“Your pardon, Speaker, but I’m not terribly interested in why they believe as I am in what they believe. Does this have anything to do with the Ceuran Regency?”
“It could. The Battle of Mount Tenji was as crushing for the Ceurans as it was for Alitaera. King Usasi and his son and seven daughters were all killed; that was so devastating to the country that after that time Ceuran women were no longer taught the sword. The regency was established both because of the profound respect for tradition engrained in Ceuran culture, and the fact that the first Regent had no blood claim to the throne. The other contenders realized a regency meant that they themselves could hold power without needing a blood claim, if only they were powerful enough to take it. It suited everyone, and the myth of the coming High King gave them a hope of future glory. Our scholars’ best guess is that there was a High King who ruled those lands for a single generation in the dark centuries that followed Jorsin Alkestes’ fall.”
“Wasn’t Alkestes himself called the High King?”
“Rarely. In the early years of his reign, he ruled over seven kings and styled himself the High King. Three of the seven—Rygel the Blue, Einarus Silvereyes, and Itarra Lachess—rebelled. After that, Jorsin was Emperor Alkestes. We don’t know if the latter High King claimed descent from Jorsin or not—almost all records of him were lost in the dark ages—but he only claimed the lands now encompassing Ceura, Cenaria, Khalidor, and Lodricar, not all of Jorsin’s kingdoms.”
The ambassador looked unimpressed. “So that’s it? A long-dead legend?”
Istariel said, “Well, the magi give some credence to a prophet or two whom we don’t recognize.”
“And they know more?”
“They don’t know more. They believe more.”
“By the God’s beard! I don’t care what’s true—I care what people believe! What are these prophecies?”
Istariel gave him a look that let him know he was treading on thin ice and didn’t answer until he looked on the brink of apologizing. “They say he will be a dragon—the accepted interpretation is that he’ll be Talented, though any conqueror brings fire. They say he will raise a standard of death—I hope that’s clear enough, things aren’t going to be all prancing ponies and cuddly kittens. Then the prophecies get strange. They say he’ll bring peace—peace everlasting is a pretty normal staple of prophecies, right? Well, these prophecies say he’ll bring peace for two years or eighteen. They say his coming will open the way for the return of Jorsin Alkestes, who will both be taken under his wing, and test the mettle or taste the metal—it’s unclear which—of his sword.”
“When was this prophecy given?” the ambassador asked.
“Five years ago. A magus named Dorian, who claimed to be a rogue Ursuul. Not exactly a reliable source.”
“It sounds like a nightmare.”
“Yes, and these things tend to spread with a religious fervor once they get started. Even if Moburu is the High King, I’d strongly advise King Alidosius to make sure he never sits in any throne—not unless you want to invite civil unrest or even civil war to Alitaera. Jorsin Alkestes still stirs all sorts of emotions. A High King would itself be bad enough, considering the sheer area such a man would rule, but in the Alkestian prophecies, he is a harbinger. Think what may happen in each of our lands if people really believe that the Lord of Hell is coming in bodily form, that creatures from their nightmares will walk again, that kingdoms are doomed to fall.”
Ambassador Guerin looked moderately ill. “Yes, I’ll convey all this to the king. Is that all?”
“No, I need to know if your lancers are on their way.”
“You ask me this now, after you’ve only just given me the information which might make the king amenable to such a request?”
“I gave you the information when we got it. We need those soldiers now.”
“I told you months ago that without access to whatever intelligence you had about an invasion we would be unable to grant your request. If you’ll pardon an old military man speaking bluntly, we can’t send five thousand lancers every time an old ally gets nervous. That’s not what the Accords oblige.”
An old military man? You haven’t lifted a lance in thirty years. “The Accords oblige a robust defense of the Chantry, which seems even more pressing now that Moburu Ander’s company—an Alitaeran company—fought for Khalidor at the Battle of Pavvil’s Grove. We’re facing two enemies here even without Moburu Ander’s men, and each alone may be capable of annihilating us. The fact is, even the two thousand lancers you have across the border—yes, of course I know about them—probably won’t be enough to defend us. The best I can expect is that they will hold our flank against the Lae’knaught while we go to Black Barrow.”
“You’re going to Black Barrow?” Marcus Guerin asked.
“The Khalidorans have learned to raise krul.”
“Krul? A legend!” Marcus Guerin scoffed. “This is completely—”
“Have you been to Black Barrow, ambassador?”
His blue eyes looked troubled.
“Black Barrow is the only place where, once killed, the krul can’t be Raised again. It’s the only place we can fight them with any hope of winning.”
“So you want us to help you invade your neighbor? That’s an awfully bold interpretation of accords intended to curtail the Chantry’s imperial ambitions.”
Suddenly, from many stories below, the Speaker felt an unfamiliar magic. Though she’d only met a half dozen magi, and had never seen them use their Talents, she knew instantly that this was a magus—in her Chantry.
“Speaker, is something wrong?”
Istariel had only moments to decide how to react. Could she turn the presence of a hostile mage to her advantage? Would interrupting the meeting be to her advantage? Perhaps it could have been, if the Chantry’s objective in this talk were anything positive. As it was, she wished only to back out of a centuries-old treaty without declaring war. “Yes, you slap us in the face with old, unfounded allegations, sir. We wish only to survive as a house of learning.” A rush of magic much more familiar to her snapped in response to the intruder, whoever he was. Istariel was surprised at the force of it. It was a chaining magic, and the only maja she could imagine powerful enough to use it was Ariel, blessed oblivious Ariel. Or, perhaps, Vi.
“A house of learning?” the ambassador asked. “Does that include learning battle magic?”
So he knew. Dammit. “If our allies abandon us in the face of a massacre? Yes.”
His lips thinned to a tiny line. “This is most precipitous.”
Istariel opened her mouth to deliver a historical reminder when a magical concussion ripped through the Chantry. The constant buzz of magae’s Talent ceased and, for the first time in centuries, perhaps the first time since it was built, the Chantry was utterly silent. The magic ripped through everything, though it destroyed nothing except whatever the Sisters were actively weaving. It had character, a distinct flavor: free and fierce, not hostile, but rather a strength unaware of itself. The impossible image that leapt to Istariel’s mind was of a teenage archmage, and it shook her to her core. Ariel had tried to chain him, and he refused to be chained.
Magically, Istariel felt like a little girl trapped between screaming parents.
“Wh-what was that?” the ambassador asked.
By the Seraph, it was powerful enough even this un-Talented toad could feel it.
“We hereby withdraw from the Accords, ambassador. If Alitaera wishes to expel the magae from its dominions, they will leave peacefully. I do request, however, that you give us six months to show our good faith. This is no declaration of war with you. Please let the emperor know that we fight only to live.”
The ambassador sat silently. He sipped his ootai, which Istariel was certain was cold by now, but he didn’t seem aware of it. “The king always thought you were one of the Chantry’s more moderate voices, Istariel. Surely the discussion needn’t end on this. You wouldn’t throw away hundreds of years of cooperation and progress.”