A Path to Coldness of Heart

Chapter Ten:

Summer, 1017 AFE:

In The East

Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, just back from a surreptitious visit to the island in the east, was the first Tervola to hear of the violent demise of the last master of Ehelebe, Magden Norath. He did not shed a tear.

What could it mean?

Initial reports, as always, were confused. Divinations into the past were not instructive. Hours of hard work only left him exhausted and depressed.

The Star Rider was becoming meddlesome again and Norath’s killer could only be a man who should have died a long time ago, in prison in Lioantung.

He must have escaped during the final showdown with the Deliverer. Old Meddler must have had a hand in that.

Ah, there was the villain himself. But…! He was not shaping the plot!

He was just another piece on the board where the blood was flying. Though it was not a critical interest, Shih-ka’i did try to put a tag onto the distracted Star Rider so his movements could be followed.

…

Mist passed the blackboard twice without noticing the added characters below Varthlokkur: where are my babies? As always, she was preoccupied. At the moment that was because of the death of Magden Norath. That could shake the foundations of the world.

The third time past her mind registered the message of the new characters: Mother, we are well, with Aunt Nepanthe. We watch when we can.

Mist froze, transfixed by the multiple levels of meaning. Her children were well and evidently happy.

They-and, by extension, Varthlokkur-could look in on her whenever they chose.

Varthlokkur had found a way of reaching into her powerfully protected private quarters to chalk a message on her blackboard.

She had to be afraid.

Not even the Star Rider ought to have that much power.

She collected herself, erased both messages, took up the chalk and, in elegant calligraphy, wrote: I love you, Scalza and Ekaterina. And felt just awful when she laid the chalk back down.

She could not be a normal mother while she was Empress of the Dread Empire. It seemed sinful to think she had any real claim on those kids.

She drifted into dark reveries about the horror show that had been her own childhood. She had not had the protection that Scalza and Ekaterina did. It was a miracle that she had survived to become an adult.

A racket drew her to the entrance to her quarters.

Two bodyguards awaited her there. One said, “Lord Ssu-ma has sent a message saying you should join him in the Karkha Tower. He says it’s urgent.” The other presented a card beautifully calligraphed with that message and Shih-ka’i’s sigil.

“Very well. You will accompany me. You have ten minutes to prepare yourselves. Meet me in the transfer chamber.”

…

Bragi Ragnarson was sick to the verge of puking of Bragi Ragnarson. Mist should be burned at the stake for wakening this Wild Hunt of introspection.

But there was nothing else to do.

The more he considered the Bragi Ragnarson of recent years the less he liked the man-despite having been the man. Today’s Bragi had serious difficulty understanding choices made by yesterday’s Bragi.

Back in what seemed antediluvian times Derel Prataxis had observed that power could warp and damage the most soundly grounded mind. Power was worse than opium. It twisted the mind and soul even more.

A morning spent contemplating his self-debasement, while watching an orange and blood-red sunrise, fell apart around him. Mist appeared.

He had not expected to see her again. Certainly not so soon, though the soon was an emotional age. It would be just a month or two in objective time

He had not kept track. Counting the hours only sparked a dismal melancholy. What he could see from his windows suggested springtime.

Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i followed Mist, then came two behemoths wearing badges identifying them as Imperial lifeguards.

The visitors so startled Ragnarson that, at first, he retreated like a threatened animal. Then, finally, “Mist?”

“Bragi.”

He eyed Shih-ka’i and the bodyguards. The general wore his boar mask. Nothing could be read from his body language.

“What’s going on? I thought I’d be in solitary forever.”

“That was the plan. But things keep happening. I found myself unable to be so cruel as to deny you the news.”

Something in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance suggested that he thought leaving the prisoner in ignorance would be the kinder cut.

“Tell me what you think I need to know.”

The natural observer inside marveled at his pretended calm.

He had not looked into the eyes of another in so long. His heart pounded. His breathing grew heavier.

The lifeguards moved up beside their mistress.

Not a good sign. Why so much muscle? He was one out-of-shape, middle-aged man.

The circumstances guaranteed that the news would be terrible.

Mist said, “Kavelin has fallen further into chaos. Ingrid has imprisoned her cousin, the Duke. In Itaskia vultures are feeding on the Greyfells family corpse. Meantime, Inger has been abandoned by most of her Kaveliner supporters. They haven’t turned on her, they’ve just gone home. If she tried to call up an army it’s unlikely that anyone would show.”

He did not care. The man who had loved Kavelin had been a fool who lived in an elder age.

“Your daughter-in-law has lost most of her support, too, because she hasn’t done anything to help those who stood by her. By autumn it will be every man for himself. There won’t be a pretense of authority outside Vorgreberg.”

“There is no way you can make me feel any worse or any more responsible. And I’m sure that isn’t the news you’ve brought to torment me. A collapse into a lawless Kavelin has been inevitable since I was dim enough to butt heads with Lord Ssu-ma.”

“That was the political update. The real news is that Magden Norath is dead. The man who killed him seems to have been your friend Haroun.”

“Haroun is dead.”

“Quite probably true. But an eyewitness insists that the man wielding the knife was bin Yousif.”

“That is a piece of news. If it’s true. It will rattle the world. But it’s insane. Where has Haroun been? Why? Why show himself now?”

Ragnarson noted a slight adjustment in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance. The Tervola knew something. He would volunteer nothing, though.

Mist said, “He didn’t announce himself. He was recognized. Maybe. He was one of several dozen derelicts living rough in a remote town. Megelin and Norath went there to meet the Star Rider. Haroun, if it was him, attacked so quickly and violently that the sorcerer had no chance to defend himself.”

Ragnarson gaped. This was unbelievable. There had to be some error, most likely by the witness. Maybe he was the killer. Passing the blame to Haroun bin Yousif would make a great distraction. But Haroun was dead.

“That feels like old news. In your world. There’s more, isn’t there? Something more personal and dark. Right?” He gestured. Four of them. Proof of his contention.

“You’re right.”

“Out with it, then.”

“An assassin employed by Dane of Greyfells found your daughter-inlaw’s band in the Tamerice Kapenrungs.”

The floor seemed to go out from under Ragnarson.

He could not speak. Too much emotion rose up after so many months of nothing but mild disappointments over his meals.

“How bad was it?”

“There was one casualty.”

Ragnarson reddened. “Tell me!”

The bodyguards stepped forward. The nearest looked eager. Bragi calmed himself. Explosive emotionalism had gotten him into this fix.

These two would pluck him like a dead chicken.

Mist said, “The assassin was supposed to wipe out the whole party.”

Ragnarson’s vision began to go red. He growled. He leaned toward Mist.

The blow came quicker than a blink. He sprawled against the side of a divan, head spinning. His left shoulder was dislocated. That side of his face felt as though it had been branded.

Mist observed, “You are a slow study, Bragi. Let me explain this one more time. You prisoner. Me owner of prison.”

Ragnarson groaned, worked himself into a sitting position. His head began to hurt. “I’m beginning to catch on. Please tell me what happened to my people.”

“The assassin loosed one crossbow bolt, then vanished. We know that thanks to Varthlokkur. He informed us, presumably counting on us to pass it along.”

Ragnarson barely suppressed the urge to demand that she tell him, now!

“The initial target was your daughter-in-law but the bolt hit your leman instead.”

“Sherilee?”

“Yes. We won’t be able to bring her here after all.”

“Sherilee.” In a hollow, lost child voice.

The lifeguards readied themselves to deal with more bad behavior. But Ragnarson just melted. The concept of Sherilee with no life, going on ahead of him, was so alien that, though long experience had hardened him to the loss of comrades and loved ones, this touched him more deeply than had any but the deaths of his brother Haaken and his lover, Queen Fiana. He had visited Fiana’s grave frequently, up till the day he dragged Kavelin’s best off to their doom.

After a dozen seconds of silence, Lord Ssu-ma suggested, “Perhaps we should step out for a moment.”

“You go,” Mist told him. “You three. I’ll stay.”

Nobody moved.

Mist said, “I want you three up in the parapet. Varthlokkur is going to deliver that assassin here. Only the Darkness knows why. I’m at no risk here. This is a broken man.”

No one moved.

“Do execute your instructions before I become angry. And notify me when the captive arrives.”

The edge on her voice convinced all three. As they went, though, Mist noted, Shih-ka’i dropped a tiny scroll behind a decorative vase on the small table a step to the right of the doorway. That would be a passive alarm meant to warn him if emotions grew overheated.

Secretly, Mist was pleased.

Bragi did not weep. He just sat there staring into infinity. Had he begun to think he was the philosopher’s stone of death for those who got too near him? That those who had died around him had done so only because they were near him? A solipsist conceit impossible to refute logically.

Mist and Lord Ssu-ma had arrived soon after Ragnarson’s breakfast. The day was fading when the Tervola reported the arrival of the assassin. He found Mist settled on her knees two yards from Ragnarson, apparently watching the westerner sleep but probably meditating. Ragnarson lay on the divan.

“The prisoner has arrived, Illustrious.”

“Lord Ssu-ma? Was it the Unborn? Did it unsettle you that much?”

“It was. It did. And that despite the horrors of the war with the Deliverer.”

Mist said, “You do recall that the Deliverer was the grandson of the man who created the Unborn?”

“I do.”

Maybe he wished that he did not.

Maybe Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i had begun to wish that he had not allowed himself to be seduced away from his quiet life as commander of the Demonstration Legion.

“You would. You’re thorough. So, Lord Ssu-ma. What shall we do with this gift? What do you suppose the Deliverer’s grandfather had in mind?”

“I couldn’t guess his motives, Illustrious. Surely the killer will know nothing useful, and I doubt that the Empire Destroyer would expect us to use his skills.”

“Could we be expected to turn him over to Ragnarson?” “I doubt that.”

“Then put him into an empty cell. But let me have a look at him first. Maybe I’m supposed to recognize him.”

She did not.

The captive was a gaunt, leathery man of advancing years who did not seem noteworthy at all. He was empty and maybe a little mad after his long flight from Tamerice.

Mist directed that he be cleaned up. She did not want parasites colonizing her tower.

…

In moments when he surfaced from grief Ragnarson realized that something was happening elsewhere in the tower. He heard what sounded like construction racket.

He passed several days in communion with despair. He dwelt, to the point of obsession, on what a different world it would be had he just not led his army through the Savernake Gap.

How many lives lost or ruined because of one fit of pride? And the full toll had yet to be paid. Sherilee was just the latest charge.

“How are you feeling?”

Bragi started. He had not heard Mist come in.

“Better than before. How long have I been feeling sorry for myself?”

“Five days.”

“You’ve been hanging around that long?”

“No. I’ve been attending my duties outside. Other duties brought me back. I thought I’d look in. You seem changed.”

In a voice edged with wonder, Ragnarson said, “I think you’re right. I feel different. I’m not all boiling inside. It’s confusing, but I seem to have been stricken by clarity.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s almost like waking up after a long fever.”

Mist considered him critically. “I hope so. You haven’t been you for a long time.”

Ragnarson paced. This was not his caged animal in a rage pacing. This was slow and thoughtful. “I’m probably not myself now, either. Do people get struck sane by tragedy?”

“Worthy thought. We’ll watch for a relapse. But do try to cling to the state you’re in now.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Unfortunately, you aren’t the reason for my being here. I just stopped to say hello.”

“Well, thank you for that.”

…

Mist went to the room that Shih-ka’i had remodeled. She looked around. “It looks good. Is that window big enough?”

Shih-ka’i replied, “It is. You aren’t a large woman.”

She snorted. A statement of fact, yes, but she was vain enough to take offense. She knew, though, that the pig farmer’s son would not understand even if she did explain.

She asked, “Do you suppose he’s watching?”

“I would be if I had dropped that man here and right away you started remodeling.”

Mist heard an odd inflection there. “You have something on your mind?”

“I do. But it’s not germane. We have this project on the table. Shall we begin?”

Mist made another circuit of the room, which resembled Ragnarson’s, several levels below. It now had a larger window. She saw nothing to discourage her. “Have we unraveled the mystery of the attack on the tower yet?”

“No. All paths lead to dead ends.”

“Michael Trebilcock, then.”

“Every prisoner here was high value and most had friends a lot closer than Kavelin.”

“Could there be another raid while I’m involved in this?” “I don’t know about that. I do know that an assault will not succeed.” Mist stared at the expanded window. Was she ready emotionally? “My father and his brother made transfers without a receiving unit.

Do you have any idea how they did that?”

The inquiry took Shih-ka’i by surprise. “Illustrious? Is that true? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“I don’t know why it came to mind. I’ve never heard anything like that, either. But I just realized, both of them got into Varthlokkur’s fortress in the Dragon’s Teeth, then got themselves trapped and killed.

How did they get there?”

“Is that true?”

Mist paused. Was it true? She had the story from several sources, none quite agreeing. Some claimed to have been there. None told her what really happened back when.

“I suppose I’ll have to ask. Bring out the board.”

…

Varthlokkur chuckled. So. The woman had been playing him with all the hustle and bustle. Though, of course, that had been in support of this.

“Nepanthe. Come look.”

Smyrena on her shoulder, Nepanthe came. She peered into the globe Varthlokkur was using. She saw Mist beside a large blackboard, smiling. Mist was dressed in masculine travel clothes. The board proclaimed, I am ready to come see my children in bold chalk lettering.

Nepanthe asked, “Are you going to let her?”

“What do you think? Can we trust her not to do something unpleasant?”

Nepanthe considered. “She’ll behave as long as the children are with us.”

“I imagine you’re right. So. Start getting ready but don’t tell them. She could change her mind. I don’t want their hearts broken.”

Nepanthe put her arms around him, from behind, and kissed him on the right cheek.

He blushed. She did not notice.

He had longed for that sort of spontaneous affection across the ages.

Nepanthe went away.

Varthlokkur summoned the Unborn.

…

Ragnarson wakened needing to use the garderobe. He did that more frequently lately. But that was a problem for old men. He was not old. Not yet. No.

There was a moon out tonight. He lined it up so he could see it. It was living proof that there was a reality beyond his prison.

Something the color of freshly watered blood occluded the moon. Ragnarson started. What the hell?

That?

Eyes old in evil stared for several seconds. Then the Unborn left.

Ragnarson’s heart hammered. That had been a shock. What did it mean? Was a rescue under way?

Nothing came of it. It was just something to haunt his thoughts. When he wakened next morning he was no longer sure the monster had not been a nightmare.

…

The Unborn could do nothing but execute its orders. Varthlokkur had made sure of that when he bound the monster. But the evil in the beast would express itself.

It tried tormenting the Empress, traveling to Fangdred, by dropping her, then catching her after a thousand feet of freefall. But she was no fun. She did not scream after the first surprise.

Radeachar never felt the magic being woven. It discovered the truth the third time it tried a drop. The woman plunged in silence. There was no pleasure in that.

There was pain aplenty, though. The farther she fell the worse that became.

Radeachar was not capable of complex thought. It did possess a strong drive toward self-preservation. That kicked in fast. Thereafter it concentrated on completing its task as quick as could be.

…

Fangdred boasted a small courtyard behind its gate. In the lowlands the world was easing into summer but winter hung on doggedly in the Dragon’s Teeth. Ice rimed Fangdred’s grey walls, inside and out. Black ice patched the grey pavements of the court. Mist slipped almost as soon as the Unborn set her down. She cursed. That inelegance was not flattering.

She grumbled about the cold, too. She had not anticipated the difference in weather, nor the impact of the increased altitude.

Varthlokkur, Nepanthe, Scalza, and Ekaterina came out to meet her. The children stared as though she was some fabulous beast. They did not run to her. In fact, Ekaterina retreated behind Nepanthe, peeked around with one eye, as though she was a shy four.

Loss shoved a talon into the gut of the most powerful woman in the world. It ripped.

She could quash an empire of a hundred million souls but could not hold the love of her children.

Heading their way, stepping carefully, she reminded herself that she had not been much of a mother before she went back to the Empire. Not by the standards of workaday folk on whose backs businesses, nations, and empires were built.

The four withdrew into the warmth as Mist joined them. Scalza was the perfect soldier. He bowed deeply and said, “We bid you welcome, Mother.” There was no affection in his voice.

Ekaterina stammered something, then hid behind Nepanthe again. Nepanthe and Varthlokkur both seemed surprised, which suggested that Ekaterina was, usually, much more bold.

Nepanthe said, “Dinner is being set. If you need to refresh yourself first…”

“I do.”

A servant showed Mist the way to quarters already prepared. The woman pretended to have no languages in common with the Dread Empress.

Nepanthe’s own children were with their mother when Mist arrived for dinner. The infant sprawled on her mother’s left shoulder, asleep. Ethrian sat to Nepanthe’s right. His eyes were vacant.

Hard to believe that he had threatened the existence of the Empire.

Uncomfortably conscious of Varthlokkur, Mist focused on Nepanthe. Her sister-in-law. Valther’s little sister. Nepanthe signified most in this domestic drama.

Varthlokkur would be the referee.

Servants brought simple fare, as was to be expected in a dreary castle in the most remote of mountains. Dining proceeded lugubriously, silence broken mainly by Nepanthe as she delivered gentle instruction to Ethrian. “Eat your turnips, Ethrian. They’ll help you get better. Good boy, Ethrian. Take your finger out of your nose, Ethrian.” And so on, with the boy always mechanically responsive.

He was little more than a skeleton. He showed a fine appetite, yet remained as gaunt as he had been on emerging from the eastern desert.

At one point he met Mist’s gaze. He asked a quick question. She did not understand.

Scalza said, “He asked where Sahmaman went. He asks all the time.”

Ekaterina, in a voice like a mouse, chirped, “He’s getting better, Mother. He can talk now.”

Scalza added, “But it’s only the same three or four things.”

Ethrian asked his question again. This time Mist recognized “Sahmaman” and “go.” His inflexion was not appropriate to a question.

“Who is he asking about?”

They all seemed surprised. Varthlokkur replied, “The woman who was in the desert with him.”

“The ghost?”

“Yes. But she was more than that. She was a true revenant for a while. She had flesh.”

The fine hairs on Mist’s forearms began to tingle.

Nepanthe said, “They were lovers. Not physically. I don’t think. She sacrificed herself so that Ethrian could live.”

Nepanthe stared down at her dinner. Even so, Mist could see the moisture on her cheeks.

Again, Ethrian asked, “Where Sahmaman go?”

And Nepanthe told him, “She had to go away, Ethrian. She had to go for a long time.”

Mist realized that her children were staring, expecting her to say something.

She could not imagine what.

These were not the children she had come to see. She had hoped for sweetlings. But Scalza had become old and cold. Ekaterina appeared to be convinced that she was always just one step from having the world strike her another cruel blow, with cause and effect irrelevant.

How could that be? Varthlokkur was no grand choice as a father figure but Nepanthe was a good mother substitute.

Varthlokkur said, “There are extreme abandonment issues. But things were improving.”

Meaning her visit might sabotage the good work Nepanthe had done?

Everything we do, she thought, impacts others, often in ways we do not foresee.

“This is a finer meal than I expected, considering your isolation.”

“Thank you,” Nepanthe said. “Cook will be pleased.”

After that everyone seemed to wait to hear from Mist, except Ethrian, who asked after Sahmaman again, and then said, “On Great One go boom.”

…

Silence stretched. Mist became uncomfortable. Her children showed no inclination to interact with her. She did not know what to do. Her own childhood had offered no examples of good parenting.

She asked, “Could I see my father while I’m here?”

Varthlokkur shifted slightly, suddenly wary.

“I know my father and uncle died here, in a trap set by you or the Old Man.”

“Actually, by someone a step further up the food chain. They’re in the Wind Tower. We don’t go there much. But, all right. The risk is minimal. I’d say nonexistent but I did see Sahmaman come back, in all her power.” The wizard rose.

Mist did the same. She glanced at Scalza. The boy said, “I’ll help clean up. I don’t like those creepy old mummies.”

Leaving the common room, Varthlokkur said, “It’s a long climb. Another reason we don’t go up there much. Plus, the Wind Tower contains a lot of bad memories.”

Mist finished the climb fighting for breath. “I’m not…used to this… altitude.”

“You never get all the way there.” He was breathing hard himself, but not fighting for breath the way she was.

Mist looked around at a large chamber that had been cleared out, then vigorously cleaned, quite recently. For her sake?

“Scalza doesn’t like me much, does he?”

“Scalza knows his family history, on both sides. He has an exaggerated ideal of what his mother ought to be. The woman inside his head isn’t you. And you won’t be here long enough to evict her.”

“I could take him back with me.” Only later did she realize that Ekaterina had not been mentioned. Which was disturbing. Mist herself had survived childhood mainly because she had had a knack for going overlooked. Ekaterina seemed to have that same capability.

The wizard wasted no breath on the absurdity of her suggestion. “All right. Wishful thinking. The worst of us want to be thought well of by our children. Where are the Princes? I don’t see them.” “Here.” The wizard drew aside a curtain identical to those that masked Fangdred’s interior walls, keeping the cold at bay and the warmth confined. Moving this curtain showed that the room was bigger than it seemed.

“That’s where it all happened?”

“It is. The Old Man should be on the higher seat in the center. I don’t know what became of him.”

That seat was empty, of course. The remains of the Princes Thaumaturge occupied lower chairs to either hand. Varthlokkur removed the dust sheets covering them.

Mist stared, in silence, for more than a minute.

“Is something wrong?”

“I can’t tell which one is which.”

Varthlokkur confessed, “That would be beyond me, too. This is where they were when the Star Rider left the Wind Tower. They’ve been moved several times since.”

“How did you get in?”

The question surprised the wizard. “What do you mean?”

“Nepanthe told Valther that the Wind Tower was sealed off after that night and that the sealing was proof against your power.”

“Not forever. I chipped at the spells for years.”

“Chipped at them. And when you got in the Old Man was gone.”

“Yes. Though I’m not sure that the Star Rider didn’t take him, back then.”

“Yes. You are. You think him coming back for the Old Man was the break you needed to get through.”

“You’re right. It’s probable. With the Old Man gone there might’ve been no reason to keep the Wind Tower sealed.”

“This one was my father. He has a scar on his neck. He took the wound the night he and Nu Li Hsi murdered Tuan Hoa.” “Somewhere, in some hell, your grandfather had a good laugh the night they died.”

“I’m sure. You were here.”

“I was here.”

“That must have been a terrible night.”

“More than you can imagine, in ways more dire than you’ll ever know.”

Mist nodded. Only two living beings knew the full story: this man and Nepanthe. Nepanthe was less likely to share than was Varthlokkur. Mist asked, “How did they get here?”

Varthlokkur responded with a blank look.

“Transfers are how we humble distance in Shinsan. But a transfer needs a sending and a receiving portal. Two sets for two princes. What I know about what happened is mostly hearsay. I never heard how the Princes got here in the first place.”

“I don’t remember. There is a lot about that night that no one remembers. We were all dead for a while.”

“Some more permanently than others, it seems.”

“It was not a pleasant evening. I avoid thinking and talking about it.”

“As you will.”

She considered her father and his brother. “There is no way that they can be brought back?”

“No.”

“Ethrian’s situation put the thought into my head. You’re sure?”

“No one in this…” He paused.

Mist faced him. “The Star Rider did this to them, didn’t he?”

“No. I did. He put the remains on the seats.”

“Can he resurrect them?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure he didn’t plan to when he sealed the Wind Tower. But he is a clever devil.”

“Exactly. Considering the example of the Nawami revenants in the eastern desert.”

“You’re right. Sahmaman was barely a ghost. I’ll make sure he finds nothing to work with here.”

“The Star Rider needs to be rendered permanently redundant.” “Have a care with what you say.”

“You disagree?”

“Not at all. I’ll cheerfully entertain suggestions as to how to arrange that. But thousands before us have shared that ambition. Most likely thousands more will do so after we’re gone.”

Mist stared at her father. “It will take a bigger, faster, deadlier rat trap.” Then, “Let’s go back down. This is too depressing. All I really came for was to connect with my children.”

“As you wish.”

She could tell that he considered her prospects doomed.

…

Mist had gone. Neither Scalza nor Ekaterina ever warmed to her. Varthlokkur settled into that room in the Wind Tower, the curtain back and the dust covers off the dead. He reviewed the terrible memories and tried to deal with questions that Mist had raised.

How did the Princes get into Fangdred without having portals waiting?

He had the entire fortress searched, years after the fact. The search turned up exactly what he expected: nothing.

They could have ridden winged demons. In fact, that seemed likely. But those things made a lot of noise.

The weather that night had been terrible… Previously dissociated elements clicked into place. Of course. That weather had not been natural.

Nepanthe’s brothers must have been involved.

Knowing what to look for let him probe the past and discover that the Storm Kings, and Mist herself, had affected events that night.

Insanity. Mist, and many others, had known that the Princes Thaumaturge would be engaged. Everyone had an interest and each thumbed the situation somewhere, trying to shape the outcome subtly. But there was nothing anywhere to clarify the essential question: How had the brothers gotten into the Wind Tower without receiving portals in place?

There was no choice but to believe either the winged demon hypothesis or that portals, since removed, had been placed for them, in secret, beforehand.

It could be that Old Meddler had made it all happen.

And Varthlokkur was no more comfortable about some other questions Mist had raised.

He had to do something with the dead sorcerers. There was no choice about that.

Nepanthe brought tea. She sat with him, her back to the site of the worst night of a life where most every major memory was a bad one. “Ethrian is having a good day. You should spend more time with him. I think that would help.”

“Yes. Certainly. It would be time better spent than sitting here, despairing of yesterday and tomorrow.”

Nepanthe leaned forward. She rested a hand on his. “Let’s just concern ourselves with what we can do today.”

There was a tear in the corner of his left eye when he said, “That should be the way we live.” They rose. He slipped an arm around her waist as they walked toward the doorway. He glanced back at the dead, just once, as he waited for her to step out.

That once gave him an idea.