A’rullen cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. A tubular bell sat on the table in front of him. He stroked it with one finger, sending a clear tone ringing through the hall. “This council is seated. We formally express our gratitude to A’stoc, Bearer of the Tree, for the incomparable store of knowledge he has given us. The Lore Books of A’pon Boemarre will save us a thou—”

  A’stoc slammed the Staff near his foot. Tiny fissures appeared in the stone, but the table held. “Why do you keep the books secret? Why has the knowledge not been shared with the Collegium body?”

  A’valman started to speak, but the First Chair silenced him with a gesture. “We are copying the books even now, but there are concerns of safety. The council has voted to delay open distribution until the Lore can be examined and the more hazardous—”

  “No!” Again the Staff slammed down, shaking loose a shower of gravel from the bottom of the table. “The power is not yours to hoard! The Lore is for everyone. It must be; we do not have time for your paranoid games. Display the books immediately—without censorship, or I will denounce this council as corrupt!”

  “How dare you?” A’valman jumped to his feet, tipping his chair over backward. “Do you see, A’rullen? It is as I told you. He is consumed by rage and bitterness. He does not deserve to—”

  “Hold your tongue!” A’stoc was shaking with anger. Flickers of green flame danced along the surface of the Staff. “By the blood of our master I—”

  “Fool! You’ll never—”

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle felt rocked with the throb of Earthpower, barely contained beneath the wizard’s fury.

  “Ssssuuhh.”

  It was a whisper, barely audible, impossible to ignore. It washed through her like a mountain stream: cold, shocking, lucid. Her flesh tingled and emptiness echoed in her mind. The room fell silent.

  A’rullen leaned forward, one hand still clutched around his wooden key. “There will be order,” he said softly. “Councilor A’valman, you will not speak until recognized by this chair. A’stoc, outrage is understandable, violence is not. Am I to understand that the distribution of the Lore Books is the problem that brings you here?”

  “Among other concerns.”

  Councilor A’rullen sat back in his chair and stared at his steepled fingers. The other councilors shifted in their seats, but no one spoke.

  Finally, A’rullen broke the silence. “Is it fair to characterize the gift of the Lore Books as a bequest contingent upon our making the knowledge freely available within the Collegium?”

  “And without,” A’stoc said gravely. “The knowledge is not to be restricted in any way.”

  A’rullen nodded. “It shall be as you desire.”

  Chentelle could feel the tension rise, see it in the hard stares and clenched throats of the other councilors.

  A’rullen reached out and tapped the bell, but no sound came forth.

  “I must protest,” the dwarf said suddenly. “The council has already voted on this matter.”

  “We voted,” A’rullen said gently, “on the disposition of what we thought was an outright grant of knowledge. But as you have just heard, we were mistaken. The Lore is ours to administer only so long as we comply with the conditions of the bequest. Do any present wish to make a motion that we reject the strictures and return the books to Norivika?”

  Silence.

  “Then it is settled. We will follow A’stoc’s wishes. The books will be available to the public, restrictions placed on access only to protect the material itself.”

  “If you do not mind,” A’stoc said. “I would like my wish to be enacted immediately.”

  “Of course,” A’rullen said. “I will make the arrangements personally. Now, I wish to make a request.”

  Again, the other councilors bristled. Chentelle felt a stab of bitterness and resentment. It echoed through her Gift, filling the chamber with bile. The source was unmistakable; A’valman quivered on the edge of explosion. But the target was less clear: A’stoc, A’rullen, someone else entirely? She couldn’t be sure.

  “What do you want?” A’stoc asked sternly.

  “Your help,” A’rullen answered. “For many years we have been trying to gain access to the laboratory at Covenant’s Keep. We know that a stockpile of vorpal weapons are inside. Now, thanks to your discovery, we have begun to hope that the knowledge of A’kalendane is also preserved within. We excavated to the level of the vault without problem, but there is a powerful forbidding upon the workshop itself. It has defied all attempts at penetration.”

  “The Lore of A’kalendane,” A’stoc whispered.

  Chentelle heard the passion in his voice, a tremor of excitement, even awe. A’kalendane was a legend, a sorcerer as famous as A’pon Boemarre and perhaps more powerful. It was A’kalendane who first learned the secret of Earthpower, A’kalendane who harnessed that knowledge into the vorpal Lore, A’kalendane whose forges armed the Realm when the darkness seemed unstoppable. But he had perished during the war, his workshop consumed by the Desecration Fault. Could the knowledge really have survived?

  “Tell me more,” A’stoc said.

  But A’rullen only ran his finger along the bell.

  A’valman rose to his feet at the silent signal. “I protest this action. You place the power to crack continents in the hands of a neurotic failure. Look at him. Already he is strained beyond his capacity. No man should bear the weight he carries, but do we act to ease his burden? No, you suggest that we make it even greater. This is madness. I demand a poll of the chairs.”

  A’rullen nodded and stroked the bell once more. The metal rang out clearly, filling the hall with a two-note harmonic. “The vote is called. Shall we ask A’stoc to attempt the opening of Covenant’s Keep?”

  The female elf stood. “I am A’hemlin, the Fifth Chair. I say yes.”

  “I am A’valman, the Fourth Chair. I say no.”

  “I am A’grimmel,” the dwarf said, “the Third Chair. I say no.”

  A’rullen stood. “The Second Chair is absent. A’trile does not sit. I take his voice. I am A’rullen, the First Chair. I say yes.”

  He turned to A’stoc. “The issue is decided. The Council asks you—I ask you—will you go to Covenant’s Keep?”

  A’stoc turned to A’valman. For long seconds their eyes locked in an icy glare. Then a slow smile spread across A’stoc’s face. “I would be honored to help you.”

  “No!” Father Marcus jumped to his feet. “A’stoc, you must not. We have to—we have to be on our way.”

  He turned to face the council table. “I am sorry. A’stoc cannot help you. We are on a quest of utmost urgency, and he is under my charge. Perhaps he can return when our mission is complete, but I cannot permit this to delay us.”

  Chentelle felt A’stoc’s ire rise at the priest’s words. “Wait. He didn’t mean to—”

  But it was too late.

  “Bishop! I am a free man. I have chosen to follow you thus far, but mark this clearly. If you balk me before this council, I will follow no more!”

  Chentelle gasped. Could he really mean that? Without the Staff, Marcus had no way to activate the Sphere of Ohnn. The evil of the Fallen Star would spread and Infinitera would be destroyed.

  “Gentlemen, please.” A’rullen’s calm voice drifted through the tension. “The question has been asked, but it need not be answered in haste. There are obviously issues that you need to decide among yourselves. I suggest we all retire to consider the matter in private. The Guesting House has been prepared for you. Do you remember the way, A’stoc?”

  “I do.”

  “Excellent.” He tapped the bell, and a clear note resounded through the hall. “This council is concluded.”

  The Guesting House was luxurious, designed to make comfort not only possible but inevitable. The common room was filled with plush carpets and soft pillows. Couches and lounges were arranged meticulously around soothing plants and delicate sculptures. Murals of exquisite beauty graced the walls, and a fresh breeze was funneled through the doors to the terrace. Nevertheless, none of the company was relaxed.

  “Why?” Father Marcus’ voice trembled with barely contained emotion. “Why is this so important? You jeopardize everything.”

  “Did you not hear A’rullen? There are vorpal weapons in Covenant’s Keep, and only I can unbar the door.”

  “He’s right, High Bishop,” Gerruth said. “The Legion needs those weapons.”

  “All the weapons in the world will not help us if the Fallen Star is not destroyed.” His eyes searched the wizard’s face. “But that is not the true reason, is it?”

  A’stoc spun away from the priest’s gaze. “Enough! My reasons are none of your concern. The decision is made. I will go.”

  “A’stoc.” Chentelle reached a hand toward the wizard, not trying to touch him, just letting him see it. “Please, we aren’t trying to make this harder for you. We know how angry you are. We see it, feel it, but we don’t understand it. What did A’valman do that makes spiting him so important? Why do you hate him so?”

  The wizard hovered on the edge of decision for a moment; then he turned away.

  Chentelle let her hand fall to her side. She turned to Father Marcus, but the priest’s eyes held no answers either.

  “A’valman was Boemarre’s chief apprentice,” A’stoc said without turning around. “He was also his son. When Boemarre decided to harvest the Tree of Life and create the Thunderwood Staff, A’valman opposed him. He argued that the Staff was too powerful to be controlled, that it was a weapon too great for man to own. He accused his father of hubris, of coveting the Staff only for his own aggrandizement. But his words only served to strengthen Boemarre’s resolve.

  “A’valman refused to accept his father’s decision. He went to Norivika and pleaded his case directly to Serdonis, Father Marcus’ predecessor. He tried to convince the High Bishop that the risk was too great, that Boemarre was unfit to be given access to the Tree. He failed, but by trying he betrayed his oath as apprentice and his duty as a son. When Boemarre learned of this treachery, he exiled A’valman from his service, banished him from his family.

  “I do not know where he went after that. But I know that his heart turned bitter. When I returned to Tel Adartak-Skysoar after the final battle, he was waiting for me. He tried to usurp the power of the council and seize the Staff. When I learned of his plans, I fled the city. I have no proof that the assassins who followed me were acting under his orders, but I have no doubt, either.”

  The wizard turned around. His face seemed calm, emotionless. But the resolution behind his eyes was unmistakable.

  Father Marcus nodded. “Where is this keep?”

  “To the west, within the Desecration Fault.”

  The priest sighed. “It is not the direction I was hoping to take, but it is not the worst. Very well, we will go to Covenant’s Keep, but only long enough for the vault to be opened. After that we must return to the quest.”

  “Agreed.”

  As if on cue, there was a knock, and Councilor A’rullen walked through the door of the common room. The old wizard carried an ebony walking cane, but his steps were sure and steady. In his left hand, he carried a bundle of wrapped cloth. He set the package on a table and bowed respectfully, first to Father Marcus and then to A’stoc. “Welcome to Tel Adartak-Skysoar. I trust the quarters are adequate?”

  “More than adequate,” Father Marcus replied. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” A’rullen whispered a command and tapped his cane against the floor. The stick melded into the stone and stood upright. Then the wizard lowered himself onto one of the lounges. “Ah, that’s better. When I was young, I thought paradise was a soft couch and a loving woman. I was half right…”

  The wizard spoke on, making pleasant conversation, but Chentelle’s attention was drawn to the cane. The air around it seemed to spark and swirl, churning with something just beyond the threshold of vision. She closed her eyes and let her awareness flow into the Gift.

  Power swirled around the polished wood. It radiated waves of distortion, pulsing and swirling through the room. It made everything hazy, indistinct. She extended the Gift toward A’rullen, but it was like trying to catch hold of a shadow. The same was true when she reached for A’stoc or Father Marcus. The spell that flowed from the cane interfered with magical perception, even her own.

  A sudden tone of urgency behind A’rullen’s words pulled her attention back to the conversation.

  “…you decided to answer?”

  “We will travel to Covenant’s Keep,” Father Marcus said. “But we will stay only long enough for A’stoc to attempt the spell of forbidding. We will be prepared to leave in the morning.”

  “Excellent; I have already made arrangements for an escort.” A’rullen paused. “It is obvious that you have urgent concerns of your own. I thank you for taking the time to assist us. Perhaps there is a way I may return the favor.”

  “No,” Father Marcus said gently. “This burden is one we must bear alone. Your own task lies in the Lore Books.”

  “Yes.” A’rullen turned to A’stoc. “I can’t tell you what a blessing your arrival has been. Not only for the task you undertake now, but also for giving me the opportunity to open the books of Boemarre to the public.”

  “Why did you not act before?” A’stoc asked, suspicion heavy in his voice.

  “I could not. The whole of the council was against me. They could not see beyond their fears and suspicion. Skysoar lost much to the necromancers during the war, and the old mistrusts are still strong. But that’s the very reason why we must share our knowledge openly. How else will we recover what was lost?” A’rullen paused and breathed deeply, calming himself. “They do not understand. Only your arrival gave me the leverage I needed to free the books.”

  “Then it is lucky I came when I did.” The expression on A’stoc’s face softened slightly, but the edge remained in his voice. “Now, what can you tell me of A’kalendane’s vault?”

  “Wizard A’trile is in charge of the excavation. He has managed to locate the workshop and clear the tunnels to its door, but the forbidding still blocks us.”

  “A’trile?” A’stoc said. “The old hermit? But his specialty is Wood Lore. Why was he researching A’kalendane’s Lore?”

  “He has grown fluent in both schools. Only A’valman is his superior in Metal Lore. A’trile had seniority, so I placed the excavation under his care. I felt he was more—reliable.” A look of concern settled on A’rullen’s face. “But now I am worried. A’trile has been neglecting his responsibilities, missing council meetings. At first, I assumed that he was absorbed in his research, but now I fear that his health is suffering.”

  “Has he been seen by a healer?” Father Marcus asked.

  “No,” A’rullen said. “A’trile can be quite—independent. But I am going to see him tonight. I need to be sure he can travel with us tomorrow.”

  “I will come with you,” Father Marcus announced, “if you do not object. Perhaps he will let me attend to his needs. It will be best if all our strength is bent to this errand.”

  “Well said, Your Eminence. Cooperation is our hope in these times. Let us go.” He stood and retrieved his cane. Halfway to the door he stopped and spun about. He picked up the cloth bundle from the table and tossed it to A’stoc. “I almost forgot. I thought that you could use some new robes. Your present ones have seen hard service.”

  A’stoc looked down at the tatters he was wearing and grinned. He tore open the package and froze, stunned by its contents. Moving slowly, he pulled forth a robe of deep brown, its edges trimmed with golden embroidery—the robe of a Wood Lore Master. He stared at A’rullen, saying nothing.

  “I hope I have not offended,” the councilor said. “I thought that these would be more appropriate for the Bearer of the Thunderwood.”

  “No,” A’stoc said quickly. “I am not offended, but I have not undergone the trial. I am not yet a wizard, much less a master.”

  A’rullen flicked his cane toward the Staff which never left A’stoc’s hands. “You command the most powerful magic on the face of Infinitera. No Lore Master alive has accomplished the channeling of Earthpower. Only you have done that. We are not what we once were. Our magic is but the shadow of our Master’s, but you have given us the means to regain what was lost. You tell me that you have not stood the trial, but I say there is more than one test of a man.”

  A’rullen grabbed the fabric of his own robe. “We no longer wear the purple on the Council. Some people say this is to remind us that we are less than our predecessors. They are wrong. We choose the openness of the sky rather than the exalted seclusion of royalty, but we are the wizards of Tel Adartak-Skysoar. There are none better. The First Chair of the Collegium names you Master. Who shall say otherwise?”

  A’stoc bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

  A’rullen smiled. “You are welcome. It is long overdue.” He turned to Father Marcus. “Shall we go?”

  “One moment.” Dacius gestured, and Leth and Gerruth moved to flank the High Bishop. “You shall have an escort.”

  The company had hardly settled into their seats after Marcus and A’rullen left when the door to the common room opened once more—this time without a knock.

  “A’stoc.” Councilor A’valman stood stiffly at the threshold. “I must speak with you. Alone.”

  The two wizards locked eyes, and a predatory smile spread slowly across A’stoc’s face. “I—”

  “A’stoc,” Chentelle said softly. “I will not leave you alone with this man.” She braced her ears for his outburst, but none came.

  A’stoc only nodded and smiled more broadly. “If you wish to speak, councilor, then speak. Neither I nor my companions answer to your beck. Be thankful. Their presence greatly enhances your safety.”

  A’valman’s body quivered with tension, but his voice remained calm. “As you will. I have come to warn you. Do not go to Covenant’s Keep, and do not stay in Tel Adartak-Skysoar. Whatever mission guides you, follow it—tonight.”