He walked, his cloak a billow of black in the cold, white room, crushing the herb and its accusation beneath his boots.
He stopped before the Foundersson.
“We must trust, remember what Fhaveon herself was built for. This is a city of power and strength – and I have come to give her new direction. If you wish to challenge the blight in your crops, then you must heed me. You must help me find the greater threat and thus bring the cure and new life to the Varchinde entire!”
Echoes of passion tumbled across the silence. The Council was still.
Then the Foundersson stood, looked up at the Bard with a gleam of hope in his pale blue eyes.
For just a moment, Roderick thought he had won – that he had brought the world’s fear to the notice of the Council of Nine.
For just a moment.
Then Demisarr spoke.
“You are a visionary, Sir Roderick, a crusader for a truth so ancient we’ve lost its meaning...” He paused, shook his head, looked to Rhan... Then his eyes were pulled back to the packet, contents spilled on the tabletop, and he seemed to fold in upon himself, weighted once again by the white cloak upon his shoulders. “Your ardour touches my heart, touches all of us, but you’re asking the impossible. As you say, I’m the son of my forefathers, bound by their law. The elements you speak of are but remnants of children’s superstitions, alchemy is a tale of Tusien.” He picked the packet up, spilled its contents onto the table at the Bard’s booted feet. “Such things have no place in here. I am the Lord of Fhaveon. I must do as the mandate of my family bids. I must care for my people.”
“That’s not...” The words passed the Bard’s lips before he could bite down upon them. “The world wakens, my Lord.” It was a whisper, but it carried to the very roof. “You must heed me, acknowledge my request...”
“Like my father did last time?” Demisarr smiled, almost sadly. He crumpled the packet, let it drop. “Roderick, there is no great enemy upon Rammouthe Island, no lore you have missed. Every soldier that followed you died.” He stood up, met the Bard’s gaze. “Get off my table.”
Mostak laid a cold hand on Roderick’s arm. “Stand down,” he said softly, “or I will break both your legs.”
Shaking, unable to find a word or a thought to formulate his failure, Roderick did as requested. Dry leaf matter scattered onto the floor.
Demisarr picked a fragment up, crushed it between thumb and forefinger. “Roderick of Avesyr, members of the Council of Nine – I’m appalled. This accusation is against my mentor, my teacher, my oldest friend. It eviscerates me like a blade.
“My word is this.
“Adyle, this one packet isn’t proof – you could’ve brought it from Amos yourself.” The Justicar snorted. “We reconvene in one halfcycle – ten days. You’ve got that time to prove the guilt of the Lord Seneschal and Roderick of Avesyr.”
Rhan’s expression was as cold as the marble wall, cold as his own carving. Roderick’s blood was pounding in his ears like the feet of an army.
Ecko had abandoned him. The Council had not heard his voice.
Mostak’s hand was like cold stone upon his arm.
The Count of Time was closing his grey cloak about Roderick’s senses. He found tears at the backs of his eyes – it had all been so close, so nearly within his reach...!
“Rhan, you are under arrest – your title is foregone until your innocence is proven. You are no longer... no longer Lord Seneschal of Fhaveon.” Demisarr’s voice cracked, he took a breath and carried on. “And I don’t need to mention what’ll occur if you fail to attend the next Council.” The Foundersson glanced at the Bard. “Either of you. Roderick, you also. You will join him. Neither you nor your tavern are permitted to depart the city.”
“I have no way to control The Wanderer,” Roderick said. “You –”
“Then it’ll move without you,” Demisarr said. “You’ll stay. Mostak?”
The soldier Mostak commented softly, “Pull a stunt like that again and I’ll gut you myself.”
“This is madness!” The Bard’s words were a rush. “This is all connected – this is just the beginning. You’ll see. You’ll realise – !”
“Enough!” Mostak said. “This is Fhaveon – and your crazed arse is mine. Your distraction tactic didn’t work – and your demented preachings end here. No more scaremongering, Bard, or I’ll throw you into the gorge myself.”
In the cold, white light, Phylos was smiling like a sated bweao.
* * *
“What a mess,” Rhan said. “One halfcycle – damn those conniving bastards for going through my house.” Rhan was pacing a small, plain square of a room, three steps one way, three steps the other. The walls were smooth and dry and pale grey. The door was bolted from the outside. “We’re up to our ears in tumultuous world-ending horseshit – and Phylos chooses now to challenge my office? Opportunistic bastard – I wonder how long he’d had that packet of herb?”
Roderick was quiet, sat on the floor in the corner with his knees drawn up to his chest, like some errant, black-cloaked child. To be so impassioned and desperate – and to have been unable to touch them... The false accusation bothered him less than his own failure.
He was lost. He had staked so much hope on this meeting – and his need had fallen to the floor in ashes. Ecko was gone; the Council had refused to hear him. He could not return to The Wanderer.
Perhaps the greatest test of his life was upon him – and he had failed before he had even begun.
“Phylos seeks power.” His response was reflex, empty. “If he owned the remaining crop, he could surely hold the city – possibly the Varchinde – to ransom. He could have anything he wanted.”
“But why?” Rhan spun on his heel. “World domination? Power for its own sake? I don’t think so. Those fires were like nothing I’ve seen in four hundred returns – the ground still ached with the damage inflicted and I could feel the elemental might within. But how does this tangle with your monsters, the resurgence of alchemy, your champion, your ‘Echo’?” He spun again. “I realise it’s all connected – but I’m more damned curious about where it’s going.”
Roderick looked up, the rocklight reflected broken from his gaze.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Ha!” The ex-Seneschal grinned. “I built these rooms – had them built. When Rakanne’s son Adward expanded his hold over the Varchinde, there was resistance. Not war exactly, more... unrest.” He patted the wall as though he were punching it. “Never thought I’d be the one in here. Or that you’d be damned stupid enough to be in here with me.”
“I’ve never sold –”
“They know that. Whatever that bastard’s up to, he wants us both out of his way. There’s a pattern growing. It’s just a question of what.”
“Ecko talked about patterns,” Roderick replied bleakly.
Rhan turned, jabbed a finger at the Bard. “Snap out of it, Loremaster, this is no time to feel sorry for yourself. You’ve been waiting for this moment all your life and I can feel pure light in my skin. We are here to face this, exactly this! Perhaps my old enemy wakens at last. We’d better arm up and get nasty.”
Unable to bear Rhan’s words and their challenge and exhilaration, unable to bear his own loss, Roderick found himself on his feet and turning away, standing by the bolted-shut door. Figments lurked unseen on its far side. He felt a cry welling up in his throat that was desperate for utterance. He strangled an urge to hammer the wood until his skin broke and bled.
“I wish Ecko were here. He’d –”
“He’s not.” Rhan started pacing again, restless, almost eager. “But we’re not without options.”
“We’re under arrest.” We’ve failed.