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37


Once more, the argent and auric mirror-scroll showed the night-black throneroom of the even darker King of All Hells. “A few more weeks,” the black-glowing figure said. “The alignment of the forces required could not quite be achieved yet.” A night-glinting smile. “Fortunately this was not necessary for the first stages.”

Normally the man was very happy—indeed, thrilled—to be a part of these conferences. A small part at this point, true, but with a slowly increasing importance as Evanwyl became more significant to his patron and, in the greater game, to Kerlamion Blackstar himself.

But today I must be concerned for myself. Yet I must not fear, nor allow fear to drive my decisions. I must trust that . . . my patron . . . will continue his policy of listening to even bad news fairly.

His patron was replying to the King of All Hells: “Indeed, Majesty.” It nodded, gesturing to place maps upon the mirrors. The other panels were dark, this being a conference solely between ruler and master planner—and the master planner’s most favored servant. “Without Voorith’s misfortune, the attacks would have been launched long since. I have become convinced, however, that this was a stroke of good fortune in disguise.”

“Perhaps. Show to me the way of things now.”

It pointed. “The Forest Sea is almost entirely emptied of the Artan. The only remaining stronghold—as one might have suspected—is Pondsparkle. Many were driven from it, but a surprisingly stubborn core of the Toads and some of their allies remain, and have found the Temple a particularly strong fortress.” The human-seeming figure glanced at Kerlamion’s image, seeking counsel.

“Well enough,” the Demon King said after a pause. “We shall destroy Pondsparkle . . . and its patron . . . in time. But for now we shall not challenge even so small a god as that directly, as long as the Golden-Eyed meddles no more. Go on, then.”

“Artania is mostly ours, but Nya-Sharee-Hilya resists.”

The darkness thickened, the cold blue fire of eyes flared. “Balgoltha promised a swift and final victory.”

“It appears,” it said with a sideways smile, “the Master of the Sea has promised more than he could deliver. I did warn you that I thought he was neglecting some aspects of their defenses.”

A subliminal pulse of pure darkness showed Kerlamion’s displeasure, but all the great Demonlord said was, “Do you believe he will fail in the end?”

“Oh, no. The swiftness has failed to some extent, yes, but without aid from outside, or some other threat to draw off the forces of Balgoltha, the seige cannot help but end in the total destruction of the Artan city, and thus their last hope of a homeland.”

“And is there chance of such aid?”

It laughed, a sound that seemed to make the very lightglobes flicker in fear. “I think not, Majesty.” It pointed, and the maps blackened. “The White Blade is assailed on all sides by your brother’s forces; I am sure he is most distressed by his success.”

The man could not quite restrain a smile at that thought. Speaking professionally, I would say that the Curse of Blackness is one of the most artistic of Kerlamion’s creations—perhaps his greatest in a way, despite the undeniable power and symmetry of the Great Sealing. He recalled the terrible simplicity of the curse that Kerlamion had placed upon his brother Erherveria, one of the few Demons who had chosen a lighter path: “Always shall you remain who you are, good and just and kind in your thoughts, while in actions and words and deeds you shall do the opposite, unmaking that which you once sought to build, slaying those you would protect, destroying that you sought to preserve.” A positively inspired way of dealing with a traitor; making him useful, and punishing him at the same time. He thought he detected a similar half-smile on his patron’s face. We do share . . . certain tastes.

His patron turned, pointed again. “We could not act directly against the Mountain yet—that, I am afraid, must wait until we can devote our full attention to that problem. However, our forces in Dalthunia launched a simultaneous set of raids into the Empire’s territory, keeping the Archmage and his forces distracted, while the passage of magic across the borders is being severely interfered with.”

“And Aegeia?” This was of course one of the most crucial areas, as the Lady of Wisdom was incarnate.

It chuckled. “As I promised you, Aegeia is no longer a concern. Your other spies have undoubtedly noted the chaos of their pantheon, the . . . private little war that they’re having. With some fortune, it may result in that entire odious little country becoming a godswar-torn battlefield, in which case we shall have little to fear from them for a long time indeed.”

The black-on-black figure studied it for several moments. “And how was this achieved?”

It smiled. “My private secret, Majesty. We all have our own.”

It took most of his control to prevent that from triggering any sort of shift of expression. You are practically daring the King of All Hells to suspect you? Who and what are you, really, my patron? Despite that, he felt now more than ever that he had chosen his ally very wisely . . . or perhaps that his patron had been most wise in choosing him.

Kerlamion’s blank fiery gaze regarded the figure narrowly, but did not press the issue. “And Evanwyl?”

Oh no.

He dared not interrupt, though, as his patron replied easily, “Remains entirely secure. A peaceful refuge,” it said, with ironic humor, “in the midst of other countries at war. My Justiciars have seen no sign of any significant efforts in this area in all this time.”

“It is well, then. You believe that our forces will hold for the time being?”

“For some time, yes. But you do realize that they will mobilize soon enough; a new Sauran King has been selected, and he is already beginning to bring things under control in his own city. The Archmage of the Mountain will also not long remain on the defensive, and when he moves—”

Kerlamion smiled his light-destroying grin again. “Oh, indeed. But the time shortens apace, Viedraverion.”

A name! At last, I know its name!

He could see the momentary grimace of annoyance, but despite its apparently privileged position, Viedraverion obviously did not dare to chastise Kerlamion for mentioning his name in front of his servant. “The forces are aligning well, yes. When can we expect . . . ?”

“Unless something interferes . . . one month. Perhaps two.”

That inhumanly glittering smile from his patron. “Oh, most satisfactory, Majesty. I assure you we can hold things for that long, even if I must go and act myself to make it so.”

“It is well.” The head shifted. “I have other reports. We will speak again.” The mirror went blank instantly; the King of All Hells had no need of courtesy.

Only his patron’s image remained, looking at him. “Hm. Gained more than you expected today, did you not, my friend?”

Time to tread most carefully. “I admit to having curiosity satisfied, though the name itself tells me little.”

A tiny smile. “At the moment. But I would be disappointed if you had no intention of researching it.”

“I will do so, of course. Unless you care to make it easier and simply tell me.”

“Ah, now, that would be far easier. But I did not choose you for your tendency to take the easier path. Now,” and the face grew serious, “tell me what bothers you.”

He swallowed, took a breath. “You are most perceptive . . . my patron.”

“Dear me. As bad as all that?” It studied him, leaning back in a carven chair. “You are rarely so hesitant. Out with it, then.”

“A thousand apologies,” he said. “Understand, if you allowed us to . . . approach you in any other fashion . . . but your rules are absolute, and I have not forgotten your lessons.”

The lethal smile, glittering below warm blue eyes. “I would think not. What was so urgent, then, that you would even have considered violating that rule?”

“We have a real problem. There is . . . another Justiciar.”

All of its lazy, genteel demeanor vanished instantly; it was on its feet and glaring down. “What do you mean, another Justiciar?”

He bowed, placatingly. “Patron, I am devastated to be unable to clarify it all that much. But rumors began . . . oh, a couple of months ago. At first we thought it was just confused retellings of things we’d been doing, but pretty soon we heard about a Justiciar driving out a haunting in Vardant.”

“The Twilight House?” Its expression was a tremendous relief. It’s taking this seriously . . . and not blaming me, at least not yet.

Of course, his patron should take this seriously. While it, naturally, didn’t care a bit about clearing away taints of supernatural evil, the Twilight House was a local legend and center of dangerous happenings that normally confined its destructiveness to those stupid enough to enter the grounds of the old madman’s mansion.

“I see,” his patron said finally. “Due to . . . certain events, it might have been spreading its influence . . . and anything that could destroy or drive out those influences is not an ordinary warrior; a very powerful adventurer at the least.” It slowly seated itself. “And few indeed are the adventurers seen in this remote region of the world.”

“Exactly.” He felt the tension on his face relaxing. “It hasn’t ended there. He or she—the reports aren’t clear on this—hasn’t come to Evanwyl’s center, the city itself, yet, or at least not that we know, but this so called . . . Phoenix Justiciar . . . has been sighted all around the area otherwise.”

It leaned forward. “Phoenix?” it repeated. A pause. “Have there been any reports of . . . healing?” it said, slowly.

He nodded. “Man and his daughter, ambushed by leafaxes, he was taken down, then this Phoenix shows up, kills the whole swarm single-handed, then heals the man with a prayer.”

“And what have you done?”

“I have had those I could spare out looking. But the other . . . projects . . .”

“Understood.” There was new tension in the humanoid figure now. “But this now takes absolute priority. I want you to drop the other projects. I want you to find this new Justiciar. If you can, find out his—or her—purpose. But above all,” it said in a low, hissing tone, “this new Justiciar needs to die.”

He was somewhat surprised. “Of course he, or she, does, but you seem . . . much more upset than you were—”

It snarled, and he stopped in midsentence. “I will not call you stupid, my friend, for you are not, but you do not see the entirety of the picture. Even so, you should realize how different this is. Silver Eagle was ours. We could watch him, divert him, see where he was going, what he planned to do . . . and be prepared to counter any move he made.

“We do not control this Justiciar if indeed that is what he is! And that, my friend, means that he or she may do anything. Including, I will point out, becoming a new focus for Myrionar, and that would be most unfortunate for you and all your brother Justiciars, I assure you.”

He bowed low. “I . . . I will gather the others immediately. We will begin the searches at once.” My patron is right. I should have seen this instantly. If the true God of Justice and Vengeance begins to regain Its power . . . “My apologies again. With your permission . . . ?”

“Go. And . . .” It smiled again. “This is not all bad news, my friend.”

“It . . . isn’t?”

A chilling laugh. “To risk this, so close to your center of power? This is the move of desperation, the god’s last fading hope, a single thrust to the heart of its enemy before the god itself passes. Now,” the smile widened, and he felt his own smile return, hungry and dangerous, “now, my friend, the fun can truly begin.”


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Framed