Chapter Seventeen
They overslept.
Awakening to the bright glare of sunlight peering in through the bedchamber window, shining on their heads, Pelai gasped and jolted Krais awake by bolting out of the bed. Spells snapped her body clean and her hair freshly plaited, and another saw her dressed in non-black clothes for the first time Krais could remember. Well, non-all-black clothes. Blinking sleepily at the knee-length white taga edged with scrollwork pei-slii embroidered in gold, she looked . . . very different. Almost entirely unlike herself
Needing a clear head, he reached for the mug of water he had left by his side of her bed. A huff of noise from her caught his ears—and then magic swirled around him, yanking off his sleeping garment and replacing it with kilt, vest, laced-to-the-knee sandals . . . and a fresh fundo that made him flinch and grunt in abrupt discomfort. Unfortunately, the drinking cup slipped from his fingers and dropped, cracking into three big pieces, several smaller shards, and splashing its water all over the floor.
“Ink splat you!” he cursed, and dug at his backside through his kilt. Picking up the shards could wait. “You gave me a fundo-wedge with that spell, woman!”
“Well, if you hadn’t been so slow to cast it yourself . . . !” she retorted, grabbing her ceremonial black flail and tucking it into the belt of her sleeveless, fold-draped gown, stark contrast to the bleached silk. “Hurry up, I’m going to be late, and you aren’t keyed to be able to lock the house runes!”
Krais dropped his jaw, gaping at her. “So slow . . . ? Doma Pelai,” he stressed, glaring at her, “you are suppressing all of my magic! It’s back to being fully suppressed. I think you did it subconsciously in the night.”
That stopped her hurried movements. “I . . . Oh, Goddess, Krais—I am so sorry,” Pelai apologized. She swept her hand toward the mess on the floor, evaporating the water and banishing the broken crockery to the wastebasket. “Dessicut! Dormundic! . . . I really am sorry, Krais. I forgot. I . . . I can’t remove it completely or even halfway, because any Disciplinarian touching you will know I no longer suppress you . . . but I can lighten the suppression again. Here, sit on the edge of the bed.”
Finished picking at the loincloth her spell had wedged uncomfortably between his buttocks, Krais shifted over to the side of the bed, lowering his feet and resting his hands in his blue-kilted lap. Her own hands came down on his shoulders. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw golden light glowing beneath the muffling black leather of her Disciplinarian cuffs . . . and felt abruptly buoyant, as if shackles had dropped from his body.
Blinking, he looked up at her. “How much . . . ?”
“You won’t be able to win a mage duel against anyone more than three-quarters your full strength,” Pelai said. “But you’ll have ample magic unthrottled for cleaning spells, common cantrips, and even moderate magics up to the point of . . . I guess . . . shaping stone?” She shrugged. “We’ve talked a little about about what you can do, but I really don’t know your abilities to the last spark.”
“It’s only been a few days, but I feel like I could do almost anything,” he muttered, gauging his inner energies. “It’ll be more than enough, thank you. Wait, where are you going in such a hurry? And in white silk? With thread of gold? You’ve been wearing nothing but black leather these last few days. And why do I have to get dressed? Aside from locking the doors.”
She winced. “Sorry, I forgot. Today’s my official Inscription Ceremony. Aleppo’thio and I already worked out what I had to wear to be installed as the Elder of the Mage’s Hierarchy, which is an all-white taga marked with gold-outlined white pei-slii,” Pelai explained, looking down at her mix of white and black. “But I can keep the knee-boots, black belt, and black bracers—and the flogger—of a Disciplinarian. A knee-length taga, so the upper parts of the boots can be seen, since they’re the biggest piece with the pei-slii tooled and foiled in gold on them, to help differentiate them from plain black boots . . . and if we don’t hurry and grab something to eat while we’re walking up the paths, we’ll be late to the Temple! Let’s get moving.”
Nodding, he rose, turned, and—for the first time since entering her home—used a simple bed-tying spell on the pillows, light blanket, and sheet, squaring them up and smoothing them out across the mattress. Satisfied, he nodded and followed her downstairs to find a quick meal and take care of her cat. Settling on slices of dried sausage, cheese, and a little sauce tucked into pocket bread, they made sure Purrsus had his own food and fresh water, and left for the day.
Halfway down the path, Krais caught her arm. “Wait—do you have everything you need? Father had to use a special quill pen to sign his name on the Registry of the Hierarchy when he was elevated to Elder Disciplinarian. I remember that part.”
“Aleppo’thio has the pen, which hopefully he’s still in the middle of blessing at the holy lectern,” she reassured him, her words slightly muffled by a partial mouthful of food. Chewing and swallowing as they hurried up the path, she added, “Nalai’thia is bringing the special ink as the Elder Craftsman, and of course Anya’thia has the Registry book.”
“Good. Is there anything I should do?” he asked. He looked down at his clothes, frowned, and said, “I really should be in formalwear, shouldn’t I? Taga, or war-kilt, as a Painted Warrior?”
She eyed him askance, chewing on another mouthful. As soon as her mouth was clear, she asked, “If you don’t mind, not in the all-black armor I’ve seen you and your brothers wearing? I know it’s not marked with the pei-slii, but you’ll be standing near Disciplinarians . . .”
“And it would be tacky to look like I belonged among them. I do have a formal taga or two,” he told her. “And my formal war-kilt is very fancy, all firebird colors.”
“Just so long as one color alone doesn’t predominate, do it,” she ordered. “And so long as it isn’t a rainbow, either.”
“Of course not. That’s the librarian colors.” Clearing his throat, he stopped to give himself a chance to concentrate. Mostly to reduce the chance of giving himself a second fundo-wedge today.
Picturing each piece of his current clothes, he replaced them firmly in his mind with each piece of his scale-mail-style ceremonial leathers, with the breastplate that looked like the feathers of a bird cut and overlaped in boiled leather pieces, the shoulder guards and bracers to match, boots done up like the scaled golden and red legs of an eagle, and a leather kilt overlaid with a strip-skirt cut to look like curling, overlapping, elongated tail feathers. Oh, and the cotton undervest and underkilt, plus the knee-socks, necessary items that would keep his skin from chafing.
“Sartorlagen.” Air gusted around his body, and cotton and leather rasped into place, cupping his skin. Opening his eyes, he looked down at his body, and nodded. Flame colors, golden yellows and oranges predominating, darker reds at the edges of things. “No weapons, and I didn’t remember the helmet. Should I . . . ?”
“No weapons,” Pelai told him. “You’re still Penitent Puhon. But . . . yes to the helmet. That is, presuming it’s as magnificent as the rest? That is really nice armor. I’m actually a little envious now.”
He nodded, concentrated, and summoned it to his hands. Coiling his braid up around his head, he tucked the thong-tied end through his locks to secure the long plait, and pulled the cheek-cupping helm into place. It gave him the appearance of a feather-ringed bird’s head, with a yellow-dyed, beak-like projection of leather above his brows, shading his eyes partially from the morning sun. “Well? Do I have your approval?”
She smiled at him. Beamed, even, as she flapped the hand not holding the last bits of her breakfast to get both of them moving again. “Perfect. I appoint you my official escort. Stand around looking dignified, tough, and cute. But we need to hurry.”
Krais winced and hurried to catch up with her. “Pelai’thia! I am not cute! I am a Painted Warrior, a skilled fighter-mage capable of hunting down and subduing or slaying the worst of Mendhi’s enemies!”
“Do Painted Warriors whine?” she countered tartly. “Because that sounded like a whine, to me.”
“Yes, if it’s justifiable!” he retorted. “And I will behave, now, yes I know this is a serious, formal occasion. But I am not cute. Cute is such a . . . a . . . ! A single syllable word. One used for children, not for grown men.”
Pelai chuckled, amused by his indignation. “Fine, you are handsome, not cute.”
“Much better,” Krais agreed. They walked a little ways further, then he asked, “ . . . Any other adjectives?”
“Greedy, fishing for all these compliments! Besides, you haven’t complimented me yet,” she pointed out.
“That is because I have been too stunned by your beauty to come up with any words for it, so far,” Krais stated promptly.
“Ooh, smooth. Do you court all the ladies with that quick wit of yours?” Pelai teased.
“Just the worthiest. You,” he clarified, and enjoyed the sight of her tanned cheeks blushing. Tempted though he was to catch her hand and lace their fingers together, maybe even swing their arms a little as they walked, Krais knew he was supposed to be seen as her penitent in public, not her beloved. Especially not her noble lover, with all the sexual connotations that implied. The last thing she needed on her official Inscription Day was a scandalous, scathing outburst from his father, or any of his father’s cronies. He certainly did not need to be taken away and assigned to another.
The full ceremony took two hours, filled with readings from the holy scriptures, the ceremonial signing of her full name and so forth on one of the huge pages in the great Registry of the Hierarchy with the blessed pen dipped in the special, magic-imbued ink . . . and the speeches from each of her fellow Hierarchy Elders all stating their acceptance of her right to lead the Hierarchy of Mages, and the speeches from the seniormost mages of that sect accepting her right to represent their interests as a member of the Supreme Hierarchy of Mendhi.
Presentations of gifts, too. They came from admirers and would-be sycophants attempting to curry favor with her. The changeover had been so sudden, most who lived outside the city would no doubt trickle into her office here on the Temple Grounds over the next few weeks. And of course, there were a couple hours of shared food and drink in the Temple gardens afterward, enough to offset the fact that her breakfast had been snatched on the run and thus meager. All throughout, Krais remained either at her side and back a little in a respectful bodyguard postion, or he stood off to one side, still on display but out of the way of the actual ceremonial parts.
She rather liked the sight of him in his formal war gear, a bright, cheerful, fiery contrast to her much more restrained, if elegant, white, black, and gold. The stark-by-comparison colors did not go nearly as well with her sun-kissed skin as his firebird hues, but white was the color of mages. It represented the ability to blend different ideas together into a homogenous, powerful, illuminating whole.
What she did not see were his two brothers. With Puhon Krais drifting along behind her left elbow like a bright, leather-clad shadow, she managed to get over by his father, who stood chatting with the newly elevated Second Disciplinarian. Who did have her own current pair of penitents in attendance, clad in clean gray-and-black plaid tagae. A pair of sisters, mages who had used their powers to harm and curse their business rivals. Pelai knew because she had assigned them to Belaria just a few days before the Puhon brothers had returned.
“Dagan’thio, Doma Belaria,” she greeted the pair, ignoring the silent, downcast, demure-looking women flanking the Second.
“Pelai’thia,” Belaria replied politely. She eyed Pelai’s penitent. “Huh. When did you get that armor?”
Dagan’thio said nothing, but he did frown at his son, clearly waiting for a reply.
“Four months ago, the ship we were on got damaged in a storm. We had to sit in a port on the southern coast of the Aian continent for several days while repairs were made . . . and while strolling through the city I found an armor crafter who had this suit on display,” Krais admitted. “The original purchaser defaulted on his payments. It looked my size, and fit rather well when I tried it on. I had the weight of the gold he wanted for it, and it took only two days for him to tailor it perfectly to fit.”
“It’s magnificent,” Belaria murmured, eyeing him up and down with a speculative gleam. One that made Pelai bristle a little.
“It’s gaudy,” Dagan’thio dismissed, and looked away.
He didn’t see Krais stiffen at the hurtful words, but Pelai did. “Not everyone is meant to wear stark black with just a little gold, Dagan’thio. Or all white. Or blue, or purple, or any other solitary shade. I have been hearing a lot of compliments from everyone we passed on the magnificence of Puhon Krais’ war-kilt. He brings honor to his family by those compliments, for developing the good taste instilled in him throughout his upbringing.”
“Mm, yes, a lot of us like how it looks,” Belaria agreed, eyeing Krais with a speculative, almost seductive look.
Pelai chose to ignore that visual moment of poaching. “It is creative, yet functional, and it is only suitable that he comes to my Inscription Ceremony looking magnificent today. If I’d had the time and energy to discipline all three Puhon brothers, I’d have seen about attiring them in similar eye-catching yet functional artistry.”
“Speaking of which, where are your other sons, Dagan’thio?” Doma Belaria asked, peering around. “I would’ve thought they would have been on hand for such a momentous occasion. Have you seen Domo Galen at all this morning?”
Pelai frowned in confusion. “Domo Galen? Puhon Gayn was assigned to Doma Dulette, and Puhon Foren to Domo Anso.”
Belaria blinked and glanced back and forth between Pelai, Dagan’thio, and his son Krais. “You . . . you mean you hadn’t heard?”
“No, what?” Pelai asked, feeling a bit alarmed. “What happened?”
“Dulette was knocked down and trampled by a runaway horse,” Dagan’thio told her. Told his son, too. “She will be living with the Healers for weeks, since both legs were broken, leaving her unable to walk. Doma Belaria assigned Gayn to Domo Galen . . . and decided to also assign Foren to him as well.”
The Elder Disciplinarian relayed all of that rather lightly. Too lightly. Pelai struggled against the urge to rail at him. Anyone with any sense for intrigue would know the man had planned the shift in Disciplinarians. Not in any way that could be easily traced back to him, but the aging Elder was so fixated on the thought of punishing his sons, it had become something of an obsession. He might not have caused Dulette’s injuries, but he had been ready to pounce on the opportuity they created.
Worse . . . from the tightening of Krais’ jaw, it was clear he realized his father had intended to keep him in the dark about the transfer of his brothers into the care of Domo Galen . . . one of Dagan’thio’s Partisan friends. But worse than that—worst of all, unfortunately—she had no authority to change everything back.
Which means this could very well be what turns the other two against humanity. Even into betraying humanity . . . because Galen has always been firmly on the side of physically harsh punishments for the first one third to one half of any penitent’s assigned span in his care. And the brothers were assigned two months of penance for their “crimes.”
Great. Just . . . ink-spattering great. Dagan’thio is the reason why his sons turn out wrong . . . him, and Galen’s far too heavy hand. Poor Krais, she thought. Poor Gayn and poor Foren, swept downstream by the flooding of their fates . . . but poor Krais, having to keep his mouth shut and not say anything in protest. Submit to his punishment, indeed . . .
Clearing her throat, she spoke out loud. “Well, thank you for letting me know. I’ll visit her later today, to make sure she is well.”
“Why?” Dagan’thio challenged bluntly. “You’re not her superior anymore.”
The . . . what the inkwell of a Netherhell? Pelai thought, jaw sagging a little in shock. In all her years as a Disciplinarian—from apprentice through to Second rank—she could not remember Puhon Dagan being so . . . heartless. Her indignation welled up so hard and so fast, it spilled out through her lips, and through the glare she gave him.
“What is wrong with you, Dagan?” Pelai hissed at him, stepping in close enough to invade his personal space as she glared up at him. The use of his given name, without any respectful suffix, made him blink. Made him remember that she was now his equal in the Hierarchy. “I think you need to go see the Healer-priests for a health evaluation of your heart and your mind, after saying that! Or have you forgotten your own speeches, year after year, about how all newly graduated Disciplinarians are to think of each other and their elders as closely as brothers and sisters, under the lash? How dare you treat my years of service alongside Dulette, as one of her sister domae, so callously, to imply that I should ignore her and forget that pact.”
He backed down. He actually backed down, swaying back a half step and flushing, his dark brown gaze dropping to the ground in shame. She would have said more but his son subtly touched her back, anchoring her. Showing her he appreciated her support, but silently reminding her that she and his father were not alone.
Shifting back a half- step of her own, she lifted her chin a little. “I do recommend you visit the Healers, Dagan’thio. Your behavior over the last year has grown increasingly erratic. The risk of an ailment that could change a man’s temperament does go up as one ages. Thankfully, they are more easily treated when caught fairly early. I would not have you ill for the world, but I strongly recommend you make certain you are healthy. For the good of the Hierarchy, and the good of Mendhi overall.”
“And have you been evaluated?” Dagan’thio growled, recovering his composure with a touch of anger in his tone, and in the eyes he returned to her face.
“Of course! Just a couple of weeks before your sons came home. And a couple of months before that, and a couple of months before that . . .” She eyed him, then changed the subject. “Penitent Krais spoke of offering to show your sons how to be useful even when firmly disciplined. I know Galen will do his usual thorough job of that, but after investigating this Traveling Brotherhood and what they’ve been researching, I realize that some of my own research has taken me—or rather, my penitent, in proxy for me—into similar areas.
“His repentence is coming along quite nicely. I think he will be a good influence for his siblings, and it will be good for our reputation if the Hierarchy is seen aiding outlanders more directly from time to time. Good knowledge is best shared with good service. I will speak with Domo Galen about assigning Penitent Gay and Penitent Foren to work with Penitent Krais. That way, their searches for this Brotherhood and my own will be more likely to be completed efficiently and thoroughly, with that many eyes spread out over the task.”
Dagan’thio narrowed his eyes. “You presume much, Doma. You may still be a Disciplinarian, but you do not have a high enough rank to order anyone else about any longer.”
Pelai’thia gave him a cold look. “I speak as the Elder of Mages in this matter, as they are researching spells right now in subjects I myself have a vested interest in researching. As a member of the Mendhite Hierarchy, I can command any individual below the rank of a Tenth . . . and Galen has been Sixteenth for seven years. Fifteenth, now,” she allowed, dipping her head slightly, “with my ascention to the peak of the Mages Hierarchy.
“Of course, after having worked for you for many years, I know how much you value efficiency and thoroughness. I see this as an excellent opportunity to put your guiding principles into further practice, when coupled with my greater knowledge of spellcraft, and heightened access to all that hidden information,” Pelai added, softening her tone a little, trying to flatter him into a better mood with the truth. “Consider it a small favor if you like, now that we’re equals . . . since our previous arrangements no longer count, now that I have moved out of your hierarchy.”
The look in his eyes told her that the Elder Disciplinarian just now realized he had underestimated her, politically. A touch of respect crept into his gaze, and the corner of his mouth curved upward. “I see. . . . Well, in that case, I will order Galen to have my sons cooperate with you in your research requests—after all, no one could possibly object to my having them do simple research in the Library for the Elder Mage. Of course, that’s hardly a punishment, isn’t it? Thus, allowable.”
“Unless you’re a heretic who hates reading, no,” she agreed, letting her amusement show. Get used to it, Dagan, Pelai thought privately. I’m going to be around for a very long time to come. “Well, I’d better circulate a bit more . . . I think Galen could send his penitents to my office at ninth hour in the morning. That should be time enough for a bit of punishment before they put in a solid day of research.
“I’ll double-check my schedule on the time and send him a note to confirm; you can tell him to look for it before the end of today—thank you, Dagan’thio,” she added politely. “I think we’ll be able to continue working quite well together, despite the change in dynamics.”
“I think I underestimated you, Pelai’thia,” Dagan offered, eyeing her speculatively. “You always seemed a bit too straitlaced for politics.”
“That was my job, as your Second.” She turned to smile at Belaria. “I have a new career these days. My advice to you, Doma Belaria, is that if you ever need to know where the ink stains are hidden in Dagan’s portfolio . . .”
Dagan’thio stiffened at the implied offer of blackmail, an open offer made right there in front of his face. Belaria arched her brows, curious. “Yes . . . ?”
“ . . . We’ll see what favors can be worked out to a mutual benefit. I do have to think of all my mages, these days.”
At that, Puhon Dagan’thio threw back his head and laughed heartily, hands braced on his black-and-gold kilted hips.
“Come along, Penitent Krais,” Pelai directed, and strolled away. She detoured away from the others, taking a path that would arc them around the bulk of the celebrants scattered across the grounds.
“ . . . I do believe you’ve managed to win over my father with that rather devious display of political maneuvering,” Krais murmured when they were far enough away from the others that he wouldn’t be overheard. “I didn’t think you had it in you, either, to be so devious.”
“A Disciplinarian learns many ways to lace up the bonds of a plaything,” she murmured back. “While I am not exactly like her, and never will be, Tipa’thia did tell me to ‘begin as you mean to keep going.’ I’m not going anywhere else on this journey, so he’d best get used to the fact that things have changed. I . . . am receiving a scrying request from the Tower.”
Krais looked around and gestured subtly at a bench overlooking one of the canals connecting the ponds and lakes of the gardens. Such things were common, since some of the farthest housing for the hundreds of servants, staff members, and so forth serving the heart of the nation lay so far away, it could take half an hour’s briskly paced walk to get from one end of the Temple Grounds to the other. Nodding, Pelai crossed to it and settled herself on the padauk-wood slats.
Taking up a stance fairly close, half facing her and half facing the party in the garden, Krais watched her lips move a few times. Bored, he finally reached into his war-kilt armor and pulled out the monocle Anya’thia had given him. Fitting it to his left eye, the one closer to Pelai . . . he nearly dropped it in surprise when he heard a familiar-ish male voice speaking.
“ . . . need to find out if Frankei Strongclip is still among them. Rexei says the apprentice priest offered to keep himself as a secret ally hidden among the others, a spy for our side so we know what is going on.”
“I will let Krais know to look for him, Guardian Alonnen,” Pelai stated. “I’ve arranged things so that he’ll be helping the Brotherhood more directly.”
Krais moved over behind her and touched her shoulder, speaking up when she nodded, letting him know she was adding him to the projection on her end. “It’s highly probable these men have changed their names. If they’re clever,” he added, while Pelai twisted her head to look up at him. “If you can get me an image of what he looks like, or perhaps we could tie what I see into a scrying that we can share with someone on your side who knows who I’m looking for? That would help immensely. What sort of message do you want me to pass to this Fran-kay fellow?”
“Initially, just a brief message of ‘Yes, she remembers you’re there; please report what you know so far,’” Guardian Alonnen stated.
“With the way the future is constantly destabilizing on where and when the demonic attacks begin,” Guardian Kerric asserted, “we need to have some sort of steadying control imposed on these fellows. Every time we talk about confronting them directly, the mirror shows that we lose.”
“As Painted Warriors, working for the government of Mendhi,” Krais stated, eyeing the floating heads and shoulders visible to his left eye, but not to his right, “my brothers and I have sometimes had to go after groups of fugitives. We discovered early on that if you don’t plan ways to pin down and block off all of the rogue mages from escaping, they just scatter and make it that much more difficult to stop them. I suspect this is the current problem.”
“Which is why we need a false prophecy that can be planted into their hands, in such a way as to be believable,” another of the fellows stated.
Krais tried to place the man, a younger male, early twenties. He had the slanted eyes and oval face of a Katani, a familiar-looking fellow, but . . . no, a Nightfallite, and not the Lord Chancellor, since his hair was light brown, not dark. Lord Mage, that was the fellow’s position. Krais simply couldn’t remember his name. Looking around, he spotted a blue-gowned woman heading their way.
“And I keep telling you, the penalty for regarding falsifying the information in the Great Library without permission is death. . I haven’t had the time to . . . “ She broke off when he tapped her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Menda must think it a good idea, timing-wise, since Anya’thia approaches as we speak,” he told her. “Shall I bring her over? We could always ask her.”
“Oh, Goddess,” Pelai muttered, rubbing at her forehead. “Oh, Netherhell . . . why not? It’s a public setting, and you’re armored enough to protect me from her battle-axe. I’ll throw up a subtle ward to keep our words private.”
Krais lifted his hand and beckoned Anya’thia closer, letting her know her approach was welcome. When someone else broke off from a small knot of chatting staff headed their way, he caught the white-clad man’s gaze and held up his hand, warding off the fellow. Out of respect for the two Elders, the mage nodded and returned to his group to chat some more.
“Your head librarian has a battle-axe?” one of the listening Guardians asked. One of the females, the one with the really pale hair and the strange golden, cat-pupiled eyes.
“Mendhite Librarians can be rather vigorous when it comes to defending and preserving knowledge,” Pelai explained. “It is a part of our religious duties, after all.” Rising, she turned and nodded politely to Anya’thia. “You are just the person I was hoping to speak with next,” Pelai stated, smoothing her white taga. “I was wondering if we could discuss a matter of grave concern that, ah . . . may require a little literary deception. One that would require your permission, of course.”
“I saw all those scrying faces from halfway across the lawn,” Anya’thia admitted, eyeing the floating faces. “Their existence intrigued me enough to come closer for a better look.”
The central figure, Guardian Kerric, frowned. “That should not be possible.”
“Young man,” Anya’thia stated—from within the scrying link, startling all of the Guardians into blinking, and the central curly-haired male into sagging his jaw, “I am The Librarian. By the will and the hand of my Goddess, I am a master of all forms of communication, including ones I should be locked out of sensing. I am also a master of discretion. Now, what sort of literary deception did you have in mind? With permission, as I would hate to have to lop off Pelai’thia’s head in her first week as the Elder Mage of Mendhi.”
Taking a slow, deep breath that seemed to settle his surprise, Guardian Kerric spoke. “We need a way to control these damned ex-Mekhanan priests. Whatever they are doing right now, a year from now, they are somehow going to be able to break through the disruption of the Veil-crossing Portals we created with that spell Tipa’thia and Pelai’thia researched for us.”
“Technically that was the work of my fellow librarians, but yes,” Anya’thia agreed. “What did you have in mind?”
“Falsified prophecies,” the young male Nightfallite offered. He paused to yawn, and muttered, “Pardon me, it’s past midnight, here. . . . Uh . . . we need a way to guide them. As it is, their efforts are going to be scattered all over the world, and not in the areas where we can have easy oversight and an ability to thwart them before their efforts bear fruit. We need to be able to concentrate them in the locations suggested in the Song of the Eight Guardians, and make them think that trying in any other location would be fruitless and pointless.”
Krais shook his head. “Herding an enemy to only do what you want, where you want, and when you want, is like trying to herd a cat.”
“Which is why my wife is working on a believable false prophecy,” the Nightfallite Guardian said. “She’s been arguing with her Goddess about it, but all Nauvea will say on the matter is that Hope needs to be patient.”
Anya’thia braced her hands on her blue-clad, rainbow-belted hips. “That’s probably because her Goddess knows about the Mad Seer Archives.”
That caused a few concerned looks. Guardian Kerric gave her a chiding look. “I have seen every prophecy that Tipa’thia passed along to us. There ae none from any ‘Mad Seer.’”
“That’s because I did not unlock and share them—if you know a prophecy, you can change a situation to fall in line with it,” the Elder Librarian informed them. “I might be willing to consider doing so if I think it worthwhile.”
“Considering how even just talking about doing something changes the future possibilities,” Kerric said, “I would be happy to send you a scrying mirror through the Temple Fountain, and link it to our network. You may not be a Guardian of a vast magical power, but I can admit you are a Guardian of vastly powerful knowledge . . . and I know that we could use your help in figuring out how to herd all these power-hungry, amoral cats.”
Anya’thia planted her hands on her hips. “Young man, you will apologize. Comparing cats to demon-summoners is an insult to all things feline.”
Kerric bowed his head. “You are right, and I apologize. It was wrong of me to say that.”
“Good. Send over that mirror, and we will discuss matters.”
“Something has occurred to me,” the eldest female Guardian said, one who looked even older than Tipa’thia had been. “Perhaps the reason why the trigger points for the invasion are all scattered is because we do not know what they are researching and learning. Perhaps we should put some priority on contacting this Frankei fellow in their midst.”
“That makes sense,” another stated, a male. “If we can know what they’re going to do, we can prepare for it in advance.”
“It would help with herding the cats—no offense or insult attached,” the Lord Mage added. “Puhon Krais, do what you can to ingratiate yourself with these ex-priests. We will use the scrying spell Pelai has mentioned to view and review what you see and hear while you are with them.”
“I am scheduled to meet with them tomorrow, and work for hours doing research at their side, helping them,” Krais warned. “A lot of it is tedious reading and walking and searching for new reference books, only to read and walk and search some more.”
“I can always have my nuns watching in rotation,” a middle-aged woman in an odd, face-hugging white head covering offered. “It’s the monsoon season here at Koral-tai, and that means frequent storms that keep everyone indoors. Indoors, and bored half to tears, since there are only so many prayers one can recite in a day.”
“Do they take good notes?” Anya’thia asked her skeptically.
Krais spotted the mage breaking off again to peer their way. He quickly held up his hand, palm out, to ward off the fellow one more time. As a result, he missed the head-covered woman’s reply, but that was fine; within a few moments, the Elder Librarian dipped her head and wandered off. Krais waited for a break in the conversation and asked, “There’s a mage dressed like hierarchy staff who looks like he wants to talk with you.”
Craning her neck, Pelai peered over her shoulder, spotted the fellow, and nodded. “I know him. Guardians, I have business to attend to for another hour or so. I leave the interim planning in your capable hands.”
“It’s not like we’ll have anything to report . . . pardon my yawns,” the Nightfallite said, pausing to smother another one. “Until we know what are in those Mad Seer prophecies anyway . . .”
“Master Krais,” Guardian Alonnen stated, catching his attention. “I’ll have my people watching this scrying mirror in rotation for when you start moving among the ex-priests. Someone will be on hand to help get Guildmaster Rexei to help identify him. He’ll be young, late teens to early twenties at most, brown curly hair—possibly short, probably long enough to brush his shoulders by now—with hazel brown eyes, a Mekhanan’s rectangular face, about . . . umm . . . hm. I don’t know what the measurement conversions are, but he’s kind of skinny and a little on the tall side, but only somewhat above average. Uh, for a Mekhanan. So . . . probably a hand-length to a hand-width shorter than a Mekhanan? I’ve heard your people are tall.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Krais promised. Catching the eye of the man who glanced Pelai’s way once again, this time he flicked his fingers inward, gesturing for the mage to finally approach. Since this was a formal occasion, everyone who had a hierarchy affiliation had worn clothing to match. So while Krais could tell the man was a member of the Hierarchy of Mages . . . he had no idea at that distance which staff member it was.
“One more thing, Master Krais,” the Nightfallite stated. “My wife, Seer Haupanea, had a brief message for you. At least, I think it’s for you.”
“Go on,” Krais urged, wary but willing to listen.
“‘Fated to fall, fated to stall, and fated to flee,’” the fellow recited, checking a piece of paper in his hand. “‘Love as you will, but let them all go; do not block Destiny.’ It sounds like you may be tempted to try to stop your brothers from choosing their path. I suspect if you do change that path . . . it will put someone into place we cannot predict.”
“You’re asking me to allow at least one of my brothers to go ahead and betray this wole world,” Krais reminded him. Reminded all of the others.
“I know we are, Krais,” Pelai told him, twisting to face him. “I know it’s a punishment to allow it to happen . . . but you have to bow to it.”
“Sometimes, we have only two very fecally filled options to choose from,” one of the males stated, a fellow with tanned skin and short-cropped dark brown hair. “Speaking of which, I’m going to have to drop out of view for the next few weeks. I’ve finally found the solution needed to fix a problem my kingdom has been suffering for decades. It will require me to shut down my Fountain from contact. Kerric, you’ll need to reroute messages meant for me. I will not be available to accept and to read them . . .”
Pelai murmured a farewell and gestured with her hand, banishing what looked like a conversation between the other Guardians that no longer concerned her. Just in time, too. Krais nodded a polite greeting to the approaching mage, now close enough to have seen their gazes focused on things that to outsiders would not appear to be there.
I suppose if I’m going to take up a lifetime of serving Pelai’thia . . . because I will not serve my father ever again . . . then I should get some white armor made. The thought amused him. It would irk his father to no end, seeing his eldest son go from wearing black leathers to wearing white. Switching his allegiances and loyalties visibly from the Elder Disciplinarian to the Elder Mage. I’ll have to sun myself a bit more, make my skin a little bit browner so that it contrasts better with a white war-kilt.
Huh . . . I think I just talked myself into working for her, once my penance months are done. It makes sense, though. The remainder of my repentance lies in standing by her side, to give the Temple its grace . . . or something like that. Goddess, I am glad I’m not someone who has to dissect prophecies for their living. That way, madness lies.