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  Malvorian looked back at his destroyed throne, shaking his head. “What an annoyance.”

  He walked toward the dead men, bent, and picked up Gurgan’s bracelet. On the inside, he noticed the silvery script of an enchantment.

  The man hidden in the shadows emerged, the hood of his cloak covering his head, as it always did. “You did well, my lord.”

  “This bracelet increased his power. I have never heard of such an enchantment. I wonder where he got it.” Malvorian stared down at the remains of the usurpers. “It was just as your vision foretold.” He turned toward the old man. “How could you know, Vanda? What black magic do you possess?”

  “It is not black magic. I was raised by the Seers, my lord.”

  Malvorian gasped. “The Witches of Kelmar? That’s even worse.”

  “They are simply misunderstood, much like yourself.”

  “Nonetheless, you must never mention the Seers while others are nearby. True or not, the legends surrounding the sect inspire fear and loathing. That is a conversation I would rather avoid.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Vanda bowed his head. “I will defer to your wisdom regarding your people.”

  “It is time for Devotion. I must head up to the tower.” He waved Vanda along. “Come. Join me.”

  The pair walked to the lift at the rear of the throne room and stepped on it. Malvorian held his hand against the control panel. Drawing upon his magic, he activated the lift. The crackle of raw energy drove the chains into motion, hoisting the platform.

  “As you recall,” Vanda said, “your defeat of the usurper was but the first event in the prophecy I shared with you.”

  “I cannot forget.”

  Malvorian narrowed his eyes in thought. Imagine my power if I were to extend my rule beyond the borders of Farrowen.

  “You must possess the Eye of Obscurance,” Vanda said. “It is the only way to achieve a higher station.”

  Malvorian spun toward him in alarm. It is as if he reads my very thoughts.

  Vanda chuckled. “Do not worry. I cannot read your thoughts. I am only adhering to the truth of my vision.”

  “The teachings of Farrow decry against prophecy, marking it as foul.” Malvorian recalled the scripture, reciting the passage aloud. “‘Beware those who attempt to predict the future, for only by evil means might one see beyond the present.’”

  Vanda sighed. “I am aware of the scripture. The Book of Farrow is not the only religious text to proclaim prophecy as evil.”

  The platform reached the tall, domed ceiling of the throne room. A thick wall obscured the view for a moment before the lift emerged into the evening air.

  The grandeur of Marquithe lay before them, the great city lit by torches and enchanted lanterns.

  Vanda gripped the platform rail and gazed at the moon. “I ask you to suspend those beliefs, set your prejudice aside, and consider prophecy in an objective light. In truth, prophecy is nothing more than instruction toward a possible future. Following such guidance greatly increases the odds for a specific outcome. In the end, the future depends solely on the actions of man. What you do will affect it. What you forego, well… That sometimes has an even greater impact.”

  Malvorian turned the words over in his head, struggling to find a path beyond a century of belief.

  “The vision I shared with you points toward a future where the Lord of Farrowen rises above all others.”

  A wall of stone slid past the platform, obscuring the city before opening to reveal a torchlit room. Malvorian stopped the platform and held his arm out.

  “It is time for you to depart, Vanda. Have a good evening. I will see you tomorrow.”

  “No, you will not. I must leave and will be away by the time you rise.”

  “Now? When I am on the cusp of a new future?”

  “You have what you need. The plan is in motion. The stars will soon align.”

  Malvorian’s concern lessened and he found himself nodding in agreement. “Where will you go?”

  “I must return to the Seers and discover what occurs next. Should you succeed with the first portion of the plan, additional guidance is required.”

  Vanda walked off the platform, pausing to speak over his shoulder. “Do you ever allow anyone else in the tower?”

  “I cannot.” Malvorian placed his hand on the control and the lift resumed its climb. “It is forbidden.”

  “Remember, the amulet,” Vanda said. “It is the key.”

  “Yes.” Malvorian’s face darkened. “Yet subtlety is required. The Enchanters Guild cannot know I am behind this scheme.”

  “Wise words, sire.” Vanda’s bow was the last thing Malvorian saw before the room was obscured from his view and the lift returned to open air.

  Gusts of wind ruffled Malvorian’s hair and braided beard. His robes flapped wildly as the wind grew stronger, a common occurrence whenever he neared the upper reaches of the tower. The platform stopped upon reaching the top. Malvorian withdrew his magic, lifted the gate, and stepped into the tower’s uppermost room.

  Pillars supported the domed roof, and a throne of crystal, surrounded by a circle of fire that forever burned, sat at the middle. In the back of the throne was a massive sapphire with eight perfect facets, the octagram seated in the crystal. There were no walls, so the wind carried through the space unabated. The magic, Farrow’s magic, fed the flames and made them immune to the wind, rain, or anything else. During his century of nightly visits to the tower, Malvorian had never seen the flames dim. He had, however, seen them blaze brightly.

  The wizard lord passed through the ring of fire, but neither he nor his clothing were burned. In fact, the magical flames gave off no heat at all. The throne, his true throne, beckoned. He succumbed to its will. Sitting on the Throne of Farrow, he gripped the arms, leaned back, and embraced the source of magic, his heart and soul connecting with the gem pressed against his back. Power flowed through him, the throne flaring bright blue. The flames erupted like an azure inferno, and the bell in the dome above him began to peal. Beams of blue light shot out from the tower, connecting the flame to obelisks in each of Farrowen’s major cities, lighting them brightly.

  Devotion began – prayers from the citizens across the wizardom Malvorian governed. The power of those prayers flowed into the wizard lord, the rapture consuming him as the world fell away.

  1

  Masquerade

  Rhoa Sulikani leaned out the carriage window. “Stop here, Juliam.”

  The carriage slowed to a stop, the interior jostling her as the driver climbed down. The door opened, and pale moonlight revealed a muscular man dressed in a doublet stretched tightly enough across his chest to cause gaps between the buttons. The man’s coat was similarly struggling to contain his muscles. The result made him appear overinflated, as if his body had swollen after getting dressed. Sweat glistened on his shaved head, and his curled mustache twisted as he gave her a weak smile.

  “We have arrived, Your Grace,” Juliam said loud enough to hear from a distance.

  “Thank you,” Rhoa replied, taking his hand as he helped her out. In the other hand, she lifted her layered skirts to keep them from catching.

  She stepped down onto the cobblestone street, her heels tapping noisily while she concentrated on not stumbling. I hate wearing heels.

  Juliam closed the door and extended an elbow. With her hand on his forearm, he escorted her toward the party. Despite her heels, Rhoa knew she appeared tiny next to the big man.

  Just ahead, another carriage pulled into the flickering amber light before the impressive mansion. Guards in shining armor waited before the front steps, pikes in hand, armor reflecting orange flames. Rhoa glanced back as Juliam walked her toward the guards. Beyond the halo of light cast by the lanterns, her carriage appeared a dull gray. Thank the gods, she thought. Arriving in a bright blue carriage would have attracted attention – something she did not need.

  The couple who had exited the other carriage finished speaking to the guard
s and began climbing the stairs. With her hand still on Juliam’s arm, Rhoa stopped at the end of the path.

  Juliam took a deep breath, projecting his voice as he introduced her arrival. “I present Her Grace, Wizardess Misa Wrenthal of Shear.”

  One guard frowned at his companion. “Shear? Why is this little girl so far from home?”

  “Little girl?” Rhoa bristled. “I’ll have you know, I turned sixteen last Lunartide.” She raised her hand and flexed her fingers, as if about to cast a spell.

  The other guard interjected. “Excuse him, Your Grace. He meant no disrespect.”

  “Yes,” the first guard said. “I apologize. I, um…assume you have papers?”

  “Juliam?”

  The big man nodded and drew a folded paper from his coat, opening it. From the paper, golden light appeared, the inscribed words gleaming. A guard leaned forward, skimmed it over, and nodded.

  “Please, Your Grace.” He extended his hand toward the stairs. “Enjoy the party.”

  Rhoa nodded before turning toward Juliam. “Take the carriage and return for me two hours after Devotion.”

  Juliam bowed as Rhoa turned toward the stairs, lifted her skirts, and began her ascent. The building before her stood four stories tall and extended down the street. Bright, flickering light danced along the building’s exterior, reflecting off windows and lighting the sculpted shrubs outside. Even in the great city of Marquithe, Forca Manor was a thing of beauty. While it lacked the sheer immensity of Marquithe Palace, the home of Wizard Palkan Forca could not be ignored.

  The light coming from the building was an inviting contrast to the ominous tower standing behind it – an imposing silhouette partially eclipsing the moon.

  Rhoa reached the top of the stairs and passed between thick, fluted columns. Two porters waited beside massive double doors, the panels inlaid with gold and silver. One porter bowed while the other opened the door. She thanked the two men and entered, pausing inside the entrance to gape in wonder.

  The receiving hall had a marble floor, the tiles a dark green with gold and black striations. A circular fountain occupied the heart of the room, centered between two curved staircases rising to an open second-story loft. People filled the loft, drinks in their hands, chatting and laughing.

  Rhoa gathered her focus and moved forward, pausing when she noticed an ornate mirror at the side of the room. An unfamiliar reflection gazed back at her. It was almost like staring at a stranger.

  Her braid was gone, replaced by a nest of black hair piled on her head. A simple silver tiara with a single sapphire, an item she had stolen a week earlier, held her hair in place. Oversized brown eyes gazed back at her. Those eyes, combined with her diminutive stature, often led others to believe she was a child on the cusp of womanhood rather than a nineteen-year-old adult. The cut of her yellow gown said otherwise.

  Shoulders bare, Rhoa’s dress exposed coppery skin and a hint of her modest bust. Ruffles covered her upper arms, masking much of the muscle found there. The puffy, ruffled skirts and cinched midriff made her trim waist appear even smaller. To offset the yellow, she wore a dark blue cape – the color of Farrowen. The cape was another stolen article.

  Turning from the mirror, she circled the fountain, passed the staircases, and entered the next room.

  The ballroom was filled with hundreds of guests, the hum of their conversations reverberating off the ceiling two stories above. Greens, reds, blues, purples, oranges, and other hues greeted her gaze. Women wore capes over elegant gowns, the men dressed in ornate robes with contrasting sashes. The sight eased Rhoa’s concerns, her yellow and blue ensemble lost among the kaleidoscope of colors.

  Royalty certainly likes to attract attention, Rhoa thought. No wonder they enjoy the menagerie. Our bright colors make them feel at home.

  A man dressed in a gray coat and holding a silver tray approached. “Greetings, Your Grace. Would you care for a drink?”

  Rhoa eyed the glasses on the tray and the carafe of wine in his hand, the liquid a deep maroon color. “No, thank you,” she replied. Best to keep a clear head tonight.

  The servant dipped his head and backed away.

  A teenage boy with long, blond locks stepped in front of Rhoa and gave her a smile. He was attractive, but exuded arrogance. A white sash offset his bright blue robes.

  “My, my. I haven’t seen you before.” His smile was filled with overly white teeth, his dark brow arched as he waited for a reply.

  “No.” Rhoa shook her head. “This is my first event in Marquithe.”

  “Really? Where are you from?” His bright blue eyes flicked toward her chest, something Rhoa seldom experienced. The corset she wore exaggerated her appearance, pushing parts up and together, resulting in multiple types of discomfort.

  “I am Misa Wrenthal–”

  “Ah. Wrenthal.” He nodded knowingly. “From Shear. I recognize the name.”

  “Yes.”

  In truth, I am ungifted, masquerading as a wizard.

  The thought caused Rhoa’s throat to tighten. If discovered, she would find herself in a dungeon…or worse.

  He scooped up her hand and lifted it to his lips. “My name is Godwin Forca.” His smile returned and he swept his arm out. “This is my family estate.”

  Rhoa’s eyes widened, her stomach twisting. She regained her composure, doing her best to sound sufficiently impressed. “Your father is Palkan Forca? The man who leads the Marquithe Wizards Guild?”

  “Yes. A position I will likely hold one day.”

  From across the room, music began to play. The center of the room cleared in moments. A thin man with brown hair and matching beard led a plump, blonde woman to the floor. Similar to Godwin, they both wore midnight blue augmented with silver – him with a silver sash, and her with a silver tiara and cape. The couple began to dance, moving in sync with each other and in time with the music.

  “Your parents, I presume,” Rhoa said.

  “Yes. As you know, it is customary for the hosts to perform the first dance.” He took her hand in his again. “We are free to join the next if you wish.”

  Rhoa studied him and considered what to do. He was attractive enough, yet could be no older than fifteen. Worse, she only knew one dance, and it was definitely a different step than what the high wizard and wizardess were executing. Still, she needed to blend in, at least for a bit, and her pretended age of sixteen was close enough for him to consider her a promising pursuit.

  “I am quite flattered,” she replied. His face darkened, likely assuming her refusal. “However, I must confess, I do not know this dance.”

  Relief crossed his face as he shrugged. “This one is relatively new and may not have yet reached Shear. I could teach you.”

  “Very well.”

  “Start by watching.” He pointed toward the dancing couple. “During the verse, we hold hands, take eight slip steps to the left, turn, then take eight slip steps to the right. With the chorus, men go in, take hands, skip left in a circle, and go out. Women do the same before returning to their partner.”

  The couple on the floor each performed the circle alone before returning to stand side by side with hands held.

  “This is the hard part.” He outlined the steps as they were performed. “Men double forward and clap. Women double forward and clap while the men retreat. Men double forward and don’t clap while women return. Once the men return, the process is repeated with the women leading.”

  Another verse played, followed by a chorus. By the time the song was finished, Rhoa had a general sense of the dance. Godwin took her hand and led her to the floor as others hurried to take positions, dividing into two lines facing each other. The dance began. Rhoa watched others while she performed the steps, counting to keep track. When they reached the chorus, the men took the middle, followed by the women. Despite her anxiety, a smile bloomed as she spun, clapped, and moved to the beat. Before she knew it, the dance was finished. She laughed at the fun of it.

  Godwin drew he
r aside and grabbed two glasses of wine, handing her one. She pretended to sip it while he gulped his down.

  He wiped the red from his lips and smiled. “You were wonderful. Are you sure you do not know this dance?”

  She shook her head. “Not until today.”

  “Well, you are a natural.”

  “You are too kind.”

  “Nonsense.” His arm slipped around her. “Would you like a tour of the manor?”

  Rhoa turned the idea over. She needed to be careful for fear of him seeing through her guise. Still, his invitation solved a problem she had yet to tackle. Devotion was fast approaching.

  She smiled. “I would love to see your home.”

  “Wonderful.” He held out his elbow.

  When she placed her hand on his arm, he led her from the ballroom and up a staircase. At the landing, Godwin spoke briefly with a handful of other teens, introducing Rhoa. In the ballroom below, the music continued as another dance began, the men and women clustered at opposite corners until they took turns crossing and spinning at the center.

  Rhoa and Godwin resumed their ascent, passing the third level and moving on to the fourth. The music faded, the torchlit corridor quiet, save for their footsteps. Extravagant tapestries and scenic paintings, all lush with color, ordained the walls. They passed closed doors made of heavy wood, the house symbol of a lightning bolt piercing the letter F etched in gold on each.

  Concern began to weigh on Rhoa. “Where are we going?”

  Godwin smiled. “Someplace special.”

  When they reached the end of the hallway, he opened the door. The lit torch within revealed a circular stairwell going up to the right, down to the left.

  "It’s a tower,” she realized.

  With a nod, he led her up, the pair ascending in a gradual radius. Two stories later, they arrived at the top where a closed door waited. Godwin flashed a grin and opened it.