Geran stared at his old rival, barely able to form a thought in his head. Rhovann was here, in the house he’d grown up in, and in payment for the maiming he’d suffered under Geran’s blade and his own exile from Myth Drannor he’d come to Hulburg to visit ruin in return. Rhovann simply smiled and contemptuously turned his back on Geran to address Marstel. “Lord Harmach, please forgive the interruption. As you see, Geran Hulmaster and I are acquainted with each other. You were about to banish him, I believe?”
“Yes, of course,” Marstel rumbled. He rose to his feet and pointed to the door. “Geran Hulmaster, you are hereby banished from the realm of Hulburg. Do not return on pain of death! Captain Edelmark, you will take a detachment of guards and escort this man from the town immediately.”
Edelmark set his hand on his sword hilt and bowed. “At once.” He beckoned to the armsmen in the hall, summoning a dozen soldiers for the task.
Geran stood unmoving for a moment. For an instant he considered drawing his sword and rushing Rhovann, in the hope that by striking down the embittered mage he might put an end to the madness that had taken over Griffonwatch. But even if he succeeded, he’d have all of Marstel’s guards to deal with, plus the mages and captains of the various merchant Houses. He’d die with his blade in hand, and most likely Hamil and Sarth would follow him to the grave. That was the thought that stayed his hand; destroying himself to throw down Hulburg’s enemies was one thing, but his action would doom his friends as well. Rhovann evidently meant to savor the irony of arranging for Geran’s banishment from his homeland, just as Geran had brought about Rhovann’s banishment from Myth Drannor two years past. It was a sore blow indeed. But to rail against his fate, to fight off Edelmark or launch himself blindly against his foes-all he would do is give Rhovann the pleasure of seeing how badly he’d been hurt. Geran took a deep breath and resolved to deny his old enemy the satisfaction.
“I expect the crew and armsmen of Seadrake to be treated well,” he told Marstel. “They have fought bravely for Hulburg. You need not worry about the Black Moon pirates again. I will order my crew to disperse peacefully and acknowledge Lord Marstel’s authority, if you swear before Amaunator that they will be free to come or go as they like.”
Marstel frowned, but nodded. “Agreed,” the old lord said.
Geran looked over to Sarth and Hamil. “Watch over Mirya and Selsha for me,” he said in a low voice. Then he squared his shoulders, turned his back on Marstel, Rhovann, and all the rest of the usurper’s court, and strode off to meet his exile.
EPILOGUE
29 Marpenoth, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
Snow dusted the Galenas’ foothills, a dozen miles northeast of Hulburg. In the lowlands sodden stands of alder and maple still wore their fall coats of yellow and orange, but the forest-covered hills and steep-sided vales were a couple of thousand feet higher than the Winterspear valley, and their rocky crowns had been streaked with white for tendays now. Kardhel Terov, Warlock Knight of Vaasa, stood by one of the windows of his iron tower and studied the snows of the slopes above him with a dour frown. He was a stern man of fifty years, with close-cropped hair of iron gray and a strong, clean-shaven jaw. His eyes were a startling crimson hue, the mark of a pact for power he’d made long ago. Here, in the sanctuary of his iron tower, he did not bother with his great armor of black plate; it rested on a stand against the opposite wall. Instead he wore long robes of scarlet and black, embroidered with draconic designs.
He glanced up at the leaden sky, and his frown deepened. He needed no magic to see that more snow was coming soon. There were no true passes between Vaasa on the east side of the Galena Mountains and Thar and the inhabited lands of the Moonsea North on the west side. The lowest saddles between the Galenas’ mighty peaks remained choked with ice and snow year-round. But travelers of unusual determination could manage the journey in the summer and the early months of fall. Unfortunately, the weather seemed to suggest that unless Terov returned to Vaasa soon, he would be forced to go home by another path-either the long and tedious voyage down to the Sea of Fallen Stars and back again through the realm of Impiltur, or the dark and dangerous route under the mountains, through the mines of forgotten dwarven strongholds and the warrens of fierce orc tribes. Not even a Warlock Knight and his entourage were guaranteed a safe passage by that road. No, it would be much more convenient to conclude his business in these lands and depart soon.
A soft knock at his chamber door interrupted his brooding. Terov turned his head. “Enter,” he said.
Behind him, a pale, red-haired woman in a plain gray cassock and mantle of darker gray let herself into the room. She wore a thin black veil across her eyes. “Lord Terov, the priest from Hulburg has arrived.”
“About time,” the Vaasan lord muttered. “Very well. Show him to the great room. I will be down directly.”
The veiled woman nodded and withdrew. Terov allowed himself one more look from the window-the snow on the mountains was strikingly pretty, even if it portended no small amount of inconvenience for him-waited a short time to show his guest that he was not in fact waiting on his arrival, and then left his chamber. A single, curving stairway of riveted iron led down to the tower’s lower floors. The tower itself seemed not much larger than a farmer’s grain silo from the outside, but its interior was much more spacious, and Terov kept it well appointed with comfortable furnishings and a small staff of guards and servants. It was his most prized possession, a small magical fortress that he could summon into existence wherever he traveled. The iron tower could easily accommodate half a dozen guests in great comfort, as well as twenty or more guards and servants in plainer lodgings, and it was virtually impervious to attack.
A large fireplace and a row of narrow, arched windows guarded by iron shutters dominated the tower’s great room. It served as Terov’s sitting room and dining room, and from time to time as his audience hall. Inside, the Warlock Knight found his guest waiting for him. “Welcome, Valdarsel,” he said. “I trust your journey was not difficult?”
The priest of Cyric shook his head. “No, my lord. Not at all. The ride was only three hours or so.”
“Good. I know I summoned you here on short notice, but I felt that it would be useful to speak face to face.” For months now, Terov had relied on the occasional sending spell or carefully guarded letter to keep in touch with his servant in Hulburg. He trusted Valdarsel’s ambition and competence, and he was so far highly pleased with the results of the Cyricist’s assignment to organize a faction in Hulburg that could unwittingly serve Vaasa’s purposes. Still, it was useful from time to time to make sure that Valdarsel remembered whom he worked for-hence Terov’s visit to the borders of the harmach’s domain. “So tell me, Valdarseclass="underline" how do matters go in Hulburg?”
“Well enough, my lord. As you instructed, I have secured a seat on the Harmach’s Council. The gangs I control are restive, but so far I have held them in check with promises of property taken from native Hulburgans. Harmach Marstel cannot so much as scratch his nose unless the wizard Rhovann remembers to instruct him to do so. There may be some trouble on that front soon enough; despite his patents of nobility and Rhovann’s guidance, Maroth Marstel is not much of a harmach, and I imagine that it will be hard to keep that fact hidden for much longer.”
Terov shook his head. “The only opinions that matter are those of the merchant costers, and if Marstel continues to restore the leases and royalties they formerly enjoyed under Sergen Hulmaster, they won’t trouble themselves with what sort of ruler he is. Continue.”