Beyond the Shadows - Brent Weeks [178]
“You’re going to Black Barrow?” Marcus Guerin asked.
“The Khalidorans have learned to raise krul.”
“Krul? A legend!” Marcus Guerin scoffed. “This is completely—”
“Have you been to Black Barrow, ambassador?”
His blue eyes looked troubled.
“Black Barrow is the only place where, once killed, the krul can’t be Raised again. It’s the only place we can fight them with any hope of winning.”
“So you want us to help you invade your neighbor? That’s an awfully bold interpretation of accords intended to curtail the Chantry’s imperial ambitions.”
Suddenly, from many stories below, the Speaker felt an unfamiliar magic. Though she’d only met a half dozen magi, and had never seen them use their Talents, she knew instantly that this was a magus—in her Chantry.
“Speaker, is something wrong?”
Istariel had only moments to decide how to react. Could she turn the presence of a hostile mage to her advantage? Would interrupting the meeting be to her advantage? Perhaps it could have been, if the Chantry’s objective in this talk were anything positive. As it was, she wished only to back out of a centuries-old treaty without declaring war. “Yes, you slap us in the face with old, unfounded allegations, sir. We wish only to survive as a house of learning.” A rush of magic much more familiar to her snapped in response to the intruder, whoever he was. Istariel was surprised at the force of it. It was a chaining magic, and the only maja she could imagine powerful enough to use it was Ariel, blessed oblivious Ariel. Or, perhaps, Vi.
“A house of learning?” the ambassador asked. “Does that include learning battle magic?”
So he knew. Dammit. “If our allies abandon us in the face of a massacre? Yes.”
His lips thinned to a tiny line. “This is most precipitous.”
Istariel opened her mouth to deliver a historical reminder when a magical concussion ripped through the Chantry. The constant buzz of magae’s Talent ceased and, for the first time in centuries, perhaps the first time since it was built, the Chantry was utterly silent. The magic ripped through everything, though it destroyed nothing except whatever the Sisters were actively weaving. It had character, a distinct flavor: free and fierce, not hostile, but rather a strength unaware of itself. The impossible image that leapt to Istariel’s mind was of a teenage archmage, and it shook her to her core. Ariel had tried to chain him, and he refused to be chained.
Magically, Istariel felt like a little girl trapped between screaming parents.
“Wh-what was that?” the ambassador asked.
By the Seraph, it was powerful enough even this un-Talented toad could feel it.
“We hereby withdraw from the Accords, ambassador. If Alitaera wishes to expel the magae from its dominions, they will leave peacefully. I do request, however, that you give us six months to show our good faith. This is no declaration of war with you. Please let the emperor know that we fight only to live.”
The ambassador sat silently. He sipped his ootai, which Istariel was certain was cold by now, but he didn’t seem aware of it. “The king always thought you were one of the Chantry’s more moderate voices, Istariel. Surely the discussion needn’t end on this. You wouldn’t throw away hundreds of years of cooperation and progress.”
The archmage was climbing the Chantry, getting ever closer. He’d used so much magic that he still burned with it. Istariel could almost see him through the floor. She didn’t want to have this conversation now, but she couldn’t exactly throw the ambassador out. “No,” she said, “I don’t wish to throw away anything, least of all our lives. Perhaps this fall I can come to Skon and meet with the emperor personally.”
It wasn’t some random archmage, Istariel realized. It was Vi’s damned husband. What the hell was he doing? Was Vi attempting a coup? No, that made no sense, leading a coup with a man? Even Sisters with dual loyalties