A blue orb of cobalt light hovered like a mute sprite above the street directly in front of the smoking tip of the wand. It trembled and jittered with a manic energy that could easily frighten or provoke a bored house cat; it took Jynn a moment to realize that the trembling of his own hands was causing the shaking wand. Still channeling, he swiveled the wand to point up, and the glowing sphere rose into the gray winter sky like a tiny sun. He swung the wand back and forth, and his stomach sank as he watched the tiny blue comet streak across the sky above him.
“Keeps a consistent distance,” the archmage muttered. “Somewhere between twenty and thirty wand lengths away. Sustaining the indicator appears to be causing strain on the wand’s pyromantic bindings, resulting in smoke trails.”
“What does it mean?” asked Meryl.
“I’m not sure,” Jynn murmured, his eyes locked on the glowing sphere. “But I’m certain whatever it is, it’s huge.”
“It’s a Circle of Nations,” said the olive-skinned pyromancer. “It’s mages from across Arth gathering to discuss matters of national import. These are the pyromancers who speak directly to kings and queens and the empress, the highest members of our circles.”
“It’s perfect,” said Laruna, looking beyond the guard to the gilded doors he blocked. “Let us pass.”
“I’m afraid you can’t go in there.” The pyromancer was a short man with a thick mustache. His crimson robes bristled with gemstones and onyx and other indicators of well-earned rank.
Laruna held up a hand to stay Gaist. “You should be afraid, because I am going in there, and you can’t stop us.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed, and amber flames engulfed his hands. “You must be new to the Order of Pyromancers if you don’t recognize… uh… my—” His threats spluttered and died along with the flames around his hands.
“New and upcoming within the order, yes.” Laruna smiled as the guard’s flames wove around her fingers and dissipated into nothing. Already new rubies and black pearls were growing from her robes as some of the decorations receded within the fabric of the stunned guard’s. It hadn’t been a formal mage’s dual, but both of their garments seemed to recognize that one wouldn’t be necessary. “Now, step aside.”
The guard responded with a noise caught between a squeak and a sob.
Gaist reached out and took hold of the stunned guard’s shoulder. Sweeping his arm as one might do to push open a gate, the weaponsmaster moved the pyromancer off to the side. He gestured for Laruna to proceed with a bow.
“Thank you,” said Laruna, and she pulled the ornate doors of the chamber open.
The room within was plush and warm, done in motifs of brass and crimson. Heavy braziers glowed with the amber light of simmering coals, and heavy velvet pillows cascaded off every bench and sofa. Half a dozen pyromancers sat around a central table, enjoying tea and spiced meats. Their robes were done in different styles, from the high angular shoulders of Ruskan tailors to the loose, sweeping garments of the Empire, to the wrapped silks and linens of the far continents, but all of them bore the ornate decorations of the most senior archmages. Their eyes swiveled to the door as Laruna walked through it.
“Laruna Trullon.” The Ember of Heaven appraised Laruna’s red and onyx robes. “I see that you have mastered yourself and become one with the fire.”
Laruna stepped forward. “I have.”
“And given what you’ve done to poor Gerrun out there, it seems your power has grown considerably.”
“It has.”
The Ember of Heaven smirked. “And given that you have interrupted this most high circle of your new order, I assume you have something important to tell us.”
Laruna grinned. “Archmage, believe me when I say that you don’t know the half of it.”
“This is the biggest deal the Wall has ever seen. Perhaps the largest trade in ages. Be about your tasks!” called Duine Poldo. The Scribkin stood at the center of the conference room, a furious if diminutive conductor guiding the paperwork to a dramatic crescendo. Warg employees, lawyer-monks, Wood Gnomes, and Dwarven guild clerks swirled around him like dancers.
Feista Hrurk couldn’t help but wag her tail as she watched the Scribkin at the height of his craft from her desk near the back of the room. She could hear the hitch in his breath, smell the perspiration on his brow, and yet the Gnome pressed on, totally in command of one of the most elite business teams in Andarun.
“Has the quest for the dungeon of Wynspar been voided?” Poldo called.
“The arbitration is executed and on its way to the guildhall,” Vordar of the Heroes’ Guild answered. “Workin’ on the guild injunction now.”
Poldo nodded as a crew of Wood Gnomes carried him a bundle of papers. The Domovoy swarmed around the Scribkin like bees around a hive. They stamped out letters and memorandums with tiny, lead blocks, sorted them into neat piles, and surfaced the odd document when it warranted the maestro’s attention. Poldo accepted one such document offered by a small crew of Gnomes and adjusted his thick spectacles. “How is the NPC application coming along?”
“We do not know the spelling of the beast’s name,” cried Borpo Skar’Ezzod. “This complicates matters!”
“Refer to it as the Dragon of Wynspar,” Poldo directed, “and attach an addendum to your motion for emergency consideration stating you’ll file a correction after sentience is established and provisional papers are granted.”
“I shall draft it!” Borpo raised his quill in a meaty fist.
“What about the court motions?” said Poldo.
“We shall file a motion to find the king is not a neutral party in matters of the dragon,” chanted a lawyer-monk, “and send him notice as an adverse party to strengthen our case. He will not have the authority to reverse our work unilaterally.”
Yet Poldo was already signing a new batch of contracts, dancing along to a project plan that only he could see.
Feista sat on her tail to keep it from thumping against her chair as she watched the Scribkin work. It was impressive, and inspiring, and a reminder that she had a complex market valuation to complete if the plan was to succeed. Determined not to fail Poldo, she turned back to her own parchment and was startled to see Asherzu Guz’Varda standing next to her.
“Now I see the stone upon which you sharpened your business skills,” said the Orc chieftain, her eyes locked on the Gnome at the center of the paper maelstrom. “Truly, he is a sight to behold.”
Feista felt her tail trying to creep between her legs, and she cleared her throat. “Uh, indeed lady. I shall tell my grandchildren of this day,” said Feista.
Asherzu smiled and gripped a pendant hung round her neck. “It will be so if the gods shine on us and we triumph. But first, we must see this through to the end.”
“It’s not over yet!”
King Johan’s sudden eruption froze Ahri Mizen in her tracks halfway across the throne room. The royal guard swallowed hard, eyes flicking warily around the gloom of the cavernous chamber. Thick spiderwebs filled the room, hanging from the tapestries and spreading between the columns, choking the window light. The threads of viscous silk extended all the way to the royal dais, where they tugged at the greaves and vambraces of the armored figure slumped motionless on the throne.
The guard watched the king for a few thundering heartbeats, trying to see if the outburst was directed at her. But the paladin didn’t stir, save for the rise and fall of his pauldrons with each labored breath and a bulbous, black spider that scuttled across his breastplate. The guard could see other black, round shapes lurking in the shadows of the room. She’d seen one as big as her hand yesterday. Petri claimed he saw one as big as a cat. Then he had gone missing halfway through his shift, and nobody could find him.
Ahri had dismissed the rumors initially, of course. Skepticism of grim rumors was practically a job requirement for those still working at the royal palace. You couldn’t believe what they said about why the queen killed herself, or the death of that Heroes’ Guild bigwig, or the staff disappearances, or any of them really. The Mizens had served the kings of Andarun for generations, and it was as much familial duty as honor that bade her to brush aside all of the grisly chatter.
Something small but substantial dropped atop Ahri’s head. Some frantic swatting and brushing set a thick clump of webbing down into the dust, still tangled around several strands of her dark hair. She glanced up. The torchlight gleamed off several dark, swollen shapes creeping between the rafters.
It occurred to Ahri then that the line between healthy skepticism and dangerous delusion probably lay several hundred paces behind her. Suddenly eager to be done with her errand and get to work on a resignation letter, the guard took two more steps, dropped to one knee, and cleared her throat.
Johan’s golden helmet snapped around to stare at the royal guard. She could practically feel his gaze on her, could feel every crawling thing in the room staring at her from the darkness.
“Sire, a thousand—” The guard swallowed a scream as a huge spider covered in black bristles pulled itself from beneath the royal dais. “Sire, a thousand pardons, but I bring news from the ramparts.”
Protocol demanded that the king bid her continue, and the rumors regarding the unpleasant fates of petitioners and palace staff who broke protocol had an unsettling new credibility in the wan light of the enwebbed throne room. Ahri squirmed while the king pondered her announcement. The king’s gaze sank, and he murmured half a conversation to his own knees. “No… no, if he succeeded, he would just come here the back ways… so if it’s from the ramparts…”
“Sire?”
“It’s not over yet,” growled the king. “What does he want?”
“Uh…” The guard glanced around for some help and, finding only spiders, decided to rush through the message as delivered to her. “There’s a hero at the palace gates, sire. It’s—”
