“Go!” the king ordered. “You have their names and dwelling places. Bring Deverath’s magic users to me.”

  “Yes, sire!” echoed back to him, and his guard marched from the hall.

  King Andreus Feravan watched them go, his mind dark with his plans for Deverath’s mages. His master had demanded mages, and Walshira was not one to be denied.

  Andreus frowned. The god’s demand for magicians, he could understand, since those who could tap the world’s energies had a powerful blend of spirit. It was Walshira’s request for any who controlled the elements to be captured over all others that had him wondering how those mages could be any more powerful than the rest, but the god was adamant.

  “Bring me those linked to the elements. I need them over all others.”

  Remembering the sheer avarice in Walshira’s voice sent a shiver running through him. The desire, there…the greed… Andreus couldn’t understand it.

  Needing the magic flowing through mages and sorcerers, that he could well grasp. Such sacrifices were well-documented in the forbidden arts, but not even those marked elementalists as more desirable than any other. Still, if that was what the god needed to free himself from his prison…

  Andreus sighed, returning his attention to his almost empty court. His spies had departed hours ago, the lists they’d brought giving his soldiers targets for their raids. A smile licked its way across his lips.

  His commanders might not understand why those named there had to be taken in a single swoop, but their troops would be sufficient for the task…and the enchantments he’d placed on the gates had increased the number of those targets thrice more.

  Seeing the hall was empty, of all bar his personal guard and the chancellor appointed to oversee it, the king rose from his ironwood throne. After stretching carefully, he descended from his dais and headed toward a small, private doorway at the back of the chamber.

  Red velvet curtains concealed it, and he glanced back, once, before shifting them slightly aside and stepping through. Two of his guard followed, and a third locked the door behind him. A short trip down the corridor beyond took him into a small atrium, and the scribe seated behind a large wooden table piled with neat stacks of parchment.

  The man looked up as he entered.

  “Have you recorded the agreements?” Andreus demanded.

  The man bobbed his head, indicating a pile of parchment set to one side.

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  “Then you may go.”

  The man swallowed nervously, and stood.

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” he replied, bowing parallel to the table top, before straightening swiftly and leaving.

  His obvious fear made the king smile, and he glanced down at the papers. Seeing they were all in order, he was about to follow the man from the room, when he heard raised voices coming through the ducts that piped all sound from the court room to the scribe’s chamber.

  His chancellor was not happy.

  “The king has had his last audience for the day,” the chancellor was saying. “You’ll have to come back, tomorrow.”

  An older, unfamiliar voice replied, “I promise, the matter is important and I won’t take much of his Majesty’s time.”

  “Indeed,” his chancellor returned, “You won’t take any of his time at all—regardless of how important the matter is.”

  Andreus snorted. There was always one who thought they were an exception to the rules. He turned and headed for the exit, stopping abruptly at the visitor’s next words.

  “If I were his Majesty,” the man announced, “I would want to warned of a breach to my palace security as soon as it was discovered.”

  Andreus hesitated, curious as to what else the man might say. Whoever it was, obliged him by continuing.

  “Especially, when the breach involved an intrusion into the royal temple.”

  The man’s voice had grown louder, and heavy boots echoed across the court’s marble floor, his guards hurrying to silence the visitor, and remove him with all the force needed.

  And probably a good deal more, the king mused, tempted to leave the man to his fate. Still, an intrusion into the royal temple…

  With a sigh, he pivoted and stalked back toward the door, his guards unlocking it as soon as his intent was clear. Moving back through the curtain, the king walked around the dais. From the visitor’s point of view, it would look like he’d appeared out of nowhere.

  “Chancellor!” he called to draw the man’s attention. “A word, if you please.”

  The court room guards hesitated, throwing him questioning glances. Andreus held up a hand, gesturing toward the hall entry.

  “Guards! Close those doors!”

  The chancellor jumped, at the king’s sharp tone, and the guards pivoted and strode to do as he’d ordered—save one, who remained beside the stranger, guarding against any foolish actions. The chancellor hurried to stand before Andreus.

  “Your Majesty?”

  Shadow touched the king’s mind, and his next instruction was edged with another’s voice.

  “Bring him.”

  “But, your Majesty…” The Chancellor’s voice faded as he caught the look in king’s eyes.

  Watching him, Andreus knew the man had just glimpsed his deity looking back.

  The chancellor bowed his head, his very subdued, “Yes, your Majesty,” softened by fear.

  Suppressing his smile, the king led the way back through the curtain to the antechamber beyond. Seating himself behind the scribe’s desk, he waited until the chancellor had brought his insistent visitor to stand before him.

  By then, all traces of the smile were gone and his expression stood in stern lines. Walshira’s power shrouded him like a cloak, and the chancellor blanched. He stepped back toward the door even as he ushered the visitor through.

  “Is there anything else, Sire?” he asked, his voice rippling nervously.

  Andreus shook his head. “No, Chancellor. You may go.”

  The man didn’t wait to be told twice. He made an abrupt about face, the guard closing the door behind him. The stranger approached the desk, and Andreus’s guards stiffened. Shooting them a warning look to hold their places, Andreus studied the man who’d risked his displeasure to see him.

  He was the epitome of what his spies termed a ‘gray man,’ a perfect example of ‘non-descript.’ At first glance, he was of average height and build, his clothes well-cut but nothing to draw the eye, the kind of man no one gave a second glance if they passed him in the street.

  It was a deceptively dangerous skill, and the king forced himself to take that second look.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The man’s eyes were a washed-out blue, set in a weather-beaten face creased by age, and while his hair might once have been black, it was now peppered with gray. Closer inspection revealed the hint of a swordsman’s musculature partially concealed by the gray, loose-fitting tunic and dust-blue trousers he wore. A light patina of dust coated the once-polished brown of his boots.

  Andreus looked him up and down, noting the blades he wore. When he studied him from the boots up, his impression didn’t change. The man was a swordsman, of that he was sure. Either that, or he was very familiar with the blade.

  He was also sure the man wasn’t here to use either blade he carried.

  “Your information had better be as pertinent as you claim,” he stated, knowing Walshira colored his voice with threat.

  It was as though darkness stretched along the king’s words and touched the man, and the shudder that rippled over his visitor’s frame confirmed it. He wasn’t surprised to see his visitor give a slight shake as though trying to free himself from a bad feeling.

  The king had no doubt that was exactly what he was trying to do, and was impressed when his visitor straightened and met his eyes.

  “My name is the Tillerman. My trade is information…among other things…and this I freely offer.” He paused briefly as though making sure he had the king’s attention, and then hurried on. “Your Majesty was scried during the ceremony you recently held in your temple. In that scry, you were seen to sacrifice a man and drink his blood.”

  He swallowed quietly, as though the news was disquieting, then waited, uncertainty lurking in his eyes.

  The king continued to wait, not breaking eye contact or making a sound. When his silence triggered nothing more, Andreus took one of the nearby quills, dipped it into an ink well, and held it over a blank piece of parchment.

  “The wizard’s name?” he demanded.

  “Alessia Mistlewood, your Majesty,” the Tillerman replied.

  The king wrote the name, noting that it had a vaguely familiar ring to it.

  “Her address?” he wanted to know.

  “Number 4, Cat’s Way, the stone house with the rear courtyard and gardens,” came the prompt reply.

  The king noted down the details, ignoring the incongruity of him doing his own paperwork.

  If the Tillerman found it strange, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he watched the king write in silence. When he was done with the address, the king looked up at him.

  “And does she live alone?” he asked, feeling Walshira’s interest sharpen.

  “No, your Majesty,” the Tillerman answered. “She shares a household with her four apprentices, three girls and a boy.”

  Walshira’s interest became a silent demand, a command that all be brought to his altar, a need to see them before the hunt was set. The king’s gaze hardened.

  “You will scry them for me,” he instructed, and watched the Tillerman’s face pale.

  “Y…Your Majesty,” the man sputtered. “I…I cannot.”

  “And why is that?” the king asked softly, the sense of power and another presence flowing through his tones.

  The Tillerman shuddered, and his mouth moved as though trying to fight the sudden dryness Walshira’s presence caused.

  Andreus didn’t blame him. He could hear it, too, the power of a rulership blessed by another power flowed through his words…as did a sense of the god himself, something dark and old and evil, and filled with an undeniable power.

  The king watched as fear washed through the Tillerman’s features, and the man struggled to master himself before he answered.

  “I…cannot scry her, your Majesty,” the man cautiously began, “because I am no mage.”

  The king smiled as he came around the table. His guards tensed as he came alongside the Tillerman, but none of them moved, not even when he laid a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  Power jolted through him, traveling through his hand and into the Tillerman’s stocky frame. The man gasped, flinching but halting the movement before he moved from under the king’s touch. Andreus allowed his smile to grow.

  “And now?” he asked softly. “Could you do it, now?”

  The Tillerman gulped, his eyes momentarily wide, and then he nodded.

  “Y…Yes, your Majesty,” he replied, his voice unsteady.

  “Good,” Andreus released his shoulder, stepping around the man to lead the way through the door leading to the corridor that would take them to an inner courtyard, and the gardens he’d had constructed under Walshira’s direction.

  The Tillerman followed, his eyes darting to take in the details of this new section of the palace.

  The king held his scorn for the man’s action away from his face until the Tillerman could no longer see his expression. He had no doubt the man was usually accompanied by his own guard, and that the lack of them made him feel vulnerable.

  Perhaps it will lead him to make a mistake, and reveal why he’s really here, he thought. Because he surely hasn’t come from the goodness of his heart.

  Still, seeing the subtle tilt of the Tillerman’s head, he knew the man was taking in as much of the route as he could.

  Probably trying to note the number of passages and doors we pass, the king concluded, remembering the Tillerman’s business. Such information would sell for a good price to any interested in attempting to navigate my halls.

  He didn’t let the thought worry him. Any who tried would soon find out his palace was protected by more than guards and a complex layout. His lips thinned in a grim smile.

  And much good may it do them, he thought, keeping the thought from his face as he motioned the Tillerman forward.

  “This way,” he ordered, as they reached the entrance to the garden.

  He paused to let the Tillerman catch up, inhaling appreciatively as he did so. The garden courtyard had been built according to Walshira’s instructions, and its myriad of interconnected pools were bordered by rose hedges. Sweet oranges were strategically placed throughout and a white-flowered vine clung to the walls, its blossoms shining softly in the afternoon light. Their scent perfumed the air around them.

  Set in the far wall, were three archways, and the garden’s center marked the center of the water network in a series of tiered ponds. A number of smaller ponds surrounded a central pool, linked to it by channels of water, edged in a flurry of rocks and stones. Gravel paths outlined pools and channels, accentuating the pattern they made.

  Beside the king, the Tillerman tensed.

  “The ponds…” he began, then fell abruptly silent.

  “Stunning, aren’t they?” Andreus asked, knowing that wasn’t what the man was talking about.

  The Tillerman proved him right with his next words.

  “Mesmerizing,” he agreed, and the king smiled.

  The pattern was indeed mesmerizing, drawing in all who saw it until it felt like they were stepping into another place. He turned back to the pond, refusing to answer the pattern’s call.

  “Scry the wizardess,” he ordered, and the Tillerman flinched at the abruptness in his voice.

  Ignoring his discomfort, the king took a firm grip on the Tillerman’s arm and turned him to face one of the small pools. It was surrounded by a low ridge of rocks, interspersed with low-growing irises, their pale blue blossoms contrasting with the dark gray of the stones.

  “Begin,” he instructed, when the man was positioned exactly as he wanted.

  The Tillerman took a deep breath, and began, the incantation falling clumsily from his lips as his hands ran through the necessary gestures with jerky movements.

  Grimacing at the clumsiness of the spell’s execution, the king released the man’s arm, leaning forward as the pool blurred. Its pebbled bottom disappeared to reveal a pale face framed by red hair—Alessia Mistlewood.

  “Move the focus back,” the king instructed, once more feeling the surge of power that was Walshira granting the knowledge required to do what was asked.

  The Tillerman stumbled through the words, his fingers tangling on the required gestures. The scry rippled, the connection becoming unstable as the picture jerked back to show the wizardess asleep on a beautifully carved wooden bed.

  “Very nice,” the king murmured, meaning the bed, not the man’s casting.

  The Tillerman relaxed, and the scry steadied. The king contemplated what he wanted to do next, and decided the complexity might very well be beyond the man’s abilities. Rather than say anything, he stepped in close, smoothing his palms over the Tillerman’s shoulders and down his arms, and stopping when they rested against the back of the Tillerman’s hands.

  Molding himself to the Tillerman’s back, and holding his mouth near the man’s ear, the king began to chant. As the words fell to the pool’s surface, the focus changed.

  Alessia’s image disappeared, replaced by the view they would see if they walked her room. The Tillerman’s voice faltered, but the king’s did not, and they crossed the room to look down at the sleeping wizardess. After spending a brief moment to study her, the king turned away, moving to walk through the closed door of her chambers and into the hall beyond.

  The door opposite beckoned, and the king stepped through it, finding himself in a second sleeping chamber. This one held two simple wooden beds, each one occupied by a young woman, one blonde, and the other mouse-brown. If the Tillerman recognized either, he said nothing.

  The king took another long moment to study the pair, then stepped back, but not into the hall. Instead, his slight shift brought them back to the garden and the sound of water flowing softly between the pools.

  “Thank you,” the king said, releasing the Tillerman’s hands and stepping away from him. “You may go, now.”

  He caught the puzzlement in his guest’s face as the Tillerman turned slowly to face him.

  “I’m sorry?” the Tillerman asked.

  “You are free to go,” the king repeated, and watched as understanding dawned.

  “But, your Majesty,” the Tillerman began. “What about…”

  He stopped, as though realizing his next words would be considered presumptuous, but the king thought he knew what worried the man.

  “You’re worried about your payment?” he asked, hearing the slight oiliness of Walshira’s tones coat his voice.

  The Tillerman’s lips stretched in a slightly shaky smile.

  “Of course not, Sire,” the Tillerman replied. “I understand you deal fairly with those who serve you well.”

  “And have you?” the king challenged, watching panic flicker briefly through the man’s expression.

  The Tillerman bowed slightly.

  “I can only pray it is so,” he returned.

  The king gave the man a gentle smile.

  “It is so,” he confirmed. “The chancellor will see you are paid.”

  He swept an arm toward the arch through which they’d entered, and watched the Tillerman follow the motion to the guards who stood waiting. Apprehension washed through his features, and was swiftly gone.

  The king observed the blank mask that replaced it, and allowed himself a satisfied smile. His spies would have another name to watch, come morning. As soon as the man had disappeared back into the palace halls, the king turned back to the pool.

  Walshira wanted him to scry the wizardess once more.