Барб Хенди - First and Last Sorcerer

Aupsha’s sect had cut up their orb’s key found with it. Somehow they’d fashioned the pieces to track the orb, should it ever be taken from them. Of course, they’d had only one orb and didn’t know that what they’d created could track the others as well. After the battle outside Beáumie Keep, Wynn had walked away with the orb of Spirit, the thôrhk to the orb of Earth, and this tracking device.

There was just one problem: she didn’t know how to reactivate the device.

Shade had heard words in someone else’s memory that were used to activate it, and she had passed them to Wynn. The words were in an ancient Sumanese dialect, so Wynn didn’t know their meaning or intent. And that was the trick.

Knowing and intention were required—not mere words, like in a children’s story.

It was frustrating, considering how many languages she spoke fluently, aside from others in part. Worse—frightening, even—she would have to tell Ghassan everything. He was the only scholar of this region with knowledge of his language’s predecessors who might keep such things to himself.

Wynn’s trust in her old teacher had been tested of late. She still didn’t fully trust him, but then again ... she’d been keeping many secrets—more and more—as well.

Shade suddenly pressed up beside her, looking at the device first and then up at her.

Wynn covered the device, but kept it in her grip, and whispered very softly, “I think it’s time we told Ghassan and Magiere about this. I don’t see how else to move forward.”

Shade sniffed the cloth and her sky blue eyes locked with Wynn’s.

—Wait for ... night— ... —Wait for ... Chane—

Wynn frowned. Why did Shade think they needed Chane before showing or saying anything to Ghassan? Or was it Magiere for whom Shade expressed concern? Either way, Wynn hesitated.

“Very well,” she whispered, putting the device away. “Until dusk.”

Prince Ounyal’am stood on the dais within the great domed chamber. The clear night was filled with stars above the imperial palace, which glittered in impossible colors through the dome’s tinted glass panes. Just as unreal were the events in this highest place in the palace.

His father’s birthday celebration had gone forth as planned, regardless that most members of the court had not even seen the guest of honor in a season or more. Dozens of servants had spent days and nights transforming this audience chamber into a traditional banquet hall, as was the custom for this event each year. Other preparations had been ongoing for almost a moon.

Low tables were carefully positioned and adorned with silk cloths, silver-gilt plates, and shallow gold bowls with floating flowers from the imperial garden—Ounyal’am’s garden. Around the tables newly tailored sitting cushions had been arranged, all made from silk and satin and even sheot’a cloth from the Lhoin’na lands. Members of all seven royal households and many noble ones throughout the empire were in attendance, along with wealthy merchants, prominent city figures, foreign dignitaries, and three members of the Premin Council for the Suman branch of the Guild of Sagecraft.

With the banquet still pending, finely dressed guests strolled the chamber’s periphery. Greetings as well as polite introductions passed between acquaintances old and new. And there were always whispers behind one another’s backs in new and old ploys. This year the whispers grew too many, too loud, and too distracting for the one recent event that changed everything.

Imperial Counselor Wihid al a’Yamin was dead.

Ounyal’am could not cancel the banquet with feigned grief. A number of dignitaries had traveled long distances to be here. And privately he had more reason to silently celebrate. Commander Har’ith was also dead, shot through one eye with an arrow.

The prince’s hands trembled slightly as he thought on Ghassan’s recent message: a’Yamin had been the specter’s final host. It was chilling to think that an ancient undead sorcerer had been so close, acting as the public voice of the emperor.

At Ghassan’s hasty request in the night, Ounyal’am had had the bodies near the south-side market removed. Any questions among the imperial guard in this were put off. Ghassan’s second request—to remove guards specifically watching for the escapees at the city’s outer gates—could not be obliged so openly.

Har’ith’s subordinate had already taken his place. There were others now vying for the vacant position of subcommander. While imperial guards were trained to follow orders, Ounyal’am was not their emperor yet, and he had to tread carefully. Still, with a’Yamin dead and the emperor fading, the guards would also avoid questioning the imperial heir, as they could soon owe their positions to him.

Ounyal’am had arranged to call in some imperial guards stationed at the city’s exit, for there were many important guests who needed constant protection. As a result, there would also be more reallocations of forces, as well as changes in rotation during the coming days and nights. Ghassan would have to watch carefully for gaps through which to escape the city.

There was no such escape for Ounyal’am.

A prince in an empire without someone to speak for its failing emperor had tenuous authority at best. As he was unmarried and unengaged, there were enough present this night who would use tradition to claim he was not suitable as a regent regardless of being the imperial heir. That would suit them to make certain he first chose one of their daughters before gaining their support.

There were also still those among the court who secretly worshipped the old ways, the gods, like his father. They would soon vie and connive to step into a’Yamin’s place, and High Premin Aweli-Jama would be among them. Of course, some of those seeking imperial alliance by marriage would work against attempts to install another counselor.

A’Yamin, or rather the specter, had made as many enemies.

“My prince,” said a silken voice. “Salutations of joy from my family to yours.”

Shaken from thought, Ounyal’am turned his head slowly to regain control.

Resplendent Durrah bowed her head to him.

She had actually stepped up upon the edge of the dais, creating a moment—the sight—of her on the same level of a future emperor. And no, there was nothing he could do about this for the moment.

Durrah was an eyelash or two taller than him, but nobles—and especially the royals—admired height in a woman. Thick waves of hair fell down around her strong features: a prominent yet straight nose and high cheekbones. Perfectly decorated in sapphire earrings and a deep azure tunic that fit her shapeliness, she smiled softly, little more than an upturn in the corners of her mouth.

She was considered one of the most beautiful women in the empire.

Ounyal’am did not think so, not when he looked into her eyes.

“Forgive my impudence, my prince,” she murmured. “I beg you.”

There was no begging in her voice, though there was certainty of a kind.

“I thought to offer myself as your dinner companion this evening,” she went on, whispering and thereby having to lean close before all eyes. “I only now found courage to beg so. I do not want you to feel so alone, without comfort, in the loss of your counselor and the commander of your guards.”

In presiding over the evening’s celebration, Ounyal’am would sit right of center at a lone table placed up on the dais. Near its forward edge, all present could see him beside the empty place for his father.

To the left of that emptiness would sit his aunt, his father’s aged sister. The cushion to his own right was reserved for whomever he chose as companion for the meal. This custom had existed for as long as he could remember, but no one in his lifetime had asked for the privilege.