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Synopsis
2020 American Fiction Award Finalist!
What’s a nice Southern girl doing in a place like this?
Whisked from humdrum Alabama to the fantastical land of Tandara by a mage who won’t take no for an answer, Raine Stewart finds herself tangled in a muddle of magic. A Dark Wizard is out for her blood, a demonic golem has orders to dispatch her . . . and she stinks at magic. Being a wizard, even a baby wizard, is harder than Raine thought.
Raine and her companions find sanctuary amongst the famed warriors of the snow-capped nation of Finlara, and Raine is reunited with her dear friend, the frost giant Tiny Bartog. In short order, she unearths a magic mirror, a dread curse, and a tragic, ill-fated love affair.
Safety, however, is an illusion. The dreaded Magog’s Eye is still missing, and war looms. It seems an entire world hangs in the balance, waiting to see whether Raine will be able to harness her magic. But with a little help from her friends, she’ll survive . . . she hopes.
Release date: October 2, 2018
Publisher: Rebel Base Books
Print pages: 330
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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A Muddle of Magic
Alexandra Rushe
Prologue
Bedtime for the Mablet
A blizzard raged outside the thatched cottage, rattling the shutters like an angry frost giant, but the boy was unafraid. His mother was strong and fierce, and mighty in magic. She would keep him safe. Sitting at the table eating his supper, he watched her throw another log on the fire. Sparks shot up the chimney and fire imps danced in the flames.
“Finish your milk, boy,” she said in her gruff voice. “Bed time.”
“I’m not sleepy. I want a story.”
“There are more stories than hairs on your head. Which do you want?”
“You know, Mor. Finn and the Troll.”
“Again?” She sighed. “I should think you’d weary of that one.”
The boy shook his head. “It’s my favorite.”
“Very well.” She heaved her bulk into a sturdy chair by the fire. “Come here.”
The boy jumped down from the bench and climbed onto her lap.
Settling him in the crook of her arm, she said, “Finn and the troll, having bested the god Trowyn in a contest of wits, were given the task of—”
The boy wrapped his small fingers around one of his mother’s tusks. “No, Mor. From the beginning. I want the whole story. Starting with Magog and Xan.”
“Cheeky cub.” The troll tickled his ribs until he squealed. “As you know, the gods of Tandara once numbered ten.”
The boy sat up in her lap. “I can name the gods. Brefreton taught me a poem about them.”
“Did he? I’d like to hear it.”
He regarded her from beneath lowered brows. “If I tell you, I still get a story?”
“You drive a hard bargain, but the answer is yes.”
The boy nodded. Taking a deep breath, he recited,
Once upon a time, ere the world was changed,
The gods numbered ten and these are their names:
Kron the Smith, god of forge and flame,
Seth, Lord of Darkness, turmoil, and change.
Reba the Bountiful, goddess of dawn,
Bringer of light and things that are grown.
Gar, fierce Hunter, god of rivers and rain,
Esma the Healer and easer of pain.
Valdar the Merry of poem and wine,
The sweetest nectar born of the vine,
Tam is the goddess of sea, hearth, and lore,
Trowyn the Bear—
The boy broke off. “Trowyn’s my favorite, ʼcause he can turn into a bear,” he confided, curling his fingers like claws. “But Finn bested him, all the same.”
“Yes, he did. Go on.”
The boy nodded, and continued:
Trowyn the Bear god wields his Hammer of War,
Last come Magog and his twin brother Xan,
They loved one another, then Magog raised his hand.
Magog the Comely—
The boy wrinkled his nose. “Comely makes him sound like a girl, and Magog is a boy god.”
“Take it up with the poet. I didn’t write it.”
“Bree says Magog was handsome. Handsomer than Xan.”
“Aye, Magog was beautiful to look upon.” The troll tugged one of her long ears. “By human standards, at any rate.”
“Until he ripped his face off.”
“Such a vicious cub,” his mother said, chucking him under the chin with a hairy knuckle. “Magog did not rip his face off, and you know it. Finish the poem.”
The boy sighed, and said,
Magog the Comely, out of jealousy and spite,
Struck his brother and took his life.
Xan the Beloved, god of music and air,
Fell to the earth, to the world’s despair.
Magog howled his grief as Xan’s life waned,
Plucked out his eye and went insane.
Nine gods there are now, where once there were ten,
One for the monsters, and eight for men.
Eight gods a-sitting on their thrones,
The last, Magog, grieves forever alone.
“It’s not a very good poem, is it?” the boy said.
“The fellow who wrote it was Tannish, I believe,” the troll said with an apologetic cough. “The Tans are farmers, not bards. Still, I’d keep your opinion to yourself. Bree might take offense.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.” The boy nestled himself in her hairy arms. “I’d like my story now, please.”
“Certainly. The tale begins, as you pointed out, with the murder of the god Xantheus.”
The boy gazed at the troll’s shaggy head. “Why did Magog kill his brother, Mor?”
“Jealousy and spite, like the poem says.”
“But why was he jealous of Xan?”
“Who can know the mind of a god?” the troll said, shrugging her massive shoulders. “ʼTwas a long time ago, but this much I know. As gods went, Xan was easy to love. The same could never be said for Magog.”
“Brefreton says Magog drinks the blood of his people.”
“That’s true, in a manner of speaking. Magog’s priests sacrifice humans to their god, but I suspect that is as much Glonoff’s doing as Magog’s.”
“Bree says the Dark Wizard is a bad man. Bree says Glonoff hates you.”
“Bree talks too much.”
The boy regarded her with a worried frown. “Don’t worry, Mor. I won’t let the bad man hurt you.”
“Thank you, son. That’s a great comfort. Shall I tell you the story?”
“Yes, Mor.”
“When Magog murdered Xan, the world became chaos. The Great Cataclysm, men called it, and dark days they were. The world cracked when Xan fell, and whole countries were swallowed by the sea. Mountains spat out gouts of fire and rivers boiled. Magog, seeing what he had wrought and stricken with remorse at the death of his twin, sank deep into madness. Xantheus’s people were orphaned at his death. Some found refuge in Shad Amar and became worshippers of Magog.”
The boy clenched his fists. “They were stupid to worship Magog. He killed their god.”
“They’d lost their home and their god, and they were frightened,” the troll said. “I suppose it seemed a reasonable solution.”
“But all of Xan’s people didn’t do that.”
“No, indeed. Most of Xan’s people refused to worship the Slayer. Some left Tandara and crossed the Strait of Gorza to the unknown lands beyond. They called their new home Torgal, meaning we abide.”
“And the rest of Xan’s people?” the boy asked. “What happened to them?”
“You know very well what happened to them.”
“Yes, but I like to hear you say it.”
“The Torgs weren’t alone in their rejection of Magog,” the troll said. “There were others among Xan’s people who chose exile rather than enslavement to the Mad God and the Dark Wizard, and they wandered, rejected and despised by the other races, without a god or country to call their own.”
“Until one day, a boy was born,” the boy said, warming to the story. “Finn was special, wasn’t he?”
“Very special,” his mother agreed. “For one thing, he was fair haired and blue eyed among a tribe of swarthy people, and he had the gift of magic.”
“No one else could do magic, could they?”
“Not among Finn’s people,” the troll said. “What’s more, his size made him remarkable. By the time Finn had reached his eleventh name day, he was tall and broad shouldered, a warrior among men, good with the sword, the bow, and the sling.”
“Finn’s like me,” the boy said. “He didn’t know his father, either.”
The troll brushed his dark locks from his brow with a gentle paw. “One day your father will come for you.”
“When?”
“When you are older.” The troll’s arms tightened around him. “You are but four, my precious boy.”
“Will they like me?”
“Who?”
“The other boys at the Citadel.”
“You are the rowan’s son. You are my son. They will like you.” Her rough voice deepened. “So help me, they will.”
The boy yawned. “The story, Mor.”
“Beg pardon,” the troll said, her black lips twitching. “One day, Finn was hunting in the woods when he happened upon a band of evil men torturing a troll.”
“It’s funny to hear you say it,” the boy said with a chuckle. “Like you don’t know who the troll is.”
“Are you telling this story, or am I?”
“You, Mor.”
“Outraged by their cruelty,” his mother continued, “he slew the wicked humans and bound the troll’s wounds, caring for her until she healed. The troll and the boy became inseparable, and she tutored him in magic, for she was a kolyagga.”
“Kolyagga is Trolk,” the boy said. “It means troll sorceress.”
“Really?” The troll arched a bushy brow. “I never would have guessed. Where was I? Oh, yes. One day, Finn came to her, sorely troubled. ‘My people suffer for want of a god,’ he told her. ‘I mean to challenge a god on their behalf. Help me in my quest and, if I prevail, I will protect the trolls from this day forward. Aye, and my people after me. You have my word.’ The troll agreed, on one condition.”
“Finn had to promise to protect all the monsters,” the boy said. “Not just the trolls, and the monsters were bound by the oath, too. Any monster that attacks a Finlar without…without—” He frowned. “It’s a funny word.”
“Provocation,” his mother murmured.
“Provocation,” the boy said, “can be slain with um-plunity.”
“Impunity,” she said. “It means that if a monster tries to hurt a Finlar without reason, the Finlar can kill the monster and not be foresworn.”
“I know.” He made an impatient gesture. “Go on. We’re almost to the part about the bear.”
“The troll and the boy traveled deep into the mountains to a cave where the Bear God Trowyn slept. If you’ll recall, I mentioned that Finn had talent. He was a shapeshifter. When they reached the cave, Finn took on the form of a young bear and bawled out a challenge. The troll used her talent to heighten the sound to a mighty roar. The noise woke Trowyn from a deep sleep. Furious, Trowyn lumbered from the cave and found, not a bear, as he expected, but a youth in the company of a red troll. Trowyn hated the troll. He raised a huge paw to strike her, and—”
“Why did Trowyn hate the troll, Mor?”
“I cannot say. As I was telling you, the Bear God raised his paw to kill the troll, but Finn threw himself in front of her. ‘Kill me, if you like,’ he said, ‘but leave her alone.’ The youth’s loyalty to the ugly creature—”
“You’re not ugly,” the boy protested, patting his mother’s whiskered cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” the troll said, “but most humans find trolls unappealing, and Trowyn shared their distaste. Touched by the youth’s devotion to the troll, the god stayed his paw. ‘What do you want, boy?’ Trowyn growled.”
“And that’s when Finn challenged him to three tasks,” the boy said. “A race, a contest where Finn got to choose the weapon, and a…um…”
“A wondrous feat,” the troll said. “If Finn won, Trowyn agreed to grant him one wish. If he lost, Finn’s life was forfeit.”
“That means Trowyn could kill him.”
“That’s right. The first task was a race. Eight hundred leagues, from the fork of the River Shara and back again. Trowyn chose for his champion Raskfar, the messenger hound of the gods.”
“Finn turned into a rabbit,” the boy said.
“Aye, but Raskfar was quick as the wind, so the troll cast a spell that gave the rabbit the speed of thought. The rabbit won, and Trowyn was angry and demanded the second task, the contest at arms. Finn chose his sling. ‘Let us see who can throw a stone farther,’ he said to the god, and Trowyn pulled up a mountain by the roots and threw it twenty leagues. ‘Beat that, if you can, boy.’ Finn selected a rock from the ground with great care and placed it in his leather sling. Twirling the sling over his head, he released it. The stone flew as though it had wings and landed several leagues beyond Trowyn’s mountain.”
“That’s because it wasn’t a rock atall,” the boy said. “It was the troll, disguised as a bird.”
“Aye,” said his mother. “‘ʼTwould seem you have bested me a second time, tadpole,’ Trowyn said. ‘We have come to the third and final task. What wondrous feat will you perform?’
“‘Fear not, Great Bear God,’ Finn said, ‘and prepare to be amazed.’
“The god looked down on him. ‘Show me, impudent stripling, for I await your next marvel.’
“Finn pointed to the ground. ‘I can put one foot on this mountain and the other in the Kalder Sea. Can you?’
“Stung, Trowyn began to grow until he towered over mountains and lakes. Night fell in his shadow and the moons came out. Lifting one enormous leg, Trowyn set one foot into the Kalder Sea, leagues to the south. The other foot remained on the mountain, beside Finn.
“‘Your turn, Finn the Foolish, but methinks you cannot do it,’ the god boomed, but Finn was unperplexed. The troll handed him his pack, and Finn removed a wooden bowl and a leather flask and set them on the ground.
“‘What’s this?’ the god demanded, shrinking once more to his former size.
“Finn uncorked a flask and poured water into a wooden bowl. ‘Water from the Kalder Sea,’ he said. Setting the bowl on the ground, Finn put one foot in the bowl and grinned at the god. ‘As easily as that, I have bested you.’
“‘By base trickery,’ Trowyn said, his face dark with fury.
“‘The boy did not state how he would do the thing, only that he would do it,’ the troll said, coming to Finn’s defense. ‘By the rules of the contest, you must grant him his desire.’
“Trowyn sneered. ‘And what prize is it you seek? Riches? Fame? Everlasting life?’
“‘Nay, great god,’ Finn said, ‘I seek a god for my people, left orphaned by Xan’s murder.’
“Trowyn was surprised and touched by Finn’s request. ‘Very well, but first you must complete another task, this time one of my choosing, and there will be no deceit. Bring me the Hound of Mandoora’s collar. If you succeed, I will be your god and the god of your people.’” The troll stroked the boy’s cheek. “But that is a tale for another time.”
The boy yawned again. “You left out the part about Reba. She’s the one who figured out that Finn had tricked Trowyn.”
“I didn’t forget. It’s time you were abed.”
Rising from the chair, the troll carried him to his bed and tucked him under the covers.
The wooden frame groaned as she settled her weight on the edge of the mattress. “Goodnight, boy.” Her yellow eyes gleamed in the darkened room. “Don’t let the stone fairies bite.”
“Night, Mor.” He put his arms around her burly neck and gave her a hug. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, my Raven,” Gertie said. “Sleep well.”
Chapter 1
The Seeker
Seratha smoothed the wrinkles from her rough woolen smock and rapped on the iron-bound door. There was no answer. Summoning her courage, she knocked again.
“Enter,” a man said from within.
The sound of the deep, masculine voice sent a shiver of mingled dread and anticipation through the anxious novice. She’d been a disciple at the Tower three full cycles, and though she’d glimpsed the High Seer many times from afar, she’d never been within a stone’s throw of him. Nor would she be now but for the sudden arrival of their guest.
Sending a hasty prayer to Gar that the drek herder on their doorstep did not shame her, she pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside with her head bowed. The heat in the room was stifling and the sweet herbs burning in the braziers tickled her nose. Squelching the sudden urge to sneeze, she wriggled her toes in the thick Esmallan rug beneath her bare feet. She hadn’t been warm since she’d left her father’s tent. Situated on a rocky jut of land that overlooked the Gray Tides, the stone spire that housed the seers was bitterly cold, battered by squalls and salt spray, and the stinging winds that swept down from Northern Sethlar and the far reaches of Udom.
Lifting her head, she risked a quick peek at her master. To be in the same room with the High Seer made her head swim. The object of her perusal stood at a window with his back to her. Emboldened, she examined the rest of the chamber. Unlike the spare, cheerless quarters set aside for the initiates, the master’s tower apartments were luxurious, as befitted one of his eminence. Costly tapestries hung on the walls, adding color to the drab stone and keeping the chill at bay. With a mild sense of shock, Seratha saw that a wood fire burned on the hearth. Wood was rare and costly along the rocky coast, and she and the other novices labored in the stinging wind, gathering peat, dung, and driftwood to keep the relentless chill at bay. Near the fireplace were a heavy table and high-back chair with carved armrests. Scrolls crammed with rows of spidery writing lay scattered across the gleaming tabletop and spilled from baskets onto the floor.
Turning her head, Seratha caught a glimpse of the master’s solar through a partially open door. As a new candidate, Seratha went without shoes and slept on the hard floor. The High Seer slept on a huge bed piled high with thick furs.
The man at the window turned and Seratha’s thoughts scattered to the wind. Zared was a tall, imposing man, with long blond locks liberally streaked with silver and a blade of a nose. He wore a flowing robe of sky blue, the color reserved for masters of divination. The light through the glazed windows sparkled on the silver embroidery that embellished the pointed sleeves, collar, and hem of his garment. To the dazzled novice, he seemed a god.
His pale gaze scanned her, taking in her bare feet, the kerchief that covered her hair, and the unlined dark blue shift that marked her as a proselyte. A slight crease formed between his brows. “What insolence is this? Why do you trouble my repose, recruit?”
Seratha flinched at the censure in his tone. Naadra, the seer and skaldiff assigned to the apprentices, had threatened to beat her soundly should she displease the master.
“T-the skaldiff sent me, High One,” Seratha said, pleating the folds of her shapeless dress. “I am to inform you the Durngesi has returned.”
Returned. The discovery that this was not the Durngesi’s first visit to the tower had come as a nasty shock. Seratha had left her former life behind when she pledged her body and gifts to the Circle. To her dismay, her past had followed her. Her fears had eased when she’d seen the man. The tribes that roamed the Durngarian Plain were large in number, and she did not recognize him. Whatever brought him here did not concern her.
“Ah.” Zared folded his long-fingered hands. “Show him in.”
Seratha nodded and scurried from the room. She rushed down the tower steps, almost tripping in her haste to do her master’s bidding, and found the visitor lounging at the bottom.
“He will see you,” she said, frowning at the man’s temerity. “Why did you not remain in the scullery, as you were bid?”
“I did not find the dirty pots to my liking.”
The Durngesi returned the dagger he was examining to his boot. He was dressed in a tan tunic, breeches, and worn boots, but he bore himself with the arrogance of a king. A drekalli skin hung from his broad shoulders and his dark hair was tied back with a strip of leather.
More likely a bit of intestine, Seratha thought with a sniff of disdain. Waste was abhorred by the tribesmen of the plains, and every part of the drekalli, the enormous, horned animals they herded, was used.
She folded her arms and surveyed the man’s lean form, taking in the bone-handled knives strapped to his muscular legs and sheathed at his waist.
“You cannot enter the high one’s presence armed,” she informed him from the steps. “The inhabitants of this place abjure violence.”
“I am not armed. I left my bow and snare at the gate.”
“What of your daggers?”
He regarded her in evident astonishment. “A Durngesi is never without his knives. You should know this, little sister.”
Seratha opened her mouth to chastise him roundly for the familiarity of his address—he was no kin of hers—and closed it again. She would not argue with an uncivilized brute who understood neither her talent nor the path of discipleship and service—the path of a visionary whose dreams would lend counsel to kings, while this one gathered drekalli dung for his fire.
Drawing her dignity around her, she swept back up the stairs without bothering to see whether he followed.
Opening the door, she announced, “The Durngesi, High One.”
The Durngesi sauntered past her into the chamber and looked around. If he was daunted by the magnificence of the High Seer’s accommodations, he did not show it, though a simple herdsman could not be accustomed to such splendor.
Timidly, Seratha lingered in the shadows by the door, awaiting some sign from her master, torn between her reluctance to intrude upon the high one’s affairs and her fear of the skaldiff’s cane. She would stay, she decided after an agony of uncertainty. The high one had not dismissed her and might desire refreshment. Naadra had stressed the importance of showing proper deference and an eagerness to please. Seratha found the prospect of attending her master simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. She straightened her spine. She would serve Zared, and gladly. The Durngesi, too, she conceded with less pleasure, at her master’s behest.
The High Seer had resumed his post at the window, his face to the sea. Slowly, deliberately, he turned. Despite her agitation and uncertainty, a thrill shot through Seratha. This was her master, whom she gladly served, this towering, splendid man of the shining locks and fierce brow. Superior in every way to the Durngesi with his dusty boots and skin cloak, she thought, regarding Zared with breathless admiration.
She tensed, ready to fly should he indicate disapproval at her continued presence, but he spared her not so much as a glance.
His frowning gaze was on the Durngesi’s daggers. “What is this? How dare you come into my presence armed.”
“I did not think it necessary to relinquish my knives, as I wore them when last we spoke,” the Durngesi said, seemingly unmoved by the seer’s ire. “But, now I think on it, our previous meeting was at night, was it not? Doubtless, you did not notice my steel in the gloom.”
“Doubtless I did not, else I would have insisted you leave your weapons at the door.”
“Very well. As I offend, I shall go.”
“Wait,” Zared said as the Durngesi strode for the door. “Keep your knives, then. But in future know this. The seers of Shadow Mount fortify themselves with knowledge, not the brutal weapons of man.”
“Indeed?” The Durngesi turned to face Zared once more. “And, yet, you tortured one of your own…and rather brutally, or so I am told.”
From the shadows, Seratha saw Zared’s face darken in anger. She kept perfectly still, frightened and intrigued by the unfolding drama and the tension that crackled between the two men.
“You speak of Glory?” The High Seer waved a hand in dismissal. “She betrayed her vows and was punished accordingly. I cannot expect an outsider to understand.”
“I understand many things,” the Durngesi said softly. “I understand that she served the Circle loyally for more than a thousand years. I understand you maimed her most cruelly. I understand that none of the gentle, peace-loving disciples who served beside her offered her aid, or protested her mistreatment.”
“She betrayed us. Glory should rejoice that I let her live.”
“Rejoice at being blinded?” Something ugly gleamed in the Durngesi’s eyes and was gone. “But why do we banter? That which you seek has been found.”
“You have located the god stone?” Zared stepped closer, his expression eager. “This is excellent news. I trust you told no one of our arrangement?”
“Once a seeker accepts a task, his loyalty is to the taskmaster and the taskmaster alone…until the task is accomplished.”
Removing a leather pouch from his belt, the Durngesi tossed it onto the table by the fire. The High Seer crossed the room in two strides and snatched it up. With shaking hands, he fumbled at the laces and upended the bag. A brilliant jewel dropped onto his palm. Seratha inhaled, amazed at the gem’s transcendent glow.
Zared’s long fingers closed around the shining treasure. “Mine,” he whispered. “Despair, Glonoff. Behold me and tremble.”
“I take it you are pleased?” the Durngesi drawled.
“Yes, yes.” Zared’s glittering gaze shifted from the jewel to the Durngesi. “You have done well.”
“I am gratified.” The Durngesi inclined his head. “My recompense?”
“Of course. You have earned it and more.” Striding to a chest beneath a window, Zared opened it and took out a bulging pouch. “Five hundred magraks, as promised.”
Seratha’s eyes widened. Five hundred magraks was a fortune in Shaddish gold.
“Keep your money,” the Durngesi said. “I ask instead that you release the novice Seratha.”
“What?” Seratha forgot her proper place and rushed into the room. “We are not of the same tribe. You have no right.”
“You are mistaken.” The Durngesi’s tone was gentle. “Open your eyes, child.”
Seratha looked at him closely and felt the blood drain from her cheeks. The drekalli hide he wore shifted and blurred and became a dog skin. Two metal clasps, each bearing the likeness of a pair of running hounds, held the garment around his broad shoulders. The rumors were true, then. Delcan Eldurn had joined the Great Hunt and the Durngesi had chosen a new trivan. Such news had reached even Shadow Mount.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t care. I won’t go with you.” Seratha threw herself at Zared’s feet. “Do not send me away, High One, I beg you. I am yours.”
Zared frowned down at her, as though seeing her for the first time. “She has taken the vow. Only death or dishonor can release her.”
“She is still a novitiate. She has yet to take her final vows. Give her to me.”
“Take her, then, if you want her so badly,” Zared said, twitching the hem of his robe from her grasp. “She is nothing to me.”
“Master.” Seratha lifted her tear-streaked face to the High Seer. “Please. Do not send me away.”
The Durngesi went to her and helped her to her feet. “Cease your wailing, child,” he said. “This one is not worth the salt in your tears.”
“Yes, he is,” Seratha wailed and covered her face with her hands. “He is a great man, the High Seer of Shadow Mount.”
“Zared has betrayed the Circle,” the Durngesi said calmly. “He has been selling prophecies—and to the Dark Wizard, no less, judging from the Shad Amaran gold in his hoard.”
Seratha dropped her hands to stare at Zared in shock. “But that is forbidden. The visions are a gift, a boon not even the gods are granted. They are not ours to barter.”
“So young and naive,” Zared said, giving her a pitying smile. “I was once like you, before I met Glonoff. Do you know the birthright of a seer, child? A few, brief years lived in squalor. Underfed, unrewarded and unrecognized, while lesser men live as kings.” His hand clenched around the jewel. “Glonoff showed me the truth, showed me how well and truly I have been cheated. Is it fair, I ask you, that wizards like Glonoff wield magic and live on, century upon passing century, while we—while I—wither and die?”
“Yours was the choice to join the Circle,” the Durngesi pointed out. “No one compelled you.”
“The starry-eyed delusions of youth, but, as the years passed, I found the reality unbearably dreary.” Zared’s long fingers stroked the gem. “But this changes everything.”
“A god stone is a mighty thing. What will you do with it?”
“I weary of half-glimpsed visions and fleeting dreams. I want power, more power than any wizard. I would be omniscient.”
“Ah,” the Durngesi murmured. “I thought it might be something of the sort.”
Zared frowned at him. “You puzzle me, seeker. To have a thing such as this”—he held up the jewel—“and cede it without a fight, I cannot understand.”
The Durngesi shrugged. “I am a simple man. I am content to bear witness to your inheritance.”
Zared’s eyes widened. “You would be my herald?”
“All shall hear of your triumph, I promise.”
“That is good.”
“Are you ready, Zared?” the Durngesi asked softly.
“I am ready.” Zared lifted the jewel, his face shining with anticipation. “Hear me, stone, and heed my command. Make me all knowing.”
Seratha felt the room still, as though the universe held its breath; then the god stone flared, bright as a star. The incandescence spread from the gem to Zared, filling him with light.
His radiant form expanded. “At last, I see the infinite.” Throwing his head back, he laughed. “Look upon me, Durngesi, and weep, for I am become the sun.”
“ʼTis you who should weep, Zared,” the Durngesi said, “for you have asked what the stone cannot give. Even the gods are not all knowing.”
“What?” Rooted to the spot by his enormous limbs, Zared screamed in horror. His hands were bigger than the wheels of an ox cart and his skin, a moment before aglow with light, had turned to stone. “No, stop! I take it back. I did not mean it.”
The god stone burned brighter, unheeding. Taller and taller, Zared rose until his grossly distended head pressed against the turreted ceiling. The beams creaked and groaned and gave way at the pressure.
“Quickly.” The Durngesi pulled Seratha toward the door. “Before the tower comes down upon our heads.”
He guided her, numb and unresisting, down the winding stone steps and into the courtyard. The pavers split, and huge fissures opened in the ground, spewing chunks of earth and rock, as the tower behind them shook and rumbled. Screams came from within the turret, and servants and seers poured out, fleeing in terror from
Bedtime for the Mablet
A blizzard raged outside the thatched cottage, rattling the shutters like an angry frost giant, but the boy was unafraid. His mother was strong and fierce, and mighty in magic. She would keep him safe. Sitting at the table eating his supper, he watched her throw another log on the fire. Sparks shot up the chimney and fire imps danced in the flames.
“Finish your milk, boy,” she said in her gruff voice. “Bed time.”
“I’m not sleepy. I want a story.”
“There are more stories than hairs on your head. Which do you want?”
“You know, Mor. Finn and the Troll.”
“Again?” She sighed. “I should think you’d weary of that one.”
The boy shook his head. “It’s my favorite.”
“Very well.” She heaved her bulk into a sturdy chair by the fire. “Come here.”
The boy jumped down from the bench and climbed onto her lap.
Settling him in the crook of her arm, she said, “Finn and the troll, having bested the god Trowyn in a contest of wits, were given the task of—”
The boy wrapped his small fingers around one of his mother’s tusks. “No, Mor. From the beginning. I want the whole story. Starting with Magog and Xan.”
“Cheeky cub.” The troll tickled his ribs until he squealed. “As you know, the gods of Tandara once numbered ten.”
The boy sat up in her lap. “I can name the gods. Brefreton taught me a poem about them.”
“Did he? I’d like to hear it.”
He regarded her from beneath lowered brows. “If I tell you, I still get a story?”
“You drive a hard bargain, but the answer is yes.”
The boy nodded. Taking a deep breath, he recited,
Once upon a time, ere the world was changed,
The gods numbered ten and these are their names:
Kron the Smith, god of forge and flame,
Seth, Lord of Darkness, turmoil, and change.
Reba the Bountiful, goddess of dawn,
Bringer of light and things that are grown.
Gar, fierce Hunter, god of rivers and rain,
Esma the Healer and easer of pain.
Valdar the Merry of poem and wine,
The sweetest nectar born of the vine,
Tam is the goddess of sea, hearth, and lore,
Trowyn the Bear—
The boy broke off. “Trowyn’s my favorite, ʼcause he can turn into a bear,” he confided, curling his fingers like claws. “But Finn bested him, all the same.”
“Yes, he did. Go on.”
The boy nodded, and continued:
Trowyn the Bear god wields his Hammer of War,
Last come Magog and his twin brother Xan,
They loved one another, then Magog raised his hand.
Magog the Comely—
The boy wrinkled his nose. “Comely makes him sound like a girl, and Magog is a boy god.”
“Take it up with the poet. I didn’t write it.”
“Bree says Magog was handsome. Handsomer than Xan.”
“Aye, Magog was beautiful to look upon.” The troll tugged one of her long ears. “By human standards, at any rate.”
“Until he ripped his face off.”
“Such a vicious cub,” his mother said, chucking him under the chin with a hairy knuckle. “Magog did not rip his face off, and you know it. Finish the poem.”
The boy sighed, and said,
Magog the Comely, out of jealousy and spite,
Struck his brother and took his life.
Xan the Beloved, god of music and air,
Fell to the earth, to the world’s despair.
Magog howled his grief as Xan’s life waned,
Plucked out his eye and went insane.
Nine gods there are now, where once there were ten,
One for the monsters, and eight for men.
Eight gods a-sitting on their thrones,
The last, Magog, grieves forever alone.
“It’s not a very good poem, is it?” the boy said.
“The fellow who wrote it was Tannish, I believe,” the troll said with an apologetic cough. “The Tans are farmers, not bards. Still, I’d keep your opinion to yourself. Bree might take offense.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.” The boy nestled himself in her hairy arms. “I’d like my story now, please.”
“Certainly. The tale begins, as you pointed out, with the murder of the god Xantheus.”
The boy gazed at the troll’s shaggy head. “Why did Magog kill his brother, Mor?”
“Jealousy and spite, like the poem says.”
“But why was he jealous of Xan?”
“Who can know the mind of a god?” the troll said, shrugging her massive shoulders. “ʼTwas a long time ago, but this much I know. As gods went, Xan was easy to love. The same could never be said for Magog.”
“Brefreton says Magog drinks the blood of his people.”
“That’s true, in a manner of speaking. Magog’s priests sacrifice humans to their god, but I suspect that is as much Glonoff’s doing as Magog’s.”
“Bree says the Dark Wizard is a bad man. Bree says Glonoff hates you.”
“Bree talks too much.”
The boy regarded her with a worried frown. “Don’t worry, Mor. I won’t let the bad man hurt you.”
“Thank you, son. That’s a great comfort. Shall I tell you the story?”
“Yes, Mor.”
“When Magog murdered Xan, the world became chaos. The Great Cataclysm, men called it, and dark days they were. The world cracked when Xan fell, and whole countries were swallowed by the sea. Mountains spat out gouts of fire and rivers boiled. Magog, seeing what he had wrought and stricken with remorse at the death of his twin, sank deep into madness. Xantheus’s people were orphaned at his death. Some found refuge in Shad Amar and became worshippers of Magog.”
The boy clenched his fists. “They were stupid to worship Magog. He killed their god.”
“They’d lost their home and their god, and they were frightened,” the troll said. “I suppose it seemed a reasonable solution.”
“But all of Xan’s people didn’t do that.”
“No, indeed. Most of Xan’s people refused to worship the Slayer. Some left Tandara and crossed the Strait of Gorza to the unknown lands beyond. They called their new home Torgal, meaning we abide.”
“And the rest of Xan’s people?” the boy asked. “What happened to them?”
“You know very well what happened to them.”
“Yes, but I like to hear you say it.”
“The Torgs weren’t alone in their rejection of Magog,” the troll said. “There were others among Xan’s people who chose exile rather than enslavement to the Mad God and the Dark Wizard, and they wandered, rejected and despised by the other races, without a god or country to call their own.”
“Until one day, a boy was born,” the boy said, warming to the story. “Finn was special, wasn’t he?”
“Very special,” his mother agreed. “For one thing, he was fair haired and blue eyed among a tribe of swarthy people, and he had the gift of magic.”
“No one else could do magic, could they?”
“Not among Finn’s people,” the troll said. “What’s more, his size made him remarkable. By the time Finn had reached his eleventh name day, he was tall and broad shouldered, a warrior among men, good with the sword, the bow, and the sling.”
“Finn’s like me,” the boy said. “He didn’t know his father, either.”
The troll brushed his dark locks from his brow with a gentle paw. “One day your father will come for you.”
“When?”
“When you are older.” The troll’s arms tightened around him. “You are but four, my precious boy.”
“Will they like me?”
“Who?”
“The other boys at the Citadel.”
“You are the rowan’s son. You are my son. They will like you.” Her rough voice deepened. “So help me, they will.”
The boy yawned. “The story, Mor.”
“Beg pardon,” the troll said, her black lips twitching. “One day, Finn was hunting in the woods when he happened upon a band of evil men torturing a troll.”
“It’s funny to hear you say it,” the boy said with a chuckle. “Like you don’t know who the troll is.”
“Are you telling this story, or am I?”
“You, Mor.”
“Outraged by their cruelty,” his mother continued, “he slew the wicked humans and bound the troll’s wounds, caring for her until she healed. The troll and the boy became inseparable, and she tutored him in magic, for she was a kolyagga.”
“Kolyagga is Trolk,” the boy said. “It means troll sorceress.”
“Really?” The troll arched a bushy brow. “I never would have guessed. Where was I? Oh, yes. One day, Finn came to her, sorely troubled. ‘My people suffer for want of a god,’ he told her. ‘I mean to challenge a god on their behalf. Help me in my quest and, if I prevail, I will protect the trolls from this day forward. Aye, and my people after me. You have my word.’ The troll agreed, on one condition.”
“Finn had to promise to protect all the monsters,” the boy said. “Not just the trolls, and the monsters were bound by the oath, too. Any monster that attacks a Finlar without…without—” He frowned. “It’s a funny word.”
“Provocation,” his mother murmured.
“Provocation,” the boy said, “can be slain with um-plunity.”
“Impunity,” she said. “It means that if a monster tries to hurt a Finlar without reason, the Finlar can kill the monster and not be foresworn.”
“I know.” He made an impatient gesture. “Go on. We’re almost to the part about the bear.”
“The troll and the boy traveled deep into the mountains to a cave where the Bear God Trowyn slept. If you’ll recall, I mentioned that Finn had talent. He was a shapeshifter. When they reached the cave, Finn took on the form of a young bear and bawled out a challenge. The troll used her talent to heighten the sound to a mighty roar. The noise woke Trowyn from a deep sleep. Furious, Trowyn lumbered from the cave and found, not a bear, as he expected, but a youth in the company of a red troll. Trowyn hated the troll. He raised a huge paw to strike her, and—”
“Why did Trowyn hate the troll, Mor?”
“I cannot say. As I was telling you, the Bear God raised his paw to kill the troll, but Finn threw himself in front of her. ‘Kill me, if you like,’ he said, ‘but leave her alone.’ The youth’s loyalty to the ugly creature—”
“You’re not ugly,” the boy protested, patting his mother’s whiskered cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” the troll said, “but most humans find trolls unappealing, and Trowyn shared their distaste. Touched by the youth’s devotion to the troll, the god stayed his paw. ‘What do you want, boy?’ Trowyn growled.”
“And that’s when Finn challenged him to three tasks,” the boy said. “A race, a contest where Finn got to choose the weapon, and a…um…”
“A wondrous feat,” the troll said. “If Finn won, Trowyn agreed to grant him one wish. If he lost, Finn’s life was forfeit.”
“That means Trowyn could kill him.”
“That’s right. The first task was a race. Eight hundred leagues, from the fork of the River Shara and back again. Trowyn chose for his champion Raskfar, the messenger hound of the gods.”
“Finn turned into a rabbit,” the boy said.
“Aye, but Raskfar was quick as the wind, so the troll cast a spell that gave the rabbit the speed of thought. The rabbit won, and Trowyn was angry and demanded the second task, the contest at arms. Finn chose his sling. ‘Let us see who can throw a stone farther,’ he said to the god, and Trowyn pulled up a mountain by the roots and threw it twenty leagues. ‘Beat that, if you can, boy.’ Finn selected a rock from the ground with great care and placed it in his leather sling. Twirling the sling over his head, he released it. The stone flew as though it had wings and landed several leagues beyond Trowyn’s mountain.”
“That’s because it wasn’t a rock atall,” the boy said. “It was the troll, disguised as a bird.”
“Aye,” said his mother. “‘ʼTwould seem you have bested me a second time, tadpole,’ Trowyn said. ‘We have come to the third and final task. What wondrous feat will you perform?’
“‘Fear not, Great Bear God,’ Finn said, ‘and prepare to be amazed.’
“The god looked down on him. ‘Show me, impudent stripling, for I await your next marvel.’
“Finn pointed to the ground. ‘I can put one foot on this mountain and the other in the Kalder Sea. Can you?’
“Stung, Trowyn began to grow until he towered over mountains and lakes. Night fell in his shadow and the moons came out. Lifting one enormous leg, Trowyn set one foot into the Kalder Sea, leagues to the south. The other foot remained on the mountain, beside Finn.
“‘Your turn, Finn the Foolish, but methinks you cannot do it,’ the god boomed, but Finn was unperplexed. The troll handed him his pack, and Finn removed a wooden bowl and a leather flask and set them on the ground.
“‘What’s this?’ the god demanded, shrinking once more to his former size.
“Finn uncorked a flask and poured water into a wooden bowl. ‘Water from the Kalder Sea,’ he said. Setting the bowl on the ground, Finn put one foot in the bowl and grinned at the god. ‘As easily as that, I have bested you.’
“‘By base trickery,’ Trowyn said, his face dark with fury.
“‘The boy did not state how he would do the thing, only that he would do it,’ the troll said, coming to Finn’s defense. ‘By the rules of the contest, you must grant him his desire.’
“Trowyn sneered. ‘And what prize is it you seek? Riches? Fame? Everlasting life?’
“‘Nay, great god,’ Finn said, ‘I seek a god for my people, left orphaned by Xan’s murder.’
“Trowyn was surprised and touched by Finn’s request. ‘Very well, but first you must complete another task, this time one of my choosing, and there will be no deceit. Bring me the Hound of Mandoora’s collar. If you succeed, I will be your god and the god of your people.’” The troll stroked the boy’s cheek. “But that is a tale for another time.”
The boy yawned again. “You left out the part about Reba. She’s the one who figured out that Finn had tricked Trowyn.”
“I didn’t forget. It’s time you were abed.”
Rising from the chair, the troll carried him to his bed and tucked him under the covers.
The wooden frame groaned as she settled her weight on the edge of the mattress. “Goodnight, boy.” Her yellow eyes gleamed in the darkened room. “Don’t let the stone fairies bite.”
“Night, Mor.” He put his arms around her burly neck and gave her a hug. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, my Raven,” Gertie said. “Sleep well.”
Chapter 1
The Seeker
Seratha smoothed the wrinkles from her rough woolen smock and rapped on the iron-bound door. There was no answer. Summoning her courage, she knocked again.
“Enter,” a man said from within.
The sound of the deep, masculine voice sent a shiver of mingled dread and anticipation through the anxious novice. She’d been a disciple at the Tower three full cycles, and though she’d glimpsed the High Seer many times from afar, she’d never been within a stone’s throw of him. Nor would she be now but for the sudden arrival of their guest.
Sending a hasty prayer to Gar that the drek herder on their doorstep did not shame her, she pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside with her head bowed. The heat in the room was stifling and the sweet herbs burning in the braziers tickled her nose. Squelching the sudden urge to sneeze, she wriggled her toes in the thick Esmallan rug beneath her bare feet. She hadn’t been warm since she’d left her father’s tent. Situated on a rocky jut of land that overlooked the Gray Tides, the stone spire that housed the seers was bitterly cold, battered by squalls and salt spray, and the stinging winds that swept down from Northern Sethlar and the far reaches of Udom.
Lifting her head, she risked a quick peek at her master. To be in the same room with the High Seer made her head swim. The object of her perusal stood at a window with his back to her. Emboldened, she examined the rest of the chamber. Unlike the spare, cheerless quarters set aside for the initiates, the master’s tower apartments were luxurious, as befitted one of his eminence. Costly tapestries hung on the walls, adding color to the drab stone and keeping the chill at bay. With a mild sense of shock, Seratha saw that a wood fire burned on the hearth. Wood was rare and costly along the rocky coast, and she and the other novices labored in the stinging wind, gathering peat, dung, and driftwood to keep the relentless chill at bay. Near the fireplace were a heavy table and high-back chair with carved armrests. Scrolls crammed with rows of spidery writing lay scattered across the gleaming tabletop and spilled from baskets onto the floor.
Turning her head, Seratha caught a glimpse of the master’s solar through a partially open door. As a new candidate, Seratha went without shoes and slept on the hard floor. The High Seer slept on a huge bed piled high with thick furs.
The man at the window turned and Seratha’s thoughts scattered to the wind. Zared was a tall, imposing man, with long blond locks liberally streaked with silver and a blade of a nose. He wore a flowing robe of sky blue, the color reserved for masters of divination. The light through the glazed windows sparkled on the silver embroidery that embellished the pointed sleeves, collar, and hem of his garment. To the dazzled novice, he seemed a god.
His pale gaze scanned her, taking in her bare feet, the kerchief that covered her hair, and the unlined dark blue shift that marked her as a proselyte. A slight crease formed between his brows. “What insolence is this? Why do you trouble my repose, recruit?”
Seratha flinched at the censure in his tone. Naadra, the seer and skaldiff assigned to the apprentices, had threatened to beat her soundly should she displease the master.
“T-the skaldiff sent me, High One,” Seratha said, pleating the folds of her shapeless dress. “I am to inform you the Durngesi has returned.”
Returned. The discovery that this was not the Durngesi’s first visit to the tower had come as a nasty shock. Seratha had left her former life behind when she pledged her body and gifts to the Circle. To her dismay, her past had followed her. Her fears had eased when she’d seen the man. The tribes that roamed the Durngarian Plain were large in number, and she did not recognize him. Whatever brought him here did not concern her.
“Ah.” Zared folded his long-fingered hands. “Show him in.”
Seratha nodded and scurried from the room. She rushed down the tower steps, almost tripping in her haste to do her master’s bidding, and found the visitor lounging at the bottom.
“He will see you,” she said, frowning at the man’s temerity. “Why did you not remain in the scullery, as you were bid?”
“I did not find the dirty pots to my liking.”
The Durngesi returned the dagger he was examining to his boot. He was dressed in a tan tunic, breeches, and worn boots, but he bore himself with the arrogance of a king. A drekalli skin hung from his broad shoulders and his dark hair was tied back with a strip of leather.
More likely a bit of intestine, Seratha thought with a sniff of disdain. Waste was abhorred by the tribesmen of the plains, and every part of the drekalli, the enormous, horned animals they herded, was used.
She folded her arms and surveyed the man’s lean form, taking in the bone-handled knives strapped to his muscular legs and sheathed at his waist.
“You cannot enter the high one’s presence armed,” she informed him from the steps. “The inhabitants of this place abjure violence.”
“I am not armed. I left my bow and snare at the gate.”
“What of your daggers?”
He regarded her in evident astonishment. “A Durngesi is never without his knives. You should know this, little sister.”
Seratha opened her mouth to chastise him roundly for the familiarity of his address—he was no kin of hers—and closed it again. She would not argue with an uncivilized brute who understood neither her talent nor the path of discipleship and service—the path of a visionary whose dreams would lend counsel to kings, while this one gathered drekalli dung for his fire.
Drawing her dignity around her, she swept back up the stairs without bothering to see whether he followed.
Opening the door, she announced, “The Durngesi, High One.”
The Durngesi sauntered past her into the chamber and looked around. If he was daunted by the magnificence of the High Seer’s accommodations, he did not show it, though a simple herdsman could not be accustomed to such splendor.
Timidly, Seratha lingered in the shadows by the door, awaiting some sign from her master, torn between her reluctance to intrude upon the high one’s affairs and her fear of the skaldiff’s cane. She would stay, she decided after an agony of uncertainty. The high one had not dismissed her and might desire refreshment. Naadra had stressed the importance of showing proper deference and an eagerness to please. Seratha found the prospect of attending her master simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. She straightened her spine. She would serve Zared, and gladly. The Durngesi, too, she conceded with less pleasure, at her master’s behest.
The High Seer had resumed his post at the window, his face to the sea. Slowly, deliberately, he turned. Despite her agitation and uncertainty, a thrill shot through Seratha. This was her master, whom she gladly served, this towering, splendid man of the shining locks and fierce brow. Superior in every way to the Durngesi with his dusty boots and skin cloak, she thought, regarding Zared with breathless admiration.
She tensed, ready to fly should he indicate disapproval at her continued presence, but he spared her not so much as a glance.
His frowning gaze was on the Durngesi’s daggers. “What is this? How dare you come into my presence armed.”
“I did not think it necessary to relinquish my knives, as I wore them when last we spoke,” the Durngesi said, seemingly unmoved by the seer’s ire. “But, now I think on it, our previous meeting was at night, was it not? Doubtless, you did not notice my steel in the gloom.”
“Doubtless I did not, else I would have insisted you leave your weapons at the door.”
“Very well. As I offend, I shall go.”
“Wait,” Zared said as the Durngesi strode for the door. “Keep your knives, then. But in future know this. The seers of Shadow Mount fortify themselves with knowledge, not the brutal weapons of man.”
“Indeed?” The Durngesi turned to face Zared once more. “And, yet, you tortured one of your own…and rather brutally, or so I am told.”
From the shadows, Seratha saw Zared’s face darken in anger. She kept perfectly still, frightened and intrigued by the unfolding drama and the tension that crackled between the two men.
“You speak of Glory?” The High Seer waved a hand in dismissal. “She betrayed her vows and was punished accordingly. I cannot expect an outsider to understand.”
“I understand many things,” the Durngesi said softly. “I understand that she served the Circle loyally for more than a thousand years. I understand you maimed her most cruelly. I understand that none of the gentle, peace-loving disciples who served beside her offered her aid, or protested her mistreatment.”
“She betrayed us. Glory should rejoice that I let her live.”
“Rejoice at being blinded?” Something ugly gleamed in the Durngesi’s eyes and was gone. “But why do we banter? That which you seek has been found.”
“You have located the god stone?” Zared stepped closer, his expression eager. “This is excellent news. I trust you told no one of our arrangement?”
“Once a seeker accepts a task, his loyalty is to the taskmaster and the taskmaster alone…until the task is accomplished.”
Removing a leather pouch from his belt, the Durngesi tossed it onto the table by the fire. The High Seer crossed the room in two strides and snatched it up. With shaking hands, he fumbled at the laces and upended the bag. A brilliant jewel dropped onto his palm. Seratha inhaled, amazed at the gem’s transcendent glow.
Zared’s long fingers closed around the shining treasure. “Mine,” he whispered. “Despair, Glonoff. Behold me and tremble.”
“I take it you are pleased?” the Durngesi drawled.
“Yes, yes.” Zared’s glittering gaze shifted from the jewel to the Durngesi. “You have done well.”
“I am gratified.” The Durngesi inclined his head. “My recompense?”
“Of course. You have earned it and more.” Striding to a chest beneath a window, Zared opened it and took out a bulging pouch. “Five hundred magraks, as promised.”
Seratha’s eyes widened. Five hundred magraks was a fortune in Shaddish gold.
“Keep your money,” the Durngesi said. “I ask instead that you release the novice Seratha.”
“What?” Seratha forgot her proper place and rushed into the room. “We are not of the same tribe. You have no right.”
“You are mistaken.” The Durngesi’s tone was gentle. “Open your eyes, child.”
Seratha looked at him closely and felt the blood drain from her cheeks. The drekalli hide he wore shifted and blurred and became a dog skin. Two metal clasps, each bearing the likeness of a pair of running hounds, held the garment around his broad shoulders. The rumors were true, then. Delcan Eldurn had joined the Great Hunt and the Durngesi had chosen a new trivan. Such news had reached even Shadow Mount.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t care. I won’t go with you.” Seratha threw herself at Zared’s feet. “Do not send me away, High One, I beg you. I am yours.”
Zared frowned down at her, as though seeing her for the first time. “She has taken the vow. Only death or dishonor can release her.”
“She is still a novitiate. She has yet to take her final vows. Give her to me.”
“Take her, then, if you want her so badly,” Zared said, twitching the hem of his robe from her grasp. “She is nothing to me.”
“Master.” Seratha lifted her tear-streaked face to the High Seer. “Please. Do not send me away.”
The Durngesi went to her and helped her to her feet. “Cease your wailing, child,” he said. “This one is not worth the salt in your tears.”
“Yes, he is,” Seratha wailed and covered her face with her hands. “He is a great man, the High Seer of Shadow Mount.”
“Zared has betrayed the Circle,” the Durngesi said calmly. “He has been selling prophecies—and to the Dark Wizard, no less, judging from the Shad Amaran gold in his hoard.”
Seratha dropped her hands to stare at Zared in shock. “But that is forbidden. The visions are a gift, a boon not even the gods are granted. They are not ours to barter.”
“So young and naive,” Zared said, giving her a pitying smile. “I was once like you, before I met Glonoff. Do you know the birthright of a seer, child? A few, brief years lived in squalor. Underfed, unrewarded and unrecognized, while lesser men live as kings.” His hand clenched around the jewel. “Glonoff showed me the truth, showed me how well and truly I have been cheated. Is it fair, I ask you, that wizards like Glonoff wield magic and live on, century upon passing century, while we—while I—wither and die?”
“Yours was the choice to join the Circle,” the Durngesi pointed out. “No one compelled you.”
“The starry-eyed delusions of youth, but, as the years passed, I found the reality unbearably dreary.” Zared’s long fingers stroked the gem. “But this changes everything.”
“A god stone is a mighty thing. What will you do with it?”
“I weary of half-glimpsed visions and fleeting dreams. I want power, more power than any wizard. I would be omniscient.”
“Ah,” the Durngesi murmured. “I thought it might be something of the sort.”
Zared frowned at him. “You puzzle me, seeker. To have a thing such as this”—he held up the jewel—“and cede it without a fight, I cannot understand.”
The Durngesi shrugged. “I am a simple man. I am content to bear witness to your inheritance.”
Zared’s eyes widened. “You would be my herald?”
“All shall hear of your triumph, I promise.”
“That is good.”
“Are you ready, Zared?” the Durngesi asked softly.
“I am ready.” Zared lifted the jewel, his face shining with anticipation. “Hear me, stone, and heed my command. Make me all knowing.”
Seratha felt the room still, as though the universe held its breath; then the god stone flared, bright as a star. The incandescence spread from the gem to Zared, filling him with light.
His radiant form expanded. “At last, I see the infinite.” Throwing his head back, he laughed. “Look upon me, Durngesi, and weep, for I am become the sun.”
“ʼTis you who should weep, Zared,” the Durngesi said, “for you have asked what the stone cannot give. Even the gods are not all knowing.”
“What?” Rooted to the spot by his enormous limbs, Zared screamed in horror. His hands were bigger than the wheels of an ox cart and his skin, a moment before aglow with light, had turned to stone. “No, stop! I take it back. I did not mean it.”
The god stone burned brighter, unheeding. Taller and taller, Zared rose until his grossly distended head pressed against the turreted ceiling. The beams creaked and groaned and gave way at the pressure.
“Quickly.” The Durngesi pulled Seratha toward the door. “Before the tower comes down upon our heads.”
He guided her, numb and unresisting, down the winding stone steps and into the courtyard. The pavers split, and huge fissures opened in the ground, spewing chunks of earth and rock, as the tower behind them shook and rumbled. Screams came from within the turret, and servants and seers poured out, fleeing in terror from
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