taken to handling him gingerly.
“The crystals have been prepared to accept the imprint of twelve new masters. Twelve new Lords of the Blood,” he replied, with a triumphant look. “We’ll get Blaine McFadden to return to Valshoa,” Quintrel said, agitated with enthusiasm. “Then we’ll use the crystals to place twelve of our own as the new Lords of the Blood. Our lineage will bind the magic. It will be as it ought—mages controlling magic.”
“I don’t think you’ll easily convince McFadden to return to Valshoa,” Guran said. “What if he refuses?”
Quintrel’s expression grew hard. “Then we force him to come.” He looked to all of them with the fervor of a prophet. “Don’t you see? We stand at a crossroads of history. This is our chance to choose the new Lords of the Blood, the families that will anchor the magic—and have a stake in its binding—for centuries to come.”
“You’re going to kidnap Blaine McFadden?” Jarle repeated incredulously. “What about his army? His allies? And his assassins?”
Quintrel made a motion as if swatting away flies. “Those concerns are of no regard. I have an agent of my own in place. We’ll incapacitate McFadden, spirit him away, and impress upon him the need to cooperate with our plans.”
“And once you’ve used the crystals and created a new quorum, then what?” Guran asked. “Do you just expect McFadden to go about his business as if nothing happened?”
Quintrel frowned. “That’s where it gets complicated,” he said. He sighed. “We know it’s possible to keep the binding if one—or several—of the original Lords dies without an heir. What happens next is really up to McFadden,” he said with a shrug. “We may be forced to keep him here until he agrees to an alliance,” he said matter-of-factly. “And if that’s not an option, I’m afraid we’ll be forced to end his line.”
Silence fell as Quintrel gave them a moment to consider his last statement. “So much for McFadden,” he said finally, as if his last comment was of no particular import. “We’ve got Rostivan to handle.”
Torinth Rostivan was a warlord, and he was Quintrel’s newest ally. Carensa was skeptical of the alliance, but she knew Quintrel well enough to keep her reservations to herself.
“You still haven’t explained the terms of our new alliance,” Guran said warily.
Quintrel’s smile broadened once more. “In short, Rostivan does our fighting for us. As he gains power, so do we.”
“Why would he fight for us?” Jarle questioned, frowning. “And what makes you so sure he’ll include us once he has the power he wants?”
“Because I have a hold over him,” Quintrel said simply. He reached into a leather satchel that sat on the table behind him, and withdrew a glass orb. It looked like a scrying ball, with one hideous difference. Preserved in the middle was a mummified human hand clenched in a fist.
Guran’s eyes widened and he stared at the orb. “What in the name of the gods is that? Vigus, what have you done?”
Quintrel’s smile grew brittle. “I did what I had to do to ensure us a future in the new order,” he snapped. “This artifact puts Rostivan under my control. He is unable to defy me—and with mages to be my eyes and ears, he won’t be able to make a move without my knowing it.”
“Where did you find that… thing?” Jarle asked, his voice a horrified gasp. Carensa peered at the orb with a mixture of fear and fascination. The glass appeared thick and quite solid. The hand was withered and gray, though not as fragile as the old bodies Carensa had seen in the tombs. Instead, the hand looked like it had belonged to a very old, wizened man, preserved as it might have been when it was severed.
“It was buried deep in the Valshoan catacombs,” Quintrel replied. His mood had soured, and Carensa guessed that he was not happy at the reaction from his senior mages.
“Perhaps it should have remained there,” Jarle
“The crystals have been prepared to accept the imprint of twelve new masters. Twelve new Lords of the Blood,” he replied, with a triumphant look. “We’ll get Blaine McFadden to return to Valshoa,” Quintrel said, agitated with enthusiasm. “Then we’ll use the crystals to place twelve of our own as the new Lords of the Blood. Our lineage will bind the magic. It will be as it ought—mages controlling magic.”
“I don’t think you’ll easily convince McFadden to return to Valshoa,” Guran said. “What if he refuses?”
Quintrel’s expression grew hard. “Then we force him to come.” He looked to all of them with the fervor of a prophet. “Don’t you see? We stand at a crossroads of history. This is our chance to choose the new Lords of the Blood, the families that will anchor the magic—and have a stake in its binding—for centuries to come.”
“You’re going to kidnap Blaine McFadden?” Jarle repeated incredulously. “What about his army? His allies? And his assassins?”
Quintrel made a motion as if swatting away flies. “Those concerns are of no regard. I have an agent of my own in place. We’ll incapacitate McFadden, spirit him away, and impress upon him the need to cooperate with our plans.”
“And once you’ve used the crystals and created a new quorum, then what?” Guran asked. “Do you just expect McFadden to go about his business as if nothing happened?”
Quintrel frowned. “That’s where it gets complicated,” he said. He sighed. “We know it’s possible to keep the binding if one—or several—of the original Lords dies without an heir. What happens next is really up to McFadden,” he said with a shrug. “We may be forced to keep him here until he agrees to an alliance,” he said matter-of-factly. “And if that’s not an option, I’m afraid we’ll be forced to end his line.”
Silence fell as Quintrel gave them a moment to consider his last statement. “So much for McFadden,” he said finally, as if his last comment was of no particular import. “We’ve got Rostivan to handle.”
Torinth Rostivan was a warlord, and he was Quintrel’s newest ally. Carensa was skeptical of the alliance, but she knew Quintrel well enough to keep her reservations to herself.
“You still haven’t explained the terms of our new alliance,” Guran said warily.
Quintrel’s smile broadened once more. “In short, Rostivan does our fighting for us. As he gains power, so do we.”
“Why would he fight for us?” Jarle questioned, frowning. “And what makes you so sure he’ll include us once he has the power he wants?”
“Because I have a hold over him,” Quintrel said simply. He reached into a leather satchel that sat on the table behind him, and withdrew a glass orb. It looked like a scrying ball, with one hideous difference. Preserved in the middle was a mummified human hand clenched in a fist.
Guran’s eyes widened and he stared at the orb. “What in the name of the gods is that? Vigus, what have you done?”
Quintrel’s smile grew brittle. “I did what I had to do to ensure us a future in the new order,” he snapped. “This artifact puts Rostivan under my control. He is unable to defy me—and with mages to be my eyes and ears, he won’t be able to make a move without my knowing it.”
“Where did you find that… thing?” Jarle asked, his voice a horrified gasp. Carensa peered at the orb with a mixture of fear and fascination. The glass appeared thick and quite solid. The hand was withered and gray, though not as fragile as the old bodies Carensa had seen in the tombs. Instead, the hand looked like it had belonged to a very old, wizened man, preserved as it might have been when it was severed.
“It was buried deep in the Valshoan catacombs,” Quintrel replied. His mood had soured, and Carensa guessed that he was not happy at the reaction from his senior mages.
“Perhaps it should have remained there,” Jarle
Similar Books
