Chapter 3.21 — Speed Trap

I have learned, over the years, to slow myself down, particularly when working on a patient. Speed is sometimes important but, more often than not, it’s when mistakes are made. When someone is under my care, it makes sense to take the time to make sure I’m caring for them properly.

That said, there are times when you absolutely need to move fast and not doing so could be the difference between life and death. Sometimes that’s your own life, and sometimes it’s the life of someone else. This is a lesson I’ve learned firsthand.

                                                                                                  Excerpt from the Journal of the Emissary

Fifth of Striving 1142, Early Morning (Three days ago)

The doors had reset by the time Dreek and Garne were ready to move again. They had decided to take an extended break to rest Garne’s ankle, so they had to repeat the process that allowed the doors to open. Garne opened the first, Dreek the second, Garne the third, and Dreek the fourth, though this time, fortunately, no monsters spawned. What did happen was a new door appeared, not in the middle of a wall, but near a corner of the room, far to the left of where the first door had been.

Garne walked to it, pulled it open and grinned. “Seems like we’ve beaten the room.”

He watched Dreek make his way carefully to him. Most likely the traps were disabled now. That’s how dungeons usually worked. Dreek probably knew that as well as he did, but the phase-shifter remained careful while crossing the room. Professional. That was Dreek in one word. He wondered if all phase-shifters were like that.

Dreek was the only phase-shifter Garne had ever met. At first there was a disconnect, because they didn’t understand each other. Dreek didn’t know much about humans, the Misfits being his first adventuring team, and Garne knew nothing at all about phase-shifters.

Garne had tried to engage him the way he’d try to engage any new team member, which usually involved alcohol. Dreek didn’t drink. Garne didn’t not drink, especially back then, so soon after the incident with his old team. So he and Dreek didn’t exactly butt heads, but they didn’t get on either. Instead, something else happened during their months working together. They developed a personal respect.

Actually Garne wasn’t sure that was true. He had developed respect for Dreek, but Dreek treated everyone the same. You never really knew what he was thinking. How he wished that for just a few minutes he could enter Dreek’s mind and explore it. That would be fascinating.

Garne’s foot throbbed, and he glanced down at it, momentarily distracted by the pain. Well, it wasn’t going to stop them from moving on. He had a skill strangely enough called Ahhhh, which eased pain so he could function. It wasn’t as potent as the Endure Pain skill, but it lasted longer and took less focus to maintain. He was happy with it. Of course, Sheba had named a skill Ahhhh. That was her all over. He needed a new goddess—his was broken. He chuckled at the thought.

“Something funny?” asked Dreek.

“Not any funnier than usual.”

Garne returned his attention to the corridor in front of them. The door opened up on a corridor that extended into the distance—no branches, no monsters, no doors. Nothing but a long, straight walk—which probably meant traps. That was Dreek’s area, not his. He knew how to search for traps, of course, but he never had the patience for it.

So Dreek entered the corridor and their progress was slow. And finally, when they’d made it about fifty feet in, they were back at the door.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Garne.

“Sit,” said Dreek. “Rest your foot.”

“My foot is fine.”

“Your foot is shredded and needs healing. Just sit and rest. I’ll figure out what’s going on.”

And so the process repeated again. Sitting with his back against the wall, Garne watched Dreek get to the same point and end up instantly back at the start of the corridor.

“Hi.”

Dreek looked down at him. “Let me try something.”

“What were you doing just now?”

“Trying something different.”

Garne shrugged. “Go for it.”

Dreek sped down the corridor and got past where he had gotten to before. The only reason Garne knew this was because the dungeon walls were slightly darker there, and not due to the light running out. Most of their light came from Garne’s lantern. But it seemed like there must be some sort of ambient light ahead as well because now that he thought about it, he could see further than he should have been able to. That was interesting.

Dreek made his way back to him, part of which involved teleporting to the front of the corridor, so it didn’t take long.

“It’s a speed trap,” said Dreek. “If you can’t hit checkpoints fast enough, you just get teleported back here. Which is a problem, considering your injury.”

Garne shook his head. “It won’t be a problem. You’ll see.”

“Garne, you can’t run on that foot.”

“No? Watch me. Anyway, I don’t have to run. I have Tremendous Leap. You saw how far I could jump.”

“I did. And do you know what happens at the end of a jump? You have to catch your weight on your feet.”

Garne didn’t answer for a second. “That’s true. But we have to get through the room, so we’ll get through the room. Do you want to see how far it goes before I start?”

Dreek nodded. “That would probably be best.”

Without another word, Dreek took off down the corridor and kept running till he disappeared from sight. Garne waited, but Dreek did not return. Five minutes, ten, half an hour, an hour. No Dreek.

“Great. Just great.”

He waited longer. He wasn’t sure just how long, because he fell asleep. When he woke, and Dreek still hadn’t returned, he knew he had to move on. It’s not like they had infinite food or water, and the first room had taken far too long. His only regret was that Dreek had gone ahead to scout and hadn’t returned to tell him what to expect.

Resigned to the pain ahead, Garne stood up and cast Ahhhh. Then he used Tremendous Leap twice in a row, landing hard on his bad foot each time. Though it hurt, the pain was tolerable because of his skill. When that skill expired, all bets were off.

He didn’t stop to wait, but started running down the corridor as fast as he could. In truth, he hadn’t lost much speed, but he knew he was probably further damaging his foot. Ah well, it couldn’t be helped. Either he ran or sat at the beginning of the room forever. Not many options, and no good ones.

And in truth, it wasn’t a hard room. If it weren’t for his injury it would have been nothing. Which meant that wasn’t all there was. He had to keep that in mind and not get complacent.

He was moving again, fast. His foot started throbbing. He didn’t even waste a glance down at it, which was a good thing, because that’s when the blade swung out of the wall, across his path. The only reason it missed him was because of his speed. He almost slowed because of it, realized his mistake and pushed forward.

The second blade swung from the other side, but this time he was ready for it.

He risked another Tremendous Leap and landed past another blade, and kept going. He had to use the Ahhhh skill one more time as well, because his foot was starting to throb and it was slowing him…which is when the first pit opened at his feet.

Reflex saved him. He didn’t have time to use Tremendous Leap. Instead he pushed off, unfortunately on his bad foot, and managed to clear it, if only barely. It wasn’t the last pit either.

He wasn’t running at his full speed, but he was running fast enough to stay in front of the corridor reset, which was good, because if he had to do this all again, he doubted he’d make it. He had one shot at this and one shot only.

For a while, it was pits opening and him jumping them, which was easy enough now that he expected it. Then the blades returned, swinging out unexpectedly between pits. It kept him moving. His foot was throbbing again. The skill he used to keep the pain in check wasn’t lasting as long now. He used the Ahhhh skill again, realizing he didn’t have infinite stamina to keep using it, followed by Tremendous Leap. He’d have to try to hold off using all his skills for a while.

It felt to Garne like the corridor would never end, but finally, it did, at a door that stood open. Probably Dreek had been through there before. He leapt through it, and it’s a good thing he did, because a guillotine slammed down behind him. And then he was in a room, and all the others were there, crowding around him.

Dreek was there, which was good, because Garne had been worried something might have happened to him. That wasn’t the case, of course. He’d just gotten through the corridor, probably dematerialized, letting the blades pass through him. Damn cheater. They were lucky to have him.

And the others were there. Ressssen and her incomparable ability to lead them, Borin and his literal interpretation of pretty much everything, Merck, who he still didn’t really know, but seemed to be a very different person than the man who’d swindled them. And Maynor, who had increasingly gained Garne’s respect over the last couple of weeks.

Garne breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t just finding his team and seeing them well. It was more than that. Garne had finally come home.

*

Eighth of Striving 1142, Morning

Leonid looked through the window of Gribble’s coach, watching Trilsk approach. Rish had been bigger, much bigger, but this was home and he couldn’t wait to get there and then back to the palace. He stuck his head out the window and glanced back, but Petunia was nowhere in sight. She wouldn’t be far, he knew. The bitch probably hadn’t even broken a sweat. He knew making her run instead of allowing her to ride in the coach with him was petty, but he also knew that as a relatively high-level Sarithan assassin, he wasn’t particularly inconveniencing her. That took some of the fun out of it. Ah well. At least he’d be home soon. He’d been away for too long.

He knew the road turned ahead and he’d lose sight of the city, so he closed the curtain and blocked out the view. He tried to make a mental list of everything he needed to do but kept getting distracted. First there was Petunia, who hated him and would one day kill him if the plan still held. Then there was Terrence becoming high king while he had been dismissed by the gods to build an army. Plus, he’d had to deal with the humiliation of his own wife getting promoted to Terrence’s assistant. Even Jerish had abandoned him in the end. That hurt worse than he wanted to admit. Though Jerish had only been with him for eight years, it felt like he’d known him forever.

Jerish was nothing like Petunia. God she was hot. Hot and completely unavailable. As unacceptable as that was, it was the reality he was stuck with. He wouldn’t leave it at that with most women, but servants of Sarith were another matter. He needed to find a woman, that’s what he needed. Well, there’d be no shortage of willing, or not quite so willing, volunteers at the palace.

Chari would be a couple of days behind him most likely, her and her entourage of familiars. Ridiculous, of course, like the rest of it. He felt like he was living a child’s story instead of the real world. The sooner he got back to the palace, where he had some actual authority, the happier he’d be.

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until they pulled up at the palace and the coachman was waking him up. He opened his eyes and slowly climbed from the carriage. Guards at the gate recognized him immediately and opened it for him. He mumbled something about getting his bags and walked past them. Petunia came running up after him. The guards challenged her, but he waved them off. She was part of the deal with Sarith and only a fool stood up to the goddess of suffering.

Then he was in the palace proper, heading for the throne room, hoping his brother was there. As he passed, people stopped and bowed, but he ignored them. At least here, he got the respect he deserved. When they reached the throne room, he motioned for Petunia to wait outside. He entered. His brother Alexi paced back and forth in front of the throne, clearly agitated.

“Alexi, how goes it?”

His brother stopped pacing and froze. Strangely, he didn’t look at Leo right away, but stared down at his feet for a beat before raising his eyes and turning slowly—as if he didn’t want the king to know just how badly he’d screwed up the kingdom. Leonid wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. It happened every time he left.

“Leo? Thank the gods you’re back. Things aren’t going well. I told you I wasn’t up to this.”

“Nonsense. Nothing we can’t fix, and I’m not back, not quite. I need you to sit the throne for a few more days.”

Alexi stared at his brother. “Leo, please. You know I hate being king.”

“I do know, but it’s good for you. And I need a few days. There’s nothing so broken that I can’t fix.”

“Leonid, listen to me…”

“No, Lex, you listen to me. I need a few days. This is non-negotiable. You’ll live, even if you don’t want to.”

Alexi stopped arguing. Leonid knew he would. The spineless coward could never stand up to him. Who didn’t want to be king? Anyway, he had work to do.

“I am not to be disturbed for any reason. Any reason. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Leo. But please, hurry back.”

“As soon as I finish my work.”

Which is when Petunia entered the throne room. Leonid hadn’t summoned her, but the timing couldn’t have been better. Alexi’s eyes went from Leonid to the Sarithan assassin though, of course, he would have no idea who or what she was.

“Leo, that’s your work?”

“Of course. Lex, meet Petunia.”

The girl growled, which only made Leonid’s smile broaden. At least he could get a rise out of her. “Come, Petunia, we have…work to do.”

The implication was clear. She might never agree to lie with him, but he was going to make sure everyone thought they were having an affair, and it would drive her absolutely mad.

Alexi looked like he wanted to say something, but whatever it was remained unspoken.

Leonid chuckled and motioned for Petunia to follow. This was going to be a good day, after all.

*

Fifth of Striving 1142, Morning (Three days ago)

Merck sat and watched the others. In many ways, he was still an outsider in the group. More of an outsider than Maynor even. Merck had been with them longer but had always worked alone as a Swindler. He wasn’t used to trusting anyone else. Maynor was a soldier then a guard, then the captain of the guard. Camaraderie was second nature to him.

This suited Merck just fine, sitting on the outside looking in. Watching the others felt like where he belonged. He liked them—genuinely liked them. Even Garne, who was terrifying at times. Ressssen had been fair to him, Dreek had treated him like he treated everyone, Borin had been irrationally friendly and open and Maynor? After the trap room, Maynor wasn’t just the captain of the guard anymore. Maynor was his comrade at arms. He sat with the thought for a second, because it was ludicrous—which didn’t stop it from being true.

There was much ado about sharing healing potions among them, each of them but Borin getting one, though Maynor, who boasted the highest level in the party, had suggested Borin was better off taking his, the argument being that if Borin got injured badly, no one could heal him. But Ressssen overrode that logic with a different kind of logic. In the end, Maynor might be the one they need to break out of this place. Maynor didn’t argue, probably because this wasn’t his team. He was professional like that. He let Ressssen lead even though on paper, he outranked her.

Borin healed Garne’s foot, which looked absolutely awful, but no one seemed to comment on it. Merck actually looked away while it knit itself together. He shuddered. Then they sat and rested and talked.

The three groups shared stories of what had befallen them. Maynor told the story of the trap room, amused when Merck interrupted to correct him on one point or another. No animosity at all. Somehow, he had earned Maynor’s respect.

Then Ressssen asked Borin to tell the story of the monster maze. Merck listened with rapt attention to the description of what had turned out to be an ingenious puzzle—not only because he liked puzzles, but because learning everything he could about this place wasn’t going to hurt them moving forward.

And finally, Garne told the story about their trap room, the fight against the insect-like beings and the race down the corridor. Only once did Dreek interrupt him.

“You’re downplaying the injury. Most people would have never been able to do what you did.”

“Most people don’t have the skills I have. I’ve been blessed by Sheba.”

Dreek leaned forward. “What is it with you people who worship Sheba? Why are you all so ludicrously modest?”

Garne didn’t answer, because Dreek was right. It seemed those who worshiped different gods tended to look at their own skills differently. Of course the goddess of honor cultivated humility among those who served her. What could be more natural?

But what did any of it matter anyway? They were trapped in this room. There was no way back and this room was a dead end. They had painstakingly searched it for exits. They had run every detect spell they could and yet…

And yet the monster maze had changed. The trap room he and Maynor were in kept changing. The dungeon they were in wasn’t static. There may not have been a door before but…

Merck cast Detect Suite and looked around, though he didn’t have to. He could feel it before he laid eyes on it. There was magic where there had been none before. A new hidden door, there in the wall opposite the one through which he and Maynor had entered.

He stood up and the others looked at him.

“The exit from this room has arrived.”

Maynor studied him. “Arrived?”

“Yes. The dungeon keeps changing. What’s true one minute may not be true the next. Somehow we’ve satisfied a requirement. Perhaps something as simple as sharing our stories. I almost feel like we’re being tested.”

Ressssen nodded. “It does feel like that. I have never been in a dungeon like this. I’ve never even heard of one. If this is one of the new dungeons, and I suspect it is, perhaps they were not made the same way others were made.”

Borin grew excited. “Really? That’s fascinating. How else might they have been made?”

But Dreek was already walking toward the new door. Of course he was, thought Merck. He had his own abilities, not unlike Merck’s. Once Merck had called it, Dreek would have cast whatever skill he had to detect things. Or maybe it wasn’t a skill but some ability that came with being a phase-shifter. Merck would have to be careful not to assume these things. There was a certain clarity in admitting you didn’t know something, which hadn’t always come easily to him.

They crowded around the door and looked at each other.

Dreek took the lead here, checking the wall for traps. When he couldn’t open it he gestured toward Merck. Not Ressssen, not Borin. Merck. When had that happened? Well, it made sense. He’d been the only one who could open the dungeon.

Merck walked to the wall, not sure of what to do. He shrugged, touched it, and a section of wall vanished, as if it had never been there. Beyond was a tiny landing, and a flight of stairs leading down. They had completed the first level of this dungeon and were about to descend.

From what Borin had been saying, the deeper you got into a dungeon, the harder it got. Merck held his breath for a second then backed away from the entrance.

He might have been the opener, but he had no delusions of grandeur. That was how you died in dungeons. Others here were more experienced and higher level. Let them be the front line.

He was quite happy hiding in the back and keeping himself alive. After all, George had told him that he was the one who would end the undead threat. Which meant, against all odds, he was as important as any of them—maybe more important.

Garne took the lead (of course he did), followed by Dreek, Ressssen, Borin, Merck himself, and finally Maynor, who had been their rear guard all along.

They descended into the depths of Soulsplit and came to a room with only two doors, each with a word glowing on its surface. The door on the left said “Casters”, the door on the right said “Martials”.

“It’s going to divide us again, isn’t it?” asked Merck.

Garne shrugged. “It looks that way. So what, Ressssen, Borin and Merck in casters and me and Maynor in martial? Probably Dreek too, though he might be a caster as well with some of his tricks.”

“They’re not tricks,” said Dreek, gently.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy a bit of showmanship.”

Ressssen cut them off. “Dreek, Garne is right in that you don’t necessarily fit cleanly in one or the other. I could make an argument for you using either door. So we should choose which door you want to try first. And see if it lets you. Clearly Garne and Maynor will be going through the door on the right. Does it make more sense for Dreek to stay with the caster group?”

“I don’t think so,” said Maynor. “From the stories we just heard, Dreek and Merck can both find traps. Splitting them up makes sense. While I can search for traps, it’s not my specialty. I don’t suspect it’s Garne’s either.”

“Right,” said Garne. “My specialty is triggering them and seeing if I can survive.”

Merck laughed and then stopped when he realized he was the only one.

“At least,” said Ressssen, “I feel there is a good chance we will reunite again after we beat the challenges ahead of us.”

“I agree,” said Maynor. “It seems how this place is designed.”

After that there was nothing left to say. The martial group, including Dreek, entered the door on the right. The casters watched them go.

Just to see what would happen, Ressssen tried to follow but the opening wouldn’t let her through. She shrugged, a very human-looking gesture that didn’t fit her at all, and walked to the left door. Then she pulled her scepter from her robes and entered.

Merck followed and Borin must have too because suddenly they were all together, in a room that looked like every other damn room in this place.

“Careful,” said Ressssen, as if they needed the warning. “Merck, use your skills. Let us know if it’s safe.”

Merck chuckled, darkly. “I don’t think safe is anywhere in our immediate future.”

*

Eighth of Striving 1142, Late Morning

Leonid glanced at Petunia beside him. Normally servants walked behind the king, but not her. Marvelous, and completely out of his reach. Not that he’d stop trying, of course.

He guided her to a corridor that she didn’t turn down because she couldn’t see it. No one saw it. It was hidden by a half dozen spells to make it unnoticeable. No one would see it, nor would they see the king, or anyone else enter it.

Leonid pulled her in, withdrawing his hand quickly so she didn’t break it. He’d not touched her before, but it only took her a moment to realize why he’d had to place a hand on her.

“Unexpected,” she said, completely ignoring the impropriety. “Where does this lead?”

“To my workshop. Very few people have ever seen it, besides me that is, and all of them have been Sarithan assassins.”

“Your keepers. I admit I know little about why you’re so important to the goddess. Am I about to find out?”

“You are indeed.”

Petunia’s eyes lit up, but Leonid didn’t know why. If he had to guess, he’d have to go with his belief that Sarithan assassins were naturally excited when uncovering secrets.

Leonid turned and continued down the corridor, which became a spiral staircase descending into a room not found on any map of the castle. Perfectly hidden since his early days as king, but completely necessary. He needed a place to work, uninterrupted.

His absences from the palace, which everyone assumed were one of his myriad marital affairs, were more often Leonid retreating into his workshop. The affairs, which had started off as nothing more than cover, were soon a part of the system that kept him going. His frustrations needed an outlet and that outlet could never be Rhea—anyone but her.

So he found playthings and broke them or, at least, pushed them to their limit. And while he was doing that, he was creating a plausible cover story for why he couldn’t be found so often. Rhea bore the brunt of it, he knew. Chari thought little of him, but it was a secret he had to keep, under pain of death. No one betrayed the goddess of suffering without experiencing what she was best known for.

Sarith had been right when she’d taken his tether from Iorana. He would suffer profoundly in his life, and in many ways he had. But he’d also become the greatest Dark Summoner in the history of the world, even if no one knew.

Anyone who tried to use a spell to read him would see he was a low level mage, tethered to Iorana. An intentional misdirection, engineered by two goddesses working in tandem. He never had a clue why this was necessary, nor did he ever doubt that it was. Before it had happened, he’d had no idea that gods could trade tethers. The implication terrified him, because it implied that worshipers weren’t just the beneficiaries of classes and skills, but they were chattel, who could be released as easily as they had been tethered. The gods had no loyalty, only self-interest, pretty much like everyone else.

Petunia followed him down the stairs. He could almost feel the hesitation in her step. This was beyond what she expected, and a high-level Sarithan assassin would be able to feel a secret of this magnitude before it arrived.

He got to the bottom of the stairs and stopped. A few moments later, Petunia stood beside him. Her face remained passive, but her mind had to be trying to take it all in.

He felt it the moment it started—that horrible, piercing pain he loved more than anything in the world. This was the worst one he’d felt in a long time. He’d have screamed if Petunia wasn’t there, but she was, so he endured it. This is what he’d been waiting for.

“Did you just level?”

“Twice,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Level 41 now.”

Petunia stared at him.

“Level 41?”

Leonid grinned broadly and straightened up to his full height when he realized he had doubled over and was still hunched. “You heard me. Does it surprise you?”

“That’s…”

She didn’t have the words. Most people assumed he was low level because he never showed any skills, and no one ever saw him level. He wasn’t a grassling, not exactly. Everyone knew he was tethered to Iorana, even if they were wrong about that. But everyone also thought his tethering had been more about political positioning than his usefulness as a mage.

Of course, he was actually tethered to Sarith, and she quite liked the quality of his suffering, so he leveled quite a lot over the decades. No one would ever suspect him of being Tier 5. Not even Rhea. Only a couple of the Sarithan assassins who had been assigned to him had known. Petunia was only the most recent. He wondered if she’d be the last. He winced one more time and turned his attention to the room.

Leonid’s workshop was a modern wonder. Three permanent summoning circles on the floor, each made from a different material, each magically treated to last well past the end of his lifetime. Tables with potions and ingredients against the far wall. Shelves of books that were so old, he’d had to magically preserve them to prevent them from falling apart, and even a shelf of his own notes, mostly in scroll cases made of bone that kept them from aging prematurely. These were notes he’d kept himself, secrets he’d compiled over the decades. A treasure trove of lost and hidden information that would only come to light after he died. He knew it because when he died, the corridor leading to his lab would appear to everyone. The spell protecting it was powered by his soul. It’s how they would find out about him. How the world would finally learn his worth. And he wouldn’t be here to see it. That was the punishment he’d agreed to.

But Petunia now knew. Jerish knew. Those that came before, they knew. There would be witnesses and the story would come out—how Leonid was one of the most powerful men in the world and no one had suspected. There was something quite satisfying in that. Even in death, he would vex all the people who looked down on him. The thought provided a grim satisfaction that settled him before he began his work.

“What is this place?” breathed Petunia.

That was better. Much more respect. “I told you, this is my workshop.”

“But what do you do here?”

Leonid chuckled. “You’re about to find out. I would stay back and watch from a distance if I were you. The forces I control are…volatile.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. She had barely moved away from the staircase. But she watched everything with the kind of attention reserved for those who made killing their life’s work. Nothing would go unnoticed.

Leonid walked past the summoning circles and went to the ingredients table. He wouldn’t need notes for this, he’d done it often enough. He took a flask of already prepared ingredients, unstoppered it and smelled it to make sure it hadn’t somehow gone off. The funny thing was, it smelled like something had gone off, because it was exactly the kind of smell that landed wrong on the human nose. It also smelled exactly as it was meant to. He checked its color as well. Just the right shade of purple, almost a deep plum in color, as perfect as the day he’d mixed it. He brought it to the middle summoning circle, which was nothing more than a groove carved into the floor. He poured the entire flask into the groove and it flowed through the system, filling in the circle as it went, the rich purple forming the pattern.

He poured for a long time, with far more liquid emerging from the flask than it could possibly contain. He’d enchanted the flasks himself, and it was a great time saver. No more mixing ingredients into giant vats like he had in the early days. So much more efficient.

He’d forgotten about the girl now, she wasn’t important, only this new summoning. He picked up a staff from a rack of staves on the wall. Not just a stick, but a magical focus that enhanced his abilities. He’d acquired his staff collection over many decades, pretending to collect them. A normal enough pursuit for a king who worshiped Iorana, even if he didn’t. But the staves were useful in his work, different ones for different projects.

And then he was casting, chanting in Aldevarian, the old speech, bringing something from wherever it had originated to where he wanted it—the middle of his summoning circle.

A purple mist drifted up from the circle, forming a cloud, wispy at first, but slowly thickening into a fog that the eye couldn’t penetrate, and finally resolving into a creature—a massive spirit, striving to break free of the mental bonds that Leonid had placed on it during the summoning. A creature so powerful, it made the demon he’d accidentally summoned in his youth look like a child’s toy. This…this was real power.

He looked up at the thing, writhing in torment, furious beyond belief, but unable to resist the compulsion that Leonid was about to put on it.

“You are to turn invisible, make your way to the Plains of Xarinos, and spy on the reborn for me. I want to know what they’re up to. What Nylus is up to. I want to know everything I can about their war preparations.”

He heard Petunia gasp behind him. She hadn’t expected this, not from him.

The creature, powerful beyond belief, bitter at its captivity, enraged that a mere mortal had bound it so easily, spoke but two words. “Yes, Master.”

Then it vanished and moved through the walls of the castle, unseen and unfelt by all.

Leonid walked back toward Petunia.

“I have to make a couple more, and we can get you settled into a room.”

“You sent that thing to Xarinos.”

“Yes. How do you think Sarith knows what goes on there? The gods can’t see into Xarinos, but I can.”

Petunia studied him. He knew she’d see he was telling the truth.

“What are you?”

Leonid chuckled. “I’m the most dangerous man in the world, my dear. And no one suspects. Not even bloody King Terrence. He may lead the army, but it is my spirits that allow the invasion in the first place.”

Petunia swallowed. “You’re mad.”

“Of course I am. Many of the greatest mages of all time have been. Your point?”

She didn’t speak again, and he turned away, dismissing her. Leonid, the mad king of Melar, had work to do—important work.