Bastien schools his features, his tone flat, almost disinterested. “I’m not going to argue with you. The decision is made.”
I take a deep breath to continue my argument, but Bastien cuts me off by the simple maneuver of turning his back and walking out of the room.
“I’m not staying here,” I say as I scramble after him.
He walks right out of the cottage, and I have no choice but to follow, because I need answers more than I need to sulk. I close the door behind me and without thought, throw magic at it to latch it from the inside.
“Where are we going?” I demand as I catch up to Bastien on the sidewalk where he heads for the town center.
“Conclave Hall,” he replies without slowing. “I expect you want your questions answered, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Imagine you’ll want to slap a few of them like you did me,” he says nonchalantly.
“I was thinking the gallows,” I mutter as I manage to keep pace at his side.
I’m not sure, but I think I hear a snort of amusement, likely impossible given this man I no longer know at all seems devoid of heart or soul.
Besides, I wasn’t joking. I’m furious with the Conclave—they betrayed me as much as Bastien did. My feelings for them are only tempered by the fact that I didn’t love them the way I loved Bastien.
The Conclave consists of thirteen members of the Scrinia line. It’s a magical number, and every royal house has one who serves to advise, educate, and train in the uses of magic, governance of the people, and diplomacy with other regions.
The history of our realm is well-known and documented. The Scrinia were the original inhabitants, evolved from daemon druids who possessed the knowledge and meteor stone necessary to create Vyronas. Those original daemons were born of unions between Light and Dark Fae—immortal fallen angels, all cast from Heaven for betraying God. The daemons were powerful immortals themselves with varying degrees of magic that could be inherited by either parent or both. Often, they had a light or dark aura surrounding their forms, which would indicate whether they tended to lean toward their Light or Dark Fae parent.
But thousands of years of evolution changed the original inhabitants. Today’s daemon druids really can’t even be considered daemon anymore and are only referred to as Scrinia. Over the centuries, their lines have mated with humans, watering down the inherent immortality and magic they possessed, although they can be exceptionally long-lived.
The loss of their fae-inherited magic was not a big deal as they did have the foresight to create the ley lines, and over time created spells to bolster and enhance the magic that permeates this land. I could even liken it to the never-ending power of a nuclear reactor, but far less dangerous.
The Conclave are most important, though, for their knowledge of our past. They are the historians who record events important to our way of life, preserving spells and penning books to help future generations. Our enlightenment comes from the Conclave, so they are important.
Fortunate for them, I suppose, as we’ll need them to win the war against Ferelith. At the time I left, she was using blood magic, which is supreme in power and highly lethal. I have to assume that’s still the case.
We have only our ingenuity to use the magics provided by the ley lines to fight her, and it might not be enough. I will need the Conclave to dive deep into this problem. At the time I was sent to the First Dimension, we were in the early throes of war and didn’t know much about Ferelith, her history, or her motives. I’m eager to see what’s been discovered in my absence.
Approaching the large hall, I tip my head back to look at the stone raven, a symbol of wisdom and cunning. It’s always represented the Conclave, and every member wears a black raven’s feather pinned to their garment, or sometimes the women wear them in their hair. It used to bring me comfort… the symbolism.
But as we ascend the steps, I don’t feel comfort at all. Something strikes me as I look around the busy streets.
“How many people live in this stronghold?” I ask.
Halting, Bastien turns to look at me. It’s an innocuous question, and for the first time since he’s reentered my life, he doesn’t seem tense. “Roughly two thousand, give or take. Over half are soldiers. And it’s a town, not a stronghold. It can’t defend against Ferelith if she were to venture this far from Kestevayne to strike.”
“And there are others like this?”
Bastien nods, glances out toward the edge of town to the rolling hills beyond. “Several spread out in the south lands. Some in the west. We felt it best to not bring the army together until we were ready to advance on Kestevayne. Easier to hide too.”