Kerric nodded, continuing. “Many of the Darkhanan Witches are still scattered around the globe in their efforts to assist in ensuring enough priests from all the Gods and Goddesses showed up at the Convocation, but they have some means of reaching each other and teaching each other despite the vast distances involved and the lack of easy mirror-based communications. Priestess Orana would normally be involved in this matter, but she tells me she has been pledged for centuries to return to ex-Mekhana to speak with its citizens on the matter of the dissolution of their ex–Patron God. She will travel to your location, Guardian Alonnen, as will Guardian Apprentice Pelai.”
Alonnen wrinkled his long nose but dipped his head. “It normally would be against my Guardianship policy to allow anyone to use the Vortex Fountainway in such a manner, but . . . I will trust Guardian Tipa’thia’s judgment of her apprentice.”
The younger tattoo-covered woman lifted her brow. “You have no objection over this Darkhanan Witch traveling to the seat of your Guardianship, but you have one for me? Neither of us is a Guardian. Yet.”
“Nothing personal, Apprentice Pelai,” Alonnen said wryly, “but we of ex-Mekhana have known for generations of Knight-Priestess Orana Niel’s many efforts to free us from Mekha’s enslavement. We will need to spend at least a little time getting to know you to develop a solid level of trust . . . but it will happen in due time.”
She tilted her head, acknowledging his point.
“Once they have instructed enough of the mages in Guardian Alonnen’s region to set up the anti-Portal resonances, and he has tied them into the singularity he guards, Apprentice Pelai and Witch Ora will disperse to other locations to instruct others. Pelai will do so via the Fountainways, while Orana will use . . . whatever methods Darkhanans use,” Kerric hedged. It was clear he didn’t understand what those methods were but equally clear he was willing to trust her competency in using them. “This will add to the instructions being offered by Morganen of Nightfall and increase the spread of the effects.”
“Keep in mind that this set of spells can only be applied once every decade,” Tipa’thia asserted, her voice a little unsteady from age, but her gaze as sharp and level as her apprentice’s. “To apply it a second time before the aether has healed and recovered would be to risk tearing open the Veil in uncontrolled rifts.”
“I can vouch for that not being a good idea,” Guardian Saleria interjected. “You don’t want to know the damage that can be wrought by having three rifts in one location spewing unchecked, uncontrolled magic into the world. I’m dealing with constrained rifts, and they’re bad enough.”
“Quite,” Kerric agreed. “We will begin by setting the first spell with the power of Guardian Alonnen’s singularity. By Serina’s calculations, that should blanket all of Mekhana, a fifth of Arbra along its eastern border, the western half of Aurul, a tenth of northern Sundara—it’s a long country—the northeastern third of Haida, and some of the kingdoms to the northeast whose names I forget. From that point, every Guardian and mage involved will then examine their local aether and apply their own version so that it matches up to the edges of the previous applications but does not overlap.”
“What of the oceans?” Guardian Sheren asked, speaking up for the first time this session. Alonnen recalled she was the Guardian of Menomon, which apparently was an underwater kingdom. “We can only cover so much, Migel and me.”
Serina addressed her question. “There is no Portal which can be erected on a ship at sea; mirror-based Gates, yes, but not any grand Portals. The deck of a ship moves far too much and is far too distant from a solid chunk of ground—as in, a chunk of the planet we all live upon—for a Portal to be successfully opened. We need only cover the islands with civilized presences upon them.”
“But what if they pick some uninhabited island somewhere in the middle of an ocean?” Ilaiea asked.
The question visibly worried the rest, furrowing brows and turning down mouths. Alonnen, however, thought he had a pretty sound counterpoint. “Guardian Ilaiea has a good question, but I know these priests. They are a very spoiled lot. As much as the Aian mage Torven might try to convince them otherwise, and as much as we will strive to end their ambitions one way or another, they will not be easily swayed into going to an isolated, uninhabited island with zero buildings, services, shops, supplies, and other trappings of civilized life. They will instead try to seek out a city or a well-managed kingdom, or even a remote but wealthy nobleman’s estate—these are men used to taking whatever they want of the finest things in Mekhanan life, not laboriously creating it from scratch.”
“We’ll try our best to keep an eye on where they go and what they try to do,” Kerric promised him. Or rather the others, for he added, “Just in case. Now, since this does have a bit of a priority on it, when will you ladies, and you sir, be ready to travel?”
The ash-blond man in the crowded mirror-window shrugged. “I can be packed within just a few hours.”
Pelai smirked. “I already packed a couple bags in anticipation.”
Orana Niel arched one brow, then stated serenely, topping both of them, “I am a Witch of Darkhana. My bags are always packed . . . and kept in the Dark.”
Did she mean . . . ? Isn’t the Dark the place where ghosts roam on their way to the Afterlife? Alonnen shivered at that thought. He’d heard rumors of her being able to magically summon or dismiss items from plain sight via that black-lined sleeved cloak of hers, and the thought of those things going into and coming out of the place where only the dead dared tread unnerved him. He trusted her—nothing about that had changed—but he wasn’t about to be her, if he could help it.
Clearing his throat, he spoke up. “Well. If you ladies are ready to travel, then I shall need just a few minutes to set my Fountainways to accept and catch you gently upon your arrival.”
“I’ll need two minutes to pick up my bags,” Pelai agreed. “But then I’ll be ready to go.”
“I’ll let Guardians Dominor and Tipa’thia know when I’m ready to receive you,” Alonnen agreed.
“Orana will have with her a set of Artifacts to gauge the effectiveness of the disruption spells,” Serina told him. “If you could set up a feedback sub-channel through your Fountainways to Koral-tai so that I can monitor everything, I’ll be able to run calculations on exactly how much the disruptions will affect local Gates and regional Portals, and whether or not there’s a risk of overlap tearing the Veil. Hopefully there shouldn’t be, but monitoring will be a good safety net.”
“I’ll do my best,” Alonnen said. Silently, he promised himself to contact Guardian Kerric privately for a lesson as soon as discreetly possible, since he was fairly sure the Master of Scrycasting would know how to do just that.
As irritating as Ilaiea’s contempt was, Alonnen knew very well how little he and his fellow ex-Mekhanan mages knew, and he could admit it to himself, even if he didn’t like his long nose rubbed in it. Admitting his ignorance was an irritation, but it was at least one he could do something about. Eventually. In his copious spare time, of course.
• • •
Her bottom ached. Not much, but there was definitely a sense of tenderness in that area. A certain lingering awareness of what she and Alonnen had done.
There had been ribald jokes about that, too, throughout her youth—jokes of cog-stars being widened, of “boring the hole wider,” and more. Sore-bottom jokes, tender-bottom jokes . . .
Rexei hadn’t realized just how many butt jokes she had absorbed in her guise as a young man over the years, but seated on one of the unpadded chairs in the Heiastowne Consulate Hall, she was recalling them now. Feeling them, too, every time she shifted the wrong way.