of your ponkolu colleagues begged for the honor I am about to give you, and thanked me as they received it." He stood facing away from them.

My lord, Rupansa spoke, after several minutes passed in silence, "I will do it myself, plunge the dagger into my own breast, if you let me have one of the kortexi captives first."

Gar turned his head and looked over his shoulder toward Rupansa, his eyes vacillating between purple and red, one eyebrow rising. What do you mean? he asked.

Rupansa lowered her voice to its most sultry purr, which seemed out of place on the Feragwen’s face. "Let me work my wicked will upon the kortexi, she spoke in a breathy voice, whip him into a frenzy, then at the moment of climax, I will plunge that dagger into his chest, then into my own, mixing our blood in death, for my lord’s entertainment . . . and eternal pleasure," she finished after a slight pause, her voice almost inaudible.

Demansa snorted; Gar turned his head away and did not speak, as if he were considering Rupansa’s proposal. For several slow minutes Gar stood motionless, and Demansa waited watching his back wondering what the Great Lord was waiting for. Suddenly, the Lord of Evil whipped around, his eyes flashing red, and grabbed Rupansa’s throat with his free hand, lifting her off the ground; she dangled in the air, her legs kicking uselessly, trying to free herself, making choking sounds, while Gar pressed the black dagger to her chest and brought his face next to hers. Her form blurred, and she became again herself, a horned and winged ponkola, hanging in the grasp of the Great Lord.

Do you take me for a fool? Gar hissed into Rupansa’s frightened face. Do you think for one moment that I would put this dagger, capable of utterly destroying me, into your hands? It is more likely that you would stab it into my chest rather than your own!

No! My lord, I would never . . . , Rupansa tried to protest, but Gar did not let her finish: he snarled and rammed the black dagger into her heaving chest. Rupansa gasped, shock in her eyes, and went limp in Gar’s grasp. He jerked the black dagger free and tossed Rupansa’s body aside, like a child no longer interested in a toy. The corpse slid across the floor and lay in a crumpled heap that none dared go near.

Demansa watched with horror as her sister died, as the body slid across the obsidian floor, then she fell again to her knees to beg for her own life.

Please, my lord! Demansa implored. Spare my life that I can use it in your service! She bowed her head as submissively as she could manage, still bound by invisible cords, and waited for Gar’s wrath. Several minutes passed slowly before she dared to raise her head and look up, and what she saw surprised her nearly as much as her sister’s sudden demise. Gar again lounged upon his throne; he was no longer holding the black dagger, but where it was, she could not see. She cast a furtive glance toward the place where her sister’s corpse had stopped sliding and saw the place was empty. My lord? she asked hesitantly, still afraid that she might be slain at the slightest provocation.

Your sister’s blood is quite sweet, Gar noted, sounding bored, "which might explain her insatiable appetite for wethem."

Demansa tried to hide her confusion. Yes, my lord, she replied, still kneeling.

Gar waved one hand, and Demansa’s form blurred, returning to her ponkola form, the invisible bonds no longer holding her in place, but she did not get up. "You, also, have an appetite for wethem, Demansa, Gar went on, but you have better control, which is why I have decided not to destroy you . . . today," he finished after a slight pause, smiling down at Demansa.

Thank you, my lord, Demansa replied, getting slowly to her feet, you are most generous.

Gar smiled again, and his blue eyes turned deep violet. We have work to do, Demansa, and preparations to make, he said, standing and stepping down off the dais to where the corpse of Whitesun lay at the foot of the stairs. Let me show you what we have in mind for this boy of yours, he went on, nudging the corpse with one foot. "We will remake him in a new form; he will become a fighting machine, with multiple limbs and separate heads able to control the limbs independently. If we set him loose in the world above, he would break armies and raze the land of inhabitants; he will be the chief ne-kortexi, the opposite of all Blakstar, his father, holds dear and stands for; not at any time in the deepest, darkest dreams of anyone since Karble, has anyone imagined what your son will become. He will become our champion, the guardian of our gate and prevent the chosen from approaching this hall, once my meddling brother surrenders himself into our hands."

Demansa gazed up at Gar in adoration as the Great Lord spoke, and when he spoke of his brother, Demansa looked shocked. My lord! she exclaimed. Surely not! Your brother is not so foolish as that! He will not come here willingly, will he? she asked, suddenly not so sure of herself.

Gar smiled at Demansa again, his blue eyes turning deep violet for the second time. He will, Demansa, he replied, I assure you he will come to ransom another, for it was decreed before we were imprisoned beneath the surface of the world that he would surrender himself to me, and allow me to destroy him, Gar went on, and the black dagger appeared again in his hand, which is why I created this dagger, the only weapon that will destroy him. For the second time, Gar stroked Demansa’s cheek with the flat of the black dagger’s blade; although she flinched, she did not shy away from the dagger this time, but forced herself to hold still. Gar drew his arm and the dagger back, and Demansa looked up, her eyes widening in fright as Gar grinned down at her again, the maniacal glint in his violet eyes, the dagger twitching toward her chest, now heaving as she drew what she feared might be her final breath.

It’s hopeless, Thal sighed, lifting a piece of rubble with the toe of his boot and tossing it toward the remains of his and Rose’s tower. The outbuildings have been stripped, as has been the stable, he added, drawing Delgart’s attention to the stable’s open doors. Tevvy moved furtively out of one of the sheds and shook his head. It will be months, no, years, Thal went on, before the tower has repaired itself sufficiently for us to find the book or scroll my father left for us that tells us how to use the three keys to revive Klare.

Delgart shook his head slowly, looking around; his new armor glowed brilliantly in the golden light of the setting sun. Tevvy moved away from him, his head moving from side to side as he searched the ground. I cannot believe that neither your parents, Delgart said, nor the founders, would not have foreseen this turn of events and not have prepared for it. One of them must have done something! he exclaimed, looking again at the white maghi.

What’s this? Tevvy asked, holding up the symbol with the tip of his dagger and looking toward Thal and Delgart.

What’s it look like? Thal asked, beginning to move toward Tevvy, shielding his eyes from the light reflecting off the shining symbol Tevvy held up; Delgart also shaded his eyes, moving to follow Thal. I cannot see it clearly, Thal added, squinting against the bright reflection.

Tevvy moved his hand and the dagger, causing the symbol to flash more light. It looks like the symbols both you and Rose, he noted after a moment, "and the other maghem, always wear, but larger, and this has another symbol centered above the eye’s pupil, and it looks like . . . ," he paused and then snorted a short laugh, then looked up at the others.

Like what? Thal asked, one eyebrow rising slowly.

Tevvy laughed again. Well, it looks like a chair, he replied, that’s what made me laugh, since it seems so out of place on one of your symbols. He smiled up at Thal, then extended his arm and the symbol toward the maghi.

Thal smiled a crooked grin, then carefully reached out to take the chain and symbol from Tevvy’s dagger where it hung swinging