Return of the Paladin Read online

  “She was my friend, too,” Mala said, staring at the waves thumping ashore in a steady rhythm. In place of her old amulet, she wore a stylized rose pendant hanging from a silver chain. “A fine companion.”

  “The finest,” he agreed. An image kept crowding his mind, that of the Congregation electromancer sending a lightning bolt arcing into Marguerite from a dozen feet away, her smoking body falling next to the boy’s.

  Caleb had still not left his room or allowed anyone inside. Not even Will.

  He balled his fists. “We can’t let them get away with that.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “It’s the Congregation. They get away with whatever they choose.”

  When he pulled his arm away, annoyed, she said in a gentler voice, “Have you spoken to your brother?”

  “He won’t let me in. I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “He’s never lost a wife and child before.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” His blond hair had grown half as long as Mala’s, spilling past his shoulders, and he ran a hand through it before cupping the back of his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

  Marguerite and Luca murdered. Val still imprisoned by the Congregation, as far as anyone knew. The Coffer of Devla stolen right out from under them, dealing the Revolution yet another devastating blow.

  After a time, Mala said, “Everyone’s looking for you.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “Tamás. The council.”

  “Why?”

  “To discuss whatever business it is that important councils discuss.”

  He opened his eyes. “Is that why you came to find me? Because the council sent you?”

  “I came because I knew where to look.”

  “How? I haven’t seen you all day.”

  “Are you not a dreamer, Will Blackwood? A lover of the promise of foreign shores, of uncertain currents and the wild, untamable things in life?”

  Her mocking grin had returned in full. Despite the edge to her words, he knew she hadn’t been forced to come. They could have sent someone else to find him. In her own way, Mala was letting him know she cared.

  He just didn’t know how much.

  “Shall I tell them you’re unavailable?” she said. “You don’t have to take part, you know. You brought the Coffer home. You don’t owe them a thing.”

  “I never did, and the Coffer’s gone.” He pushed to his feet. “But I’ll come.”

  With a resigned shake of her head, Mala sighed and rose with him.

  The night air brought a chill to the Barrier Coast. After throwing on a light cloak, Will swung by his brother’s room and knocked on the door, over and over, until Caleb shouted at him to go away.

  “It’s me,” Will said.

  No response.

  He stood quietly by the door, troubled. Always cool and collected, Caleb had not been this upset since their father had died. And despite the crushing nature of that blow—the shock and despair all the brothers had experienced—Will knew it paled in comparison to the deaths of Caleb’s new wife and adopted child. Their dad hadn’t been slaughtered by a Congregation electromancer right in front of their eyes.

  Unsure what to do, Will backed away from Caleb’s door and left the inn, brushing past two men standing at attention on either side of the entrance. Clad in hooded gray caftans, a triangle of blue dots on their foreheads marked them as devoted disciples of the Prophet. Because Caleb had opened the Coffer, the Devla worshippers believed him to be the legendary Templar foretold by prophecy, and insisted on posting an honor guard outside his door—despite the fact that Caleb despised the Coffer and refused to talk to his own brother, let alone a kooky cult that didn’t even know he was from another world.

  Yet the Devla had a few thousand followers camping in the forest just outside the city, waiting for Caleb to make an appearance.

  To do what? Will wondered. The prophecy, which derived from the Romani Canticles, spoke of someone who would lead their people out of bondage and crack the spine of the world. Not only had his brother been an atheist for as long as Will could remember, but Caleb was also an avowed pacifist. He winced at cracking an egg.

  Aching with his brother’s pain, Will walked slowly across the courtyard to the Red Wagon Tavern, saddened by the solitude of the streets. The boisterous soul of Freetown had been cowed by the wizards. Oh, how he hated bullies and tyrants.

  Something creaking in the wind caught his attention. He looked up and saw the two majitsu he and Mala had killed hanging from a makeshift gallows near the beer fountain. Only ashes remained of the electromancer, incinerated by his own spell when the power of the Coffer had flowed through Caleb and redirected his attack.

  How much power did the Coffer possess? How many wizards could it combat?

  They might never know.

  He entered the back room of the inn and found every seat at the long oaken table filled with members of the Roma High Council, as well as elders who had trickled in from the clans strung along the Barrier Coast. Mala was also present, as was Will’s cousin Mateo. Due to their valor on the expedition to the tomb of the sorcerer king, the surviving members of the journey, including Will, had been given seats at the table.

  There was another new addition, sitting at the end near the door: a lean man with wheat-colored hair and intense eyes, wearing a belted tunic woven from coarse animal hair. The Prophet. The eyes of the council members seemed both repelled and attracted by his presence, as if buoyed by his faith but wary of being judged.

  Once, Will had approached the Prophet about Caleb, asking how his brother could possibly be the Templar. “The Creator works in mysterious ways,” was the infuriating reply.

  Both Tamás and Mateo greeted Will with a warm arm clasp. Standing alone by the fire, Mala watched the proceedings with a cool stare, her eyes unreadable. Along with the usual assortment of jewelry and pouches and weapons, she carried the scourge she had recovered in the pyramid, a weapon she called Magelasher. A cat ’o nine tails not particularly fearsome in appearance, yet the azantite tips had pierced the magical defenses of a majitsu.

  A feat Will had not thought possible—except of course with the blade of Zariduke, his own sword.

  “Are we all gathered, then?” Tamás asked, trying to speak over the pockets of conversation filling the room. No one else seemed to be paying attention.

  A moment later, without warning, Tamás slammed his palms on the table, shocking everyone into silence. Having gained the room’s attention, the leader of the Revolution began to slowly walk around the table, his eyes burning with passion.

  “Enough,” Tamás said, with barely controlled fury. “Enough senseless murders of our people, enough pogroms in the plains, enough fens and prisons, enough degrading oaths that aim to destroy our heritage. Enough. I don’t know what you expected from this meeting, my brothers and sisters. Perhaps another reasoned consideration of our plight.” He shook his head as his gaze swept the room. “I did not come to debate whether or not we should strike back at the wizards.” He stopped at the head of the table, raised a clenched fist, and pressed it to his heart. “I came to declare war.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, there were murmurs of assent from Jacoby Revansill, Merin Dragici, Tinea Alafair, and the other assembled elders. Will felt chills running down his arms, both from the power of Tamas’s words and the terrifying thought of attacking the Congregation.

  Will exchanged a troubled glance with Mateo.

  “Foolish,” Mala muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re all foolish.”

  Tamás turned on her, his handsome face contorted into a snarl. Despite his much larger stature, Mala didn’t flinch when he stalked towards her.

  Will’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword, worried Tamás might strike her. “You’ve never been one of us,” Tamás said, his face inches from hers. “And I’m not interested in your opinion.”

  “We should not shy away from dissenting voices,” the Prophet
murmured in the background, causing Tamás to stiffen.

  Mala’s lips curled as she faced Tamás. “If my opinion is not wanted, then why invite me to the meeting?”

  “In case you have any wisdom on the course of action I’m about to propose,” Tamás said.

  “If it involves an attack on the Congregation, then I do not.”

  The revolutionary flung a hand towards her. “What would you have us do, Mala of Clan Kalev? You have the means to roam the world as you please, without restraint or obligation. Your way of life is not in danger. We, on the other hand—your people, I remind you—are facing genocide.”

  “What would I have you do? Flee. Go somewhere. Anywhere. We’re gypsies. That’s what we do. We leave our homelands and wander the earth, cursed to roam like dogs, begging for scraps.”

  He raised his arms. “Flee to where, pray tell? The ancient country is too far. We have no way to undertake the journey, and even if we did, the Congregation wizards—or the sovereign countries that await on the other side—would simply sink our ships. The Mayan Kingdom has rebuffed our requests for resettlement. The Northern Forests are too far, and ruled by trolls and giants. The Barrier Coast is our homeland now. Our last place of refuge.” He shook his head and backed away. “The decision of the council has been made. If Devla has ordained the destruction of our people, then so be it. Better to die in battle, fighting for our honor and our lives, than to wait like sows for the slaughter. We go to war, and we go now. While we still can.”

  “How?” Will asked. “How do you fight the Congregation?”

  “Alone, we don’t. That I grant you.” He glanced at the Prophet, sitting expressionless at the end of the table. “Our only hope lies in the power of Devla.”

  Merin stood and raised a fist. “The Coffer has been opened! A true cleric has returned to the Realm, the Templar come to fulfill the prophecy! Devla has not abandoned us!”

  As a chorus of excited, agreeing shouts rose from the council members, Mala tipped her head down and shook it. Will slumped in his chair, aghast that these people believed his brother was the Templar foretold by the prophets of Devla.

  “You scoff?” Tamás said to Mala, incredulous. “Even after what you witnessed? An agent of the Congregation—an elder electromancer, no less—consumed in an instant by the power of the Coffer?”

  “Impressive, I grant you,” she said. “But that was one mage, far from his stronghold. The Congregation commands thousands, who will act in concert to destroy us. Not to mention their majitsu, and the Protectorate army, and their allies, and their magical weapons and defenses. It’s madness. Suicide. Nor do you have proof that Devla acted through the Coffer.”

  “If not Devla, then who? Faith is not something you can prove, Mala. That is the nature of it.”

  “This, then, is your plan? To march into battle trusting in a god who, even if he exists, abandoned our people thousands of years ago?”

  “Who are we to judge the ways of the Creator?” Tamás said.

  “Wise words,” the Prophet said softly, causing all heads to turn his way. “The Templar has arrived, and the will of the Creator shall prevail.”

  Mala waved a hand in disgust. Will agreed with the sentiment, but he understood the council’s hopes. He, too, had seen a lightning bolt reflect off his brother and disintegrate an elder mage. Whatever its nature, the Coffer had power.

  Major League power.

  “What’s your plan?” he asked. “For war?”

  Tamás glanced around the table as if gathering strength from the presence of the others. “We’ll hide those who cannot fight in the forests, and we’ll build an army of those who can. A select band will travel the Ninth in preparation, gathering our forces and recruiting allies.”

  “In preparation for what, exactly?”

  Tamás leveled his gaze at Will. “For the return of the Coffer, and our march on New Victoria.”

  Will swallowed.

  “With the Coffer and Zariduke, we have weapons to combat the wizards.” Tamás held Will’s gaze—the wielder of the sword—to let the implication of his words settle in. “Is it enough to topple the Congregation? Doubtful. But we do not have to destroy every last oath-taking wizard in the Realm. I suspect there are many who stand with Lord Alistair out of fear. We simply have to last long enough to sway the opinion of the public, or the majority of the Congregation, to our cause. Let them know we can oppose the wizards, and will not be massacred by death squads. We will fight until they agree to let us, and every non-Oath taker, live in peace in the Ninth.”

  “They’ll never agree,” Mala said. “The Realm covets the resources of the Ninth, and acceding to your demands would show weakness to their enemies. Not to mention the memory of the Pagan Wars.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” Tamás said grimly. “But if you’re not, then so be it.”

  “Aren’t we overlooking one extremely important detail?” Will asked. “The theft of the Coffer?”

  Tinea Alafair, the eldest council member present, a stooped figurehead of scars and bones and wrinkled skin, addressed Mala. “Thanks to your swift assessment of the manner of thievery—a gateway bauble rather than a mage portal—our wizards were able to trace the residual magic in the tellurian lines. We don’t know who utilized the gateway, but we’ve uncovered where the Coffer was taken.”

  Will leaned forward. “And?”

  The proud old woman grimaced. “To a city built by a race long since vanished from Urfe. A city that has survived centuries of war and pestilence and plague, and bears little resemblance to the legends of old. At least so I’m told. Neither I, nor anyone else at this table save perhaps Mala, has laid eyes on it. It’s rumored to be a lawless place, home to thieves and assassins and worse. Some believe it to be the most dangerous city on Urfe.”

  “Does it have a name?” Will asked, thinking the most dangerous city on Urfe might get annoying to repeat in conversation.

  “It goes by many names, though it’s true one is Praha,” Mala said, earning a nod of approval from Tinea. “Yes, I’ve been there, and yes, it’s exceedingly dangerous.”

  Will made a choking sound, drawing stares from the elders. Due to a lifelong fascination with places on Earth that resembled fantasy cities, he knew Praha was the local spelling on Earth of Prague, capital of the Czech Republic. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Not what I was expecting.”

  “You know of it?” Tinea asked.

  “Just by reputation.”

  “This reinforces my theory,” Mala said, “that the Alazashin are involved. My guess is one of their order traveled to Praha to purchase a gateway bauble in order to conceal their origin.”

  “What do you mean?” Will asked. “Why conceal it?”

  “To keep their identity secret, of course. Meaning I do not think the thief was an agent of the Congregation.”

  “Because the Congregation wouldn’t need to use subterfuge,” Will guessed.

  “Precisely. Why send an electromancer to presage the thief? Why use a gateway bauble instead of their own magic?”

  “All good points,” Tamás murmured.

  Mala crossed her arms. “I do not think the Alazashin would risk the wrath of the Congregation. But they would steal something for the highest bidder.”

  “Another bidder?” Tamás asked in amazement. “Who? And why?”

  She shrugged. “I can only speculate. We all witnessed the power of the Coffer: what collector would not desire such an item? Urfe is an immense world, with many powerful interests. We tend to focus on our own. Perhaps a foreign monarchy desired the artifact, or a rebel faction from abroad, or simply a wealthy hoarder of magical items seeking to increase his collection.”

  “The only thing that matters is retrieving the Coffer,” Kyros Toth said. “And now we know where to start. The only remaining question is who will lead this most important of quests.”

  Tamás walked over to lay a hand on Will’s shoulder, startling him. “Though it pains my heart, I am needed here, to
prepare for war. There is surely the power of a wizard behind the theft of the Coffer. We have asked much of you already, my friend and brother, but I fear that without the strength of Zariduke and your steady hand to guide it, the quest for the Coffer is doomed from the start. Should you choose to aid us once again, placing us forever in your debt, we will supply you with the finest assistance at our disposal. I will enlist the strongest mage we can spare.”

  “Like you enlisted Selina?” Mala asked.

  Mateo jumped to his feet, gripping the necklace of his fallen love. “She loved her homeland, and betrayed us only because Lord Alistair threatened her daughter. Never dishonor her name!”

  “Selina was a brave woman who gave her life for us,” Will said, taking his cousin by the arm to calm him. “But Mala’s right. Lord Alistair could have leverage over anyone.”

  “Not anyone,” Jacoby Revansill said. “Not all of us would choose a single life, even our own child, over the fate of our people.”

  “Easy to say when it’s not your child,” Will said. “How long is the journey to Praha?”

  Tamás looked away. “Too long for our people to survive the death squads, once the Congregation receives word of the demise of their electromancer. If they have not already.”

  Will was perplexed. “Then how do you plan to find the Coffer?”

  “The storehouse of our people, though limited, is not barren. We have a portal of our own, of geomancer origin, an item that will transport four people along tellurian lines to a destination of their choice.”

  “Why didn’t we use that to find the Coffer?”

  “The portal only works once, and the Mayan Kingdom is within easy reach of the Yith Riders. Praha is two continents away, across a vast and dangerous ocean.” He exchanged a glance with Tinea and Jacoby. “We thought to use the gateway to strike a blow at the heart of the Congregation. But if we don’t retrieve the Coffer, all is lost.”