and powerful that only the mightiest warriors could delay them and only the most powerful magic could destroy them.
As the line of refugees continued to issue from the portal, the Conjurer knew one thing above all else: for the People to survive in this new land, no matter how abundant and hospitable, they would need allies. Which meant that generations of making war upon those not of the People would need be forgotten, and aggression as a way of life needed to be set aside.
The Regent Lord nodded to one of his heralds standing near the portal. The servant bowed slightly and darted through the magic opening. A moment later he returned, followed by a dozen older elves dressed in the guild cloth of the geomancers.
Laromendis knew that they were needed to repair the damage to the city defences on Andcardia, and he knew what their presence here meant: these few remaining masters of earth magic would begin to build a new city, in the heart of this valley. The repairs to the last bastion of Andcardian defence had been left to the lesser masters and apprentices. It was an admission of defeat that the Regent Lord had yet to voice.
A group of elders made their way through the small crowd and came to stand before their Regent Lord, bowing as one. To the oldest of them Undalyn said, ‘Oversee the creation of our new home. Begin at once. Defend the valley and start down there.’ He pointed to a distant rise that overlooked the small lake at the centre of the valley. ‘Around that lake we shall plant the Seven Stars. On that rise you shall build a new palace.’ He looked around, as if fixing the sights of Home in his mind. ‘All who can be brought here will arrive within the month, and then we shall seal this portal behind us.
‘I shall return to Andcardia to oversee the fighting. We will hold the demons at bay for as long as possible.’ To the Conjurer he said, ‘What do you need to discover the truth about demons here?’
Taking a breath, he simply answered, ‘My brother. No one among the People knows more of demon lore than he, my lord—’ As the Regent Lord was about to object, Laromendis hurried to cut him off, ‘—I know there are many who see him as the cause of the demon invasion …’
‘If that were true,’ said the Regent Lord, ‘he would already be dead. I do not think that he personally summoned the Demon Legion, Conjurer. But I do believe it was the meddling of those like him and yourself into realms prohibited by the Spellcrafters that caused the magic barriers to be breached.’ The Conjurer almost winced at that, for he knew there had been no breach; somewhere a gate had been opened between the realms, and if that could be found … He quickly turned his mind back to the Regent Lord, who said, ‘No. I must hold him against your good behaviour.’
‘You have my pledge, my lord.’
Breathing deeply, the Regent Lord looked around once more inhaling the sights, smells, and sounds of Midkemia in his memory before he returned to the struggle.
‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘Return with me and change places with him, Laromendis. You shall be his guarantee.’
‘Ah—’ began the Conjurer.
Smiling, the Regent Lord said, ‘When the very last of the People are through the translocation portal, then shall I free you to be with your brother. Until then, you are going to use your talents to defend against the Demon Legion.’
Laromendis nodded; there would be no dungeon or cage in the courtyard for him; he would be at the battlements sending demons back to whatever hell they came from. ‘Very well, my lord. I wish to serve in whatever way you judge right.’
The Regent Lord stepped around a wagon and through the magic curtain. Keeping his features still, the magic user followed his ruler, satisfied that his plan was almost underway. He knew he had to steal one minute alone with his brother, no more, and then he could gladly give his life to save the People. But he prayed to an ancient goddess that his sacrifice wouldn’t be necessary, for to truly safeguard their future, his particular arts, those of his brother and of many others who were considered less than elven by the Regent Lord, would be needed.
And to do that, changes needed to be instituted, and quickly.
And that required a little treason.
He stepped through the portal and vanished.
PUG CAST HIS SPELL.
The assembled students watched in rapt attention as a column of energy rose above the master sorcerer, speeding upwards unseen. They could still sense the energy, and some, more attuned to the magic arts than others, could almost feel it radiating on their skin. He was teaching them a basic skill, one usually left to those whose time was less valuable to the Conclave of Shadows, but Pug felt the need to be in the classroom from time to time. The lesson was a simple one: how to feel the presence of magic, and locate it when it was employed nearby. Over the years he had been astonished to discover that many magicians and magical clerics didn’t realize a fireball had been cast until the flames had singed their hair.
Young men and women from many nations, and a few from alien worlds, had gathered here to study under the tutelage of the greatest practitioner of the arcane arts on Midkemia. Today’s lesson was on perception and reaction to changes in magic, and the first step was mastering the ability to recognize when magic was being deployed. The skill might seem rudimentary to most of the students, but the three people who observed the lesson from a short distance away knew better: it was the first step in learning how to react to hostile magic; instant recognition of changing magic often kept a magician alive.
Magnus turned to his brother and mother and said, ‘He seems to be fine.’
Miranda shook her head. ‘Seems is the operative word. It’s another bout of melancholia.’
‘Nakor?’ asked Caleb.
Miranda nodded. ‘I don’t know; maybe. It’s been almost ten years, and he hides it well, but those black moods come upon him still.’
Caleb, Pug and Miranda’s younger son, said, ‘Marie notices it, too.’ His wife was a perceptive woman and in the ten years since she had arrived on Sorcerer’s Island, had become something of the mistress of the household, a position Miranda was more than happy to cede to her, as she had her magical studies to conduct.
Magnus said, ‘I was there, and no one could have done more than Father did. Nakor chose his fate.’ Quietly, he added, ‘As much as any of us can choose.’
Miranda’s dark eyes showed a mixture of distress for her husband’s pain, and irritation, an expression both sons knew well. A tender-hearted woman at times, but she could also be as impatient as a child.
‘Nakor?’ asked Caleb again.
‘He misses him,’ agreed Miranda. ‘More than he’d like anyone to know. That bandy-legged little vagabond had a unique mind and even when I was furious with him he could make me laugh.’ She paused and turned away, motioning for her sons to follow her down the hill and back towards the main villa. ‘During the ten years since his death, your father has uttered Nakor’s name once or twice a month. But he has mentioned him half a dozen times in the last week. Something is on his mind, something new and troubling.’
Villa
