Epilogue

Twelve moons after their departure from Belzetarn, Keir stood atop a ridge looking to the west, out over many more dim ridges creasing the shadowed land for as far as she could see in this moment before the dawn. The sky was light, a pale blue with a golden tinge. She waited, a bit breathless, for the sun to rise behind her. Soon . . . soon . . .

Then the feathery tops of the strange trees just downhill from her flushed brilliant green, as well as those on the slope across the valley. Each trunk rose branchless to a great height, where a mop of fronds puffed out, sheltering fruits with hairy rinds. Keir had never seen the like of them, nor Gael either, although Gael said he believed they were common in southern climes. Beneath them, gigantic ferns thrust like fountains from between smaller-leaved shrubs and a tangle of vines.

The warm air stood very still. Later morning would bring a breeze.

With the light came birdsong, a cacophony of twitters and more raucous squawks.

The panorama was very like one of Gael’s sketches of a vignette from the frame of the fifth panel of Olluvarde, the one showing the airship safely arrived and the children disembarking. The vignette depicted an airship settling at a mooring tower surrounded by the bizarre branchless trees.

She and Gael had assumed that the airship of the ancients must have made regular journeys inland, until they studied the sketch more closely and realized that the airship in the vignette was different from the one in the larger mural—smaller, with different designs on the envelope covering its air bags, but possessing its own lodestone. Just one, not two.

The discrepancy had prompted them to scour the other sketches for details they’d missed. Gael cursed himself for not copying all of the elegant stonework. Keir was merely thankful that he’d rendered as much as he had.

As near as they could tell, more than one airship had survived the storm that had batted one vessel to its doom in the roiling sea. Definitely two, perhaps three, had escaped to the mainland. Which meant that there had been at least three lodestones—two from the largest airship, one from the smaller—and maybe a fourth stone, if the third airship really had existed.

Gael had been heartened by the possibility that—subtracting the gong’s lodestone from the total—they had two or three stones they might find. It raised their chances of success. Keir dreamed that they might unearth all of them. She could teach other healers how to use the lodestones and between them restore many more trolls to health.

She gazed a moment longer at the view before her, watching the long shadows of the ridges retreat as the sun rose, and inhaling the rich, spicy scents floating from the exotic foliage. Then she turned away, walking back to the short bluff that sheltered their tent. Was Gael awake yet?

She peered in through the open flap.

Her blankets lay where she’d left them, unfolded on her side of the tent. On the other side, still under the top fold of his blanket, Gael was just opening his eyes.

Keir felt the corners of her mouth turning upward. Gael looked healthier than ever before, far more robust than when he’d dwelt in Belzetarn. His ankle never clicked these days, and he moved easily, without the soreness in his joints that had troubled him. But the repositioning of his energea nodes had not only granted him greater comfort. His skin had firmed up and possessed a better color, with a slight flush beneath its clear olive tone, rather than pallor. The lines bracketing his mouth and eyes had faded. The eyes themselves were brighter. And his nose had returned to the merely aquiline, no longer elongated and hooked from his troll-disease. He looked human.

He is human, Keir reminded herself. All trolls were human; humans suffering from an illness. And once she acquired an intact lodestone, she would heal them, as many as were willing.

Gael smiled back at her, his eyes warm. “I think I’ll bathe in the spring after we’ve topped off our waterbags, if you don’t mind,” he said.

Keir grinned. “I’ve already refilled them,” she said. “And bathed.”

He sat up, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Have you, now? Then I’ll wash before we break our fast, rather than after.” He rummaged around in one of the haversacks, drawing out a piece of the knotted root that they’d learned developed a fresh-smelling lather when rubbed.

“Don’t you dare bathe before we’ve checked our direction,” Keir chided.

Gael lifted an eyebrow—teasing her—then tipped the polished teardrop from the pouch that he still kept pinned at his waist.

The constellation of its scrolling energea lattice had changed gradually over the moons they’d been traveling. The protrusion that pointed back to Belzetarn had retreated until the array filled a bumpy, but symmetric sphere. No lodestone was near enough to disturb its configuration.

They’d travelled onward, inspecting the array each morning.

Keir allowed her inner sight to open. What would she see this time?

Gael turned the teardrop as she watched, and her breath caught.

The scrolls of aching gold jostled one another as they twirled, moving to allow the longest of their number to protrude beyond the others. It pointed ahead, across the ridges.

“Gael!” Keir gasped.

“I see it.” He leaned forward, reached for her hand, and brushed the back of it with his lips. “We’ve been seeking hope,” he said. “Now we’ve found it.”

Keir realized she was crying. She’d thought she’d regained hope on the day when she’d healed Gael, but now she realized that it had merely been the lifting of despair. This was hope.

“Our world will change,” she whispered.

Gael nodded, smiling gently. “Yes.”

THE END

Sovereign Night is the next book in the series!

What dark secret lurks within the Glorious Citadel at the heart of the city-state Hantida?

Gael, an illicit mage, hunts redemption with Keir, a healer who helps all who cross her path. Gael loves her loyalty to her calling—and to him—but knows that mere friendship must suffice.

Together, the two seek a cure for the affliction that not only erodes their bodies and minds, but keeps them apart. The magical lodestone that holds their salvation lies hidden in the Glorious Citadel where the city-state’s sovereign dwells.

Posing as physician and physician’s aide, hired to preside over entertainments hosted within the Glorious Citadel, they find their quest for healing entangled with the corrupt and deadly undercurrents spiraling among the courtiers and servitors of the palatial stronghold.

The trail of clues—a would-be assassin startled from the shadows, twin handmaidens stealing from the library by night, and heavily-armed warriors called reavers smuggling kidnapped victims into the citadel precincts after sundown—leads toward the ancient artifact they need, but also to the risk of a horrific death.

Both Gael and Keir must learn honesty about who they love, who they hate, and who merits their championship, or lose not only each other but life itself.

Sovereign Night is the suspenseful second novel in the Gael & Keir epic fantasy series. If you like vivid characters, high-stakes mystery, and immersive world-building, then you’ll love J.M. Ney-Grimm’s riveting adventure tale.

Buy Sovereign Night to discover the real treasure at the labyrinth’s heart today!
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*     *     *

Previous scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 106)

Need the beginning?
The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)

 

Gael described his final interaction with Carbraes to Keir as they made their way through the bailey toward the stables. One of the cohorts was drilling on the slope, marching in complex and everchanging formations which required considerable space, so Gael and Keir had to maneuver around the edges.

Keir had recovered her equanimity, but her eyes glowed as she listened to Gael’s narrative. “You actually argued him to a standstill,” she said, her tone appreciative.

“Not really,” said Gael. “I appealed to his good judgment, which remains his guiding principle. He’s never capricious, you know.”

Keir repressed a grin. Gael saw her lips twitch upward.

“Very well,” she said, “if you won’t accept my applause for your powers of persuasion, I’ll remind you that you earned Carbraes’ cooperation by your own loyalty to him. He could not have simply wished you farewell and goddess’ speed, if he’d not been certain you would never . . . oh,”—she tilted her head, considering—“turn over a map of Belzetarn’s defenses to his Ghriana foes, for example.”

Gael allowed his eyebrow to lift. “Is it so important that I accept your praises?”

She snorted, delicately. “You did save my life, Gael!”

At the stables, Barris had already obtained horses for them and conducted their mounts outside the citadel, so Gael led the way to the small sally port on the western wall. Had it really been only the day before yesterday that he’d traversed this same path in search of Nathiar?

The beech leaves rustled in a light breeze, sending dapples of sunlight dancing on the ferns of the forest floor and over the roots crossing the narrow track.

They discovered three horses—Gael had been expecting two—in the glade of cherry trees with its bubbling spring. When Nathiar stepped out from behind the mounts, wearing a gaudy robe of yellow suede embroidered with red, purple, and copper thread, Gael knew some surprise.

“Do you accompany us?” he asked.

Nathiar snickered. “Really, my dear Gael. Me? Camping rough? No!”

“Then why—?”

“When Barris asked my direction for the way to this clearing, I thought it simpler to do the job myself,” drawled the magus. “Delegation can be such a bore, don’t you think? Good afternoon, my dear Keir,” he added.

Keir wrinkled her nose, but nodded politely enough.

Gael frowned. What was Nathiar not telling him?

“Also,” the magus continued, “I thought you might like to have this.” He shrugged Gael’s satchel of sketches from his shoulder. “Barris had omitted to pack it, and that would never do.”

“Thank you!” Gael exclaimed, further surprised. He was not accustomed to having the magus as an ally. He hesitated, considering a moment. “Wouldn’t you prefer to keep them yourself? In aid of your magical researches?” Nathiar had expressed a wish—in this very glade—that he’d had access to the information contained by the sketches long since.

“I’ve made copies, of course,” said Nathiar. “I felt sure you would urge me to it, my dear Gael. Or. Really, what am I saying? I tested near three dozen messenger boys for their drawing skills and set the best of them to sketching. So much less fatiguing than doing it myself.”

Gael chuckled and slung the satchel across his own shoulders. “You know that Keir and I depart Belzetarn? For good.”

“I nearly think I know it all, my dear Gael. My dear Keir. Really, Carbraes is a fool,” said Nathiar, his characteristic drawl disappearing from that last remark.

“Oh?” said Gael.

“Dreben will be regenen inside a decade,” snapped Nathiar.

“I thought you liked Dreben.”

Nathiar glanced at Gael in exasperation. “It has always been prudent to cultivate the troll, our new march. But did I stand in Carbraes’ boots, I’d have Dreben’s head from his shoulders tomorrow. Sooner.” Nathiar shook his head. “Carbraes can manage most trolls, but he will not manage this one.”

“Sure you don’t want to accompany us?” asked Gael.

“I’ll give you a leg up,” said Nathiar, surprising Gael yet again. Would the magus really do anything so vigorous, so menial?

But he did, clasping his hands firmly beneath Gael’s foot and boosting him upward enough that it was easy to swing the other leg over his mount’s broad back. He did the same for Keir, and Gael was somewhat bemused to note that the magus engaged in no shenanigans, and that Keir exhibited no reluctance at the close contact. Apparently all Nathiar’s innuendos about Keir were just so much persiflage and nothing more.

The third horse did not bear a riding cloth, Gael saw, but a collection of leather haversacks strapped to a pack harness. Barris had obviously been thorough in collecting all the supplies they would need. If Gael had been more observant, he’d have known there was never any question of Nathiar’s company.

“Follow the brook,” said Nathiar. “You’ll find that after a short interval of rough going, there’s a track that heads northwest. I presume you’re going northwest? Unless you have access to a boat builder?” Nathiar’s drawl had returned.

Gael checked the bags strapped onto his own mount behind the riding pad, settled his seat, and picked up the reins. Only then did he reply to Nathiar, although not with an answer to his question.

“Watch yourself, my friend. Belzetarn will always be perilous.”

Nathiar snorted. “Your friend, Gael? I hardly think so!”

Gael smiled. “Have it your way, then. My rival? I can’t term you my enemy, you know. Not anymore.”

“I’ll watch out for Barris,” said Nathiar abruptly. “And the boys in the smithies.”

“Good!” That relieved Gael’s lingering doubts. With both Carbraes and Nathiar alert, the cook and the scullions should be safe.

Keir had fastened the halter rope of the pack horse to the strap of her riding pad and was gathering her own reins. “Will you look out for Kayd, too?” she asked. “He’s a decanen in the hospital.”

“I know him,” said Nathiar. “And, yes, I’ll be sure he prospers.”

The magus nodded, lifted one hand, and turned away.

Gael paused a moment, wondering if Nathiar might glance back over his shoulder, but he did not. How strange it felt to bid the magus farewell, when Gael was more in charity with the man than he had been in decades.

Nathiar’s robed form faded into the dappled woodland understory, and Gael kneed his mount, urging the horse through the brush growing at the spring’s outlet. The ground was moist and sucked at his horse’s hooves. Then it grew uneven, and Gael had to really grip with his legs to stay on. He could hear the twigs breaking behind him as Keir followed. An odd pang twinged within as he realized he was leaving his tally room forever.

The tally room had felt so secure. He had felt secure, with every element of the vaults and the smithies tallied, monitored, and controlled. He’d believed himself to be rooted there for the rest of his life. He’d believed himself contented. He’d liked the feeling that every scroll possessed its place—its proper pigeonhole—and that every scroll occupied its given place. There was comfort in the notion of order.

But his tally room had been a narrow refuge.

And its security an illusion founded on his own divided loyalty and beset by every troll in Belzetarn who coveted Gael’s power as secretarius.

This crazy quest he’d embarked on would be far more uncomfortable and uncertain than that illusion, downright chancy. Perhaps reality always was. But it would be honest.

The ground leveled out, and the undergrowth drew back. He’d found Nathiar’s track, with the brook chuckling alongside it over sun-dappled rocks and pebbles.

Gael let his mount move forward several strides before pulling the beast up and looking back over his shoulder. Keir smiled as she emerged from the brush.

“It feels good to be away,” she said. “Are you glad?”

He gazed at her, sitting comfortably astride her horse, her straight blond hair—chin-length—a little tousled, her gray eyes serene, and her face . . . what did he see in her face? Relief? An absence of a wariness that he’d never fully realized was there before? Pleasure in his company?

All those, he decided.

“I am glad,” he answered her.

*     *     *
Next scene: coming September 22.

Previous scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 105)

Need the beginning?
The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)

 

When Gael reached the bottom of the straight stair, emerging into the artisans’ yard beside the hospital, Carbraes’ messengers were in motion, scattering like a flock of scratching pigeons surprised by a feline. As each boy received his regenen’s orders, he dashed off. No doubt one was headed toward the castellanum, one to the stables, and another to the new march. The boy directed to the brig was already ahead of Gael, disappearing under the arch of the gatehouse between the yard and the bailey.

The brig’s opteon would not be taken by surprise, when Gael removed Keir from his custody. Nor the troll in charge of the stables, when Gael requisitioned horses. Unless Barris had already acquired the mounts to leave in Nathiar’s clearing.

Carbraes had promised to extend his watchfulness to Barris in Gael’s absence, ensuring the cook’s safety and well-being. And the troll he intended to replace Gael in the tally room was someone who would protect the denizens of the smithies. Gael could leave Belzetarn with a clear conscience. He’d removed the heavy ring of keys from his fibula and handed them to the regenen, who would bequeath them, in turn, to the new secretarius. The reality of it had still not truly come home to him.

Had Gael’s argument to Carbraes actually worked? Was he about to descend the slope of the bailey and pass out through the lower gatehouse as soon as he released Keir? Really?

The messenger who’d preceded Gael burst out of the front guardroom, sprinting away just as Gael reached the door. Within, the opteon was on his feet, looking perturbed and upset.

“My lord Secretarius!” he exclaimed. “The regenen’s messenger tells me that Notarius Keir has been pardoned and is to be released to you, but Brigenen Dreben declares that he will carry out the sentence for treason as soon as the axe-wielder arrives. It seems the messenger sent to the brigenen has not found him yet.” The troll’s voice wobbled on the edge of hysteria.

“Where is Dreben?” demanded Gael, ignoring the opteon’s incorrect title for Dreben.

“Above, by the cells,” faltered the opteon.

Gael didn’t stay for more, but rushed for the inner chambers and the stair hall. If only the spiral of steps was less tight and less steep, he’d be taking them two at a time. Dreben’s barking voice sounded disastrously from above, echoing in the stone confines.

“Haul the traitor out! Which cell does she occupy? Don’t tell me you don’t know which it is! Lunkheads!”

Gael surged up the last three steps.

The two guards still held their stations at the opening to the corridor, looking uneasily at one another and shifting from one foot to the other. The cell doors remained closed, including Keir’s, thank Tiamar.

Dreben stood on tiptoe at the far end of the corridor, peering through the grating of one of the doors. He wore the brown leather cap that he favored—with its chin strap—and a knee-length tunic of dark orange, secured at the waist by his sword belt.

Gael strode forward, intent on intercepting Dreben before he eliminated the far cells from his consideration and started checking those near Keir. As Gael passed the guards, he murmured, “Stay out of this. It’s likely to get ugly.”

Dreben swung away from the cell door. His wizened face tightened at the sight of Gael. “You!” he snarled.

Gael halted. He was well past Keir’s cell, and it would be prudent to give March Dreben some elbow room. “The regenen has issued fresh orders concerning Keir,” he stated.

“The regenen!” spat Dreben. “I know how to deal with traitors, if he does not!” The march jerked his sword from its scabbard, and charged.

Cayim’s hells! It was just like their encounter on the Cliff Stair two deichtains ago, except Dreben had been armed only with his fists that time. He could do considerably more damage with a blade.

The march seemed to cover the half-corridor length between them in two bounds, jabbing forward with the point of his sword, since the corridor was too narrow to permit a full swing.

Gael, staring at the murder in Dreben’s face, realized he’d been a fool to eschew his magery in his first fight with the troll. And he’d be a dead fool, if he eschewed it now. He barely got his shield of energea up in time.

It was reflexive, not conscious, a remnant from the many times Gael had stood at Heiroc’s side on the battleground, protecting both himself and his king.

Blue sparks sprayed, and Dreben’s sword thrust grated to a halt.

The march adjusted instantly, stabbing high at Gael’s throat, low at his groin, high again at his mouth.

Gael backed hurriedly, slamming his energetic shield up, then down, then up, parrying Dreben’s blows awkwardly. The more comprehensive shield he’d conjured in that last battle—to bring Heiroc and himself safely through the storm of blades—took a deal of concentration and preparation. This more limited buckler required movement.

Dreben’s sword moved like a serpent striking, darting in, here, there, and there. His eyes were intent, and his rage had subsided into a sort of enjoyment. Dreben liked to fight, Gael knew.

The sword flicked in to the left, then the right, then the right again.

Gael found his rhythm, parrying more smoothly, but still backing steadily.

They’d reach Keir’s cell soon, which was worrisome.

Dreben lunged in with his body and elbow, sweeping his blade back and then overhead, just barely missing the vaulted ceiling with its point, which dove down at a steeper angle.

Gael was ready for it, successfully extending the energea of his shield to block both Dreben’s elbow and his sword.

Were the two guards staying out of the conflict as he’d urged them to? Or were they rushing up to strike him down from behind? He couldn’t spare even an iota of attention from the foe in front of him to worry about possible foes behind. Dreben would skewer him like a dead rat, if he did.

Gael met a trio of belly stabs with a thickening of his shield’s energea.

He heard a couple of meaty thuds—someone falling?—behind him.

He and Dreben would emerge into the stair hall momentarily, and then Gael would be in real trouble. Dreben would have room enough to bring his full repertoire as a swordsman to bear. Gael had to do something more than defend himself.

He could unleash the black-edged gold energea that would kill Dreben with a touch, of course. But that was troll-magery. It would slide Gael’s nodes far from their proper locations—the very nodes that Keir had returned to their anchorages just yesterday. And . . . Gael had already killed one march of Belzetarn. He didn’t want to kill another. It didn’t matter that this march had every intention of killing Gael.

He was parrying fluidly now, fully into the rhythm of the fight, his body knowing where the next blow would fall almost before his mind could register it.

The door to Keir’s cell lay at his left shoulder.

He had two more steps backward, and then he would be in the stair hall. He must develop his response before that moment, before Dreben’s options widened considerably.

Gael parried.

Parried again.

And then he stepped back hugely.

Dreben bounded forward, taking that first full swing afforded by the suddenly enlarged space.

Gael dropped his energetic shield to fling a net of energea around Dreben’s blade, ducking as the sword came around in a blow that would take Gael’s head from his shoulders.

Gael twisted the energetic net, pulling the sword from its edge-first orientation to flat-first, and then slammed the weapon to the farthest reach of its arc.

The flat connected hard with the side of Dreben’s head.

The march went down like a sapped wall collapsing.

Only then—as Gael stood panting—did he note that both guards lay in awkward heaps on the floor to each side of him.

Keir’s door burst open, slamming into the corridor wall and vibrating with the force of it. Keir herself emerged before the door was all the way open, leaping into the corridor and then over Dreben’s quiescent form.

“You’re all right?” she gasped, an instant before Gael folded her close. Her hair smelled faintly of summer clover.

“I’m all right,” murmured Gael. Her body felt very good in his arms, but he set her away from him. “You?”

“I could hear the fight,” she said, her breath still rapid, her eyes a little wild. “I was afraid the guards would join in support of Dreben. He is their march.”

Gael smiled. “What did you do?”

She smiled back, calming. “Used a healing discipline on them.”

“Oh?” said Gael.

“When a treatment will be too uncomfortable—or even painful—we sometimes send the patient to sleep.” She knelt beside Skinny, checking his pulse at the neck, then nodding and looking up at Gael. “He’ll awake shortly,” she said. “Shouldn’t we get out of here before he does?”

“Probably,” Gael answered her absently, his attention returning to Dreben. The march’s face was very pale. Was he breathing? Had Gael aimed that sword too hard? Gaelan’s tears! He fell to his knees, reaching for Dreben’s chest. It rose and fell again under Gael’s palm. Tiamar be thanked!

Gael looked over at Keir. “He’s alive,” he said.

She frowned. “That’s a good thing? Gael, he intended to kill you. And me, too.”

“But we will not be here to suffer him further. Or not much longer,” amended Gael.

Her face lit. “Carbraes said yes?”

Gael nodded. “We leave with his full permission.”

*     *     *
Next scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 106)

Previous scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 104)

Need the beginning?
The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)

 

Carbraes stood alone on the rampart, gazing out over the lake and the forested hills beyond it to the line of ice-capped mountains on the horizon, his back to Belzetarn. The regenen’s blond hair glinted in the sunlight. The white thistlesilk cape shimmered on his shoulders, a hint of small rainbows in its tight weave. A breeze fluttered intermittently off the water, carrying the resinous scent of pine on the air.

Gael had climbed past a line of boys hunched against the right wall of the straight stair and looking nervous. Not a good sign. The regenen’s messengers were usually a contented, cheerful bunch. As Gael’s brisk footfalls rang out on the rampart’s stone surface, Carbraes turned, a measuring look in his eyes.

“I gather you do not come before me to take a renewed oath of fealty,” he said drily.

“If I did?” replied Gael, approaching to a more conversational distance.

“Then I would receive your folded hands between mine and hear your pledge, of course,” said Carbraes.

“And if I did not?” Gael stopped before his regenen.

“Then your head must be parted from your shoulders.”

Yes, that was rather what Gael had expected him to answer. The corners of Carbraes’ mouth turned slightly down.

“How if I gave you a third option?” Gael offered.

“You know there is none.” Carbraes waved a dismissive hand.

“I believe there is,” countered Gael. “Keir believes there is.”

Carbraes smiled derisively. “Keir is an idealist. Surely you, a realist, know her dreams to be impractical.”

“She could not heal all the north, no,” Gael agreed. “But she could help hundreds, even thousands. She could restore the nodes of every troll under you, my Lord Regenen.”

“Does the gong even work as it did before you reforged it?” Carbraes’ voice was skeptical.

“No,” said Gael deliberately.

“Then why are you wasting your time and mine with this fancy?”

“Another lodestone exists,” said Gael. “The murals at Olluvarde showed two, only one of which was amalgamated into the gong.”

“Myth,” scoffed Carbraes. “The ancients always liked groups of two, three, or seven.”

“The panels were quite accurate regarding the energetic work they depicted. Why would they be so factual in that aspect, but fictional concerning the number of lodestones required to stabilize an airship?”

Carbraes frowned. “An airship?”

“The lodestones were brought out of Navellys on the prow of an airship, one on each gunwale. Paired that way, they preserved the craft through a devastating storm.”

“And where is this second lodestone? Did Olluvarde show that as well?” Carbraes shifted his stance to look out over the lake again. “Keir used to sit here of an evening.”

So, the regenen had found that out, had he? Had he come to Keir’s vantage point intentionally? Not by chance?

Carbraes gestured across the wide vista. “How would you find the second lodestone in all of this? Can Keir not see how many leagues lie from horizon to horizon? And the north stretches far beyond the limits of the eye.”

“The iron from the gong splashed during its reforging, and one of the droplets was sufficiently large to retain nodal energea.” Gael extracted the metal bead from the pouch he’d secured on his fibula of keys. He extended his hand, palm up; the smooth surface of the teardrop flashed like water in the sunlight. “The node within this fragment points to the node from which it came.”

He allowed his inner sight to open, curious to know where the node would point from this location. He’d checked it only from within the bailey.

The searing gold of the energea was painful to the inner senses, but the protruding scrolls pointed at the tower. Carbraes’ narrowed eyes indicated that he, too, looked with magery.

“So?” said the regenen.

“Keir and I believe that this node will also point to the second lodestone, were we to get it close enough.”

“You believe?” said Carbraes. “But you are not sure?”

“No, we are not sure,” answered Gael.

Carbraes gave a soft snort, shaking his head wearily. “So the two of you plan to kite off into the hinterlands, searching—” Carbraes’ brows quirked. “Surely not. A more ridiculous scheme I have never heard.”

“But it’s worth doing,” said Gael. “Because the prize for success is so great.”

Carbraes scrutinized Gael for a long moment. “No. Just—” He shook his head again. “No. Enough of this nonsense.” He turned toward the slot in the inner parapet where the straight stair climbed from the artisans’ yard and where his messengers presumably still cowered. “One of the boys will run to fetch Theron—or Dreben—and then you shall either take oath, Gael, or one of Dreben’s warriors shall behead you.” He placed his circled thumb and forefinger between his lips and gave a sharp whistle. “Which is it to be?”

Well, Gael had expected that Carbraes would remain unpersuaded by Keir’s vision for the future. Which was why he’d led with his weaker argument. His stronger one depended on just how accurately he understood his regenen’s character. If he were right . . . he would prevail. If he were wrong . . . Barris would be getting Keir out of Belzetarn alone, while Gael’s bloody head rolled on this very rampart.

A messenger boy burst from the slot of the stairway and rushed forward to kneel at Carbraes’ feet. “Yes, my Lord Regenen?” he gasped, looking up.

“Presently,” said Carbraes.

The boy bobbed his head and rose to stand behind his overlord.

“Which is it to be, Gael?”

This was Gael’s cue. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

“You would agree that I am afflicted with Gaelan’s mark,” he began.

Carbraes disdained to answer, merely casting Gael an exasperated glance.

Gael continued. “Had I arrived in Belzetarn unafflicted, you would have ordered me executed with no debate.”

Carbraes nodded.

“But since I was a troll, you offered me a place in your hierarchy, also without debate.”

Carbraes sighed. “I required an oath of you, Gael.”

“Yes, you did,” Gael agreed. “But you required no proof of my loyalty. Merely a statement of my good faith.”

Carbraes stood silent again.

Gael pressed his point. “Is it not so? I gave my oath, and that was enough.”

“Yes, all right,” said Carbraes impatiently.

“And my faith was good. I served you well. Without even the lesser betrayals, as you deem them, exhibited by such as Theron and Dreben.”

“Very well, yes,” said Carbraes. “I’d even go so far as to say that you served me every bit as faithfully as my dear Lord Dreas. Are you arguing that I owe you, Gael?”

“That is not my argument,” said Gael. “But you would agree that my word is good? That I do not break it?”

“Yes, yes. Your word is good. What then?” The corners of Carbraes’ mouth quirked upward. Was his sense of humor beginning to emerge, however unbidden?

“If I were to swear to you that I would never act against you, then you would know that you could rely on that oath.” Gael held his stance absolutely firm, his feet pressing down into the stone of the rampart, his shoulders relaxed and down, his chin level, his gaze meeting Carbraes’ calmly. This was his truth, and he insisted the regenen acknowledge it.

When Carbraes’ had questioned Gael’s loyalty in the wake of Theron’s thievery, Gael had questioned it, too. He’d not known whether he might—or might not—betray Carbraes for Keir. But now he knew. He might choose Keir over Carbraes. He was choosing Keir. But he would never stab Carbraes in the back, taking him unawares.

That was why he was here, now. Carbraes should have the chance, instead, to betray Gael. Tiamar willing, he would not.

Carbraes started to answer, then stared at Gael for a moment instead. “I believe I can rely on your word alone,” he said slowly. “And do.”

“No matter where I awake to greet the dawn,” said Gael. “In Olluvarde. Or somewhere much farther.”

Carbraes’ nostrils flared slightly. “I would grant you my permission to depart Belzetarn—I would even sponsor your journey—but there is a codicil to your request, is there not?” The regenen’s eyes hardened. “You wish Keir to accompany you. And Keir . . . has been accused of treason.”

Gael refused to let his gaze fall. Nor did he nod. He would let Carbraes open this next phase of their negotiation. A bargainer who stated his terms first held the weaker position. Gael needed every advantage possible.

“Well, Gael?” asked Carbraes, his eyes adamantine. “Was Theron correct? Or merely reaching? I trust you do know—now—even though you clearly did not yestereve.” His tone disapproved the delay in Gael’s understanding.

Gael made his own gaze hard and allowed his jaw to jut forward slightly. “I know exactly what has transpired in my tally room, its vaults, and the forges it monitors,” he stated. This was the danger point, but it could not be avoided.

“Which is?” challenged Carbraes.

“Which is,” said Gael deliberately, “that Keir disguised tin as copper, and copper as tin, directing each astray, to the detriment of the blades emerging from the blade smithy.”

Carbraes looked as though he’d bitten down on bitter oak mast. “So. Theron was right. She has done me and mine only harm.”

“She has done you harm,” agreed Gael, “but not only harm.”

Carbraes’ mouth turned down. “You quibble, Gael,” he said, his voice testy.

“The good, however small in proportion to the ill, must yet be weighed in the tallying, lest the tally prove faulty,” answered Gael, his own voice utterly steady. Any hint of unease would be fatal to what he attempted here.

“I am not so nice in my measurements,” Carbraes growled. “She has done great harm to me and mine. Why should I release her?”

Gael could feel the pulse in his neck throbbing. Securing his own freedom would be worth little, if he could not secure Keir’s, and he suspected Carbraes’ allegiance to reason and logic might prove weaker than usual concerning Dreas’ killer. Gael would need to use emotion in his persuasion—a less facile tool to his hand. He repressed a desire to swallow. Any hint of vulnerability now would prompt Carbraes to simply issue a regenen’s autocratic decree, retracting the opportunity he’d allowed Gael for argument.

“When Theron next crosses your will or your authority, you will execute him,” Gael stated.

Carbraes’ face grew yet more stern. “I will,” he said, curtly.

“But you would not do so, if you could yet bring him to heel and make further use of him,” continued Gael.

A sardonic expression entered Carbraes’ eyes. No doubt he was ahead of Gael’s words. He would be. But would he cut Gael off?

“Your point?” said Carbraes.

“You will take Theron’s head because his use to you is finished, not because you intend his punishment.”

Carbraes’ scorn grew marked. “I do not execute the Ghriana spies because they possess no utility to me. I execute them because they are my enemies.” The regenen shifted his weight to one foot, and then stood square again. “Keir has been my enemy from first to last. She wormed her way into a position of trust, into your trust. She used that position to kill hundreds of my warriors, warriors I rely upon, and who rely upon me. She murdered my march. I see no reason that I should spare her a spy’s fate.”

“But you do not execute even the Ghriana spies in retribution for their deeds. You do it to prevent them from carrying their intelligence back to their military command.” Gael made his gaze unwavering.

Carbraes swallowed.

“Don’t you?” Gael kept his voice as hard as his gaze.

“This time”—Carbraes’ voice grated—“I want vengeance.”

“For Dreas,” said Gael, his voice still firm.

Carbraes’ breath hissed as it rushed in and out. “For my dead,” he confirmed.

“But what would Dreas want?” probed Gael.

Carbraes’ face twisted. “Damn you!” he rasped, and whirled. Striding to the edge of the rampart, he nearly mowed down the messenger boy behind him, who dodged aside late. The regenen’s shoulders heaved. He bent his head and raised a hand to his eyes, then straightened, apparently glaring out over the lake, judging by his stance.

Gael waited a moment, and then crossed the space to stand at Carbraes’ side, saying nothing. Sunlight glittered on the water below them, and the breeze picked up. The resinous aroma of the pines strengthened. Carbraes’ rigidity softened ever so slightly.

“Keir was devastated by Dreas’ death,” Gael murmured.

Carbraes turned his head, his gaze sharp. “So she says. So she fains.”

Gael shifted to face his regenen, rather than the lake. “I watched each step she took in Dreas’ healing. When Adarn dropped that cursed gong, Dreas’ root, belly, and plexial nodes occupied their proper places.”

Carbraes’ mouth crimped in pain.

“Keir hoped to heal every troll in the North,” said Gael softly. “Would not that have been a worthy redemption for her treason?”

“It’s easier to believe his death a murder than mere . . . mischance,” grated Carbraes.

“Yes,” agreed Gael, gently. “Vengeance is . . . better than bare grief.”

Carbraes sighed, and answered Gael’s earlier question. “Dreas would have had me pardon her, and send her on her way, to find this putative second lodestone. Not because he could forgive her the slaying of his warriors—that he could never do—but because he would not forego the redemption of those still living.” Carbraes shook his head. “Dreas was even more practical than I am.”

“But this is your decision, would still be yours, even were Dreas still with us.”

Carbraes turned away from the lake to confront Gael straight on. The regenen’s face possessed a peace that had not resided there before. He took his time, studying Gael, weighing . . . perhaps everything.

“You will answer for Keir’s conduct,” he said abruptly. “That she will never take action against those under my aegis again.”

“I will,” said Gael.

“Very well. So be it,” pronounced the regenen. “Take Keir and your droplet of iron and whatever other supplies you need, and set off on your crazy quest. I wish you well of it!” His eyes gleamed for an instant. Mockery? Relief? Resentment?

“Do you wish us to return, when we find the second lodestone?” Gael considered, and then added, “Perhaps you would prefer we keep our distance.”

Carbraes’ lips twisted. “A traitor and the secretarius who failed to unmask her?”

“It was my failure,” said Gael. “Although not my treachery.”

“I never supposed otherwise, Gael.” Carbraes sniffed. “You really believe you’ll find it, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then be free to return or not as you deem most wise for us all,” said Carbraes. “I shall trust your word—the very first and only oath you swore to me. You need not swear another.” Did his eyes soften? “Be well, Gael.”

It was goodbye.

*     *     *
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The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 105)

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The Tally Master, Chapter 23 (scene 103)

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