The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

Chapter II

The Counselor

In which a khrestai offers cold comfort

Once outside the cell, Alia discovered the cell itself was inside a larger, subterranean room. Now free, she found the source of the light she’d noticed earlier came from windows near the ceiling. Several feet away, an open door beckoned. Because of Sheridan’s Ellura wand, Alia reached the door without stumbling over hazards.

But beyond the door lay a hazard she could not avoid.

A mess, in the form of a corpse in similar condition to Gavin’s. The stench of blood and viscera announced the freshness of the kill. Undoubtedly this was the reason for Sheridan’s screams earlier; he must have seen the flayer dining on it.

She gingerly stepped over the remains, and made her way upstairs.

Upstairs, stately furnishings suggested a nobleman’s home. Marble busts in the parlor made her halt in shock: Fellraths. Ancestors of Junius Fellrath; he kept replicas in his office in the city.

So Junius was the ruin she had stepped over. The person the flayer made a meal of …

At the doorway she hesitated. Again her conscience prickled her at the thought of leaving Sheridan. But staying here was no use to him. For his sake, and her family’s, she had work to do.

Thrusting a hand in her pocket, she pulled out her hand-held astrolabe. This one was constructed with a lid, to protect the device. Beautifully wrought, the lid was a small circle of electrum with a peony engraved upon it. On the back, her name. This astrolabe was fancier than any other she had seen, because it could project star fields and planetary movements. The main point; however, was how well it kept time. So said her commander, Palamara, when he gave the device to her.

Human lives are finite, he had explained. We have to mind the time.

She opened the cover and aligned the sights with the moonlight. Four hours until dawn.

Dawn would serve as her deadline. Surely the flayer wouldn’t be hungry enough to eat Sheridan after only fours hours, would it?

Then again … why did the flayer eat Junius at all? Since when did one sapient eat another? Sea dragons never ate humans. Humans never ate Salamandra. But for some reason the flayers didn’t care about sapience, perhaps they only cared if one was a flayer.

Outside, a footbridge connected Junius’s house to the street. Beneath the bridge ran a moat, which Alia knew surrounded the whole of the house. Two men stood on the other side of the bridge, warily eying the moat, for its roiling waters sparked lightning. Alia also paused before stepping onto the bridge.

What if …? Fortunately, she always kept her Ellura holstered on her thigh.

The Ellura confirmed her hunch: a ward covered the door. Experience had taught Alia the door itself would not be visible to anyone standing outside; once she closed it she would need to pick the ward. The moat suggested failure would lead to a disastrous end.

Good thing Junius was dead then. A tall porphyry vase near the door would serve as an excellent prop to keep the door open.

“Hello?” One of the men called to her just as she finished dragging the vase into place.

Alia straightened. Upon closer look, the two men proved to be members of the Watch, in obedience to the command she sent back to guard Fellrath’s house. Apparently they didn’t trust the bridge, because they remained where they were. Nor did they seem to trust her either, for they kept their hands hovering over their flintlocks as they eyed her. Hmm, their flintlock scabbards looked practical. If she had kept the Dragon Pearl IV strapped to her thigh, instead of holstered in her coat, she wouldn’t have had to abandon Sheridan.

“Watch-Huntress Alia Ironwing. There’s a flayer in the dungeon below. He, or she, or it, is holding my apprentice hostage,” she said.

The men did a double take. They looked her over, visually counting her bits and noting they were still attached.

“How did you …?”

Alia stepped onto the bridge. They backed up to let her pass.

“Huntsman Sheridan, son of Conall,

is the flayer’s hostage. Yes, hostage, because it turns out flayers are intelligent. The one in the cellar spoke Pelasgian. So. Under the circumstances, I advise not making assumptions of the flayers’ capabilities. Do not go into the house, lest it hear you, and think I’m violating the terms of our arrangement.”

A look of eloquent shock and horror came over the men’s faces. After several attempts, one of them finally uttered a coherent response.

“If they’re intelligent, why do they act like animals?” .

“For the moment there’s little profit in resolving that paradox. The most important matter right now is keeping it contained. Stay out here. It moves fast. You’ll hear a clicking sound if it’s approaching, so pay attention.”

“Will do,” they solemnly agreed.

She tersely gave them the rest of her instructions, then sprinted off.

Junius Fellrath’s home was ensconced in a neighborhood of sorcerers. The streets were not arranged in a standard grid; the Peach Blossom Estates used a nautilus shell layout instead. Thus, one main avenue on the outer edge of the neighborhood wound round and round, growing narrower and narrower until terminating in a park in the center of the neighborhood.

The residential streets connected only with the avenue, not with each other. This latter detail worked in Alia’s favor, for Fellrath’s home bordered the park. No one who trekked that far would do so casually, by accident. Furthermore, they wouldn’t spot the Watchmen until it was too late. The Watchmen in turn could trap them by blocking off access to the central avenue.

Running at a steady pace brought her soon enough onto the city streets. Another five minutes and she finally reached a public depot. Flashing her golden eagle amulet at the beastmaster attendant earned her a gryphon free of charge. Her money was in her coat; she was obliged to pull rank.

At the Watch headquarters her commander, Captain Eskandar Palamara, gave a start when he saw her. Serafina had reported in, informing him of Alia’s disappearance. He paled when she told him of the flayer.

“Flayers can talk?” His booming voice carried easily.

Everyone in the open office froze in place when they heard that. All eyes turned to Alia.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “And they have a motive. Is Serafina on her way?”

“She was still trying to figure out where the portal went. Let her know that’s not necessary now.”

A scryer’s globe rested in the right-hand corner of Alia’s desk. The globe would fit in her palm if she were inclined to pick it up; otherwise she left it on its power base. Made of bronze, the power base was engraved with the signs of the zodiac. Four bands of gold, lapis, electrum, and silver, rotated independently above it.

Each band represented different celestial objects. The icon on the gold band stood for the sun, and Alia promptly rotated the icon to align with the Hound sign of the zodiac.

Four buttons on the lapis band represented the moon’s phases. She aligned the half-moon with the electrum band’s counting of the eclipse cycle, and pushed the button to lock it into position.

For this call she did not require the silver band, which held symbols of the Seeker’s Alliance.

The globe flared, and Alia announced herself.

Serafina answered her personal call globe right away. “Alia? You’re alive! Where’s Sheridan?”

By now Alia knew to pause after revealing that the flayers were intelligent. To her surprise, Serafina took the revelation in stride.

“Ah, so Grammy wasn’t joking about that. Good to know.”

Alia narrowed her eyes. “Your grandmother told you the flayers can talk?”

“Yes, yes, among the many other stories she told me. But her life story is a little too exciting, so I was never sure which ones were true. You understand—er—well, you know what I mean.”

Alia let the reference to her unorthodox family pass unremarked. “I have to see the Counselor. Is everything secure where you are? Did you find anything we can use?” Now she took the globe from its base, to bring it close enough to herself for Serafina to lower her voice.

“Nothing that can’t wait, under the circumstances. Should I go and keep watch over Sheridan?”

Alia hesitated. Would Serafina’s presence antagonize the flayer? Then again, Serafina might be the best chance of survival for Sheridan and the other Watchmen.

“Go. But don’t enter the house. Just listen. If Sheridan screams—”

“It will be too late. Sorry. However, I will inform the flayer that if Sheridan doesn’t leave the basement unharmed, the flayer will also not leave the basement alive.”

In all her years of knowing Serafina, Alia never once saw her immolate anyone. When they first met, Serafina informed her of her ability to do so, and asked if Alia still wished to work with her. But in her childhood the dryads taught Alia of the treaty between them and the Salamandra Under the treaty, Salamandra were forbidden to kill humans except in self-defense. Flayers enjoyed no such protection.

“Thank you,” Alia said. The globe made a clicking sound when she returned it to its base, and the bands rotated back to their starting position.

Reflexively she reached for her coat on the back of her chair, and exhaled in frustration at its absence. The enchantment her mother had woven into the coat marked Alia as being part of a dryad grove, and therefore under the aegis of the daughters of the Huntress. A heavy hitter to keep in her quiver, one which would put her on proper footing with the khrestai, the wardens of the forests. She long-suspected the khrestai didn’t ‘see’ the way humans did. Part of how they recognized someone was by scents and auras; illusions did not fool them.

Only once in her life did Alia meet the khrestai’s high counselor, when duty obliged her to pay her respects upon first coming to Ebon Cove. Thereafter, etiquette rules excused her from social calls unless the counselor invited her, or her visit was in observation of certain days sacred to the Huntress.

The thought of visiting the counselor for this occasion made her belly roil and her shoulders stiffen, the latter of which she only noticed when she entered the courtyard to retrieve her rented gryphon. The beast was dun-colored, both in hair and feathers, and was clad in a basic leather harness. Only the red leather collar around its neck showed some sign of adornment.

For a moment Alia contemplated using one of the Watch’s sleeker, more regal gryphons. But then she decided the docility of a public transport gryphon might better underscore her peaceful intentions.

Public gryphons were also fast, and Alia’s allowed her to reach the high counselor’s doorstep in less than half an hour. No one could mistake the door of a high counselor, on account of vines of ruby and aqua wreathed around it. The huge, elaborate flowers dotting the vines only grew on khrestai houses, and the colors of fire and water only appeared on the home of the high counselor.

The door opened as she approached. A small woman stood in the doorway. Long, swan white hair floated about her, held back by a wreath of violets. Winsome though she might have appeared, her face remained expressionless as she folded her arms businesslike beneath her bosom.

“High Counselor, I hope I am not disturbing you,” Alia began. No more than two hours remained before sunrise. “My name is—”

“I remember you,” came the sharp reply. “What is it you need from me?”

“The way to save a life,” Alia answered promptly. On her way there she had rehearsed what she would say. Offending khrestai was no light risk; in her childhood she once observed the consequences of angering them. Humans merely yelled or hit; a khrestai grew quiet and contemplated what should happen to those who trespassed on their goodwill.

The high counselor blinked. Alia tried to hide her reaction. Was it her imagination, or had she surprised the counselor? Dread took residence in the pit of her stomach. Her suspicions circled her, like wolves with their prey.

Ever since meeting the flayer, she harbored a particular suspicion as to why the creatures had reappeared in Thuraia. The implications were disquieting enough to her. And to the Counselor?

If Alia were right, heavy choices lay ahead for both of them.

“What is this life in need of saving?” the counselor’s tone was wary.

The words hovered in Alia’s throat, unvoiced. Speaking directly was her standard mode, because she always spoke the truth. Now the truth—what she suspected to be the truth—was dangerous. Again she chose her words with care.

“A flayer has captured my apprentice. To save his life, I gave my oath to the flayer to find out who within this world is killing the flayers in theirs. Should I fail, the death of my apprentice will neither be the beginning, nor the end of their rampage here.”

“Someone is killing the flayers in their world? Who in this world could do that?”

A direct question.

A trap.

A trap Alia sidestepped. “The flayer claims its lands are drained of life, Benevolent One. Drained, it says, by natives of our realm.”

There. No khrestai would permit the blighting of land, except by divine decree, lest they themselves fall subject to the Great Curse.

The counselor did not react.

Well. Then again, the khrestai notoriously did not ‘read’ contracts and covenants the same way humans did. Was it possible the counselor knew of an exception to the laws of the Huntress? Talk about getting caught between a dragon and a basilisk!

The Counselor’s eyes bored into hers. Her expression did not change at all. Was she angry, or merely thinking? Khrestai rarely changed their expressions when angered; they were calm one minute and hurling lightning the next.

At last, the counselor spoke.

“My condolences to you,” she said. “On the fate of your apprentice.”

Silence hung between them.

Shock and despair moved Alia to find her voice quickly. “With respect, I am not here for your condolences. I came for your help. Who or what in our world could steal life from the realm of the flayers?”

Inwardly she prayed the counselor would point her to suspects other than the particular candidate looming large in her mind.

“Who here in our would have need to do so?” the counselor replied.

The deep chill in her voice served as a warning. The only warning Alia would get.

Without a word she shut the door in Alia’s face.

Ice water pooled in Alia’s belly as she contemplated the heavy choices before her.

“Please, Huntress: Let me be wrong,” she whispered.

In the depths of the forest violet lights lit her path, winking in and out in time with her progress as though a strange and wondrous species of firefly served as her torch.

Welcome back, Alia.

However, the lights did not come from fireflies, but from wisps. And wisps heralded the presence of sylphs.

Which told her the dryads were also near.

The wisps spangled an arbor—the only indication of the arbor’s presence. Gone were the days when the grove welcomed respectful strangers. Entry was forbidden to all who had never passed through from the other side of that door.

Alia stepped through.

Once beyond the arbor the darkness vanished. Now she stood in a green meadow, ringed with graceful stone-carved caryatids of the Huntress.

Flat capitals atop the statues served as the bases for iron braziers. The braziers contained not fire, but light. Bright, blue light illuminated the meadow as though there were two full moons shining down.

She was not alone.

In the center of the meadow, dryads gathered, clustered around one whose circlet of gold was peeking through her russet hair. Rikka, the keeper. Wolves interspersed among them yelped and keened. Restless, the beasts paced about, not sitting still for their mistresses.

One wolf, silver and white, turned its ear as Alia approached, followed by its nose. Suddenly, it rose to all fours and bounded over to her. The wolf circled her, then pushed its muzzle against her legs. Even were it a cloudy, moonless night, Alia still would have recognized the wolf for its scent of musk mixed with balsam and soil.

“Hello, Misty. I missed you, too.” Alia stroked the wolf’s ears and head.

Misty rewarded her with a low growl of pleasure.

The wolf’s breakaway did not go unnoticed. The dryad she previously kept company turned to see where she had gone. When the dryad saw her, she gave a start. Her eyes darted from Alia to the circle.

Alia smiled tentatively at her. “Mother …”

With one final glance at the circle, her mother strode over to Alia. Fitting for the season of autumn, the dryad wore a plain deerskin dress, trimmed in the speckled white feathers of a falcon. With this change of season the dryads all assumed an autumn guise; for her mother this meant assuming an amber coloring, hair in shades of rust, and exuding the scent of apples. In the daylight her eyes would be tawny, and warm, and sweet. So it had always been, as Alia knew her.

But now her mother eyed her warily, and her manner seemed guarded even as she visually checked her over for signs of good health.

At least her tone was gentle when she spoke. “My child. This is no time for your presence.”

So rarely did the coterie exclude Alia that the moments stood sharply in her mind. Now, in this moment, her heart began to pound.

“I know. Mother—I know what you have done.”

Alia’s words hung in the air. With the stillness of a tree, her mother remained in place, hugging herself. With her body clenched so tightly, Samara offered no hint an embrace was forthcoming. Every muscle in Alia’s body tensed. So. Was she right, then?

“Mother. Did you hear me—?”

“Then why have you come?” Samara demanded. “What is it you want of us?”

“Your word that none of you have brought the Great Curse upon yourselves.”

Samara’s breath caught. Hardening herself, Alia studied her mother, summoning up all of the lessons her mother and aunts taught her to see the truth as it was.

Either the grove had brought the wrath of the Huntress down upon them, or they hadn’t.

Either they had cut themselves off from the Huntress forever, or they hadn’t.

But Samara looked sharply away from her scrutiny, instead fixing her gaze on the nearest caryatid. On the face of her Mother.

“Speak not of such calamity,” Samara said finally. “For we still reside in the bosom of our Mother.”

Alia didn’t even realize she’d been holding her breath until she exhaled. Whatever happened next she could handle it, she told herself.

“Huntress be praised,” she said. “Nevertheless, I must speak to the Keeper. Please don’t stop me, Mother.”

Samara stepped aside, and followed Alia to the circle. Now that she was sure the dryads hadn’t brought down the Great Curse, Alia’s steps were sure, confident. No longer was her mind divided by terror; no longer did she fear to face her kin.

Several other dryads quieted when they saw her. Xylia, her favorite aunt, glanced at Rikka then at Alia. From head to toe Xylia assumed a vermilion aspect, like an autumn leaf, but unlike Samara she did not trouble herself with clothes. Whatever the season, only her knee-length hair covered her.

However, Rikka didn’t see Alia, for her eyes were cast skyward as she chanted in the language of her Mother. That was when Alia noticed the juvenile wolf Rikka held aloft like an offering.

Abruptly, Rikka lowered the wolf and thrust it outward, though she still held tight. In her hands the wolf whimpered. A golden light enveloped it.

Alia’s eyes widened. Surely Rikka wouldn’t—couldn’t—do what Alia thought she was going to. Such power was lost to the dryads when the Blight came.

And yet.

One moment Rikka gripped a wolf. Now she cradled a rabbit.

The wolves in the circle bolted to all fours. Their pelts swelled as they growled at their brother-turned-prey. Their dryad mistresses each put a hand on their heads, an unspoken order to heel.

Once again Rikka chanted, and once again a golden glow surrounded the creature in her hands. She set it on the ground; a wolf once more.

The dryads cheered and clapped. No longer restrained, their wolves bolted, meeting Rikka’s wolf in the middle of the circle. The wolves sniffed and touched muzzles, and seemed to accept the shape-changed juvenile as one of their own.

The dryads hugged each other. They hugged Alia, too, though most of them didn’t seem to realize she was there, so profound was their exultation. After one round of hugs they presented themselves to Rikka, forming a receiving line in which they took turns hugging her. When Alia finally reached her, Rikka gave a start.

In times past, the long look Rikka gave Alia would have made her clench her teeth in fear. But after the flayer, Alia’s gauge for terrifying had re-calibrated: the Keeper simply was not going to eat her or strip her of her skin.

“Keeper,” she said evenly, and added a slight curtsy. She waited.

Rikka raised her head; the other dryads fanned out behind her. To Alia’s surprise—and gratification—her mother came up beside her. Rikka flicked a glance at Samara, but otherwise concentrated on Alia.

“I did not summon you,” the keeper began.

“Do I now need a summons to return home?” Alia countered, keeping her voice as calm as she could.

Would Rikka exile her? This time the ice water in her belly chilled her to her spirit. To be cut off from the grove was unthinkable, beyond her scope of imagining. A tremor shot through Alia’s body. Samara slipped her arm in with Alia’s steadying her.

“Your place is amongst men and women, on the paths the Exalted Mother directs you to travel. But your presence pleases us. Enough—why are you here?”

Alia let out a subtle sigh of relief. In times past, Samara and the other dryads could leave their groves and go where they pleased, so long as they took some part of it with them. Now the sorcerers—how?—had somehow destroyed their ability to freely travel. If Alia could not come to the grove she could never see her mother; Samara could no longer visit her.

“To report the death of an enemy, and to request aid for an ally,” Alia answered.

Dryads preferred direct and stark terms when speaking. A manner which they passed to Alia, which caused her no end of trouble with humans. Tact, diplomacy—these did not naturally exist in her arsenal. Even worse, humans did not observe the same rules of etiquette dryads did so she couldn’t guess what humans would consider rude and where she must be tactful, or why.

Rikka spread her arms, an invitation for the others to come closer.

Alia took that as her cue to continue, reporting to them the night’s events. News of Fellrath’s death made her aunts perk up. Beside her Samara’s breathing quickened.

“The flayer is intelligent, which I suppose you knew; and it claims that someone in our world is taking life from their world. I don’t understand how that works, exactly, but I must return with an answer within two hours, lest Sheridan die.”

Rikka smiled, startling her. “The flayers we already know of, girl. The one you spoke of, bring it here. There are things we would say to it.”

“What?” When Samara assured her they hadn’t brought the Great Curse upon themselves, Alia had interpreted it to mean they were wholly innocent in the flayer affair. “Are you saying you knew—?”

“Do you forget what we are? Of course we knew of their presence. But the flayers endanger none except the sorcerers aligned with the Fellrath-man. Child, were you raised to require me to give you the same order twice?”

Alia’s spine snapped straight, a reflex against that tone.

“Do you have any advice for transporting a flayer?” she asked, finding her voice. “A way to control it?”

“Choose whatever conveyance mortals use for travel. As for control: Let the flayer know a keeper summons it.”