OoOoO

A knocking came at the tower door. It echoed through the common room, up the spiral staircase and all the way to the topmost study of the High Obad. The pounding came again, firmer this time and growing impatient. Arzai knew who it was; she could feel the magic emanating from the person standing outside the Tower of the Elements, and she cursed it. So it seemed that the Magicol's third and final Red Obad had deigned to return at last.

Rising from her desk, the High Obad of Goran took her time. She straightened the sleeves of her scarlet robe and tossed her long rope of twisting brown-black hair over one shoulder. The trio of juvenile dragon skeletons watched Arzai from the corner of the room. Their dull, empty eye sockets met her own, glittering like hot rubies in anticipation of the coming battle.

Frandel had set out from Amenthere some months ago, and so much had changed since then. To the rest of the Magicol, Frandel's purpose had been to seek out magically gifted children in the east of Goran and bring them back to Castle Armathain for training. Only Frandel and King Mahir himself had known the truth of his mission. Even Tomur, the now-disgraced former High Obad had been kept in the dark, and for good reason. After all, it was Tomur who had forbade Frandel from learning waking magic.

Waking magic. Even now, Arzai still struggled to come to terms with it. From the moment she first set first in Castle Armathain as a young girl, Mistress Lirien and then Tomur had instilled in her the notion that the Obads' magic was impossible to use, must less control, without the use of a casting trance. The trance rendered them immobile, unconscious to the world around them, incapable of any action even for self-preservation until the spell was complete. As a result, every act of magic was a highly controlled, predictable performance, and had been for centuries.

Without the ability to use their powers spontaneously, and due to the small size of the Magicol, there really hadn't been any practical use to which Obads could be put. Instead they had whiled away the years in Castle Armathain, chasing understanding of their gifts in dusty old tomes and through haphazard experiments with bits of earth and bowls of water. As far as Arzai could see, these years spent as scholars and royal lapdogs had amounted to nothing. No greater gains for the kingdom, no greater esteem for the Obads, and no higher purpose served.

That could all change now. Now that Arzai was High Obad, their kind might once again know greatness at the right hand of the Amenthis dynasty. And it was all thanks to Mahir.

Words could not describe the depths of Arzai's gratitude toward the king. After Tomur and Margalee - another Blue Obad and once Arzai's most treasured friend in the whole wide world - had done the unthinkable and commissioned a StarGazer assassin to attack Mahir while asleep in his bed, the king could have easily done away with the entire Magicol in retribution. And what could they have done to defend themselves? In the time it would have taken to even begin a casting trance, Mahir could have ordered the Knights of Amenthis to sweep all of their heads from their shoulders.

But that was not what had happened. Instead, Mahir had given them, given Arzai a chance to prove their loyalty. All she had had to do was disavow her friend and her mentor, divorcing herself from them and all that their actions stood for. The only reason that Tomur and Margalee had not died that day was because Bvhoros, the Magicol's Green Obad, had invoked a royal boon to save their lives.

Ever since that day, it had fallen to Arzai to restore order and pride to the Magicol. It was not an easy task, especially with some like the Red Ovate, Ijireen, proving herself to be a constant challenge to Arzai's authority. It did not help that Arzai was the youngest of the four remaining Obads, although not by much. Bvhoros and Davenir at least had proven capable of lessening Arzai's burden by taking on the teaching of their corresponding Ovate. Arzai shuddered to think what Frandel's return would mean for the fragile new status quo.

Gathering her wits, Arzai swept down the spiral staircase and across the common room. The rotunda, ordinarily a cozy place filled with well-worn furniture and colored light depending on which stained glass window it was shining through, seemed to have had the air sucked out of it. Davenir was already there, his book abandoned on the chair he had just risen from. Ordinarily Arzai would have grumbled at him for not answering the door, but this was different...this was Frandel. No doubt even the Ovates could feel the potent magical signature that was uniquely his. Bvhoros once told Arzai that sensing her was like glimpsing the flicker of a torch around a corner, while Frandel was more like a stinging sunburn to the face. Feeling the prickling across her cheeks intensify the closer she got to the tower door, Arzai was inclined to agree with that comparison.

The knocking came again, downright demanding this time. Arzai could feel Bvhoros and Davenir behind her in the common room, and the three Ovates all listening in from somewhere upstairs. The weathered gold ring of the High Obad glinted from her finger as she reached for the door. If only Frandel could have been eaten by a hyena or something while in the east.

He was waiting on the step with arms crossed and eyebrow raised. The first thing Arzai noticed was how sunburn had rendered Frandel's face almost indistinguishable in shade from his robes. His feathery red hair had grown long enough to tie back into a blunt tail at the nape of his neck. The cavalier grin hadn't changed though. With a smirk, Frandel shouldered past Arzai into the tower.

"Ahh....at last, home again!" he proclaimed, dropping his rucksack onto the floor with a tiny 'poof' of dust and dirt. It like the rest of Frandel was travel-stained and in need of a good wash. "Well, why so silent? Is this any kind of welcoming committee for a brother returned from the wilds?"

"Welcome back Frandel. I see the eastern skies left their mark on you," remarked Arzai. Brother my foot, she thought distastefully.

Frandel laughed. "This? Pah, it's nothing! I'll be nicely sun-kissed in a matter of days once it goes down. And here's my favorite gloomy Grey Obad! Come here Dav, if I didn't know better I'd say you've lost weight since the last time I saw you? Stars man, you need to be eating more!"

Davenir winced over Frandel's shoulder as the other man pulled him into a back-slapping hug. So much for Davenir straying outside his private quarters to socialize, thought Arzai. It looked like he'd be right back into his old habits of tucking himself away in his den like a nervous field mouse.

"I must admit Frandel, I'm surprised to see you return alone," said Bvhoros, calmly allowing the Red Obad to press a hug on him too. He didn't even flinch when Frandel reached up to tweak a beaded charm dangling from his green and black head-wrap. "Were there no potential prospects for Ovates in all of your travels across the east?"

Well, it seemed Bvhoros was of no mind to let Frandel keep thinking his true purpose was still unknown to them. Arzai appreciated that, because neither was she. The sooner they got this over with, the better. Even without Bvhoros' thinly veiled probing, it was only a matter of moments before Frandel noticed the obvious absences in their midst...

Sure enough, Frandel did not answer Bvhoros. Instead, his gingery brows had winged together in a suspicious look as he scanned the tower.

"Is today one of Master Tomur's 'special project' days? I would have thought that he and Margalee would be among the first to greet me at the-"

Frandel trailed off abruptly when his roving gaze landed back on Arzai. Or more specifically, on her tightly folded hands. The ring of the High Obad was unmistakable; they had all seen it wrapped bold and bright around first Lirien then Tomur's finger.

"What are you doing with Master Tomur's ring...?" asked Frandel quietly.

And so it began. Steeling herself, Arzai spoke in as unhurried and measured a tone as possible. "The ring is mine now, as is the scepter. Tomur is High Obad here no longer."

"I don't believe you. Where is he? Where is Margalee??"

"They're gone, Frandel," said Bvhoros. "Banished from Amenthere and sent to roam blind in the wilderness. There was an attack..."

"What attack?!"

In the blink of an eye, Frandel had crossed the room, placing himself directly in front of Arzai within arm's length. His scarlet eyes gleamed at her with a dangerous inner fire. Arzai did not so much as flinch.

"A failed assassination attempt. Tomur and Margalee worked together to hire a StarGazer, and Margalee under Tomur's orders helped the assassin gain access to Castle Armathain after nightfall. It was nothing short of a miracle that King Mahir managed to fight off his attacker until the guards could be called. Prince Hithon was in the room at the time," she added as an afterthought.

Briefly, Arzai recognized the flash of wounded betrayed that flickered across Frandel's sunburned face. She had felt the same way after receiving the news. That quickly hardened into scorn though.

"And I imagine you were only too ready to capitalize on their failing, weren't you Arzai?" he said bitterly. "You must have been currying favor with the king for years already to have been named High Obad over the likes of myself, or even Bvhoros."

"You veil your jealousy poorly, Frandel. His Majesty offered me the responsibility of leading our Magicol because he felt I was best suited to the task. There is nothing more to discuss." Arzai tried to turn away, but Frandel seized her by the arm.

"Nothing more to discuss?! You are half the Obad I am and you know it! Do you even know why I was sent east, under personal directive of the king no less?"

"Frandel-" Bvhoros tried to intervene, spurred to action by the Red Obad's aggressive grip on Arzai's elbow. Arzai warned him back though with the subtlest flick of her eyes.

"As a matter of fact I do. King Mahir revealed the discovery of waking magic to us personally, and even entrusted me with the means to begin learning it ourselves. You think he could afford to wait on your leisurely return to Amenthere? War is brewing on our southern coast! The crown needs its Magicol, powerful...and unified, as it should be."

Frandel narrowed his red gaze at Arzai, long fingers tightening like the curling legs of a spider. "You don't even sound like yourself, you know that? I can hear Mistress Lirien's words behind your voice. You're just parroting your betters, hoping to Amenthis that no one will speak up and point out how evident it is that you don't know what you're doing. You speak of waking magic, but you don't even know the first thing-"

"That is enough," Arzai hissed. She wrenched her arm away from Frandel before he could notice how it trembled. "One more word, and I'll officially consider you insubordinate to the High Obad."

"Frandel, you've just returned from a long journey...go unpack your things. Matters of importance like this will be better discussed later," said Bvhoros.

Frandel turned to glower at the older Green Obad like a cat about to scratch. "You're no better for letting her carry on like this. How can you stand by and obey her as if she were any equal to Master Tomur or Mistress Lirien?"

"It was not to me that the king offered the ring and scepter," Bvhoros replied. Arzai did not miss the slightest note of irritation in his voice though. So perhaps Bvhoros wasn't as completely supportive of her as she had previously hoped? Arzai's unease grew tenfold, roiling in her gut like a pit of eels. She could not afford to let even a flicker of doubt show though, not in front of the Magicol.

"Go upstairs, Frandel," she said. "We have lost enough Obads already this summer."

That was perhaps a poor choice of reminders for the agitated sorcerer. Frandel was upon her again in a flash.

"Oh, you think to threaten me, High Obad? I somehow doubt you could carry through on that threat. My skills are no longer limited to candle-gazing and melting metal..."

As he spoke, Frandel lifted a hand from his side, ominously smooth and slow. His eyes took on an eerie red glow, like a pair of hot coals in a hearth. On his palm, a flame kindled. It burned high and hot enough that Arzai could feel the heat on her face. Frandel leered at her, dragon-like, fully present and in control of his faculties. Davenir could be heard sucking in a breath.

Arzai, however, would not be cowed. When she spoke, her words cut like a sleek, icy blade. "You would dare to threaten me, who wears the ring and bears the king's blessing? Even if your magic could hurt me, you would kill yourself as much as me in a single blow. Mahir has no tolerance for rebellious Obads as of late."

"True. I cannot harm you with fire, Red Obad that you are. What would it say about your authority, or lack thereof, if it were known that you had been visibly bested by another Obad? Say, if I were to burn away that long, glorious tail of which you're so indiscreetly proud? How would that feel, to walk around Castle Armathain with your bald scalp for all to see, so that everyone might know that Arzai, High Obad of Goran, cannot even defend herself from her own kind?"

"That's enough Frandel, you're taking this display too far!" Bvhoros exclaimed.

"Yes, stop this!" cried Davenir.

Despite their words, Bvhoros and Davenir were helpless to intervene. In the time it would take for either of them to enter a casting trance, Frandel could easily attack Arzai three times over. Arzai, however, knew something that Frandel did not. That was why, when Frandel brought his handful of crackling flames up level with her nose, she only smiled, small and slow.

"You are not the only one able to learn new tricks in this Magicol, Frandel."

Quick as a flash, Arzai clapped her hands together, smothering Frandel's fire spell between her palms. Before the startled Fire Obad had a chance to recover, she reached for her next target. Red eyes blazing like bonfires, Arzai jammed her fingers through Frandel's feathery hair. The dry, sun-baked strands caught the sparks from her fingertips like kindling. Frandel's mouth dropped open in an 'O' of shock as he found himself eye-to-eye with another fully aware, fully capable combatant. He drove a knee into Arzai's thigh, forcing her off of him. It was too late though; by the time Frandel recovered himself enough to try to smother the flames, they had licked him bare right down to the scalp.

Bvhoros and Davenir had had enough. The two Obads caught Frandel by the arms, dragging him back from where Arzai stood, eyes still afire with scarlet light. Frandel made a brief attempt to fight them off, but between the two of them they managed to push him to one knee with his arms bent sharply behind him.

Bvhoros was angrier than anyone had seen him in a long time. "Are you really that bull-headed and selfish, you arrogant, hearth-licking whelp?! We've lost Tomur and Margalee already, is that not enough? This infighting will not only shame us, but will shake what trust we have regained with the crown since!"

"This is over. Frandel, if Mahir wanted you as the High Obad he would have had the ring and scepter waiting upon your return. He gave them to me though, and you will either accept that, or so help me by Amenthis' beard, I will turn you over to face his wrath regardless of how small our Magicol becomes! The king is going to be troubled enough as it is when he returns from the port at Syrion."

"And why is that?" Frandel spat, glaring up at Arzai with teeth bared. With his bare pate still smoking, cinders drifting down around his shoulders, he looked like a feral creature.

It was Davenir who answered, soft voice clipped and harried. "We lost the Third Company, and Utunma along with it. Factionists slaughtered the entire force sent to restore order. Captain Sabin was among the fallen...the king himself only just escaped with his life."

The gravity of the state of the world beyond their tower settled like a cloud of falling ash. No one spoke. The only sound was Frandel's labored breathing, drawn between clenched teeth.

"I do not want you here," said Arzai to Frandel at last. "You are the very last person that I would have wanted to need anything from. The fact remains though that you have two choices. Firstly, you can keep to your course, reject me as High Obad, and then try to explain why it is that you disagree with his decisions when King Mahir returns. Somehow, given recent events, I doubt he'll be in much of a mood to tolerate your rebellion. Or...you can obey Mahir's orders as he told them to us without him needing to force you himself."

"...and those orders are?" growled Frandel.

"Share all you know of waking magic with us. As you can see, I have made great strides on my own, but – (and it cost Arzai great pains to admit this) – your 'exploits' at Trosk make it more than evident we all have a long ways yet to go. We need to be able to fight, all of us, and you are going to help me make it so."

Frandel blanched angrily. No doubt he had fancied himself special, set apart by being the only Obad in the Magicol able to wield waking magic. Arzai had just disproven that notion in dramatic fashion, and was now asking him to further close that gap. She stared him down though, quite literally seeing as he was still being held to a knee. Everyone held their breath.

Finally Frandel spoke, grinding his teeth so loudly it could be heard in his voice. "As the king commands."

Arzai smirked. "As I command."

OoOoO

Outside the blue-paned western window, the Ovates watched and listened, wide-eyed. Everyone had known that Frandel's return would be dramatic, but this near-fight had exceeded all expectations. When Frandel grudgingly submitted, Ijireen was the first to pull away from the sill.

"Well, looks like Arzai's managed to brow-beat yet another Obad into obedience," the sixteen-year-old Red Ovate remarked. She lowered herself to sit on the steeply inclined roof tiles. The castle courtyards and wall could easily be surveyed from their perch, as well as The Lair beyond. The stone dragons ringing the uppermost edge of Amenthere's arena were cast in dark silhouette against the muggy August sun. Ijireen's thick halo of dark curls likewise stood in sharp relief against the blue-grey sky above her. Quiet frustration simmered just beneath the surface of her flinty gaze.

"Were you expecting that to go any other way?"

Roran, the oldest of the Magicol's three Ovates at seventeen, picked his way down the roof to stand next to Ijireen. His long, lanky arms and legs rendered him about as graceless as a colt on level ground, but there was potential in the well-balanced set of his shoulders and the strength of his jaw. Roran held all the makings of a tall, athletic man, although it was still hard for some to see, himself especially. His hair like Frandel's was red, but more of a carroty orange than the older Obad's now-gone rusty hue.

Ijireen shrugged. "It could have, if Davenir and Bvhoros hadn't backed her up. Frandel is the more powerful of the two, by a long shot."

"But Arzai has the support of the king, and that counts for a lot."

"Only here in Amenthere."

Further up the roof, Brand, the youngest of the three, wasn't interested in listening to Ijireen complain. The boy was edging his way along the side of the tower toward the ridge that connected its base to the rest of the castle. Roran might have thought to caution Brand to be careful, if he didn't know that a fall had as much chance of hurting a Grey Obad as it did a feather.

"It's still hard to believe that Captain Sabin is dead," he said instead. "I wonder what would have happened if the king had brought one of us to fight at Utunma?"

"One of us? We'd probably be dead. Sitting ducks on the ocean, picked off by a Factionist spear."

Roran nudged Ijireen with his shoe. "You know what I mean; if one of the Obads had gone, like Arzai or Bvhoros, or even Davenir."

"Again, they'd probably be dead. I'm just glad that Frandel is back. Maybe now we can actually start learning something useful!"

"You know, I think you might just hurt yourself if you ever tried to say something cheery, 'Reen."

"Didn't you know? Cheerfulness is poison to Red Obads." Ijireen smirked.

"Argh!" Roran threw up his hands in the air. "Have it your way. I'm going to go see what Brand's doing. He at least can talk about something other than Arzai and politics for five minutes. Honestly, if you were anymore obsessed I'd be asking when you plan to pledge your troth."

"Go bite a rock, you jolly Green giant."

Shaking his head, Roran left Ijireen to glower like a gargoyle out over the city. As he made his way up the side of the roof, he took care to stay low to avoid being glimpsed out the window. Davenir would have words for them if he caught them out here. He found Brand on the other side of the ridge between the tower and the castle, kneeling next to a gap in the tiles.

"What've you got there, Brand?" Roran asked, taking care not to slip as he slid down next to the Grey Ovate.

Brand looked up with a gap-toothed grin. "The eggs have hatched. It was so late in the year, I didn't think this clutch would make it, but they did!"

"What type of bird are they?" Roran could hear tiny little cheeps coming from the hole.

"Pigeons, my favorite."

Out of all the birds in Goran, the common pigeon wasn't what Roran would have chosen as his particular favorite. When he told Brand so, the younger boy frowned.

"Why shouldn't I like them because they're common? That just means I get to see them more often than a hawk or a finch!"

"...Fair point. Is that the mother?"

A plump pigeon sat cooing anxiously on the nearby sill of a tower window. Brand smile and held out a hand to her. To Roran's surprise, after a few moments of twitching and pacing, the bird actually came. In a brief flutter of feathers, she crossed over from the sill to land on Brand's wrist. Brand didn't even have a crust of bread with which to have tempted her.

"How did you do that?" asked Roran, impressed.

Brand stroked the pigeon's grey chest with the back of one finger. "I just...I guess I just told her in my head that I'm a friend, and she believed me. She wants to believe anyways, since we're so close to her nest."

"That sounds like magic," said Roran, more a question than a statement. Brand's pearly eyes shone bright, whether with pleasure or magic or the midday sun it was hard to tell.

"I'm not using magic, I swear!" he protested. "See, I'm not even droning! She just trusts me is all."

After one more pet, Brand set the pigeon down on the roof next to her nest. The pigeon chicks sensing their mother's presence, immediately started a chorus of urgent peeping. With no more mind to her human guests, the mother bird ducked under the roof tile to see to her hungry brood. Roran caught a glimpse of frizzy dark hair near the ridge. Ijireen was watching and listening, although she didn't want them to know she was.

"I can do other things without magic too," Brand continued, basking in the attention. It wasn't too often that the older Ovates let him have the limelight in their trio. "I can talk to people, and sometimes see them too."

"I think we can all do that Brand," laughed Roran.

"No, not like that! I mean people who aren't flesh and blood...people who run on the wind and talk without voices."

That brought Roran's laughing to a dead halt. "You don't mean...? Brand, spirits don't exist anymore. First King Amenthis and his Obads destroyed them when Goran was made."

Brand shook his head vehemently, biting his lip in frustration. Any second now Ijireen would undoubtedly come to their side of the roof and start teasing him. "I know what spirits are Roran, and that's not them. They're people, human people, not wind wraiths. They have names, and tell me things about places they used to go and things they used to do. I think..." Brand's voice lowered to a shy whisper. "I think they might be dead."

All Obads knew the stories of the ancient creatures inside and out, which meant that Roran at least partially understood what Brand was trying to say. Everyone could understand what a dragon was, or a giant, but trying to explain spirits to everyday folk was much harder. That was why Master Tomur had simplified things and dispelled misconceptions for his students in their earliest lessons by giving spirits the nickname 'wind wraiths'. It fit too. According to Master Tomur and the Magicol's books on Air magic, spirits were the breath of Goran given form. Like dragons, giants and sea serpents, they were inhuman; wild and capricious and without speech. That was why Roran was so incredulous to hear Brand describe his so-called visitors in such a way.

"Have you told Davenir about them?" asked Roran.

Brand nodded. He darted a nervous look toward the Tower of the Elements where it loomed over them. They sat in its shadow, long and cool and abruptly reminiscent of how a giant might have blocked out the sun in the early days of the world.

"I did. He told me..." Brand took a deep breath, his voice dropping so quiet that Ijireen was forced to abandon her pretences and lean over their side of the roof. "...he told me that he hears them too, and that I wasn't to tell anyone."

"Not to tell anyone? Why not?" Ijireen demanded, swinging her legs over the ridge and coming to join them. Her face was pinched with intent interest.

"Because he doesn't want the king to know. He's worried that if Arzai finds out, she'll tell Mahir. He said to tell him if I see them again, and that if I do I'm to ask them who and what they are, and what their purpose is."

Roran was flabbergasted. "Brand...do you mean to tell us that you and Davenir are keeping secrets from the High Obad and the king?"

"Please don't tell, Roran!" Brand pleaded, silver eyes wide. "I don't want to be blinded!"

Ijireen interrupted before Roran could say anything to that. "He's not going to say anything, are you Roran?" She fixed a look on him that made Roran suddenly aware of what a long fall it would be from here down to the palace courtyards below. "He would never want you to get into trouble like that, you or Davenir. Especially after what happened to Master Tomur and Margalee, we have to help and protect one another. Isn't that right?"

"Please Roran?" begged Brand.

Throwing up his hands, Roran surrendered. "It doesn't seem like I've got much choice now, do I? I don't like this though..."

"You heard Brand," said Ijireen. "Davenir is looking into it. Besides, is he or is he not the Magicol's Grey Obad? What could Arzai or Mahir do with the knowledge of Brand's voiceless people except cause more trouble? Let Davenir and Brand keep their secrets, and we'll keep our silence."

Seeing Ijireen and Brand join together on anything against him made Roran wonder if he was dreaming. He wanted to discuss this with Bvhoros more than anything, but the other two Ovates forbade him from even taking it that far. And so, Roran had no choice but to swear to secrecy, if only for Brand and Davenir's sakes.

OoOoO

Later that day, on his way down to the lower halls for dinner, Roran made a detour to the Hall of Thrones. Prince Hithon had been holding court in his father's stead earlier that day, but now the hall was empty and silent. The cream-colored marble floor echoed dully beneath the soles of Roran's shoes, carrying his footsteps throughout the carven columns on either side of the vast space. The thrones of long-dead kings and queens seemed to watch him from their golden alcoves as he passed, and Roran couldn't help but shiver. If Brand's visions of people past were real, were the Amentherian rulers of old here, lingering unseen as Roran passed blind through their midst?

The feeling persisted even when Roran came to a stop at the bottom of the dias. There, at the front of the hall atop seven raised steps, sat the thrones of King Mahir and the late Queen Gwynnis. A pair of fire-etched dragon wings stood out in relief against the near black wood of Mahir's seat, wings which had given him the nickname 'The Dragonling King' amongst the court. Roran's eyes were drawn past the thrones though, to the golden tree that grew above and behind them.

Roran himself had made that tree, channeled it into being from nothing but the power of Earth that always swirled within him. He had melded that magic with Prince Hithon's life force, as a gift for the prince's tenth Birth Day. The golden tree was destined to grow and flourish as Hithon did. It had already sprouted another five feet at least to Hithon's five centimeters since it was made. The tree's leaves were as bright and red as rubies, glittering like bloody diamonds beneath the glass skylight overhead. Someday Hithon's throne would sit there, shaded by Roran's golden tree. Roran wondered who might sit upon the throne next to Hithon.

A pang from his stomach reminded Roran that he too was a growing young man in need of a meal. With a final look over the thrones and the tree, he turned to leave. The Hall of Thrones echoed around him, silent and still. Little did the Green Ovate know that tens upon hundreds of pairs of eyes watched him, seated without form upon their thrones of old.

OoOoO