Book 1 - Reap the East Wind by Glen Cook Page A

against the tabletop.
    Everyone turned. She winced. Softly, she apologized. She didn’t explain.
    It was not just the past which compelled her now. Something about this nonevent of a meeting argued portent, cried out about bad times coming. The restless armies of the night were stirring. An ill fate was marshalling fresh forces. Dark clouds gnawed the horizon. The air had begun to crackle with foreboding.

    King Bragi was crossing a courtyard, headed for the stables, when he spied Varthlokkur pacing the east ramparts. The wizard was engrossed in the distance. The King altered course.
    He approached the wizard from behind, settled himself between two merlons. “Care to talk about it?”
    Varthlokkur spun. His response so startled the King, he nearly flung himself backward off the wall. Varthlokkur seized one flailing hand. “Don’t sneak around like that.”
    “Like what? Who was sneaking? I walked up and sat down. What the hell is wrong with you?”
    The wizard grumbled, “Nothing concrete. Not yet. Something in the east. Without the stink of Shinsan. But I could be wrong.”
    “Any tie-in with Hsung’s change of heart?”
    “The world consists of patterns. Mostly, we misread them. In Hsung’s case, though, he really wants peace. The question is why.”
    “You didn’t say that before.”
    “Nepanthe.”
    “Think I missed something there.”
    “The years have robbed her of too much. Her brothers. Mocker and Ethrian. Even Elana. I don’t want to crucify her on a false hope.”
    “You’re not making a lot of sense.”
    “It’s Ethrian. He might be alive.”
    “What? Where?” This was staggering news. His godson alive? He owed that boy an incalculable debt.
    “Easy,” the wizard said. “I don’t know anything for sure. It’s a touch of a feeling I get lately. Something one hell of a long way off that has his aura. It’s like catching one sniff of fresh bread while you’re walking down the street, then trying to find the baker. The only resource I haven’t tried is the Unborn. I won’t unless there’s another overpowering excuse to send him that way anyway.”
    The King sneered his disgust. The thing called the Unborn was a monster which should never have been created. “He’s in the east, then.”
    “If it’s him. The far east.”
    “Prisoner of Shinsan?”
    “Lord Chin took him.”
    “Chin is dead.”
    “Just thinking out loud. Lord Chin and the Fadema took him. We’ve assumed they delivered him to the Pracchia, who used him to twist Mocker’s arm. But maybe they didn’t have him after all.”
    “They had him. You couldn’t bluff Mocker. You ought to know that. They did some fancy convincing to make him attack me.”
    The wizard peered into the misty east. He did not reply, though he could have admonished the King about romanticizing his one-time friend, or about listening too closely to the guilt he bore.
    The King mused, “We never had proof that Ethrian died.”
    The wizard was proud that he had no scales over his eyes, yet he did have his blind spots. The man Bragi had slain, and whose wife the wizard had later married, had been his son. Sometimes that fact got in the way.
    Bragi shifted ground. “Was there anything else?”
    “Anything else?”
    “Your claim to be preoccupied was unconvincing.”
    Varthlokkur shifted his attention from the distance to the man. His basilisk eyes crinkled. “You grow bolder with age. I recall a younger Bragi shaking at the mere mention of my name.”
    “He didn’t realize that even the mighty are vulnerable. He hadn’t seen the dread ones in their moments of weakness.”
    Varthlokkur chuckled. “Well said. Don’t take the notion too much to heart, though. The Tervola won’t give you a decade to find the chinks in their armor.”
    Bragi stood. “I’ll try this conversation when you’re feeling more pellucid. Maybe you’ll deal some straight answers.”
    Varthlokkur faced the east. His eyes lost focus. “We will speak later, then,”