“Come here, Oestyn.” Jhosef motions, and Oestyn walks out of the side hall stiffly, almost as though he does not wish to step forward.
Like a marionette. Manipulated somehow by the chaos-mage? As his eyes flick from Jhosef to Mykel and then to Oestyn, Lerial realizes that there is little emotion shown on the faces of the two younger men. Lerial extends a quick order probe, but Mykel and Oestyn are alive, if surrounded by a reddish silver order-chaos web … and something else within them, especially within Oestyn. Something like that mage tried on me, as well as some sort of drug or potion … it has to be.
Lerial finally says, “Now that I’m here, what exactly did you want to discuss?”
“I told you,” replies Jhosef. “The future of Afrit. Who will be heir after Rhamuel’s short time of ruling.”
“It won’t be short, and he can still have children.”
“He’s crippled. No one will believe that he can sire heirs. You know that. So does all of Afrit, and all of Hamor,” Jhosef responds. “Mykel is the only one of the blood whom the merchanters will accept. If anything happens to Mykel, it will be your fault, and all Afrit will turn on you. They’ll turn on Cigoerne as well. They’ll raze everything in that poor excuse for a capital to the ground, and it all will be your fault. You don’t want that on your head, especially not as a younger son.”
Lerial cannot believe what he is hearing. How can he believe that? How can he possibly think that? We’ve beaten back Merowey and destroyed Khesyn’s ability to invade anywhere for a while … if not years. “They’ll turn on you. You’re the one who kidnapped Mykel. Not me. Not the arms-commander. All I’m asking is for you to release Mykel, and let us take him back to Swartheld and his family.”
“What family? A crippled brother, a useless niece, and the worthless sisters who consorted for golds and power?”
Keep him talking … until you can find a way to free Mykel … “They’re still his family, Jhosef.”
“They’re all worthless. Just like Mykel, a half-grown half-man.” Jhosef snorts theatrically. “Except he can learn, unlike the others.”
Learn? Lerial wouldn’t call it that. “Just because a man isn’t suited to bear arms doesn’t make him less.” What else can you say?
“Just leave,” replies Jhosef. “I’ll keep Mykel safe until you come around. I’m not in the mood for debating.”
“Perhaps we should leave,” suggests Norstaan, his voice also just slightly flat. “It might be best.”
Leave … and then what? After all this madness? All this death? Lerial isn’t sure that saying anything will work, but withdrawing…?
It would be for the best … The cool but reassuring words creep into Lerial’s skull.
Lerial knows he has to act, and quickly, or he will stand totally alone in the hall, if indeed he does not already, and he is already having trouble fighting the insidious suggestions from the chaos-mage. He forces the thinnest order-pulse from the immobile Oestyn away from the columns behind Jhosef, Mykel, and Oestyn and toward the far left side of the entry hall, toward … something. The probe is stopped by a shield of some sort.
Order and chaos meet, and another flash of light occurs. When it subsides, Lerial sees a slender blond man, attired in brilliant white, except for the scarlet sash and the black leather of his boots. The chaos-mage stands to Lerial’s left, almost as far from Lerial as from Jhosef.
“You have not met Maastrik, I believe,” declares Jhosef.
“Only in my thoughts,” replies Lerial, studying the mage and sensing the strength of the blond wizard’s shields, strong enough that Lerial does not have the ability to penetrate them without using order-chaos separation. And any order-chaos separation strong enough to crush him would pulverize most of the villa and everyone around you.
The white-clad mage smiles faintly, and inclines his head, as if signifying that he knows what Lerial has just determined.
“Your lack of understanding represents the greatest threat ever posed to Afrit,” Jhosef says, breaking the momentary silence. “Anyone who sees the wider picture would conclude the same.”
You … as the greatest threat? Abruptly, he understands. “To Afrit, or to the most powerful merchanters who in turn control the chaos-mages who influence all that happens in Afrit?”
“Does it matter? Gold controls everything, and we control the gold.”
“No,” replies Lerial, realizing that, in one sense, it does not matter, although his realization, he suspects, is based on a somewhat different line of reasoning.