Unsure what the lenses would do, Rexei picked up the glasses and gingerly peered through them. Everything turned blue, and there was indeed a slight sense of distortion . . . but she kind of liked everything faded to blue, so she carefully hooked the wires over her ears and gave him a thumb-out gesture, palm flat to the floor to let him know she was okay with it despite the discomfort.
FOUR
Pleased that the lanky young man was doing alright, Alonnen moved over to one of the three silvered glass mirrors on the wall near the desk. Boy’s not quite so suspicious now. Can’t say as I blame him. I do wonder about Harpshadow’s choice of Longshanks for playing spy in the heart of a bloody temple though . . .
Stroking the edge of the mirror, he muttered his activation word and waited for the scrying spells to connect with the Tower far to the west. Blue rippled across the screen for a few moments, only to be replaced by the dark-skinned face of a woman. She smiled wryly at him. “I’m sorry, Guardian Alonnen, but the Master of the Tower is not available at the moment and will be indisposed for another hour. I can record a message for him, if you like.”
“Great. Can you connect me to the other Guardians?” Alonnen asked.
“I can certainly try. Is this an emergency?” she asked politely.
That made him pause. Whatever the priests were planning, the fact that Mekha was no more and that other cities would no doubt be on the brink of rioting meant the priesthood would be in turmoil. Which meant the Guardians probably had a little leeway. His brother and the Precinct captain would keep Heiastowne as calm and orderly as possible, but their only concern was for the citizens; looting, fighting, and setting fires were not things one did carelessly in the harsh cold of winter.
“Well, it’s not yet life-or-death, but it is more than a bit important,” he finally said. “Get who you can on the Fountainways, and record our conversations for the others when they’re free.”
“Of course, Guardian. The Tower is happy to serve your needs in this matter.” She shifted and did something that caused the blue glow to come back, covering the surface of the mirror.
“The Tower?” Rexei asked him.
“Yes, it’s . . . um . . .” Alonnen scratched at one ear, trying to figure out how to explain it to a fellow Mekhanan. “It’s . . . utterly unlike the Vortex. Pretty much the exact opposite, really. Mages openly flaunting their powers, scrycasting what they can do . . .”
“Scrycasting?” the youth repeated, giving him a dubious look.
“It’s like a performance by the Bardic or Actors Guilds. The important thing is, the Master of the Tower, Guardian Kerric, has a special mirror that can peer one year into the future. And in that mirror, he saw . . . ah, hello Guardian Sheren,” he interrupted himself, greeting the wrinkled, white-haired woman who appeared on the mirror. A moment later, the image split, with her face sliding to the left and shrinking a bit, and a new face appearing on the right. “And Guardian Keleseth.”
“I just woke up,” the darker-haired but still elderly woman on the right groused. “What’s so important that we have to talk about it right now?”
A third face appeared between them, a man with blue eyes, short blond hair, and a worried look pinching a line between his brows. “What’s the emergency, Guardian Alonnen?”
“Please, gentles, if we can wait until we have everyone who can join this scrying, then I’ll answer all the questions all at once and not have to repeat anything,” Alonnen stated. He glanced over at Rexei Longshanks, who was hanging back a bit, peering at the mirror in curiosity but clearly not willing to get close to it. “Oh, don’t worry, Longshanks. It’s not going to hurt you. Come here.”
The images split and shrank even more, reducing into a grid of nine. Alonnen taxed his memory to remember all of them. Besides Sheren of Menomon and the grumpy lady, Keleseth of Senod-Gra, they now had Daemon of Pasha; Suela of Fortune’s Nave in Fortuna; Sir Vedell of Arbra; the dark-skinned Tuassan of Amaz; the tired-looking, spectacles-wearing Koro of the Scales; the autocratic Ilaiea of the Moonlands; and the woman from the Tower whose name he couldn’t remember. He knew her face, but he couldn’t remember her name.
“These are all the ones who are answering the call, Guardian Alonnen,” she stated. “The rest are either delayed or have messages stating they are out of reach, and the Fountain of Nightfall is completely without communication at the moment thanks to the reconvened Convocation.”
Alonnen heard the lad a few paces to his side draw in a sharp breath at that, but the Guardian ignored Rexei’s shock. He nodded. “Thank you, dear. This’ll do for now.”
Nodding, the woman bowed out of the scrycast call, leaving a grid of eight faces on the horizontally hung mirror. Rubbing his hands together, he drew in a deep breath and began.
“Right, then. To get straight to the point, I do believe I know how the foreseen Netherhell invasion begins. Or at least, where it begins. Come here, Longshanks,” he ordered, tipping his head to summon the youth. Eyes blinking behind the blue lenses, the young man moved closer until Alonnen could pull him into proper viewing distance at his side. “Everyone, this is Longshanks, who was assigned to spy on the priests of Mekha. Several things happened today which are extraordinary and which pertain strongly to our current mutual quest.
“Longshanks, these are eight of the Guardians of the world—like me, they protect powerful sources of magic. They are as trustworthy as you could hope to find, and I want you to start from the beginning and tell them whatever you overheard and anything you saw today. Give us your report like you were going to give to Harpshadow. Don’t worry about being understood unless it’s a term unique to Mekhana. These mirrors are made to automagically translate everything we say. Got it? Good. Go.”
Rexei nodded, swallowed, and began at Alonnen’s command. “I, uh, was picked because I . . . can hide all traces of . . . of magic from the priests of Mekhana. I was supposed to spy on them, and this morning I saw them bring in a pair of newly captured . . . uh . . . mages . . . hauled all the way up from the Arbran border.”
“Wait, you’re in Mekhana? You’re Mekhanan? A land that devours mages? When were you going to tell us this?” Ilaiea demanded.
“Ilaiea, would you keep your mouth shut?” Alonnen interjected. “It doesn’t bloody matter where we live; we’re not priests of Mekha. Now do have the courtesy to be quiet and listen. Please. Go on, Longshanks.”
Rexei cleared her throat before continuing. “Uh . . . right. The two, ah, men—the priests distribute the captives across all the temples, and I think we were overdue. That’s what the other Servers Guildmembers said when I joined. I was hoping to find a way to break the binding spells on them and help them get away, but the priests came in early. One of the two managed to convince them to let him talk . . . and he asked them why they were using, uh . . . our kind to feed the God. Mekha.”
The men and women in the divided grid of the mirror flinched at Longshanks’ words but thankfully stayed quiet.
“Go on,” Alonnen encouraged again when Rexei paused. He stayed close to the youth’s shoulder, lending support and protection as the Hostess of Senod-Gra scowled.
“There was a bit of name-calling, and then the foreign one—he wasn’t from Arbra, but I don’t know where—he said they should be stealing energy from demons . . . and that he knew how to bind and drain ’em.”