Our Court is infected with the disease of 'tolerance.' Would our fathers' fathers welcome Ibergs to our shores? Would they bargain with the magicks of the Kwendi? Beware, Arkendia! For today if one shows proper fear of magick in the Court, he is mocked, thought a lack-wit, old-fashioned. Hear me, Arkendia! Shun this tolerance! Return to the strength of our fathers!
— From "Virtue Undermined," illegal pamphlet, circa Chasia I
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time the Mad Moon set, the soft gray light of dawn was enough to reveal the path along the river's course. The walls of the canyon became less sheer, and the roads that had been cut into its walls gave way to a dirt path along the water's edge. The trail led them along a wooded lake into a bowl of rocky peaks. In the middle of the lake was a bare grave island, with crude monuments erected by timber men or trappers. At the foot of the lake stood a tall, crooked stone like an old man's thumb. They stopped there for a brief rest during which Brolli dubbed the aged stone "Willard's Finger."
"See what yours looks like after seven lives of battle," Willard growled.
"The lake I name, Willard's Tub. May you live to make a soak in it."
Beyond the lake, the mule track climbed a saddle of granite between peaks to descend into the adjoining watershed. A young forest of spoke-limb and ash trees greeted them on the other side, crowding the path with exuberant growth and limiting visibility to sixty paces. Ancient blackened stumps stood like rotten teeth amidst the riot of green, testament of fire in years past.
Caris stopped at the foot of a log bridge where a painted sign stood pegged to a post.
Royal Fire-cone Range
Open Flame Prohibited Beyond This Point!
NO SPITFIRES
NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT
ROYAL WARRANT
Turn Back
ON PAIN OF DEATH
By Order of
Her Majesty's Fire-cone Prelate
Sir Tilate Patche
"Let's see how well you read, boy," Willard mumbled. "What's it say?"
When Harric finished reading it aloud, Willard nodded. "We're getting close, then."
Caris pointed to the green-mantled ridge toward which they climbed. "When we reach the crest of that ridge, we'll get our first view of the fire-cones."
Similar signs dotted the mule track all the way to the ridge, each freshly painted and free of obstructing foliage, as if maintained by industrious sprites.
Though green from a distance, the ridge was bare and rocky, which allowed a brief but expansive view east over another forested valley to a yet higher ridge beyond, on whose loftiest spur stood a kingly stand of fire-cones. The golden spires soared into the sky like a many-towered castle in a ballad, and from their midst rose the black spike of the thunder rod, half-again as tall.
"That's the lightning-stealer I told you about, Brolli," Caris said. "Abellia's tower is below it."
Though the trunks of the fire-cones obscured much of the tower, the thunder rod appeared to rise from its top like the mast of the ship, its giddy height made fast with a multitude of stays slanting down to the forest. To Harric the stays looked like the ribbons of a gigantic maypole, but he knew they were likely cables of steel.
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The Jack of Souls (Multi-award winner!)
Fantasy************************************************************************************** An outcast rogue must break a curse put on his fate, or die on his nineteenth birthday. To survive, he'll need the sword of a maiden, the aid of an immortal, and...
