Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (35 page)

Looking up, the Constables said, “My Lord, two days past, a pair of young men reported their village had been destroyed. According to them, a blond ijul in crimson robes sent a massive water creature from the lake into their village, killing everyone. They claimed they were the only survivors.”

An icy shiv of fear stabbed Alpert’s chest. Staring long and hard at the man, he asked, “And what was done in response?”

“Nothing, my Lord,” muttered Oliver. “It was recorded and sent to me, as all reports of magic are. I deemed the tale too fantastic to waste time on.”

Alpert glared at the man, wondering if it would be appropriate to stand up and punch the Constable in the face.

“You are proving to be a very ineffective Head Constable.”

Dropping his stare back to the table, Oliver replied, “So it would seem, my Lord.”

Looking back to the sergeant, Alpert asked, “I’m assuming you dispatched men to try to find the man you saw on the road?”

“Yes, my Lord. Two groups. One back the path we came, another along the road out of the village, but they did not find him. The rest of us buried the bodies, my Lord. I could not leave them there to be eaten by vultures. After, we returned straight to the city to report.”

Nodding, Alpert said, “Good man, Sergeant.” Patting his forehead, he found he was sweating. The air in the room no longer felt cool.

The large oaken door to the chambers opened. A servant entered and bowed.

“I apologize for interrupting, my Lord, but a rider from Redstone just arrived with a letter from Duke Everett. The man says he was instructed to deliver it the moment he reached Smithshill.”

His anxiety growing, Alpert waved his hand, indicating that the messenger should come enter. Emergency missives from the duke never carried good tidings. The servant stepped aside and a man in travelling clothes hurried in, still covered in road dirt. The messenger approached and, with a bow, held out a rolled and sealed parchment.

“Good days ahead, my Lord.”

Alpert took the parchment and immediately dismissed the man. Looking around the table, he muttered, “Pardon me.” He stood, scraping his chair against the floor, and moved a dozen paces from the table. He broke the wax seal, unrolled the parchment, and began to read, his unease growing by the moment. By the time he reached the end, he was in near panic.

Keeping his back to the table, in as even a tone as he could manage, he said, “Captain, Sergeant, and Oliver—stay. Everyone else, leave.”

Cato huffed, “My Lord, I believe we should—”

Spinning around, Alpert shouted, “Get out! Now!”

Cato stood and waddled out of the chambers, followed by Jalano, Lynea, and the clerk. The moment the door was shut, Alpert walked back to the table, careful to keep the parchment from Duke Everett rolled up.

“Captain, I want you to organize a quiet search of the city. Take whichever clerk took the report about Yellow Mud and have him describe those two men down to the number of hairs on their heads. If they are in this city, you are to find them, do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Turning to what seemed to be one of the few competent people in Smithshill, Alpert said, “Sergeant Trell, you have a new assignment. Take a detail of men and head south. Oliver, I want those two Trackers to accompany him.”

“My Lord, the Constables do not report to the army or—”

“Shut up, Oliver,” retorted Alpert. “Do it or I will be sure that your superiors in Freehaven know of your failings.”

Grimacing, the Constable mumbled, “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good. Now, no one is to speak of my instructions here, understand?
No one
. I do not want rumors that mages are on the loose. Sergeant, move your men out south in small groups so they do not draw too much attention. Tell them it’s for more training.”

“Understood, my Lord.”

“Oliver, Captain, you may go, now. Sergeant? You stay.”

Captain deCobb stood and left. Oliver scampered out right behind him, clearly relieved to be leaving. Alpert waited until the Constable closed the door before turning his full attention to the sergeant.

“What I am about to tell you cannot be shared with anyone. Not even your captain. Do you understand?”

Alpert could see the request made the soldier uncomfortable. That only reinforced the regent’s belief that this man would follow the orders given to him. Sergeant Trell respected authority.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Now, once you have assembled your patrol south of Fallsbottom, I want you to wait there. Wait for someone by the name of…Fenidar. He will help you on your search and has the authority to do whatever necessary to apprehend those mages. They are dangerous and need to be treated as outlaws and high enemies of the duchies, do you understand?””

A confused flicker darted over the sergeant’s face. Questions danced in the man’s eyes, but that is where they stayed.

“Absolutely, my Lord.”

“Good. You can go.”

As the sergeant turned to leave, Alpert unrolled the parchment and read the message again. It left him cold inside.

He exited the chamber and strode down the hall, through the front atrium, and into the northern wing where his living quarters were. Servants lined the halls but he barely noticed them. His mind was focused on the duke’s letter.

Reaching his bedroom chambers, he opened the door and strode straight to his desk. He lifted the chain from around his neck, bent over, and inserted the attached key into the lock on the bottommost drawer. With a soft click, he unlocked the drawer and slid it open. Withdrawing the single sheet of parchment resting within, he placed it on his desk and retrieved a quill from the inkpot across from him. He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then began to write in a hurried hand.

Jhaell—

I just received a note from Duke Everett saying he sent you a message days ago and had not heard back. I can only hope that has been rectified in the time it took for his dispatch to reach me.

Word has spread of what we assume was your doing in Yellow Mud. Duke Everett seems to think only one man survived. Now it would seem it was actually two. Even worse, the pair described you perfectly—crimson robes and all—to the Constables in Smithshill only two days ago. Unfortunately, the incompetent Constables didn’t believe the tale and sent them on their way. That very evening, there was a large magical event south of Fallsbottom. The timing is telling, don’t you think?

I have dispatched Red Sentinels along with two Trackers to the south of the city. They are waiting for you; give the name Fenidar. Their sergeant is a capable man and should follow orders. No one knows about you besides him. Use him and the soldiers as you see fit.

—Alpert

Jhaell stepped from the black polished stone of the cavernous chamber to the slate gray flagstone of the hall. From behind, the magistrate’s attendant called out, “You said you could help find the magistrate!” The plea rebounded through the chamber.

Jhaell ignored the man. He had lied in order to discover what the attendant knew. He had no way of finding the magistrate. The man had ported somewhere. The trail ended here.

“
Beelvra
!”

He hurried down the long hall, each quick step of his hard-soled sandals resounding off the granite walls. Cloth tapestries representing the nine colors of the Strands lined the left side of the passageway, lit up brightly by sunlight streaming through the arched windows on his right.

Jhaell increased his pace despite having no idea where he was headed, his long strides quickly taking him down the hallway. The magistrate’s assistant continued to yell after him to come back. The cries echoed down the hall, almost mocking Jhaell. There was no going back.

Not now. Not ever.

Five days ago, he had returned from his impromptu trip to Greycliffe to discover that he had left his parchments on his desk. Cursing his carelessness, he had quickly scooped up the parchments, put them away, and headed to bed.

The next morning, when he had gone to teach his class, the redheaded mainlander had been absent. Jhaell had thought little of it at the time. It was common for his students to sometimes not show. However, after three days had passed—each without the tomble in class—Jhaell had begun to wonder if he had quit.

Today, he had asked his class if any of them had seen the mainlander. All reported they had not since Jhaell had left him standing in the middle of the sea. After class, Jhaell had gone to the registry, hoping to learn that the tomble had withdrawn from the Academy. That would leave only eight acolytes in the class, meaning Jhaell could spend more time in the libraries. The book from Quan was looking promising.

However, according to the registry, the tomble had not withdrawn from the academy. Jhaell’s curiosity had been piqued.

During the midday meal, he had made a rare appearance in the great hall, looking for the tomble, and had heard an interesting rumor. It seemed the tiny mainlander had commandeered a ship and sailed to the City of the Strands a few days ago. The cutter had only returned this morning with a boatload of apologetic sailors, claiming that they had been forced to sail against their will.

The story confused Jhaell. The tomble had never struck him as the foolish type. If he were caught, he would be severely disciplined. The Arcane Republic had very strict laws about using Strands of Will on citizens.

Jhaell had left the hall, smiling. It seemed that his class was on the verge of being cancelled after all.

Upon returning to his office, he had pulled out his parchments for the first time since Greycliffe to see if anyone had contacted him. However, when he spread them on his desk, he counted only nine. He tore apart his office, looking for the tenth sheet, but could not find it. Baffled, he had sat in his chair and tried to remember if he had done something with it.

After a few quiet moments, a sickening possibility washed over Jhaell like the wave he had sent into Yellow Mud.

No one had seen the tomble since the night he had gone to Greycliffe.

Jhaell tried to convince himself he was leaping to conclusions, but he could come up with no other explanation. He had checked the nine parchments on his desk realized the missing one’s match was in possession of Duke Everett, the sovereign of the Great Lakes Duchy. Where Yellow Mud had been.

Jhaell had sat in his chair, repeatedly cursing his indiscretion. Everett rarely contacted him without prompting on Jhaell’s part. Receiving an unsolicited communication from the duke so soon after Yellow Mud meant that Jhaell could assume the topic of the missive. Why the tomble was in Jhaell’s office and why he took the parchment were the important questions.

Centuries of faithful work for Tandyr might be in jeopardy. Along with his chance of ever seeing Syra again.

Jhaell had immediately gathered his remaining nine parchments and some other items of importance from his office. If he could find the tomble quickly and retrieve the parchment, perhaps he would be able to retain his position at the academy and, more importantly, the duke would not be implicated in anything.

After talking with the sailors of the
Morning’s Mist
to ensure the rumor of the tomble’s flight was true, he ported to the City of the Strands and began tracing the mainlander’s steps. A few distasteful hours of searching the city’s dregs, he found a man who had directed the tomble toward the office of a magistrate. According to the man, the mainlander was interested in finding someone who could port to the Oaken Duchies.

Jhaell’s irrational fear suddenly seemed quite sound.

He had rushed to the House of Magistrates and had interrogated the man’s attendant, discovering that the mainlander had succeeded in getting the magistrate to open a port. No one had seen the official in days.

Jhaell slowed to a stop in the middle of the sun-strewn hall, closed his eyes, and muttered, “I am a fool…”

He wondered if he should go speak with the duke to inquire what had been written, but discounted the idea in an instant. To do so would admit he had lost one of the parchments, a parchment that may or may not have evidence of Tandyr’s plans. Should Tandyr learn of Jhaell’s folly, he would never fulfill his promise. More than likely, he would simply end Jhaell’s life.

The sensation of dark crackling startled him from his reverie. Glancing down to the satchel on his hip, he spotted a few wispy Strands of Void. He had to strain to see them, but they were there.

Looking up and down the hallway and finding it empty, he carefully pulled the set of nine parchments from his shoulder bag. He flipped through the sheets until he saw one with writing slowly appearing on it. The parchment belonged to Alpert, the regent of Smithshill. He moved it to the top and read from the beginning. By the time he was finished, his heart was thudding in his chest. “This is bad.”

Two people had not only survived his indiscretion at Yellow Mud, they had reported the incident, describing Jhaell perfectly.

He closed his eyes. “This is very bad.”

When he and the students had ported to Redstone before the attack, they had arrived in one of Duke Everett’s hidden courtyards. Plenty of people had seen him exit the Duke’s Hall in his crimson robes. Rumors were bound to spread.

Things were falling apart.

Jhaell opened his eyes and read the parchment again. As he did, a hopeful, excited optimism filled him. Perhaps Yellow Mud had been the right place after all. Perhaps he truly had found the Progeny.

His eye went wide as he realized what that meant. His optimism turned to horror.

“
Beelvra
! I set them loose!”

Thankfully, Alpert had recognized the importance of finding the two survivors and had made arrangements for pursuit. Jhaell stared at the parchment without seeing the words, thinking.

Were he to find the Progeny and eliminate them, his indiscretion in Yellow Mud would not matter. Nothing would. Without the Progeny, Tandyr could act with near impunity. Secrecy would no longer be necessary. And, ultimately, victory would be assured.