David Drake - Master of the Cauldron

The eldest Councillor got to his feet, supporting himself by gripping the back of his chair with one hand. "The Assembly is closed!" he croaked. "Go to your homes and praise the Queen for her kindness and foresight!"

"Forever," Mab repeated in disgust. "They wouldn't say that if they had any more conception of what 'forever' means than they do of what's really happened to the Queen."

People were going out of the big room quicker than they'd drifted in to begin with. The question the fellow asked had bothered folks, that was for sure. Some of those who'd been close enough to see who was speaking glanced at him, but they dropped their eyes and moved toward a door when he glared in their direction.

"Theydon't know where the Queen is?" Cashel said, making sure that he'd understood the part that Mab hadn't said directly.

The speaker saw Cashel looking and scowled back at him. He was solid looking, but he'd have had to be a good deal bigger and solider before he ought to go picking a fight with Cashel or-Kenset.

Not that Cashel was going to let anything like that happen. He gave the fellow a friendly smile and a nod, standing with his feet spread a little and his staff planted straight up from the floor in his left hand.

"All they know is that the Queen vanished," Mab said. "I shouldn't wonder if they don't believe the legend themselves."

"Do you believe the legend, ma'am?" Cashel said. Just so he knew…

"No," said Mab flatly. "But this is a crisis for Ronn and her citizens, and the King's return isn't the worst of what could happen in the near future."

She grinned at Cashel. "Almost the worst, though," she added, placing her left hand on his biceps. Her fingers were white, and the nails stood out like dazzling jewels against his dark skin. "Come, it's time that I introduce you and Herron to one another. He's the one who spoke."

The angry young man must've heard his name; his mouth opened in surprise as Mab led Cashel up to him. "Master Herron," she said, "this is Cashel, a stranger to Ronn but a good man for you and your fellows to know."

"Who areyou?" Herron said, staring at the woman in amazement. Cashel knew how he felt.

"Cashel," Mab continued, ignoring the question, "Herron is the leader of the Sons of the Heroes. The six of them are the only citizens of Ronn who're taking action to deal with the threat."

"How did youknow that?" Herron said. "Nobody knows that! Whoare you?"

"Does it matter?" the woman said, brushing the question away with a sweep of her hand. "There's nothing improper in what you're doing, is there?"

"Well, no," said Herron. "But we don't talk about it except, you know, among ourselves."

"Her name's Mab," Cashel said. Mab stepped to the side, allowing him to offer his right arm for Herron to clasp if he was of a mind to. "I'm pleased to meet you, Master Herron."

It amused Cashel to hear somebody wrapped up in knots when he asks questions that weren't going to be answered. He'd generally found that by keeping his mouth shut and listening, he'd learn as much as the other person was willing to tell-and sometimes more. That's why he hadn't asked Mab about his mother.

"Yes, I'm Mab," she agreed with a faint smile. "Master Herron, I suggest you call a meeting of your brotherhood immediately to meet Master Cashel and discuss how to deal with the crisis."

"But…," Herron said He clasped arms absently, then stepped away to look from her to Cashel and back again. Herron was probably used to being bigger than most of the men he met. He seemed uncomfortable to see that wasn't the case now. "Mistress, I don't see-"

"Do you doubt that thisis a crisis?" Mab said harshly. "With the Queen missing, how long do you think it can be before the King and his Made Men try to return? We'll meet you and your fellows on the exercise ground you train on. In an hour's time, shall we say?"

Herron blinked, then swallowed. "Yes, ma'am!" he said and turned off toward one of the many exits. He started out walking fast, but he was jogging through the dispersing spectators by the time he reached the high archway.

"Only six of them," Mab said, though she didn't sound too concerned about it. "It's not very much to work with, is it?"

Cashel shrugged. "It depends on who they are," he said. "And who the other guys are too."

He raised his arms overhead, holding the quarterstaff between them; just stretching a little. He wouldn't do real exercises with the staff till he was outside somewhere, though there was probably plenty of room here the way the hall was emptying.

"Anyway," he added, "I guess it's seven of us now."

"Lady, fold me under the cloak of Your protection," Sharina said. She was kneeling before what had probably been intended as an ornamental yew; now it was nearly thirty feet high and spread roots across the rubble of the wall it'd been planted to screen. "Protect my soul and body from danger, and help me protect those who depend on me."

She'd scraped off a patch of bark near the tree's base, then used the point of her Pewle knife to scratch a figure on the bare yellowish wood. She wasn't an artist; a more delicate tool wouldn't have improved the result she'd gotten with the big knife. Only Sharina herself could tell the crude strokes were meant to represent the Lady.

On the foreshore behind her, Lord Waldron and his aides were preparing to board the five ships which would carry them and Sharina to Valles. Farther downbeach, Garric and his entourage were also about to get under way; trumpets and curved horns called together in a fanfare.

"Lady," Sharina whispered, "if I must take the lives of others to save my friends and myself, gather the souls of my victims to your bosom as I pray you will gather mine when I die."

Half the royal army stood in formation, fully armed, along the stretch of beach from which Garric was setting off. When the signallers blew a second fanfare, the thousands of troops bellowed together, "Garric and the Isles!"

Well, something close to together: that many people couldn't possibly act in perfect unison. The result from even Sharina's slight distance was a bestial growl. To those listening on the Sandrakkan side of the strait, it'd be a threatening rumble like that of a restive volcano.

Sharina touched the hem of the stick figure she'd carved, then got to her feet. A pair of Blood Eagles guarded her from a discreet distance. Tenoctris sat cross-legged nearby.

The old wizard had drawn a six-sided figure on the ground with white powder, very likely flour. She must've completed whatever incantation she'd been performing because the bamboo splinter she used as a wand lay in the center of the hexagon. She'd broken it so that she wouldn't accidentally use it again.

Many wizards performed their spells with athames, knives decorated with words and symbols of power and often made of exotic materials. Such tools gathered power with every use, increasing the effects the user could achieve with them.

But with the greater power came an equal loss of control. Even now as the millennial cycle built to its peak, Tenoctris couldn't work the great feats of wizardry that others did-but her spells achieved precisely what she intended, never more. A thousand years ago the end of the Old Kingdom had come when a mighty wizard had overwhelmed King Carus and his whole fleet-but in the backlash of that same spell, the wizard had sunk himself and the usurper for whom he acted into the depths.

Tenoctris had a book-a codex of bound parchment leaves rather than a scroll-open on her lap, but she didn't seem to be reading it. She acknowledged Sharina's glance with a weary smile. Wizardry was hard work.

Sharina started over to the older woman, but she paused for a moment to watch Garric set off for the mainland. His ships had their masts and yards raised though their sails remained on Volita. Signal flags flew from the spars and rigging in colorful but meaningless profusion, the visual equivalent of the horns calling across the water.