Kari's Reckoning

By D. Wallace Peach

The epic adventure concludes as the Shiplord vies for what he desires—the throne of Ellegeance. Their power in jeopardy, influencers surrender their oaths, their loyalties fractured. Rose, a child of untrained and reckless talent, once again becomes a pawn in the quest for control.

As the Cull Tarr solidify their rule, Guardian plots rebellion. Catling and Whitt, each gifted with singular skills, seek to sway the course of the conflict. Oathbreakers, traitors, and those desperate to save Rose collide in a final battle for the realm.

Yet, a third player emerges in the deadly game. The kari, spirits of a sentient planet, command the air, water, and land. They manipulate events to satisfy their sovereign designs and care not who survives the human war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Wallace Peach
• Release date: Apr 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781635356908

D. Wallace Peach

D. Wallace Peach started writing later in life after the kids were grown and a move left her with hours to fill. Years of working in business surrendered to a full-time indulgence in the imaginative world of books, and when she started writing, she was instantly hooked. Diana lives in a log cabin amongst the tall evergreens and emerald moss of Oregon's rainforest with her husband, two dogs, two owls, a horde of bats, and the occasional family of coyotes

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Table of Contents

Kari's Reckoning

Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Epilog

About the Author

Books by D. Wallace Peach

Ready for another adventure?

Map

Chapter One

Darkest Night.

Catling wandered through the nighttime corridors of Elan-Sia’s nineteenth tier, her hand trailing along the smooth Founder-made walls. Luminescent tubes snaked overhead, the planet’s liquid life streaming and swirling in opalescent color. So high in the tiers, the light shone brightly, yet eerie shadows skulked in the corners without the moons’ ambient glow.

She paused at a north-facing window. Clouds obliterated the stars, all light radiating from the surrounding delta. The Cull Sea’s pearly surface undulated with the song of the waves. Elegant silhouettes of Cull Tarr dragnets and skudders rocked on the swells, and the spindly masts of round-bellied galleasses speared the dark horizon. For a week, they’d amassed beyond the breakwater, sailing into the delta and up the Slipsilver, claiming a need to conclude business and gather supplies before the arrival of Winterchill gales.

If she concentrated, she could distinguish the distant outlines of giant waterdragons as they breached the waves and smashed back through the surface in wild fountains of glittering spray.

She abandoned the view and walked, arm outstretched, slender fingertips leaving invisible ribbons where they glided across the wall’s smooth surface. Somewhere, waterdragons pulled her daughter south with her new mother and the man who would have been her lover in another place and time, one unhindered by the persistent demands of power. She touched the exquisite rose gracing her eye. How could she be so powerful and powerless at the same time?

She had nothing left to lose but her life. A sullen thought, though freeing if she believed it inevitable. Had her time arrived? She paused at the sounds of conversation, fingers pressed to the wall.

Vianne’s familiar voice whispered around the quiet corner, This discussion is uncalled for, her decision rendered.

We have an oath to Ellegeance to consider, Dalcoran replied.

Our oath is to Lelaine. I won’t agree.

One of them knocked and a door slid open with a soft hiss. New voices exchanged greetings, the Cull Tarr accent unmistakable.

Catling sighed at the guild’s intrigue, endless manipulation, and a belief that what they accomplished mattered. The future would forget them. They’d die, and others would layer decisions over theirs, forging new paths. If influence were to vanish from the skin of the planet, would the world dawn each morning a kinder and safer place?

She waited for an answer that didn’t come and then continued on past the ambassador’s door.

The unseamed gray of the floor, the cool walls, and flat ceiling held no memories of those who’d trod the halls before. They demanded no care, no cleaning, no mending or maintenance. How long would the alien cities last unchanged, impervious to the passage of time? Another three hundred years? A millennium? Lives came and went, washing from the tiers’ petals like rainwater to the porous, wet world below. Was her life within these walls any more important, other than being hers?

Perhaps, only a world of wrinkles and grooves could capture the fragmented stories of wounded souls, hold them tight in the ashes and rubble. One required pitted stone and cracked wood, ragged bark and churned soil to heal a heart’s broken flesh. Whitt and Rose lived in that foreign world.

Her skin matched these walls, smooth and serene. Yet, the emptiness of her expression, the monotony of her smile hid a secret fire within her that would one day flare and burst forth in a conflagration of pent-up desperation.

She walked past a tall mirror, refusing to acknowledge more than a glance at her face, the inked rose that hid the birthmark surrounding her right eye. It matched the garden that started beneath her hair, curled in vines down her neck and bloomed across her back, inhabited by the crimson bird of death. Influence had made her beautiful, exotic, one who drew stares and questions. It had also transformed her into a monster, a murderer, a woman desirous of vengeance.

Nothing remained for her in the Founders’ sterile world but duty and death.

***

Vianne accepted a cup of greenleaf from Falco Linc. The handsome Cull Tarr ambassador smiled graciously, eyes bright in his swarthy face. She’d never caught him with a visible whisker, and his long oiled hair seemed impervious to the wind. His scarlet Cull Tarr shirt stood out beneath the knee-length jacket with its exaggerated shoulders. Gold charms dangled from his wrists and ankles.

The other Cull Tarr guest lacked the polish of the ambassador, but not his faith in the Founders. Shipmaster Emer Tilkon was the antithesis of demure in her revealing bodice, leggings bordering on transparent, and skirt slit to her belt, all in black. A scar curled her upper lip into one of two unnerving expressions—a smirk or a sneer. Though she hadn’t permanently assumed the position vacated by Varon Kest at his death, her presence as the Shiplord’s emissary in Elan-Sia meant Falco Linc would transfer back to Ava-Grea, to the Influencers’ Guild.

Vianne settled into her seat. It appears, Ambassador, that the Shiplord, once again, graces Ava-Grea with your company.

My honor, Vianne-Ava. Tull Airon has not surrendered his wish for a united kingdom.

She tilted her head. Queendom.

Ah, of course. Linc smiled. Forgive me. The Cull Tarr harbor no ill feelings regarding a ruling queen.

The shipmaster smirked and cracked her knuckles, a habit drawing Vianne’s wince. A queen and king make for a stronger rule, doyen.

Then, by all means, Vianne said, Tull Airon should bond with a woman of your faith and fortitude and strengthen his reign as Shiplord. Her gaze shifted to Dalcoran. Our queen has announced her choice, an adequate selection, and a fact you all seem determined to overlook.

An unwise selection, Dalcoran said. Gannon offers no alliances. Other than Bes-Strea, the tiers will likely see Lelaine’s choice in a king as an affront. Ellegeance continues to change, Vianne, more rapidly than I’d favor, and Emer is correct. A bond with a man of inherent power would offer greater stability.

Change is inevitable and rarely comfortable. Vianne sipped her tea, wishing she’d brought her lace. Tatting occupied her hands and calmed her nerves, essential when dealing with those of stilted imaginations and shuttered minds.

Seated across from her, Dalcoran massaged his fingers, the joints swollen and painful to behold. Lelaine’s mistakes could have been avoided with less secrecy and greater collaboration at the onset. Had we maintained control, we might have circumvented a host of challenges.

If he meant to be cryptic, his failure bordered on abysmal. Thirteen years had lapsed since Vianne slipped Catling into Ava-Grea without his knowledge and arranged a primary vow to the queen. He still struggled to forgive her, the complaint persisting like a pebble in his boot. As a result of those unsanctioned actions, Lelaine rendered decisions unbiased by influence, and in Vianne’s opinion, the benefits outweighed the disadvantages. I’m still convinced the outcome has justified the means.

A philosophy the Shiplord would approve of. Linc idled by the window with a goblet of boiled water, pure according to Cull Tarr standards, its luminescence dead.

Dalcoran rubbed a dab of elbrin liniment into his gnarled hands. The stately man was precise about his appearance. His erect back matched his morals, his sharp features and groomed hair as perfectly defined as his oath. He’d become rigid through the years, both physically and perceptually. As far as she was concerned, he’d lost his bearings in both senses of the word.

She sipped her greenleaf, berating herself for her sullenness. They’d worked as colleagues for more than half their lives, and despite how he nettled her calm, their years together meant something. She hadn’t stopped caring. May I help?

He met her eyes with a weariness that had lingered for days and ignored the offer of her skills. Vianne, I believe we should strongly urge Lelaine to reconsider her selection, and for the sake of Ellegeance, accept the Shiplord’s proposal.

She set her cup on the low table between them, the conversation already conversed to death. What do you mean by ‘strongly urge?’

Influence, Tilkon replied.

Influence is temporary, she said, a fact the Cull Tarr knew well. The moment she’s alone she would know we deceived her.

Tilkon shrugged. Once her vows are tendered, it won’t matter.

Vianne glared at them all, their audacity startling. Have you gone mad? Such deceit would destroy our standing with the queen, which in turn would create chaos in the realm. This isn’t our decision. She’s reached a choice, and it’s our duty—our oath—to support her.

Dalcoran’s jaw hardened, a sign of exasperation or ire she’d endured more than she cared to admit. I am not suggesting, Vianne, that we influence her into a bond, but that we challenge her choice. The high wards will not accept a man from the warrens, especially one who’s forced them to surrender their power.

First of all, she said, he didn’t force anyone into a peace we didn’t sanction. Secondly, do you really believe the high wards will feel any more comforted with the Shiplord as their king? She glanced at Linc and Tilkon. My regrets for the harshness of my words, but the mere suggestion is ludicrous.

Tilkon cracked her knuckles. The Founders desire their union.

According to the Shiplord. Vianne was sorely tempted to roll her eyes.

He speaks with the voice of the gods, Tilkon said. It’s the Founders’ will.

Vianne. Linc dipped his head. I understand that our faith is not shared, though I trust you will come to believe with time. Tull Airon wishes for peace and prosperity, for expansion of Ellegean power and authority, for a place at the queen’s side.

Forgive me, Vianne said, her irritation littering her tone. But those aspirations do not require a bond between our rulers. They entail careful negotiation and genuine commitment. The only thing a bond guarantees is Cull Tarr rule.

Dalcoran shook his head. Lelaine is a weak queen, Vianne. Her years on the throne are marked by the disrespect of her subjects, rebellion in the tier cities, a second war in the south. How many more Ellegeans must face death under her reign?

With our guild’s commitment? None. She scowled at him. We have never fully supported her. She’s had to wrench us up every step of her stairway and drag us by our ears across the land. We’re partly to blame.

The Shiplord would bring peace. Dalcoran’s gaze dropped to his hands, a gesture she attributed to shame. We can instruct the influencers in the tiers to control any protest on the part of the high wards and guilds.

We can and should do the same for Gannon, she said, her patience fraying, our queen’s choice of king.

Gannon, Tilkon muttered, her lip taking a roguish turn.

Vianne-Ava. Ambassador Linc stepped in. The Shiplord blesses you with the Founders’ wisdom. He has agreed to your terms and will permit the doyen and your guild to rule the tiers with or without the high wards’ consent.

Our terms? Our rule? She reached for her tea, and when her hand shook, she left the cup on the table. Dalcoran, do you hear this? Do you agree? We’ve always provided balance to tier power, balance to royal rule. Are you suggesting we overthrow the high wards? That’s a terrible idea.

Not overthrow but influence. It’s workable. Dalcoran raised his eyes to her. It’s too late for other options, Vianne. You must convince Lelaine this is her only choice.

No! Vianne couldn’t believe this conversation. This is lunatic. Brenna and Neven certainly won’t agree.

Vianne-Ava, they already have, Linc said, his back to the window.

Awareness flooded her. This wasn’t a speculative or spontaneous discussion. She faced a conspiracy, one broader and deeper than she’d imagined. One in which she was an obstacle. Lelaine won’t agree to a bond with your Shiplord, and she can’t be coerced.

Influence her, Tilkon said. It’s in Ellegeance’s best interest. Sway her into cooperation.

Dalcoran shook his head. We can’t. She’s protected by Catling. He met Vianne’s horrified eyes and sighed. We must find another way.

Protected from influence? Tilkon leaned forward.

A placid mask slipped over Vianne’s face while her heart pounded in her ears. She ignored the question and clenched her hands in her lap, knuckles as pale as her pearled jacket. Her gaze swung from Dalcoran to the ambassador. Are you insinuating that if Lelaine refuses to bond with the Shiplord, the Cull Tarr will seize Ellegeance by force?

None of them answered. A pang of fear prickled her skin, the danger embedded in the conversation palpable. She patted the braids in her cinnamon hair to hide the quaking of her hands. Give me a night to consider how we might manage this without another war or completely damaging Lelaine’s trust in us. I agree that hostility serves no one, including the queen. We’ll reconvene in the morning at the seventh bell if it suits you.

Seventh bell. Linc bowed. My regrets, Vianne-Ava, for the difficult choice.

Accepted. She smiled at the gesture, concealing the river of rage ripping through her limbs. Without a glance back, she walked to the door and tapped the panel. The portal slid aside, and she departed.

Her gait felt disjointed as if her legs were carved of wood and she’d just learned to walk. She touched the wall to steady her trembling, a rising panic leaving her lightheaded. Outside her guest chamber, she rested her forehead on the door, weighing her choices. A muffled voice reached her ears from within the room. She stepped back, turned, and hurried on.

At the corridor’s end, she slapped the panel, and as soon as the door opened enough to squeeze through, she slipped into the potted garden. A brisk wind raced across the ebony sky, stars smothered in a cloak of clouds. Arms wrapped around herself against the chill, she hurried to the nearest pylon. The lift’s portal opened and she darted in, holding her breath while the smooth wall closed.

Elan-Sia numbered more tiers than her home city, and what level housed the birds, she could only guess. She exited on the seventh tier, ruing the late hour and wishing she had disturbed Lelaine first.

Messenger doves? she asked a strolling couple wrapped to their noses in scarves.

Merchants’ Guild, eighth tier, south end, the man replied, and the pair drifted on.

Vianne darted to the spiraling stair and climbed two steps at a time, her anxiety rattling her bones more than the cold. On the eighth level, she ran down the main thoroughfare dissecting the tier in half. Luminescent tubes snaked along the underside of the upper level, and windows glowed on the second floors above closed shops. She exited on the south promenade and listened for the coo of coted doves. Nothing. She hurried west, gave up, and reversed, heading east.

The Divine Dove was locked, the panel unresponsive to her jabbing. She beat on the door and called up to the lighted window, I must send a message. This is Vianne-Ava, Doyen of the Influencers’ Guild. I have an urgent message.

A face appeared in the window, and the birdkeeper raised a finger to wait. Vianne paced, rubbing warmth into her arms until the door opened. My regrets for disturbing you. She flushed the woman with a dose of love and pleasure and a tiny taste of fear to ensure her compliance. Paper for two doves, if you would.

No trouble in the least. The woman beckoned. Come in from the wind. Can I offer you tea?

Vianne shook her head. Paper, if you would.

The woman produced two tiny slips, and Vianne scrawled her message, spattering ink on the corner.

Cull Tarr attack imminent. Catling compromised. Vianne

Nothing more required, she handed the messages to the birdkeeper. Please, send them immediately.

They’ll be off in a moment. The woman applied a pinch of sand to dry the ink, rolled the slips of paper into tiny scrolls, and slipped them into equally minute cylinders. Vianne threaded her fingers together and pressed them to her lips, eyes pinched with impatience.

There, the woman said, satisfied. Now the birds.

Hurry please. Vianne paced as the woman exited the back door.

No sooner had the rear door closed than the front slid open. Emer Tilkon and three Cull Tarr jacks strode in carrying wooden rappers. Vianne poured a deluge of influenced terror and pain over them, and nothing happened. She shoved harder, attempting to break through the purity that prevented them from crumbling beneath her power.

The jacks advanced on her. Tilkon stood in the doorway, issuing orders. Someone kill the birdkeeper.

No, Vianne shouted, endeavoring to block the way.

Tilkon jerked her chin toward the rear door, and a strapping man swung his club, striking Vianne’s raised wrist. Pain shot up her arm, and he thrust her to the wall. Careful, Tilkon said. She can’t influence, but she can slay you with a touch. She waved the other two men on to the business of murder.

With a cry of frustration, Vianne lashed at the shipmaster, flung a blast of misery that would have landed an Ellegean on her knees. Influenced agony slid from Tilkon’s skin like oil. Vianne swatted aside the rapper pinning her to the wall and lunged for the man’s wrist, fingers extended to deliver a bolt of death. The rapper jabbed her in the stomach, and she doubled over, gasping for air. The rear door gaped as a second swing smashed into her head, and the birdkeeper screamed in her ear.

Chapter Two

Whitt trudged up from Guardian’s dining hall, bundled in his cloak, a swathed pot of steaming, honey-drizzled porridge beneath the folds. He cradled it against his belly, the one part of him that felt warm.

Winterchill in Guardian interred the world in pristine white. Snow gusted from the sky and peaks. It swirled across the stark land until drifts towered above heads, and walking paths carved deep furrows into the layered crust. The wind howled with the silver hounds of the frozen forests and flung shards of ice like shattered glass into raw cheeks.

He nodded to the citadel’s sentries, the poor frozen sods, and entered the stone tower. The warmth relaxed his hunched shoulders, and he stamped the snow from his boots. He, Sim, and Rose had reoccupied the guest quarters. With Guardian hunkered down, the way north treacherous and the route south impassable to all but the hardiest Farlanders, he didn’t expect any true guests to descend on the fortress until Springseed.

Taking Rose to Elan-Sia had been an error in judgment. When she’d influenced her minders and burst into the queen’s hall, a flame of recognition sparked in every eye. The Cull Tarr and doyen knew she was Catling’s daughter. She hadn’t drowned in the Slipsilver as her mother had led them to believe. She wore Catling’s face and possessed the power to influence.

Sim’s reticence had proved prophetic. He should have heeded her warning and left her and Rose in Guardian. But then he would have missed the hours of sweet love and tenderness between mother and daughter. For Catling, those precious days mattered, and he couldn’t deny his pleasure in showing her that he’d not only kept Rose safe but built her a happy life.

He climbed the curling stairs and pushed through their door. Rose galloped toward him, dressed in nighttime woolens, her brown curls in a tangle. Did you put honey on it?

And dried kolsberries. He shrugged out of his cloak.

The three-year-old’s eyes bulged, and her lips pinched. I like those. She scrambled up into her chair as he unwrapped their morning meal and scooped a bowlful with a generous portion of berries.

While Rose ate, he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots. Sim lounged under the blankets, one arm exposed to the chilly morning. The pale green prints patterning her shoulder and arm invited his caress.

You are as cold as ice, she said, tucking the wool covers under her chin. And sweet as kolsberries.

You looked too comfortable to wake. He leaned over, brushed aside her flaxen hair, and kissed her temple.

She shivered. Even your nose is cold.

Time to rise, my love. Sanson will arrive soon, and your morning meal is rapidly cooling.

It’s still hot, Rose informed them and blew on her full spoon.

Sim slid from bed while he served up two more bowls. He’d arranged for Rose to attend lessons with other tots and enlisted Sanson to continue teaching her to control her influence. Any pretense that Rose was an ordinary child raised eyebrows and wasn’t worth the bother. They’d scarcely scraped their bowls clean when Sanson knocked.

My respects. The influencer bowed to Rose, his long dangling beard catching her interest.

Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she reached out to touch the snowy whiskers. Sim cleared her throat, and Rose dropped her hand, lips in a pout.

Bow, Whitt whispered.

Rose bent farther than necessary, her forehead almost bumping her knees. My Respects, Sanson… um. What’s your name?

The influencer smiled. You may simply call me Sanson.

I’m Rose, she replied, squinting. I’m a Farlander.

Ah. Sanson nodded. I can tell by the shape of your eyes. They remind me of Sim’s.

They are. Rose smiled, her squint looking more like worry. Whitt glanced at Sim, the two of them holding their laughter between their lips.

Sanson squatted down beside the child. Do you know what makes you a Farlander more than your eyes?

Rose shook her head.

Your gift, your natural influence. And more than that, your great fortune to grow up in the Far Wolds.

We’re going back in Springseed, she said, forgetting to squint though the crimps on her little forehead remained. There won’t be any war.

Let’s hope that is all behind us, he said. Sometimes adults don’t act very grown up, do they?

I can make them happy, she said, delight playing across her face.

Whitt sighed at her innocence and the bittersweet illusion that she could change the world. Sanson raised a hand before Whitt corrected her. That is tempting, isn’t it?

He collected his leather sack from the floor and sat at their round table, beckoning Rose to join him. From the sack, he pulled three small bundles, each containing a handful of treats he placed before her. They resembled tiny seed balls, commonly rolled with honey, dried fruit, and nut paste, each slightly different in color. He separated them into three tasty piles.

Now, I’m going to influence you as you look at each treat, and you must decide which is the sweetest. His finger pointed to one tiny mound, the next, and then the last. Rose’s eyes turned to saucers at the last pile. Now, do you know which one is the best?

This one. She pointed to the last batch.

He frowned. Are you certain?

She nodded.

How do you know?

I do. She smiled at him.

Then help yourself.

She popped a whole treat into her mouth and bit down. Her face twisted in horror and mouth gaped, the bitter sludge leaking from her lips. Sim held out her palm to catch the goo as Rose spat it out, tears watering her eyes.

You didn’t like it? Sanson asked, disbelief raising his downy eyebrows. He blinked at her. Why that one is my favorite. A strong flavor, but one I thoroughly enjoy. He popped three small balls into his mouth. Rose stared at him, her bottom lips quivering in distress. Sim offered her a cup of water.

So, my little influencer, Sanson asked, what did you learn?

Rose appeared to be suffering from shock, so Whitt answered for her Influence isn’t always helpful. It’s better to learn things on our own.

Precisely, Sanson said. Influence isn’t real, Rose. I tricked you, didn’t I? Not very nice of me, and I imagine you are angry at this old influencer.

She nodded.

He bent toward her. My sincerest regrets. Fooling people is unkind, and influence is a way of doing just that. I promise not to trick you with influence, and I ask you not to trick anyone else. You can make people happy with your smiles and kindness.

As he straightened up, he opened a palm to the remaining two clusters of treats. To make amends, Rose. I leave the rest to you. I believe they will replace the awful taste in your mouth. He winked at her. This time, I recommend that you try a tiny bite of each and learn for yourself.

***

Whitt followed Jagur’s page down the spiraling steps to the citadel’s first floor. He pried the last seeds from between his teeth with his tongue and chuckled to himself. He and Sim had happily eaten a few of Sanson’s sweet treats in an effort to convince Rose they were delicious. While Catling’s lessons had focused on control, the old influencer taught caution and restraint. His first lesson had left an impression.

The steps ended at the wide stone foyer. When the opportunity arose, Jagur called informal conferences in his office, a tighter and therefore warmer space higher in the citadel. A summons to the assembly hall meant a larger or more official audience. The pudgy-cheeked page opened the door to the hall and saluted. Whitt returned the formality, wondering if he’d come across half as serious during his time at the commander’s side.

The far end of the nearly vacant hall hosted less than ten men, all but two of them guardians. The exceptions were Farlanders, notable because of their height and cloud-white hair. They wore their customary thigh-high boots and had traded their short, cowled cloaks for fur-lined wraps that whisked their ankles. Fire danced in the hearth, and trays on a table offered food and spiked tea.

The clansmen’s presence concerned him, and he prayed the peace achieved with the signed treaty hadn’t gone awry. His heels echoed across the stone floor, and somewhere in the rafters overhead a bat squeaked. The conversation paused, and Jagur waved him over. Whitt recognized both Farlanders. Lian from the old rebel camp, and Kalis, the huge high chief who made Jagur look like a runt. Both had added new scars to the ritualistic patterns on their faces, lending them a more fearsome visage than they’d already possessed.

He gripped forearms with both men. Welcome. I hope your presence in the middle of Winterchill isn’t an indication of trouble.

Ha! Kalis’s chuckle rumbled like thunder. Ellegeans are too fearful of the cold to leave the shelters of their homes.

Lian smiled, his manner less dramatic. Your guardians in Tor manage the sharing of food and fuel with your high ward. We keep our distance.

A modest bag of Jagur’s favorite pipe leaf rested open on the table, and the commander happily tamped it into his bowl with a thumb. Whitt’s lips quirked up at