Otlee swallowed against the clenching of his throat. The last Follower of a Dark Mage had butchered twelve young women, started a riot, and had burnt half the castle before they caught him and his Master. “More? Oh, Goddess, Lars. What the peg are we gonna do with more?!”
“We’ll figure it out, I suppose. We did it once, we can do it again.” He smiled and winked. “Don’t cuss, though. You’re too young. And besides, your dad will have my hide.”
Otlee rolled his eyes and followed Lars up the stairs. Otlee could not imagine his father, Bacstair the baker’s assistant, having anyone’s hide. As for the too young comment... well, he’d heard lots of boys around the castle, kitchen lackeys for the most part, say far worse words than peg. “But there’s blood on your clothes. What happened?” he asked.
Lars shrugged. “The bastard broke a window and I cut my head. It’s no big deal. Already had it stitched up.”
“Oh,” Otlee said, unable to imagine stitches not being a big deal.
They reached the main level of the castle and Otlee winced when Lars opened the tower door. After the riots a few days before, the castle still smelled like smoke, nasty and burnt and dead. They hurried down the wide hall, past east wing storage and the physician’s rooms to Dubric’s office. Ignoring the curious glances from the few people in the hall, both pages slipped inside. Paneled in old oiled wood, the outer office was empty except for a couple of benches. Otlte sighed at the familiar surroundings and cleaner air. The inner office door stood closed.
Lars knocked, and, at Dubric’s grunt, pushed open the heavy door.
Castellan Dubric stood as they entered the office and Lars noticed the old man had washed the thin dusting of grit from his bald head and changed into clean formal attire. He looked tired, as tired as Lars felt, and Lars wondered when Dubric had last enjoyed a full night’s sleep. A phase? Longer?
Even the office seemed tired; after murders and riots the last moon, there had been little time to tidy it. Shelves and cabinets lined two opposite walls of the office, filled near to bursting with haphazard books, papers, and supplies. Dubric’s wide oak desk—the polished surface clean except for a single closed notebook, pencil, and sheathed sword—stood before one blank white stone wall. Three worn wooden chairs faced the desk and had been pushed against the opposite wall. Lars glanced at the sword on the desk as he walked past Dubric’s desk.
“Are we early?” Lars asked, dropping into his usual chair and ignoring the tremble of worry in his gut as he stretched his legs out before him. He sighed and wished he could go to bed, or at least change out of the scratchy velvet jacket and into his regular cotton uniform. The new stitches on the back and top of his head itched, the whole castle stunk like a burnt and ruined dinner, and he hadn’t had a lick of sleep in days. If more Dark Followers were about, his situation was not likely to improve in the foreseeable future.
Dubric said, “The others should be here soon.”
“Others?” Lars yawned, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes, grabbing a rare moment of rest.
“And here they are,” Dubric said as the outer office door creaked. “Otlee, can you fetch a bench from the outer office? I believe we will need more seating.”
More seating? Curious, Lars opened his eyes.
“Yes, sir!” Otlee said and had no more than zipped out when Dubric’s squire Dien lumbered his bulk through the door while scratching a two-day growth of beard.
Lars nodded a greeting and sat straight as his father Bostra Hargrove, Castellan from the neighboring province of Haenpar, entered next, resplendent in his formal suit of Haenparan blue velvet. Young Lord Aswin Romlin of Haenpar, a summer or two past twenty and the eldest son of the Lord of Haenpar, held the door for Otlee. He still wore his clerical robes and he smiled at Lars as if he knew a delightful secret.
“Otlee and I can take the bench.” Lars stood and offered his chair to his father.
Bostra nodded his thanks and sat, smoothing his earth-brown beard. “Is this everyone?”
Dubric smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “Yes.”
Almost every man of power who’d attended the Lord’s Council earlier that day sat or stood in Dubric’s office, all looking at Lars. A few men, however, seemed noticeably absent.
“Um, what about Lord Brushgar? Kyl or Risley? Lord Steppan—” Lars started.
Dubric smiled, shaking his head, and Aswin laughed. Dien said, “Sorry, pup. Lord Brushgar declined the invitation and other than him, we’re it.”
“What ‘it’?” Otlee asked as Aswin closed the door. “What invitation?”
“That explanation can wait a few minutes,” Dubric said. “There are more pressing concerns and we are running out of time.”
“Out of time for what?” Lars asked.
Dubric sighed. “To save Lagiern. We are already two days behind.” He lifted the sword from his desk.
“I don’t understand,” Lars said, ignoring the worry spinning in his gut as he settled into the bench. Otlee sat beside him.
Dubric said, “Two days ago, Jelke stole two things that were very precious to me.”
Lars nodded. He knew about Dubric’s missing mirror and dagger.
Dubric drew in a shaky breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “The dagger... it was Oriana’s. Her Demon Killer dagger.”
Lars swallowed against the cramp in his throat. An unimaginable amount of power was contained in a single Demon Killer dagger, and its loss was a tragedy beyond his comprehension.
“The dagger was my last remaining link to her,” Dubric said, his voice faltering. “Sadly, my personal pain is not the worst of it. While losing a Demon Killer’s dagger is bad, losing the mirror is far worse.” Dubric handed the sword to Aswin.
Dubric paused as if searching for the right words. “A long, long time ago, early in the War, the King’s High Sage, Sett Nuobir, created a single, special mirror. This mirror shows other people. You merely held something that belonged to the person you wished to see, and the mirror would show them to you. It would show you what they were doing and where they were, no matter the distance.” He paused and closed his eyes as he leaned against his desk. “Nuobir intended for the mirror to be used for good. To check on loved ones, or family far away. It was intended as a way to keep in touch.
“But despite Nuobir’s best intentions, people wanted to use the mirror to spy on the hidden, shameful details of other’s lives. Mere days after its creation, and disgusted with the debauchery and greed people wanted to see, Nuobir announced that he had smashed the mirror.” Dubric opened his eyes again. “He lied. He hid the mirror from all but a chosen few. During the War we used it to locate and exterminate Demon Followers and their ilk.
“I brought the mirror here to Faldorrah decades ago, to keep it safe. At best it shows nothing of import, merely unknowing people going through the day to day business of their lives. But in the wrong hands...”
Using a mirror like that could shift the balance of power in all of Lagiern. Nothing would be secret any more, Lars thought. “Otlee and I shall find it, sir,” he said, standing and moving forward. “A two day head start is not insurmountable.”