The Warden

Chapter 22

The man retreated backward, bowing over and over again as he went, muttering pleasantries under his breath the entire way.

All were silent. Even after the imposing doors closed behind the merchant no one made a sound. They had heard the reports. Imagined the devastation for themselves. Master Elwith didn't have to work very hard to imagine what the carnage must have looked like. He had examined the aftereffects of countless wightie attacks and now, having been forced to work with Lady Telias and her people, he had become intimately acquainted with their effortless ability to kill and their utter lack of remorse.

Again, he brought his scrutiny to bear on Lady Telias with narrowed eyes.

Her attention wandered over the room. A small, secret smile colored her lips, and the sight of it clenched his jaw. The idea of this creature sitting perfectly at ease in the throne room itself, the center of all Haimlant, eyes appraising the Great Works of the past, had him grasping his livid lifelight.

Just a thought. One little thought...

Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. If it were, the wightie problem wouldn't be a problem. Not a single one would still exist.

Leaving his genocidal daydreams, Master Elwith followed Lady Telias' survey of the room.

The architecture was pre-Waning in the school of Imposition, Master Elwith's preferred style. The room existed within the rock as though it had always been there from the beginning of creation. Everything came together without seams. Flawless. As near to perfection as anyone could reach.

A flicker of regret twitched through Master Elwith. Maybe the Waning hadn't been the best choice. Maybe the world would have been better off if everyone could Work such creations into being. Maybe, just maybe, his predecessors had been completely wrong.

Right or wrong, thought Elwith, sighing, I'll fix the defects.

Domed and rising fifty feet above his head, the ceiling shifted colors, seamlessly between blue to purple to red and back again, ever glowing with a soft radiance. The thrones sat exactly opposite the curved doors, raised off the main floor by three perfectly squared steps, whose edges looked sharp enough to cut flesh. Polished to a mirror like sheen, the parquetry floor held a precise symmetry, gleaming under the mage-stones set in the columns that ringed the room.

Occupying the seats on both sides, each council member peered at their king and queen. Some twisted handkerchiefs. Others simply wrung their fingers. Words burdened the trembling lips of some. Words they dared not speak. Others waited for their monarchs to give them their opinions as their wide, hesitant eyes stayed on them with dutiful constancy.

Master Elwith just shook his head. His mentor and adopted father would have called them mundane. Hollow creatures that never flashed out except in a mad scrambling for another breath. Prisoners rather than masters of their own lives. Surely, there had to be a few with flicker-less lifelights.

His mindeye roved over each councilman and woman, with a hope that at least some few might have annealed their inner mettle to some amount of integrity. The unfortunate prospect that dimly dazzled and fizzled amidst the mental blackness underwhelmed him spectacularly. There were those few who had some potential, but they bent what little control they had toward personal conquest and petty ambition. Little to no consideration for a greater anything. He huffed at the irony that he had had that thought as his eyes came back into focus. Lady Telias' putrid eyes met his, dousing the humor he had found a moment ago.

"Master Elwith, do you have any ideas as to what this recent raid might mean?" King Othrad asked, leaning himself on the armrest of his throne but not turning entirely about to look at the High Mage.