The Warden

Chapter 41

"I say we just take him now," said Lord Markham, holding up a single annoying finger.

His words received nods all around from those of the inner-circle.

"What do we need this treaty for?" he asked. "We could simply take the boy, corrupt the Wardenhood, and immediately begin producing soldiers. We can start increasing their ranks as we deem necessary. This treaty only affords the kingdom and the mage's an opportunity to study us further. Why should we keep ourselves in this position? Let's just take the last piece, as you have said the Warden is, and be done with this charade."

A murmured agreement swirled from Mistress Vertisk, clogging the already dust choked air. Nods also came from Master Ombath and Lady Broin, though none but Lord Markham dared to cast a lingering look in Mistress Charlan's direction. Sir Hahmunde remained mute, expression bored, arms crossed, leaning against a wall.

Swaying them ever more in your direction, I see, Lord Markham, thought Charlan.

They occupied her capital apartments, long since forgotten from her mortal, mage days. Centuries old, musty with age, no source of light existed in the ancient space, no furniture except scattered moldering heaps. Some seeing-stones were embedded about the space, long since extinct. Even still, Charlan made out the dimensions of the seamless room as much by sight as memory. These rooms had come to her through her mother's line, made up of powerful mages, male and female. A time of elegant structures constructed with will and vision. A time of talking beasts. A time now as dark, dusty, and abandoned as these apartments.

Maybe we shouldn't have made the masses think only mages could perform Works, she thought, imagining a world where every abode had sprung from some person's mind. Maybe we were wrong.

A voice not her own echoed in the back of her mind, indistinct but with a hint of Andsek's annoying, mocking tone.

The thought disintegrated as her eyes fell on Lord Markham again. "And do you wish to volunteer in undertaking this bold move, Lord Markham?" No tension in Charlan's voice or body, her eyes continued to rove over the dismal past and its forgotten grace. "And how do any of you propose to separate him from Lady Kyla's side long enough for this to happen? They're practically joined at the hip."

No one answered. Again, they waited for Lord Markham to answer for them, sheep awaiting the ring of the bellwether.

"We simply eliminate her," said Lord Markham, crossing his arms.

"Ah, why didn't I think of that?" asked Charlan, mouth gaping with mock surprise. A single hand pressed against her heart as though to keep it from bursting its bony confines. "And once you've killed his mentor and he's barreling at you in wolvan form, how do you expect to capture him then? I only captured Kyla's pup of a son because he was so arrogant and didn't understand what I was. Masis Domrae is another creature entirely. He'll never have his guard down. And that lifelight of his is so powerful I'd be surprised if anyone of us, myself included, could mesmerize him."

"Then what are you suggesting?" asked Lady Broin with a puckered frown.

"Are you suggesting it's hopeless or impossible?" asked Master Ombath. "What happened to the leader that promised us Haimlant? This doesn't sound like that inspiring person I once knew at all."

Shaking his head, lips pouted with mock sympathy, Lord Markham interlinked his fingers, while allowing his demeanor to droop with his feigned attitude. Charlan let his theatrics play. The others darted their eyes toward Charlan, but their thoughts easily stood out on their torn expressions.

Eyes closing from apparent exhaustion, Charlan blew her breath out in an extended, heavy manner as though trying to relieve herself from the strain and the burdening truth of Markham's words.