The Guild

FOURTEEN

Nothing seemed able to ruin his good mood, come morning. Not the drizzling rain on the way from Heiastowne to the dam, and not the information that his scrying spies had found no recording of what the Patriarch’s right-hand man wanted from his fellow ex-priests in this corner of the land. Not even the frowns his mother gave him when he went down to the dining level to get something to eat at mid-morning could spoil his happy mood.

His brother Dolon came close to puncturing Alonnen’s ebullient attitude. Having invaded the dining hall of the inner circle for much the same reason—oven-baked flatbread topped with slivers of onion and scattered with cheese—Dolon ate slowly, frowning several times at his older brother. Toward the end of the snack, he finally smiled. Grinned, rather, with the predatory look of a sibling who had figured something out.

“Why, Alonnen, I didn’t know you liked men,” Dolon teased slyly.

Alonnen frowned in confusion. “What? Since when?”

“Since, oh, last night? When you took Master Rexei into town . . . and came home this morning sporting that unbelievably silly grin?” his brother said, pointing at Alonnen’s lips. “You haven’t done that since the last time you got to piston someone . . . or was he pistoning you? All those protests to the contrary . . . what a smoke screen! You should be nominated for an apprenticeship to the Actors Guild.”

For a long moment, Alonnen did not feel like smiling. His brother’s comments were crude, rude, and . . . well, typical hazing from a brother. This wasn’t the first time either of them had tormented the other verbally. But it wasn’t the teasing that bothered him; it was that as much as Alonnen wanted to correct his sibling’s mistaken impression, he didn’t know if he had the right to correct Dolon’s view of Rexei as a male.

“Rexei” was not an unusual name for both boys and girls; just about any name ending in ei was gender neutral in Mekhana. Many parents used it to ensure a casual conversation would not give away a child’s gender identity whenever a priest was around. His own name wasn’t gender neutral, nor was Dolon’s, but then their parents had raised them and their siblings mostly within the protections of the Vortex. But naming conventions were not the same as permission to speak.

Sighing, he settled on a different tactic. “Does it really matter whether or not the person I love is a male, a female, or . . . or some weird gender the Gods Themselves haven’t yet invented?”

“Oh-ho!” Dolon crowed, distracted as Alonnen had planned for him to be. “So my middle brother is in love, is he?”

Alonnen narrowed his eyes and peered over the top of the green-lensed spectacles he had not bothered to remove. “Are you going to keep giving me grief about being in love, or are you going to go do something more productive, like actually work?”

Dolon mock swept his strawberry blond curls back from his face, lifting his hawkish nose into the air. “I’ll have you know I’m quite competent at doing both.”

Alonnen relaxed. This was just typical teasing. “You have a low threshold for competency, I see.” He started to say more, but the talker-box rang. He rose to go answer it, but Dolon beat him to the machine. “I was going to get that. It’s probably for me.”

“Hello, you’ve reached the inner dining hall,” Dolon offered into the speaking cone, lifting the matching earpiece to his head. “What? . . . He’s right here. I’ll let him know.”

The way his brother hung up the ear-cone, ending the conversation instead of offering the cable-connected device, annoyed Alonnen. “I could’ve spoke to them myself, you know.”

“Yeah, but you’d just hear the exact same thing, and this’ll get you upstairs faster,” Dolon told him, shrugging. “The Guardians have called a conference, and they need you up there, since it’s apparently about you.”

Glad he had finished his flatbread snack, Alonnen pointed back at the table they had used, and the dirty dishes still sitting on the age-worn surface. “Just for that, you can take care of my cup and plate. Since it’ll get me upstairs faster.”

Ignoring the dirty look his younger sibling sent him, Alonnen headed for the stairs. It didn’t take long to reach the top. Debating a moment, he touched the doorknob, chanted a brief set of spells to change the illusions cloaking his office, then stepped inside. What should have been a room with four or five people in it, examining the images captured by the spying roaches, had turned into an empty chamber with a single mirror on the wall.

Alonnen didn’t understand how it worked; his magical education wasn’t up to the task and wouldn’t be for a long, long time even if he had a competent teacher who did understand. But he knew that he wasn’t going to run over someone turned invisible, but not intangible, by some spell. The way Millanei had described it, this whole floor acted more like his office formed a giant ring around the heart of the Vortex, and he had simply spun the floor like a cogwheel, accessing a gear-tooth version that had no one currently in it. Or perhaps it was the others he had shifted out of his office into an alternate version somewhere around the ring.

Donning cap and scarf to augment his green-tinted, identity-hiding lenses, he touched the frame, shifting it from a pulsing blue field to a set of squares filled with faces. Given the number of Guardians assembled, this was to be a very important meeting. He recognized nearly every face, but two of the mirror-windows were different. Both Pelai and Tipa’thia occupied the same scrying frame, one with her tattoos creased and crinkled into near-illegibility by her age-lined face, the other with her smooth-inked features framed by dark hair instead of white. In the other frame, not one, not two, but five faces peered at the others.

In the center, in a window that occupied the span of four of the others, Guardian Kerric nodded a greeting for their newest conference member. “I’m very glad you could join us, Guardian Alonnen, because we have come up with a solution for your problem.”

“A temporary solution,” Guardian Tipa’thia interjected firmly. “The spells will only last about two years, then they won’t be able to be reapplied for ten years. Keep that in mind, Guardians.”

Amber eyes rolled, and a suntanned hand tugged on a pale blonde braid. Alonnen quirked a brow at Serina’s image. She looked like she was not at all happy with whatever solution Kerric and Tipa’thia had in mind—irritated with it, even—but she didn’t say anything. She just stood there next to Guardian Dominor, her husband. Witch-Knight Orana Niel stood to Serina’s right, looking as calm and patient as ever.

To the left of Dominor stood some young man with ash-blond hair and aquamarine eyes. He was a bit thinner than Dominor but had the look of a kinsman to the dark-haired mage. To his left stood a woman with hair just a few shades lighter than Alonnen’s own and a curious look in her eyes; those eyes were the same shade as the young man’s, but other than that, the two had nothing in common regarding their looks. Certainly she didn’t have the slightly slanted, almond-shaped eyes of a Katani. What she lacked in ethnic nationality, Alonnen realized was made up in the crown she wore: delicate-looking, it had been fashioned out of slender gold wires bent and joined together to look almost like a set of mountain peaks.

Given the location of the Fountain which Dominor guarded, Alonnen could guess who the crown wearer might be. “I take it you, milady, are the new ruler of Nightfall? If so, congratulations.”

“Queen Kelly of Nightfall, hi there. Forgive me for barging into this, but after reading the prophecies in question, I realized I might be of some help, even if I’m no mage,” she stated bluntly. “I also figured, given how secretive you Guardian types are of your magical whatsit-wells, it might help for you to have a front man, so to speak. You know, someone whom everyone could point to and say, ‘She ordered it!’ and thus send the stampede of questioners and complainers my way, to distract everyone from the truth and keep them from interrupting or interfering with your work.”

Her blunt forthrightness made some of the others blink. For a moment, Alonnen couldn’t think of why; her forthrightness simply reminded him of several other Guild Masters . . . and that was the reason why. For a queen, this Kelly woman did not act at all how the tales of outkingdom queens were reported to act. She even looked like a fellow ex-Mekhanan . . . like a Guildaran, given her buttoned shirt. Alonnen liked her immediately based on that. He suspected from Ilaiea’s impatient look and Keleseth’s frown that not everyone did.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he stated, before anyone else could speak. He might not know nearly as many spells as the other men and women in this scrycast conference, but Alonnen was not stupid. He had given all the information gathered over the last few months a lot of thought. “Given the prophecies in question seem to suggest the Convocation is somehow involved, the queen of its host nation would indeed make a logical ‘target’ for all inquiring outsiders. And the ‘Synod Gone’ prophecy by the, uh . . . Seer Howpunay?”

“Howpanayah,” the ash-blond man pronounced. “Only the Seer Haupanea goes by ‘Hope’ now . . . and she’ll be joining us as soon as she gets out of the refreshing room.”

“Uh . . . right,” Alonnen said, thrown off-balance a little by the other man’s assertion that a centuries-old Seer would be joining them in a few moments. He dragged the conversation back to the point he wanted to make. “That prophecy does say, ‘Gone, all gone, the synod gone, brought back by exiled might; By second try, the fiends must die, uncovered by the blight.’ If the Synod is indeed the restored Convocation, as we suspect, then whatever is required to end the impending demonic invasion will happen within the kingdom of Nightfall, or at the very least, at the same time as your second Convocation ceremony, Guild Master Kelly . . . uh, sorry, is it Highness? I’m not used to addressing royalty.”

“Just call me Kelly,” the redhead soothed. “I don’t stand on formality when it’s not a formal occasion. I don’t even sit on formality, unless there’s an extra cushion or two,” she added, as the men and women sharing Guardian Dominor’s frame with her smiled in humor. So did some of the others, Sheren, Migel, Kelezam, Pelai, even the two stuffy Guardians of the Fountains in Fortuna. “And you had the very same thought I did, reading those two lines. Whatever happens, it will involve the Convocation in some way.

“The more I know right away on what your plans are, the more I can ensure that they get incorporated into my own plans for hosting the next Convocation. Which will be in four years, since that seems to be the long-standing tradition, and I won’t object to the wait, since we still have a long way to go before Nightfall is fully functional as a kingdom and a hosting site. But enough about me; I’ll just listen in and take notes while you get on with the solution you found. Serina?”

“Ughh,” the younger of the two pale blonde women in view groaned, tugging again on her braid. “I don’t like this . . .”

“Stop whining, love, and get it over with,” Guardian Dominor told his wife.

“Fine. Okay, as many of you know, I’ve been working on the problem of the old mass Portals that used to span both continents and oceans, and how the Shattering of Aiar not only destroyed the heart of the old Empire up north and ended the last set of Convocations of Gods and Man, but it also shattered the aether, allowing said Portals to span the world. Well, between my efforts with the Fountain which Mother Naima has been sharing Guardianship of with me and the efforts of Priestess Saleria”—Serina nodded to the blonde priestess with the almond-shaped eyes and golden curls, who dipped her head in return—“we’ve managed to quell a strip of aether running from the center of Western Katan and the Fountain of the Grove all the way up to a stretch of kingdoms to the east of your, well, ex-kingdom and the region governed by Guardian Callaia.”

“Sorry about that,” Kelly muttered under her breath, giving Alonnen a somewhat guilty, apologetic wince.

“Don’t be,” he murmured back, wondering what the redhead had to do with the loss of Mekha. He returned his attention to Serina. “What does the restoration of Portal abilities have to do with the threat of a demonic invasion?”

Nose wrinkled in disgust, Guardian Ilaiea scoffed, “Are you really that ignorant, boy? Who in the name of the Netherhells made you a Guardian, if you’re so stupid?”

Alonnen narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me for being uneducated, but if you haven’t noticed, Mekhana has been a death trap for mages for the last four centuries, with damn few mages able to get in or out without getting captured. Forgive us for most of our highly educated mages having their will suppressed by magical shackles and the weight of an uncaring, ever-hungering False God, who destroyed their minds and drained their magics to the very last drop. Forgive us for losing a lot of knowledge over the centuries under the oppressive rule of a False God who was just two steps away from being a Netherhell demon. Forgive us for—”

“Wow. You have a temper worse than mine,” Queen Kelly interjected, her brows lifted and her tone light, if pointed.

Forcing himself to relax, Alonnen muttered a very grudging, “Sorry.”

It was a bit angry, but it did smooth over the moment. It helped that Tipa’thia spoke up, seizing the awkward silence. “Regardless of how well-trained you and your local mages might be, Guardian Alonnen, it would not matter. This will be a new spell for everyone . . . and we will all have to learn how to apply it. Half of it was researched by my apprentice, Pelai, from forgotten knowledge culled from scores of ancient grimoires. Half of it has been updated and integrated into the aether-cleansing magics which Guardian Serina has been tirelessly researching and striving to enact.”

“Unfortunately, this will put back that aether quelling by at least two full years!” Serina argued.

Lost, Alonnen opened his mouth to ask what the two were talking about. Guardian Kerric got to it first, raising his hand. “Ladies, please. Guardian Serina, please cut through the side discussions and just outline what needs to be done and why, so that we all understand the necessity of it.”

She tugged on her long braid again, then released it with a heavy sigh and a brief mutter. “I need more vases . . . As I was saying, instead of calming the aether to reestablish our ability to create Portals, we shall instead temporarily agitate the aether. The resonances of normal, world-crossing Portals are very similar to, but not exactly the same as, the resonance frequencies used by the shorter, merely region-crossing mirror-Gates which are still usable in most kingdoms.

“By the same token, if you push things up higher, you reach the resonance frequencies not only in the local aether, but in what we call the Veil between Worlds. Depending upon the exact resonances, you can pierce the Veil into other universes entirely, where the rules might be slightly different . . . or you can pierce the Veil into the region of the Netherhells,” Serina explained. “Blood-based, violence-infused magic assists in piercing the Veil to the Netherhells, creating Portals to and from that realm. Mages can also use these resonances to summon and bind demons, which is what these ex-Mekhanan priests are attempting to do.”

Alonnen nodded, glad he was able to follow along in spite of his . . . lack of a perfect magical education. He really did not like Ilaiea. He did like Serina, however, even though both women looked very similar to each other. Serina paused before continuing, glancing to her right. A curly haired woman with richly tanned skin moved into the scrying mirror’s view, and the man with the ash-blond hair motioned for her to join him; when she did, he tucked his arm around her hourglass curves, snugging her against his side. For a moment, Alonnen wished Rexei were here instead of in town, meeting with her long-lost half brother, but this was more important than any spark of envy or undoubtedly misplaced mistrust.

“Everyone, this is Hope, my newest and last sister-in-law, who just married Morganen, there,” Serina stated, introducing the newcomer. “Two hundred years ago, she was the Duchess Haupanea of Nightfall, a Holy Seer of Katan, but the destruction of the last Convocation caused a tear in the Veil between Worlds, which caused her to be cast into another universe at a different point in time. She met Kelly in that world, who came across to join us in this one in accordance with a series of prophecies made by several Seers, not just herself. Hope, these are some of the various Guardians of the world.”

Hope raised a hand and fluttered it. Like Kelly, she was wearing an almost Guildaran-style buttoned shirt instead of the more commonly seen tunic, robes, or dress of the others, albeit in a cheerful shade of pink that contrasted pleasantly with Kelly’s light blue. “I was a poetic Seer, and according to the Gods of the Convocation, I’ll still continue to be a Seer, so we’re in the process of assigning a set of scribes to follow me around in case I start spouting pertinent bits of doggerel again. Based on what I’ve learned of recent history and what I found when I went through my old prophecy scrolls, it looks like there’s at least seven or eight prophecies of mine alone which tie into this whole Netherhells mess . . . which scares the willies out of me, as Kelly’s old people would say. But whatever the Gods send for me to say about this whole mess, I’ll make sure you know it.”

Alonnen decided he liked her, too.

“Welcome, Holy Seer,” Guardian Marton of Fortune’s Hall stated dryly. “I’m glad we have a scapegoat and a mouthpiece, but I want to know what, exactly, Guardian Serina has in mind regarding the resonances of the Veil and the Portals, and how it ties into thwarting the demonic invasion.”

“Well, you’re not going to like it,” Serina returned bluntly. “I don’t like it, either, since it sets back my work two-plus years. But we are going to have to agitate the layers of resonances involved in the deeper stretches of the Veil, where the borders between this world and the various Netherhells exists . . . and that will have an impact on the Portals that span the curve of this world.”

Marton narrowed his hazel eyes. “How much of an impact? Fortune’s Empire relies heavily on our intact Portals for cross-kingdom commerce and travel.”

Serina winced, clearly not happy with having to answer that question. “It’ll cut their reach in half at best . . . on a really good aether day.”

Both Fortunai Guardians, Marton and Suela, spat out near-identical, manure-based epithets, then started arguing about how this was not going to be well received by their governments, and how . . .

“Enough!” Alonnen’s demand cut through their mounting tirades. “You are Guardians, and you are comparing the piddling problem of putting up with the inconvenience of having to take twice as many luxurious Portals—which the rest of us would have killed to have access to, particularly my people in order to escape being drained to death—you are comparing all of that, to the destruction of this world. Either step up to the prices and the pains of your responsibilities, or step down from your Guardianships!”

“. . . Thank you for that rather blunt and tactless piece of truth,” Kerric said dryly in the silence that followed Alonnen’s shout. “But as it is the truth, we shall take it as a given that this is our responsibility, however much our various governments and our neighbors will complain about it. You may find your single, if vast, empire inconvenienced, Guardian Suela, Guardian Marton . . . but the reach of my Fountain covers fourteen kingdoms, five of which rely heavily upon mirror-Gate travel, and nine more of which rely modestly upon it. Gate travel which may also be affected, though at a lesser rate than the great Portals will be.”

“Most of us are not accustomed to having those Portals, and so it will be a miniscule inconvenience for us to have that inability continue for a little while longer,” Guardian Tuassan stated, his dark brow furrowed into a pointed look. “If you need something to say to your nation’s people, Guardian Suela, then remind them it will be good for your nation’s character to suffer a little in the name of helping save the entire world.”

“Actually, I was going to suggest blaming me,” Queen Kelly offered, raising her hand. “After all I, above and beyond all the rest of you, will suffer far more, because having these inter-dimensional Portals sealed by these spells means I will not be able to reach, contact, or even see the world where I was born. Yet I do grasp the absolute necessity of this. If we can use these vibration resonances to disrupt all cross-dimensional Portals, including to the Netherhells, then there is no way for these demons to invade. Problem solved.”

“Not exactly, Kelly,” Dominor told his queen. “As Guardian Tipa’thia pointed out, it’s only a temporary solution. The aether will only be disrupted for about two years. But it will give us time to hunt down the would-be summoners and prevent them from ever trying again . . . one way or another.”

Alonnen saw Ilaiea inhale and had the feeling from the arrogant look on her face that she was going to try to dump that responsibility strictly upon his lap. He spoke quickly, beating her to it. “As we know from the various prophecies involved, the ex-priests here in ex-Mekhana—which we’re going to start calling Guildara—the ex-priests will probably flee this region once the aether-disrupting spells have been applied, and they have come to realize they cannot summon demons here. From my point of view, that is a very good thing.”

“A good thing?” Ilaiea argued.

“Yes, a good thing,” Guardian Saleria stated, quelling the older woman’s outburst. Once she had Ilaiea’s attention, the blonde Katani priestess looked like she was trying to meet the gaze of every other Guardian as well in the scrycasting link. “The Gods are constrained from intervening directly and have been ever since we evolved from animals into thinking beings. We have free will; therefore, we are responsible for doing whatever we can to alleviate the trials and troubles we must face. The Gods cannot wave a hand over every last one of our problems.

“Some of them, yes—and I am deeply grateful Holy Kata and Holy Jinga saw fit to smooth over most of the problems plaguing Their Sacred Marital Grove here in Katan, which I guard . . . but They did not fix everything, and the other Gods and Goddesses will not fix everything for us. They may not even have that much power to spare. In the last two weeks,” Saleria continued, pointing off to her side, “I have met priests and Gods from kingdoms that have held less than a hundred thousand people for their worship base, and thus their prayer-power base.

“There are very, very few kingdoms and empires that have millions of worshippers to support the miracles of their Patrons. But our many Patrons can give us clues as to how to fix these problems ourselves via the words They give Their Seers to pass along to us . . . and I, for one, am grateful for even the littlest piece of help They can give in the face of power constraints, free will, and what other problems there may be out there.”

Alonnen liked her, too. And I think I know why, he realized, as Suela grudgingly asked Serina another question on the effects of the proposed Portal-disrupting spell. Since his people didn’t use such things, and weren’t going to complain about their lack, the answers were of no use to him. There’s something of that same . . . how to define it . . .

Certainty of purpose, that’s it. The same certainty of purpose with which Rexei speaks of her concept of Guildra. Only in Guardian Saleria, it’s much more mature and refined. There were some priests after all, he realized, that he did like and trust. Not just Rexei, but this woman as well. Not because she was a Guardian, though that had gained his trust initially, but rather, because she was a priestess. A true holy servant. Now if only our kingdom had known such goodness in its priests . . .

A silly thought, he dismissed. We wouldn’t be suffering what we’re suffering now, if it weren’t for the selfish bastards we did end up having to deal with . . . and not even the Threefold God can turn back the clockworks of the universe itself just to rewrite the mistakes of the past.

“. . . Right, then. Back onto the topic of carrying this project through,” Kerric directed the others. “We acknowledge that the people of . . . the region overseen by Guardian Alonnen are not equipped or trained to completely eradicate on their own the problem of demonic summoning as foreseen by forescrying mirror and Seer-based prophecies. We acknowledge that prophecy does indicate there is a way to eventually stop these people, and that we should seek to send them out of Mekhana’s former borders, into territories that do have the necessary resources to whittle down their numbers. And we acknowledge—however much it may inconvenience everybody—that we do have a means of forcing that escape into more favorable lands and of buying all of us more time to find a better solution to this worldwide problem. Is everyone in agreement on these points, even with all the problems that still remain?”

Most of the Guardians nodded firmly. A couple—Ilaiea and Keleseth—rolled their eyes, plus an impatient look of “get on with it” came from Guardian Daemon, who looked sleepy, but it was enough for Kerric to continue.

“Very well, then. The spells have been carefully learned by Priestess Orana Niel, Pelai of Mendhi, and Morganen of Nightfall. Orana has business in former Mekhana, and Pelai is the foremost authority on the new spell, aside from Guardian Serina,” Kerric said, “but as Serina is a new mother, we are not going to ask her to travel everywhere. Morganen may be newly wed, but with his wife’s permission, he has agreed to journey in Serina’s place. He will do so via the Fountainways to Guardian Shon Tastra in Darkhana, where he will begin instructing various Witches in how to cast aether-disruption spells.”

The blue-and-black-robed Guardian bowed his head, acknowledging the plan being outlined. “We look forward to hosting him and will be happy to allow him to travel back and forth in this manner. It will be much more pleasant by comparison than the other method we Witches have at our disposal.”

Kerric nodded, continuing. “Many of the Darkhanan Witches are still scattered around the globe in their efforts to assist in ensuring enough priests from all the Gods and Goddesses showed up at the Convocation, but they have some means of reaching each other and teaching each other despite the vast distances involved and the lack of easy mirror-based communications. Priestess Orana would normally be involved in this matter, but she tells me she has been pledged for centuries to return to ex-Mekhana to speak with its citizens on the matter of the dissolution of their ex–Patron God. She will travel to your location, Guardian Alonnen, as will Guardian Apprentice Pelai.”

Alonnen wrinkled his long nose but dipped his head. “It normally would be against my Guardianship policy to allow anyone to use the Vortex Fountainway in such a manner, but . . . I will trust Guardian Tipa’thia’s judgment of her apprentice.”

The younger tattoo-covered woman lifted her brow. “You have no objection over this Darkhanan Witch traveling to the seat of your Guardianship, but you have one for me? Neither of us is a Guardian. Yet.”

“Nothing personal, Apprentice Pelai,” Alonnen said wryly, “but we of ex-Mekhana have known for generations of Knight-Priestess Orana Niel’s many efforts to free us from Mekha’s enslavement. We will need to spend at least a little time getting to know you to develop a solid level of trust . . . but it will happen in due time.”

She tilted her head, acknowledging his point.

“Once they have instructed enough of the mages in Guardian Alonnen’s region to set up the anti-Portal resonances, and he has tied them into the singularity he guards, Apprentice Pelai and Witch Ora will disperse to other locations to instruct others. Pelai will do so via the Fountainways, while Orana will use . . . whatever methods Darkhanans use,” Kerric hedged. It was clear he didn’t understand what those methods were but equally clear he was willing to trust her competency in using them. “This will add to the instructions being offered by Morganen of Nightfall and increase the spread of the effects.”

“Keep in mind that this set of spells can only be applied once every decade,” Tipa’thia asserted, her voice a little unsteady from age, but her gaze as sharp and level as her apprentice’s. “To apply it a second time before the aether has healed and recovered would be to risk tearing open the Veil in uncontrolled rifts.”

“I can vouch for that not being a good idea,” Guardian Saleria interjected. “You don’t want to know the damage that can be wrought by having three rifts in one location spewing unchecked, uncontrolled magic into the world. I’m dealing with constrained rifts, and they’re bad enough.”

“Quite,” Kerric agreed. “We will begin by setting the first spell with the power of Guardian Alonnen’s singularity. By Serina’s calculations, that should blanket all of Mekhana, a fifth of Arbra along its eastern border, the western half of Aurul, a tenth of northern Sundara—it’s a long country—the northeastern third of Haida, and some of the kingdoms to the northeast whose names I forget. From that point, every Guardian and mage involved will then examine their local aether and apply their own version so that it matches up to the edges of the previous applications but does not overlap.”

“What of the oceans?” Guardian Sheren asked, speaking up for the first time this session. Alonnen recalled she was the Guardian of Menomon, which apparently was an underwater kingdom. “We can only cover so much, Migel and me.”

Serina addressed her question. “There is no Portal which can be erected on a ship at sea; mirror-based Gates, yes, but not any grand Portals. The deck of a ship moves far too much and is far too distant from a solid chunk of ground—as in, a chunk of the planet we all live upon—for a Portal to be successfully opened. We need only cover the islands with civilized presences upon them.”

“But what if they pick some uninhabited island somewhere in the middle of an ocean?” Ilaiea asked.

The question visibly worried the rest, furrowing brows and turning down mouths. Alonnen, however, thought he had a pretty sound counterpoint. “Guardian Ilaiea has a good question, but I know these priests. They are a very spoiled lot. As much as the Aian mage Torven might try to convince them otherwise, and as much as we will strive to end their ambitions one way or another, they will not be easily swayed into going to an isolated, uninhabited island with zero buildings, services, shops, supplies, and other trappings of civilized life. They will instead try to seek out a city or a well-managed kingdom, or even a remote but wealthy nobleman’s estate—these are men used to taking whatever they want of the finest things in Mekhanan life, not laboriously creating it from scratch.”

“We’ll try our best to keep an eye on where they go and what they try to do,” Kerric promised him. Or rather the others, for he added, “Just in case. Now, since this does have a bit of a priority on it, when will you ladies, and you sir, be ready to travel?”

The ash-blond man in the crowded mirror-window shrugged. “I can be packed within just a few hours.”

Pelai smirked. “I already packed a couple bags in anticipation.”

Orana Niel arched one brow, then stated serenely, topping both of them, “I am a Witch of Darkhana. My bags are always packed . . . and kept in the Dark.”

Did she mean . . . ? Isn’t the Dark the place where ghosts roam on their way to the Afterlife? Alonnen shivered at that thought. He’d heard rumors of her being able to magically summon or dismiss items from plain sight via that black-lined sleeved cloak of hers, and the thought of those things going into and coming out of the place where only the dead dared tread unnerved him. He trusted her—nothing about that had changed—but he wasn’t about to be her, if he could help it.

Clearing his throat, he spoke up. “Well. If you ladies are ready to travel, then I shall need just a few minutes to set my Fountainways to accept and catch you gently upon your arrival.”

“I’ll need two minutes to pick up my bags,” Pelai agreed. “But then I’ll be ready to go.”

“I’ll let Guardians Dominor and Tipa’thia know when I’m ready to receive you,” Alonnen agreed.

“Orana will have with her a set of Artifacts to gauge the effectiveness of the disruption spells,” Serina told him. “If you could set up a feedback sub-channel through your Fountainways to Koral-tai so that I can monitor everything, I’ll be able to run calculations on exactly how much the disruptions will affect local Gates and regional Portals, and whether or not there’s a risk of overlap tearing the Veil. Hopefully there shouldn’t be, but monitoring will be a good safety net.”

“I’ll do my best,” Alonnen said. Silently, he promised himself to contact Guardian Kerric privately for a lesson as soon as discreetly possible, since he was fairly sure the Master of Scrycasting would know how to do just that.

As irritating as Ilaiea’s contempt was, Alonnen knew very well how little he and his fellow ex-Mekhanan mages knew, and he could admit it to himself, even if he didn’t like his long nose rubbed in it. Admitting his ignorance was an irritation, but it was at least one he could do something about. Eventually. In his copious spare time, of course.

• • •

Her bottom ached. Not much, but there was definitely a sense of tenderness in that area. A certain lingering awareness of what she and Alonnen had done.

There had been ribald jokes about that, too, throughout her youth—jokes of cog-stars being widened, of “boring the hole wider,” and more. Sore-bottom jokes, tender-bottom jokes . . .

Rexei hadn’t realized just how many butt jokes she had absorbed in her guise as a young man over the years, but seated on one of the unpadded chairs in the Heiastowne Consulate Hall, she was recalling them now. Feeling them, too, every time she shifted the wrong way.

It was a good ache, though. It made her smile at random moments, even when it made her feel like wincing a little. She kept both the smiles and the flinches to a minimum. Instead of chatting with her brother, or even instructing her apprentices, Rexei had found herself corralled within minutes of entering the Consulate for a long discussion with a wide selection of townsfolk on the nature of Guildra, Patron Goddess of Guilds.

The astonishing thing was how they came to her to actually learn, not to rail against or deny or demand a completely different Patron concept. The more she talked with the men and the women, the elderly and the teenagers who wanted to understand, the more Rexei realized she had picked the right Goddess for her people. The guilds were something they intimately understood.

The Guild System was a concept every ex-Mekhanan could grasp. A Goddess of Guilds, patient, educated, disciplined, encouraging . . . these were characteristics utterly unlike the last God. That was the reason why her fellow citizens came to her in the dead of winter; they wanted reassurance that Guildra was indeed real and that She was going to be their new Patron . . . exactly as they wanted Her to be.

This was a gratifying and very humbling realization, on Rexei’s part.

Her apprentices listened in, too, and spoke when she gestured for them to add to the conversation. Master Jorro, a fellow Gearman, was even able to speak for her when her voice started to grow rough around the edges from so much talking. When she realized he was indeed thinking along very similar lines, Rexei paused the conversation long enough to promote him to the rank of journeyman of the Holy Guild. She still didn’t have any guild medallions just yet, but she knew the Mintners Guild was working on it for her, since she didn’t have time to gather tools and start the work herself—there was so much to do, she just didn’t know when she would fit it all in.

One bite at a time, she thought as lunch drew near and her stomach nudged her sense of time in pre-hunger warning. Speaking of which . . .

“Okay, people,” she told the crowd of roughly two hundred gathered into the meeting hall, with herself and her apprentices occupying the center of the curved head table—which felt a bit weird with just the four of them up there. “As much as we could continue to expound and expand upon the nature of Guildra, it is almost time for luncheon . . . and every Guild charter I know of demands the right to a luncheon hour for its members. Mine shall be no exception.”

Her dry-voiced reminder provoked a ripple of laughter in the men and women seated in the pews, thanks to the truth in her words.

“I thank you for coming, and I shall send word for the Binders to post the time and day for the next open meeting to discuss the nature of our new Patron and new Holy Guild. Feel free to discuss what we have talked about today with others; though if any of you have questions, I strongly encourage each person to come to the Consulate hall and leave a written question for my fellow guildmembers and me to contemplate the answer. In the meantime . . . it is lunchtime. Have a good day.”

Grasping the wooden handle of the stone mallet, she cracked granite against polished granite, ending the meeting. A young apprentice wearing the familiar medallion of the Messengers Guild moved up to the head table, a folded paper outstretched in his hand. “Message for you, Guild Master Longshanks.”

Nodding, Rexei dug into her pouch. All messages were prepaid for delivery, but it was courtesy to tip the apprentices for a job well-done; once a guildmember became a journeyman or higher, their pay was good enough—and presumably the service as well—to not need tips for encouragement. She handed over three square coppers and accepted the note. It wasn’t sealed, just folded over, and was fairly simple.

Rex,

I twisted my ankle on the way out of the inn, and now cannot even hobble across the room, let alone halfway across town. I know you have meetings this morning, but if you could join me for the midday meal over here, I’ll buy. Send word if you can’t make it; send yourself if you can.

Lun

Rexei quirked her brows, looking up at the apprentice. “Why didn’t you deliver this earlier?”

“He said before noon was fine, no big rush,” the youth told her, shrugging. “I had a dozen others that were. Any return message?”

“No . . . I’ll go myself. Thank you.” Watching him walk off, she absently tucked her brother’s note into her pouch. Rexei looked around for some of the other mages but couldn’t see them. They were still nervously avoiding her. Her apprentices and journeyman had already vanished as well, taking off to find their own food sources, leaving her alone. Sighing, she acknowledged that she should leave a message for Alonnen, in case he was already on his way back from the Vortex to rejoin her here.

Using the pen and paper she had brought for this morning’s meetings, she dipped the pen in the ink jar and wrote out a quick note explaining she had gone to the Fallen Timbers Inn for lunch with her brother. Rexei folded it up, writing For Master Tall on the outside. With that task done, she dropped the letter off at the front desk of the Consulate, belted her winter coat over her clothes, and headed into the damp and windy but no longer drizzling winter day.

The gusts increased as she turned down one of the main streets, heading for the Fallen Timbers. Leaning into the wind, she timed the pace of her steps to the songs that always hummed in the back of her head, masking her magical signature, warding her from detection, from attack, from—magic sizzled over her skin, disrupting that song. Just for a fraction of a moment, but it was enough to make her foot fumble.

The misstep drove her to the ground. Heart pounding, knee bruised, she twisted as she struggled back to her feet, looking all around for the source of the attack. Three men—strangers, none of them from the Heiastowne temple—converged on her from three different directions. The one on the far right scowled at her and flicked his hands. Panicking, she tried to shove to her feet, humming harder. The spell slapped into her with a jolt of pain.

For a moment, unable to see or move, she lost the thread of her protective meditations. One of the two remaining men grabbed her right elbow, saying gruffly, “Easy lad, you look ill.”

The other grabbed her left arm and pressed something to her neck. It sealed to her skin with a sizzle of magic just as she got her humming back. The pain remained, blurring her vision . . . but . . . she could hum, and that meant she could think. It was hard; Rexei felt the energies in the spell trying to drown her thoughts. She fought it to the point of humming faintly under her breath, struggling to remember the melodies of her warding spells.

“Stand up, Longshanks,” the man on her right ordered tersely. “You will act like we are helping you. Now, walk with us.”

Physical pain and cognitive dullness warred with the need to struggle, to escape. Rexei found herself walking between the two men, who still had their arms tucked through her elbows.

“Looks like your left knee is twisted,” one of them said aloud. Immediately her knee throbbed and her leg started limping in response.

Don’t panic—don’t panic—don’t panic! That frightened thought chased itself in circles, ruining the rhythm of . . . It has a rhythm! Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic . . . The warding harmonies came back, albeit at a faster, higher, more frantic pitch than usual. The more she concentrated, the clearer her thoughts felt, but at the cost of giving up some of the fight to control her body. I can do this . . . I can do this. I just need to concentrate . . . stall for time . . . don’t panic, don’t panic, concentrate, stall for time . . .

The words became a mantra, the mantra a melody. Her steps slowed with each fractional gain in her self-control.

“Walk faster,” the man on her right ordered gruffly. Her half-limped steps quickened a little. “Walk faster.”

“You twisted the boy’s knee,” the man on the left muttered. “Be thankful we need the limp as an excuse to take him off the streets, should anyone ask.”

It’s okay . . . I have time . . . and . . . and if they’re taking me to the temple, the paper roaches will see me . . . I just have to figure out . . . figure out the weak points in this controlling spell. It’s an amulet, not a collar, which means if I can somehow detach the adhesion spell, I can get rid of it and time my escape . . .

Time wasn’t on her side; the Consulate was not that far from the back door to the temple. Giving up her resistance to the body commands, she focused on trying to feel the resonances, the vibrations of the spell. Two spells, rather, one to command and one to cling. One tingled all through her body, threatening to turn her flesh numb. The other itched against her skin.

Rexei already had a spell to counteract itching, a useful ward to know when traveling through some of the more bug-infested stretches of the land. With a bit of thought, she started weaving that song into her warding melody, the one that cut down all magic in her immediate vicinity, and tied it into a countermelody to the itch. It was a long shot since she didn’t know if it would work—

Just as they reached the back door and the third man pulled it open, the stone popped off her throat. It dropped into the neckline of her winter coat. She faked a stumble the moment she felt it slithering down between the layers of wool, only to fall for real as all three men overreacted in their opposing efforts to get her steadied. Thankfully, their soft curses and grumblings hid the clack of the control stone hitting the paving stones of the alleyway. Rexei was free, yes, but only of the spell’s effects. Elbows and knees bruised, she realized from the way they were grabbing her that physically she would not be able to get away, even if she was magically free.

A scrap of colorful paper caught her eye. Quickly, she passed her hand over the doorsill, scraping the crushed paper roach out of the crack where it had been squished and left behind. She wasn’t sure if she could pull off a repair, but there was a way to transfer a bit of magic from one piece of paper to another . . . such as her brother’s note. At least, she knew the theory of it. Vaguely.

Guildra, help me, she prayed earnestly as they hauled her back onto her feet and pushed her into the temple’s back corridors. No one noticed the missing stone or the scrap of paper hidden in her hand.

Though the stone no longer forced her body into obeying their commands, she was still trapped. Two men, she could put to sleep with a spell. Three . . . four. No, five . . . six . . . Gods! Forcing her expression into the dulled look of one of the mages who had been collared, Rexei kept her fingers curled around the rumpled paper spy. All these years, I escaped and escaped and escaped . . . but now that Mekha is gone, now is when I get trapped by the priests?

Guildra . . . if this is a joke, it isn’t funny. If it’s a priestly test of my faith, that would not be funny, either.

Archbishop Elcarei stepped into view. Moving up to her, he grasped Rexei’s jaw, lifting her head. She tried not to look too self-aware while he peered at her. His brown eyes were distant, almost clinical, then his lips moved. “Bend over and kiss my crotch.”

The only thing that saved her was how her gaze instantly dropped. Oh Netherhells . . . ! Guildra, you had better give me a chance to get free. Stooping, she puckered up her lips, aiming for a spot below the belt of his blue velvet robes. There has to be a point where they’ll leave me alone . . . I hope . . .

“Stop,” he ordered sharply. Rexei froze, balancing as best she could on her toes. “Straighten up, Longshanks, and walk down to the holding pens. First ring, first door on the right. You remember it, don’t you? The first prisoner you walked out of here? Go there, now. You, go with him. You, go fetch a control collar.”

Yes, if they leave me alone . . . she thought, turning to walk toward the first set of stairs, the ones that led up to the forbidden door . . . Gears! Three of them are still coming with me? Can’t I get a break?

Hands gripped her elbows. Fingers brushed back her scarf—No, no, NO! Panicked, Rexei quickly stepped up the state of her humming. Metal touched her neck, and for a while, the world went away, smothered in a fog of mental wool.