didn’t know if he could that, but all ideas had to be up for consideration at this point.
He stopped on the street, inhaled cold air, and watched as Dorfort came fully awake. It was a good city. It could have been a good place to grow into if he had realized it earlier. No one had ever accused him of having much in the way foresight before now, though. Until now, a place had never seemed to be more than a moment in time.
Yes, there was much to do.
But, first, Garrick knew he had to see Darien.
The conversation with his friend would be uncomfortable, of course, which was probably why he had already delayed it this long. Darien understood Dorfort. He understood tactics, and would have good ideas on where the order should go next. But mostly, Garrick knew he needed to see Darien because he needed to apologize. He had stripped Darien of his order, and had done so in such a visible way that he knew Darien had to be hurting.
It had not been his intention to do that in front of the whole of the Freeborn membership.
He realized now exactly how big of a task he had, how hard it would be from this point forward. Every action he took would change the lives of those around him in ways he could not predict. This newfound weight fell upon him like an omnipresent cloud.
He sighed, pulled his cloak over his shoulders, and moved on.
Around him, it began to snow.
Chapter 2
Neuma, the young mage who now considered herself to be the high superior of the Koradictine order, gathered her spell work carefully. The magic was similar to those she had worked before, but powerful enough that failure would be painful.
Her room was lit by only a few sputtering candles. And it was small, built into the rolling hill at the foot of Mount Tara, the volcano that—if you believed the stories—was named after the only woman Commander de’Mayer had ever truly loved. Ettril Dor-Entfar, the deposed high superior, had assigned her these quarters when she was a new adept. She would move into Ettril’s palace soon enough, but for now Neuma had delicate work to accomplish, and she felt more comfortable here. She considered the room to be a part of her, like her little finger, or like her liver, like her pancreas. It was an organ deep inside that no one else could see.
There was something simple and pure about the room that made it feel right to cast this spell here. Its earthen brickwork was mossy and thick with the smell of island. Its roofing, thatched with saw-toothed fronds that raked the wind, raised whispers in the evenings that helped carry her mind away as she slept. A pot boiled in the fireplace, steeping sage and wild onion. Open braziers lay at each corner of the room, simmering with other spices from across the plane.
She sat on a thick mat of woven rawhide, a flat pan made of clay before her, her palms open and upturned on her knees.
Ettril Dor-Entfar’s notes had been detailed, and very explicit.
She remembered them precisely.
Neuma set gates, reached for her link to the plane of magic, and trickled magestuff into the braziers. Heat rose with the aromas of cinnamon and saffron. There was darkness hidden between those spices, though, the edge of danger and fear that Ettril’s notes warned would be overwhelming if she allowed them to bleed too far into this world.
She dribbled water into the pan.
The liquid beaded and ran like minnows in a pond until a slick surface filled the bottom of the basin.
Images swirled in the water. They were shadowy, irrepressible hints of a woman with hair that floated as if she were under water.
“Hezarin,” she whispered.
The planewalker came forward like an apparition—faint, and with a touch that was ghost cold.
“I wondered when you would call,” she said.
“I waited until I was prepared to serve you,” Neuma replied, so pleased to know her call was expected.
“And you feel prepared, now?”
“Yes, Lordess, Highest of Superiors. I am ready to take my place at your side.”
“And
He stopped on the street, inhaled cold air, and watched as Dorfort came fully awake. It was a good city. It could have been a good place to grow into if he had realized it earlier. No one had ever accused him of having much in the way foresight before now, though. Until now, a place had never seemed to be more than a moment in time.
Yes, there was much to do.
But, first, Garrick knew he had to see Darien.
The conversation with his friend would be uncomfortable, of course, which was probably why he had already delayed it this long. Darien understood Dorfort. He understood tactics, and would have good ideas on where the order should go next. But mostly, Garrick knew he needed to see Darien because he needed to apologize. He had stripped Darien of his order, and had done so in such a visible way that he knew Darien had to be hurting.
It had not been his intention to do that in front of the whole of the Freeborn membership.
He realized now exactly how big of a task he had, how hard it would be from this point forward. Every action he took would change the lives of those around him in ways he could not predict. This newfound weight fell upon him like an omnipresent cloud.
He sighed, pulled his cloak over his shoulders, and moved on.
Around him, it began to snow.
Chapter 2
Neuma, the young mage who now considered herself to be the high superior of the Koradictine order, gathered her spell work carefully. The magic was similar to those she had worked before, but powerful enough that failure would be painful.
Her room was lit by only a few sputtering candles. And it was small, built into the rolling hill at the foot of Mount Tara, the volcano that—if you believed the stories—was named after the only woman Commander de’Mayer had ever truly loved. Ettril Dor-Entfar, the deposed high superior, had assigned her these quarters when she was a new adept. She would move into Ettril’s palace soon enough, but for now Neuma had delicate work to accomplish, and she felt more comfortable here. She considered the room to be a part of her, like her little finger, or like her liver, like her pancreas. It was an organ deep inside that no one else could see.
There was something simple and pure about the room that made it feel right to cast this spell here. Its earthen brickwork was mossy and thick with the smell of island. Its roofing, thatched with saw-toothed fronds that raked the wind, raised whispers in the evenings that helped carry her mind away as she slept. A pot boiled in the fireplace, steeping sage and wild onion. Open braziers lay at each corner of the room, simmering with other spices from across the plane.
She sat on a thick mat of woven rawhide, a flat pan made of clay before her, her palms open and upturned on her knees.
Ettril Dor-Entfar’s notes had been detailed, and very explicit.
She remembered them precisely.
Neuma set gates, reached for her link to the plane of magic, and trickled magestuff into the braziers. Heat rose with the aromas of cinnamon and saffron. There was darkness hidden between those spices, though, the edge of danger and fear that Ettril’s notes warned would be overwhelming if she allowed them to bleed too far into this world.
She dribbled water into the pan.
The liquid beaded and ran like minnows in a pond until a slick surface filled the bottom of the basin.
Images swirled in the water. They were shadowy, irrepressible hints of a woman with hair that floated as if she were under water.
“Hezarin,” she whispered.
The planewalker came forward like an apparition—faint, and with a touch that was ghost cold.
“I wondered when you would call,” she said.
“I waited until I was prepared to serve you,” Neuma replied, so pleased to know her call was expected.
“And you feel prepared, now?”
“Yes, Lordess, Highest of Superiors. I am ready to take my place at your side.”
“And
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