Chapter 6

  Earlier

  High Mystic Meether Vonell, Lord of Lore Keep—with one hand holding open a book from the Vault—scrawled a reply to one of his people requesting information with the other. Reviewing his response, he nodded in satisfaction and sealed it, then turned to another message.

  Catching up on work had been rough, but he was getting there. The past months seemed surreal. Tending—then grieving—his wife Narrea, was an unending heartache he waded through every day. Their whole family was learning daily how to move forward. Sometimes work helped. Other times, it seemed a mountain with no summit, and reaching it paramount yet unachievable.

  Beside him, his quartz flashed pink light. He stopped, stared at the glow. Why’s Daeba calling? She’s not due to check in for a week.

  Worried, Meether linked quickly to her mind through the lattice. “Daeba? Are you alright?”

  Her grim tone only made him more alert. “I’m fine, my Lord. But I’m calling to prepare you for a Rogue. Well, once we catch up to him, that is.”

  “You’ve no business tracking a Rogue, Daeba,” he chided.

  “I’m not. I’m going along to Heal anyone he hurts. He’s dangerous; already injured five people out there. Those that’ve seen him said he’s in bad shape. Some say he’s sick, others that he’s wounded, but they universally agree that he’s insane. He’s a Tor Elf, and he’s coming west.”

  “A Tor Elf? Is he a Cannibal?”

  “No one has said he’s one, but no one meeting him has been a mage to be able to tell. I rather doubt it. He seems to be a fighter. He’s carrying a sword and knows well how to use it.”

  “Keep me posted and call the minute you find him.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” The link evaporated.

  Meether drew a deep breath, let it out explosively. Rogues were a fact of life. Magic was an amazing tool, an essential part of a mage from Awakening to death. Once Awakening occurred though, it had to be trained, even for those with little mage ability to use. If an adult became magically active in a Breakout of power, as happened sometimes, their power could get out-of-hand in a hurry, potentially killing anyone near, including the new mage. The only way to get around it was to teach the people from birth about magic and how to recognize its imminent arrival. Rogues didn’t happen often. Perhaps once or twice a year. Rogues were almost always adults, their magic exploding from suddenly Awakened soul-tinders, usually via trauma.

  Staring blankly down at his work, Meether shook his head in sympathy, hair falling into his face until he tucked it behind his Elven ear. If that poor man, a soldier, had experienced trauma, it had awakened his latent tinders. And it could—and sometimes did—cause the mind to slip, if the trauma was violent enough.

  Meether sent a mental warning to the Warrior Captain. Who knew how long it would take for them to find that Rogue, though? Hours to days, honestly, if he was in the countryside as Daeba implied.

  Meether returned to his task, trying to clear his desk for some time with Shonal. He’d been spending time with each member of their large family, one-on-one, in a place and time to create new memories—without his beloved wife Narrea. He needed this time.

  Meether swallowed hard, trying to focus. Sometimes just moving was difficult. He knew his Counselor granddaughter was watching him closely. It was not unheard of for individuals to suicide or death-will after the passing of a beloved mate—to follow down into the Eldritch.

  He would not. There was just too much to do. His family needed him too much. His people needed him too much. There was no one to take up his tasks. Not yet. His successor was a distant promise he’d glimpsed in Foresight before he himself was yet High Mystic. He would just have to go on living.

  And someday, at the proper time, he would see his beloved Narrea once again, and be with her forever in the home that was the Eldritch, the Fires of Life below, inside their world of Aea.

  It took another hour to clear his desk, then he collected his grandson and two fishing poles. They tramped down the hill southeast of the Keep, washed in the scents of sun-warmed grass and damp earth, toward the stream that lay at the bottom of the long steep hill. The Keep rested upon a raised area in the center of Lore Valley. While it wasn’t a cliff, the land to the south dipped quickly, making the return trip quite strenuous. The land to the east also lowered, though much more gradually.

  Down that sharp, grassy decline, about two miles from the Southeast Tower, one of the many streams that made a patchwork of the Valley floor sparkled and burbled its way. It had long been a favorite fishing spot, nearly as popular as the Pond up on the Rim that surrounded the valley.

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  It wasn’t yet midmorning, the day already hot, with not a bit of cloudy company for the sun. Meether hoped they wouldn’t burn too badly. They stationed themselves on a spot favored by fishers, baited their hooks and proceeded…to be bored. The fish weren’t biting.

  Meether frowned. This was usually a good spot. “Huh. Let me find a grasshopper,” he told Shonal, who was pulling his line in to switch bait.

  “Yeah, these aren’t working,” Shonal said, serious face even more grave than usual.

  Meether caught a grasshopper—and a merry chase it led him, too—and got a good bite on that bait, giving Shonal incentive to hunt for hoppers, too. Meether caught himself a beast of a fish, proudly gazing at the flashing scales. “You’re my dinner!” he said happily.

  He put the fish on the keeper-line just as Shonal was dragging his own beast to shore—and it was even bigger than Meether’s.

  “Lord Meether!” Daeba yelled into his mind.

  “Daeba?” he gasped, almost jumping out of his skin at the violent break in the peaceful day.

  “We’ve found the Rogue! Ow!” she cried, her mental voice leaving briefly. “We have to send him to you now! He’s powerful, Meether! We can’t possibly deal with this man! Hillaenan, look out!” Her voice again left him, but came back. “He’s insane and out of control!”

  “Not yet, Daeba! I’m not even in the Keep! Give me a moment!” He shoved his pole at Shonal. “Stay and fish! Got a Rogue!”

  Meether waved up a Circle of Fire, leaping through the transport magic to the foot of the main entrance of the Keep. He knew better than to Circle direct to the Rogue Rooms. A Rogue could go through his Circle and come out by his young grandson.

  As he ran up the four stairs into the Keep, he broadcast his urgent summons. “Warriors! To the Rogue Rooms! We have a Rogue coming through, very powerful and out of control!”

  Meether ran. Inside he turned left, sprinting for the southeast staircase that led into the lower levels of the Keep. Warriors arrived at a run, but Meether was ahead of them. He grabbed the stone wall, swerved left into the stairwell, flying down the stairs so fast he was afraid he’d fall and break his neck. Down one floor, another, dropping to the eighth level below, deep into the earth—why the hell is it so far away?

  He was still in the stairwell when he felt the Circle arrive. “Dammit!” he snarled, pushing himself faster. Meether came out of the stairs, dashed down the long corridor, and whipped left into the Hall of Rogue Rooms.

  Each door stood open for use. A flickering of pink light in the fourth doorway on the left told him where to go. He grabbed the door frame and swung through, the Warriors on his heels to spread out around him.

  Daeba’s pink flames surrounded the interior fires of the Circle; the rainbow of the Eldritch.

  Then the Circle flickered. A Tor Elf staggered through, hands aflame with deepest red fire, black eyes flashing once with that same dark-red energy.

  The pink Circle disappeared.

  “Oh hell,” he whispered, ice sliding down his spine.

  The scent of death-magic bowled his senses over. The feel of that gross magic—and the power in him—those eyes….

  The man hesitated. Meether suspected he was caught off guard by the change of circumstance. But there was no thought in those eyes—no sanity.

  Those dark eyes took in the sight of weapons. He lifted those hands, his eyes lit with blackened-red fire…

  And the battle began.

  This Tor Elf moved fluidly, yet his body was bone-thin from starvation. Meether glimpsed wounds on him at right thigh and left side through massive rents in his clothes. Yet despite his wounds, he danced among the Warriors, fists and feet striking with precision, magic flashing wildly but uncontrolled, teeth bared, eyes crazed.

  The bleak energy of violent death made his skin crawl. With anger and grim fear, he Guarded the door to keep that man—and his evil magic—contained.

  Dark memory and old heartache hit Meether’s heart. Familiar and feared death-magic was in this place now. And it came from the Rogue. He was without question a Cannibal.

  Wait… How can he be a Rogue if he’s a Cannibal and capable of using his magic?

  By definition, this man couldn’t be a Rogue.

  Meether’s poor Warriors didn’t stand a chance. The Cannibal held them off all too easily. His power was incredible, his movements in body and magic a concert of unity Meether hadn’t seen in decades. Dark-red energy struck every Warrior, burning, shoving, piercing, blocking, but little else. It was his fists and feet that dispensed the most damage.

  So—on the surface—he appeared to be a Rogue.

  Meether grimly built up the Guardian over the door even more, sealing this whole room, keeping the death-magic contained.

  And then he heard the light patter of feet.

  He knew who it was before the sound even registered on his brain. Flames dammit! Surely she wouldn’t…

  Meether whirled to snatch his granddaughter as Ihllaea rounded the door frame, straight through the Guardian he’d just made. A maroon-hued bolt of power struck the wall not a foot from them.

  “Catch!” Ihllaea yelled to them, throwing lines of her immense—and already altered—power to the Warriors. Her impetus carried her to him, her arms locked around Meether’s waist. Ihllaea buried her face in his tunic, Guarding them both.

  Meether held her tightly, also Guarding them, turning to watch…

  But the man had stopped moving. Staggering, blinking, eyes swung to the source of the magic—to Ihllaea. Blackened-red flame flickered out, revealing eyes so dark they seemed to have no iris.

  The man panted into the sudden silence. The Warriors—caught off guard by his abrupt disconnect from the fight—lifted their swords, ready to strike.

  The man clearly didn’t see them any more.

  Because that haunted gaze was fixated on Ihllaea. “Phoenix,” he breathed.

  Meether’s stomach dropped.

  Ihllaea flinched.

  The man wearily, shakily shifted toward them, eyes fastened on Meether’s granddaughter.

  Reluctantly Ihllaea lifted her face from his front, looking over her shoulder at the Cannibal. She cringed, but didn’t look away.

  Those black eyes begged, radiating pain. His magic still moved restlessly within him, but the man lifted one shaking hand, empty of power. Lifted not in attack, but in supplication, those shaking fingers beseeching. He faltered in his turn to them, eyes on Ihllaea. “H-Help me,” he whispered brokenly through cracked, bloodied lips.

  Ihllaea flinched again.

  Oh no. He knew that look in her eyes…

  And then all that awesome magic flickered out and the Cannibal crumpled into a heap.