mind.
“I’m afraid you’ve skipped ahead of us a few steps, Vigus,” Guran said. “I’m not following you.”
Quintrel began to pace. His face held a manic intensity. “Blaine McFadden was the last living Lord of the Blood. He came here, to a place of power, a place where the meridians and nodes intersect, and he was able to work the ritual and bind the wild
visithara
magic to become controllable,
hasithara
magic.”
“I was there, Vigus. We held the wardings that helped him do it. But these crystals weren’t part of the working,” Guran said.
“Yes, yes. Be patient,” Quintrel admonished. “When McFadden bound the magic, it required an anchor.
He
became that anchor. One man. The last time, and the time before that—and perhaps always—there were thirteen Lords of the Blood.
That’s
why the magic is brittle. Its mooring is shaky, held only by one man rather than solidly anchored in the bloodlines of more than a dozen lineages.”
“That part I understand,” Guran said. “But what do the stones have to do with it?” Carensa hid her smile. Guran was enticing Quintrel to explain himself in the way he was least able to resist: being the expert with a clever discovery.
“The obsidian disks that McFadden brought with him had belonged to the original thirteen Lords of the Blood,” Quintrel said. He paced faster, and his gestures were quick, almost manic. “They stole those disks when they left us.”
They took the disks with them when they escaped
, Carensa thought.
Fair enough, considering that they brought them in the first place, except for the one Vigus found.
“And?” Guran prompted.
Quintrel turned abruptly, his eyes wide. “Don’t you see? The disks explained the working to bind the magic. They were a cipher for the maps, and a key to the power.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “But I had a chance to study the disks before they were taken. And I suspected that they might hold the secret to the biggest challenge to anchoring the magic—how to deal with the fact that twelve of the original lords’ bloodlines have died out.”
Carensa chafed at Quintrel’s roundabout revelation. It was one of her mentor’s less admirable traits. In the months she had spent with the mage-scholars in Valshoa, Carensa had come to realize that Vigus Quintrel was a cipher himself.
“And the crystals?” Guran asked, eyebrows raised.
“The Valshoans understood about binding magical energy. And they knew that anchoring it came at a price. The thirteen hosts were needed, or the magic would be too much for them to bear. Anyone who anchors the magic is more closely boundto it. In a way it flows through them like the nodes and meridians. Some gain new powers; others grow stronger in what they already had. But too few people anchoring and all that magic burns them up,” Quintrel explained.
Carensa caught her breath. That was something she had never heard before, and it meant that Blaine McFadden had paid a price for bringing the magic back under control far beyond the immediate drain of the working. “Can the anchor be transferred?” she asked.
Quintrel nodded. “That’s the point—the manuscripts I found tell us how to do that, and the crystals are the key. I’ve had a team of mages working out the details. There have been some… setbacks… but we’ve figured it out, and you see the outcome in front of you.”
“Setbacks?” Jarle asked.
Quintrel made a dismissive gesture. “The magic is unstable. There were injuries. But think of what we’ve discovered,” he said, his expression aglow with excitement. “We can transfer the anchor, make it stable, and assure that our mages are the lynchpin for magic for generations!”
“And how, exactly, will we do that?” Jarle’s voice was patient, attempting to get Quintrel to focus. Of late, Quintrel had been distracted, prone to wild mood swings, and more volatile than Carensa had ever seen. No wonder the mages of his inner circle had
“I’m afraid you’ve skipped ahead of us a few steps, Vigus,” Guran said. “I’m not following you.”
Quintrel began to pace. His face held a manic intensity. “Blaine McFadden was the last living Lord of the Blood. He came here, to a place of power, a place where the meridians and nodes intersect, and he was able to work the ritual and bind the wild
visithara
magic to become controllable,
hasithara
magic.”
“I was there, Vigus. We held the wardings that helped him do it. But these crystals weren’t part of the working,” Guran said.
“Yes, yes. Be patient,” Quintrel admonished. “When McFadden bound the magic, it required an anchor.
He
became that anchor. One man. The last time, and the time before that—and perhaps always—there were thirteen Lords of the Blood.
That’s
why the magic is brittle. Its mooring is shaky, held only by one man rather than solidly anchored in the bloodlines of more than a dozen lineages.”
“That part I understand,” Guran said. “But what do the stones have to do with it?” Carensa hid her smile. Guran was enticing Quintrel to explain himself in the way he was least able to resist: being the expert with a clever discovery.
“The obsidian disks that McFadden brought with him had belonged to the original thirteen Lords of the Blood,” Quintrel said. He paced faster, and his gestures were quick, almost manic. “They stole those disks when they left us.”
They took the disks with them when they escaped
, Carensa thought.
Fair enough, considering that they brought them in the first place, except for the one Vigus found.
“And?” Guran prompted.
Quintrel turned abruptly, his eyes wide. “Don’t you see? The disks explained the working to bind the magic. They were a cipher for the maps, and a key to the power.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “But I had a chance to study the disks before they were taken. And I suspected that they might hold the secret to the biggest challenge to anchoring the magic—how to deal with the fact that twelve of the original lords’ bloodlines have died out.”
Carensa chafed at Quintrel’s roundabout revelation. It was one of her mentor’s less admirable traits. In the months she had spent with the mage-scholars in Valshoa, Carensa had come to realize that Vigus Quintrel was a cipher himself.
“And the crystals?” Guran asked, eyebrows raised.
“The Valshoans understood about binding magical energy. And they knew that anchoring it came at a price. The thirteen hosts were needed, or the magic would be too much for them to bear. Anyone who anchors the magic is more closely boundto it. In a way it flows through them like the nodes and meridians. Some gain new powers; others grow stronger in what they already had. But too few people anchoring and all that magic burns them up,” Quintrel explained.
Carensa caught her breath. That was something she had never heard before, and it meant that Blaine McFadden had paid a price for bringing the magic back under control far beyond the immediate drain of the working. “Can the anchor be transferred?” she asked.
Quintrel nodded. “That’s the point—the manuscripts I found tell us how to do that, and the crystals are the key. I’ve had a team of mages working out the details. There have been some… setbacks… but we’ve figured it out, and you see the outcome in front of you.”
“Setbacks?” Jarle asked.
Quintrel made a dismissive gesture. “The magic is unstable. There were injuries. But think of what we’ve discovered,” he said, his expression aglow with excitement. “We can transfer the anchor, make it stable, and assure that our mages are the lynchpin for magic for generations!”
“And how, exactly, will we do that?” Jarle’s voice was patient, attempting to get Quintrel to focus. Of late, Quintrel had been distracted, prone to wild mood swings, and more volatile than Carensa had ever seen. No wonder the mages of his inner circle had
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