Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

Erlestoke stared at the flat stone where his comrade’s body had lain. “No one here did anything? Said anything? Somehow invoked magick?”

A chorus of negative answers echoed through the chamber.

“Okay, I believe that, which means I don’t know what just happened. Inside the hour we’re vacating this place. Pack up everything we can. We’re going deeper.” He turned and studied all of their faces. “I don’t know if what just happened was for good or ill, but until we know, it’s reason enough for us to keep moving.”

It didn’t occur to Kerrigan that trying to catch a snowflake on his tongue might not be dignified until he heard someone behind him clearing his throat, and a hissed whisper accompanying it.

Until that point, Kerrigan had been out, knee deep in snow, not far from the inn in which he was being housed, marveling at how the snow softened the city of Meredo. It muted the gay colors splashed on houses and hid the red of the tiled roofs. Thick garlands of it covered the skeletal branches of the trees and little drifts had collected in corners. The thick flakes fell slowly, then swirled and eddied, sometimes dancing down the street, other times falling from branches and eaves in a puff of snow.

Kerrigan had seen snow before on Vilwan. Still, the warmth of the ocean tended to ensure that any snow that fell did not last very long. He’d certainly never seen the quantity that had fallen in Meredo, nor had he been allowed to go out in it.

Just raising his face to the sky and feeling flakes melt against his cheeks had made him laugh. His delight mirrored that of children playing in the snow, launching snowballs at each other, building forts, shrieking as they closed and threw, then ran as a volley from playmates chased them back. Other children lay on their backs, flapping their arms, making snow-Gyrkyme, while yet others crawled into barrels and careened wildly down hills, screaming all the way.

Yet Kerrigan’s smile had not been for the snow alone. His previous experience in cities had been something less than positive. In Yslin he’d gotten waylaid by a gang of street urchins and beaten up. And Fortress Draconis had been a city of war. There were few children and less laughter.

The thing that made the difference here was the attitude displayed. As he wandered into the snow-choked street, he had impulsively hand-packed a snowball and thrown it at a hitching post—missing horribly—a man gathering wood smiled at his effort. Some kids threw at the same post from further away, and they cheered and laughed as one hit it. A woman brushing snow from the steps looked at him and nodded, smiling as frosty breath wreathed her face.

None of them knew him, since he had arrived in Meredo with no fanfare. He was just a person and even in a city where those who wore masks considered themselves superior to others, everyone still smiled and was polite. There was a cheerful civility to the interaction of strangers that he’d never really known before, and he liked it.

The voice and the whisper, however, had none of the same friendliness. Kerrigan turned slowly and saw a trio of figures, two male and one female. He did not recognize any of them, but the cadaverous man in the lead wore the grey robes of a Magister, despite his seeming youth. The man’s shaved head, beaked nose, and prominent larynx conspired with the grey pallor of his flesh to reinforce the impression that he was dead or close to it. The woman and the other man, who made up in bulk what their leader lacked, both wore the blood-scarlet robes of Adepts, though without any other decorations that might cue him as to their areas of expertise.

The Magister nodded solemnly and drew his hands to the small of his back. “You are Kerrigan Reese.”

Kerrigan felt a shiver run up his spine. Orla had admonished him to stay away from Vilwan, and this trio represented his old home. Part of him wished running were an option, but even if there were no snow, he could not have moved fast enough to escape a spell.

And running would be thinking like prey.

Kerrigan nodded slowly. “I am.”

“I am Magister Syrett Kar. I am here to take you home.”

“Take me home?”

“To Vilwan.”

Kerrigan shook his head. “Vilwan is not my home.”

The woman leaned in to whisper something to Kar, but the Magister raised his left hand to silence her. “Adept Reese, you have been through a great deal. The Grand Magister is pleased with all you have accomplished. You are now required to return to Vilwan with us to complete your training.”

“There is nothing more for me to learn at Vilwan, Magister.” Kerrigan tugged on the sleeves of the sheepskin coat he wore, then stripped off his mittens. “I have things that need to be done here, and I will do them.”

“You are mistaken, Adept Reese.”

The man snaked menace into his voice and it found an ally inside Kerrigan. My whole entire life has been spent being mistaken, learning, training, trying to do things no one else could do, being told I was wrong, and being made to do it over and over again until I got it right and got another task . None of his teachers had ever told him why he was being asked to do the things he was, why he was getting the training he was. All they told him was that he was wrong or stupid or too slow or too sloppy. They had used the same tone of voice over and over, and part of him bent to respond to it.

Another part, however, rebelled. It was the part of him that had been reinforced by countless little things. Since leaving Vilwan he had done many things right. Perhaps not everything, but he had done enough things right, and those successes drained Kar’s voice of some potency.

Kerrigan brought his chin up. “By what authority do you command me?”

The Magister’s composure broke for a heartbeat, but he narrowed the surprise out of his brown eyes quickly enough. “How dare you question me?”

“How dare I not, Magister? I know that I am engaged in the struggle to defeat Chytrine. I know she will stop at nothing to stop me. How do I know you are not students of her academy masquerading as officials from Vilwan? In fact, I do not believe you are from Vilwan, but instead serve at the consulate here.”

While Syrett Kar kept his face impassive, the chunky Adept at his right did not. That man looked surprised. His female compatriot’s blue eyes darkened as she stared hard at Kerrigan. She took a couple steps to the left and removed her gloves.

Kar glanced in her direction and frowned. “Adept Tetther, no melodramatics. Adept Reese will not be attacking us.” Kar’s gaze returned to Kerrigan. “Your questions are well asked. We should go to the consulate to get the answers. I do know you’ve not visited there yet. That should prove I am genuine.”

“Chytrine surely has agents watching our consulate.” Kerrigan fought to keep his nervousness out of his voice. “You may return to the consulate, and when you have sufficient authorization to compel my return, then send me a message and I shall come. Not before.”

The woman snarled. “We do have ‘sufficient authorization.’”

Kerrigan turned his head, slowly and fluidly, imitating the look of contempt he’d seen Resolute use. “Sufficient for you, perhaps, but my concerns dwell in spheres far above your petty interests.”

He knew he’d been pushing it with that last, and she reacted hotly. Power began to course through her as her fingers clawed. Kar turned toward her, snapping a command, but her eyes had tightened into angry slits. The other Adept began to withdraw, a look of horror widening on his face.

Time began to move oddly for Kerrigan. Part of him—the scared child that wanted to comply with Kar’s commands—recognized the danger. Just from the traces of the magick radiating out from Tetther, Kerrigan deduced she was a combat specialist and had been ready to deal harshly with him. Part of him wanted to drop to his knees and beg for mercy, but the fear remained muted and controllable.