He was right, of course. I was not going to defeat Mag in our verbal sparring, any more than I could have done if we had had training weapons in hand. Huffing, I lay down again, crossing my arms over my chest. “Very well,” I said. “I will have you both know, however, that I am entirely disgruntled.”
“I will keep it foremost in my thoughts,” said Mag.
And despite my words, my soul was filled with joy. It was just like the old days, and my love for my friends had not waned in the slightest. For the first time in years, I felt like I was home—more so than I had ever felt in Strapa.
Now, none of us knew it, but far away, another three friends had gathered in council—though their aims were much crueler than ours.
The southern arm of the Greatrocks serves as the western border of the kingdom of Selvan. But north of the Birchwood Forest, there is a spur that juts out into northeastern Dorsea, and at the end of that spur is a peak they call the Watcher. And at the base of the Watcher, in the council room of a great and long-forgotten fortress, three people were deep in a conversation that would bring disaster down upon me, and Mag, and everyone in Northwood.
First was Kaita, a weremage and a Shade. She had skin the color of burnished walnut and Calentin ancestry plain in her features, and she wore her black hair in a long braid down her back. Across from her was Tagata, a Shadeborn woman whose name is, thankfully, not widely known. And at the head of the table was Rogan of the Shadeborn, imposing and terrible. I can see by the look on your face that I need say no more about him.
These were the days before the Necromancer and the Lifemage had revealed themselves and done battle. The Shades still lurked in secret across the nine kingdoms, and none knew of their designs—none save for me and my friends, and we knew precious little. The Mystics had long been an arm of the King’s law, and they dealt with crimes beyond the norm—with rogue wizards, especially. The Shades were their mirror, dressed in blue and grey instead of red, and as far as we could see, intent on toppling all the nine thrones of Underrealm.
So Rogan, Tagata, and Kaita were hatching whatever secret plots they were busy with, when a heavy pounding came at the door of their council chamber.
Rogan’s thick, shaggy locks swung as he looked up at the door, frowning. “Come.”
The door flew open, and a Shade ran into the room. Her blue cloak was muddy and soaked with rain, and her black hair was bedraggled and wild. She ran to the head of the table and knelt by Rogan’s chair.
“Rogan,” she gasped. “I bring word. Dire news.”
He looked at her, unsmiling but not angry, either. With one great hand he took her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. “Come, Nian. Be seated. However troubling your words, you can take a moment to rest before you give them, unless there is an enemy pounding at our gates this very moment. But if there were, I think I would have heard of it sooner.”
Nian looked at the others, obviously unsure. Rogan smiled and waved his hand at Tagata.
“Come, sister. Make room for her.”
“Of course,” said Tagata, abandoning her seat at once and motioning Nian into it.
Kaita watched the proceedings silently, her right hand toying idly with her black braid. It grated her to see Nian seated at the table across from her, but by now she was well familiar with the eccentricities of Rogan and the other Shadeborn.
Nian sat silently for a moment, still clearly uncertain. But when Rogan moved to pour wine for her, she tried to stop him, horrified.
“Please, I can do it.”
Rogan forestalled her with a raised hand. “You forget your place, as well as my own. I have no more authority than I am granted by our father. I am no king, thinking myself superior to those who serve me. We are all of us siblings, partners in a great cause.”
Nian seemed taken aback by the words. Kaita doubted the woman fully understood them. Rogan finished pouring her cup and handed it to her, and Nian took a great swallow of the wine.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes, when she turned them upon Rogan again, were full of a fervent respect that bordered on worship.
“Of course,” said Rogan. “Now. What brought you here with such urgency?”
“There has been an attack,” said Nian. “In the Greatrocks.”
The air in the council chamber seemed to freeze. Rogan’s brow furrowed at once. “An attack? By the satyrs? Or have we lost control of the harpies again?”
Nian shivered. “Not by the beasts. Mystics.”
Rogan and Tagata sat bolt upright, and each gripped the arms of their chair with pale knuckles. Even Kaita could not pretend to be aloof any longer.
“Mystics? In the Greatrocks?” said Tagata. “How did they know about our stronghold there?”
“We do not know,” said Nian. “There were not many of them—only half a dozen.”
“Dark take them,” growled Tagata. “Rogan, what are we to do? If the Mystics—”
“There is more, my lord—Rogan, I mean,” stammered Nian. She looked as though she would rather do anything in the world than say her next words. “There was a battle, and Trisken … Trisken fell.”
The room went deathly still. Kaita straightened in her chair, staring at Nian in wonder. Rogan leaned forwards over the table, as if trying to bore through Nian’s skull with his gaze alone.
“What do you mean, he fell?” demanded Rogan. “He is Shadeborn.”
Nian’s voice was like the squeak of a reluctant hinge. “He is dead, my lord. They killed him, and he did not
