The King requires your presence for an important matter, at your earliest convenience. Bora Bora hated the very idea of that fat lazy monarch summoning him anywhere. That he had to obey the orders of a stranger boiled his very blood. He should be making preparations for the march against Tiamat, not pandering to the whim of the King and his sodding court. But, as the High Priest had said, it was important to keep the court happy, so that they could continue to operate the way they wanted.

The guards stationed in front of the palace’s huge double doors looked askance at his appearance, clad as he was in his armor, and gripping the staff of his heavy scythe. They were reluctant to allow someone, even the Champion of a deity, to enter the fortified building in such a warlike appearance. One of them, braver than the others, stepped quickly to the side to block his path. Bora Bora paused in his stride, less out of respect and more out of surprise that someone would dare stall him.

“You’ll need to surrender that weapon before entering the palace, Master Ciayol,” the guard said. So the fool did know who he was, Bora Bora thought. Well, it wasn’t as if the demand was unexpected. With a quiet inner sigh that the man didn’t notice, he handed the weapon over without hesitation. The guard looked more surprised than ever, but nodded, trying to keep up a stern, unbending image. “Very well. You may go inside.”

Bora Bora only wasted just enough time to sneer at the guard before accepting the invitation, and shoving one of the doors open. It creaked as only old doors could, though the fact that they were closed at this time of the day did raise his eyebrow. In normal circumstances, the doors would remain open, albeit guarded, so that merchants and tradesmen could access the building. It was only to be closed in the event of an attack. As he hadn’t seen evidence of enemies or fighting on his way up the hill, he could only surmise that the King was feeling jittery.

Two more doors between him and the palace’s heart, the throne room. Predictably, at the next door, there was a small squadron of guards ready to escort him. He submitted, reluctantly, to a search, to ensure that he wasn’t hiding any other weapons. He made no secret of his impatience during the entire process. As if he’d be so duplicitous as to conceal a weapon. If he’d wanted to, he could have carved his way directly to the throne room, cutting down all of the weak men who stood before him. Finally, he passed through the second set of doors and walked the short distance to the third and final, the doors that blocked access to the throne room.

At his appearance, a steward jumped to attention and hurriedly slipped through the doors to the room beyond. Bora Bora snorted in disgust. The stiff, formal behavior of court wore on his nerves. He decided that enough was enough. He’d get through to the heart of this meeting, and get it over with. Ignoring the surprised shouts of his armed escort, he strode forward and shoved the door open, narrowly missing the steward with the oaken slabs. The little man had been partway through announcing his arrival. Pity, he thought with a smirk. Might as well introduce himself now.

“You wanted to see me?” He asked, making no effort to bow or offer polite honorifics. “I am a busy man, King Gorteau.”

As he expected, his brazen manner immediately caused disorder among the counselors gathered in the throne room, not to mention the King himself. The monarch shot to his feet at once, his face purpling with anger. He pointed one fat finger at Bora Bora, nearly stammering with indignation as he tried to find adequate words to express the severity of his sin.

“Yes, yes,” Bora Bora said with an air of exhaustion. “How dare I break formal protocol! How dare I address my ruler and monarch in such a familiar manner! Save your breath. Why am I here?”

The counselors looked on in abject horror. Men had been executed for less than that. But there was something about the deadset red eyes of the man before them that said violence would not be a good idea. It would probably only end horribly. Bora Bora recognizes that fear. It was identical to the fear that showed in the men and women he killed in battle. One of the men, easily recognizable as the King’s younger brother, rose to his feet, his voice rising to quell the outburst.

“That’s enough!” He snapped, and silence fell at once. “Master Ciayol, you are the guest of the King, and I must request that you remember that. Put your dislike to the side, and afford him the basic respect that his position demands.”

Bora Bora stared curiously at the Prime Magus, noting the steel in the man’s eyes. At last, here was a man he could understand. He’d worked his way to the power he held now, the power that he could smell rolling off his skin. He could always recognize a kindred spirit. He offered him a silent nod. Not a bow, nor concession, but a simple acknowledgment that he would honor his request. Aren Gorteau nodded in response and settled himself beside his brother once more.

“To what purpose was I summoned, Your Majesty?” He asked, bobbing his head in a short gesture that could almost be considered a bow. “As you are doubtless aware, I am preparing for a war, one that I will be leading for my lord Bahamut.”

“Yes,” Johnathan Gorteau said shortly, his temper still high. “I know what you and your fellow savages have planned. There is no doubt that you have the strength necessary to lead such an effort. That’s why I summoned you.”

Bora Bora’s eyebrow twitched slightly, but he showed no other expression. “What would you ask of me?”

“I’m placing you in command of a battalion of my soldiers, Master Ciayol. We are nearing war with the Mitene Union, and a draft is already in place. It is time for you to do your part for your country.”

That took Bora Bora by surprise. He’d known of King Gorteau’s greed and lust for power, but even this was going far for the man. Manners be damned, he thought. With a slight twitch of his fingers as if to summon his weapon from where it was stashed, he drew himself up to his full height. His presence seemed to expand as he did so, and the people nearest to him shifted uncomfortably in their seats, mice before a lion. The most contemptuous sneer he could muster formed on his face, and he took a deep breath.

“No.”

The King’s face, which had slowly been receding to its pale complexion, immediately shot back to purple, and then past it to red. He was positively incandescent with rage. He jumped to his feet, his many chins wobbling with the effort, and pointed down at Bora Bora once more.

“This is not a request, you lowborn cur!” He screeched. “I am the lord of this realm, the eldest heir to a long line of rulers! My line was clad in royalty while your bloodline was rolling around in the filth! You will obey me!”

What an impassioned delivery, Bora Bora thought. Pity, it meant nothing to him. He had no family to be offended for, nor any pride to injure. He lived only for the contest of battle, and the hunting of his deity’s enemies. But he had to admit a slight sense of pleasure in watching the fat man jump up and down in impotent rage at his refusal. “No.”

Goaded beyond reason, the King shouted at the guards that surrounded Bora Bora. “Seize him!”

Before the nearest man had taken even one step towards him, Bora Bora let out a piercing whistle and flicked his fingers, pulling his weapon to him. He offered the King’s brother a brief nod, and Aren stood uncertainly, sure he knew what was to come. With a loud bang, the throne room doors burst open, and the great scythe flew into the room, spinning slightly as it raced towards its master. Inches from Bora Bora’s hand, however, it was struck down by some invisible force, and slammed into the marble floor by the blade, sinking nearly two feet. He grimaced with effort, realizing that he couldn’t pull it free.

On the dais, Aren Gorteau had both hands extended, exerting a downward force on the weapon. He was a highly gifted mage, one of a select few who could tame such a powerful weapon. Grinning with the pleasure that only battle could bring him, Bora Bora released his weapon, striking out left and right with his bare hands. Guards fell all around him, unable to draw their weapons to defend against his attacks. In seconds, the armed men were comatose on the marble, leaving Bora Bora alone, glaring up at the dais with obvious bloodlust.

“I’ll let that insult slide,” he said, the hiss of his voice even more prominent. “Do not make the mistake of repeating it.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and exited the room. Nobody made a move to follow or apprehend him, which was only expected. He’d let the guards off lightly, only knocking them out instead of killing them. It wasn’t their fault that they were led by an incompetent fool, after all. Once outside the palace, Bora Bora gathered his thick cloak around himself and gave a casual flick of his fingers. The scythe returned to him easily then, now that Aren had released it. Ignoring the shocked murmurs of the civilians he passed, he made his way back to the temple.

Samuel leaned against the pillar, idly biting the nail of his thumb as he watched people pass him by. He tried to keep as low a profile as possible since he was technically in enemy territory. After his discussion with Tomas, he’d continued to grow curious. What if the boy had been right? Could the eldest son of King Knarlick be a mage? More accurately, could he be the one person alive who had successfully traveled to the ethereal plane and back? Samuel had to know, which meant that he had to see the prince with his own eyes. Wrapped in illusion magic, Samuel had disguised his appearance and teleported to the Mitene Union, making his way into the palace as a common merchant.

Everyone he could see in plain view consisted of the usual crowd, workers, soldiers, and the occasional laborer performing repairs to the buildings. The weather was frigid in this part of the world despite the lack of snow, and his breath hung in the air before him. It was an entirely different culture from the more temperate nation of Milagre, from the weather to the people. They all spoke in a tongue he didn’t know. Conversing, laughing, yelling, and whispering. He didn’t understand a fragment of it.

And so he focused on those things he could recognize. Armed men on patrol, heading in and out of the central palace complex. Samuel could see the runes inscribed on the entrances of the complex. His illusion magic would fail as soon as he got within their range, and they would likely prevent him from teleporting past. He could use World Shift, the spell that Arcana had taught him, but even that was too risky, as it could reveal his presence. Experience had already taught him that Ancients were viewed as great threats when they used the magic of Ahya. He’d have to rely only on his eyes and ears here and hope that he could glean some useful information.

It took him nearly an hour, but eventually, he realized that there was a simple solution to the language barrier. A simple set of runes was inscribed behind his ears, and he could deduce the meaning of the words spoken around him, even if he didn’t understand the meaning. Runes were useful for a great many things, he reflected, as the words of the civilians and soldiers around him suddenly came into sharper focus.

“War preparation is draining our resources….”

“Jerrik says he’s safe. He’s been training with….”

“I wouldn’t let the boys out of the house, Njorka, else they’ll get snatched up by the army. The King….”

There was so much conversation going on around him that he couldn’t make out any single voice and focus on it. The owners of those voices were constantly on the move, and despite his sharpened senses, he knew that he couldn’t listen in on dozens of people at once. So he focused on that last snippet he’d picked up, frowning slightly. What was this about a war? Young men were being taken by the military?

“Don’t be stupid, Mona. If the corporals find out that I’m hiding able-bodied soldiers, we’ll all be put to death. All we can do is pray.”

“Dangerous words on their own. The new King doesn’t take too kindly to the old faith. Keep those thoughts to yourself, if you value your neck so much.”

New King? Samuel was sure that Stephan’s father was still alive. He hadn’t heard anything to contradict that. But, as if on cue, the gates to the palace opened, and a large body of troops exited, escorting a man he had no trouble recognizing. Stephan Knarlick, half-elf and firstborn of King Knarlick, was sauntering out across the exterior courtyard. Of course, Samuel noticed the ornament on his head. It was the famous thorned crown of the Mitene Union, a symbolic peace that represented the strength of the tribes who had gathered into the coalition.

So he was the king now, Samuel thought with a frown. He wondered how the previous ruler had died but decided that it was immaterial. The old King had been reluctant to declare war against Gorteau, recognizing its strength and attempting to salvage their frayed relationship. He had a nasty feeling that Gorteau’s ambassadors wouldn’t return home from their trip. But what was troubling most, at least to Samuel, was the dense aura of power that surrounded Stephan. Everything he’d heard about the man had been false. His mana was like an iron fortress around him. Only a master mage could achieve that.

His stomach tightened suddenly. Stephan’s eyes had flicked across the faces of the peasants around him and lingered on Samuel’s face just a fraction of a second longer than the others. Had he seen through the illusion? No, Samuel reassured himself. Only an Ancient would be able to identify him, and he was certain that Knarlick was an ordinary mortal. He was powerful, but he lacked the identifying markers of the Ancient race. He did his best to look unassuming and insignificant, resisting the urge to sigh in relief as the cold grey eyes continued past him. Well, he thought, he’d learned what he’d wanted to learn. Time to go back home and report his findings.

He’d taken no more than two or three steps when he felt a sudden pain in his head. It was as if someone was chiseling into the back of his skull, attempting to break into his mind. Then the pain broadened, becoming a pressure that enclosed his mind completely. Without knowing how he was certain that this was Knarlick’s doing. He whirled around and saw the prince, stopped in the middle of the small street, staring directly at him. The pressure increased, and he felt as if his very soul was being scanned, checked for secrets.

Ah. The voice sounded in the deepest reaches of his mind, reverberating through his skull like a war drum. You’re the one I’ve heard so much about. Samuel, is it? So kind of you to come all this way for a visit. Samuel shook his head furiously, trying to think of some way to throw off this unknown style of magic, to take control of his mind once more. But he couldn’t shake free. The prince had him locked in place, keeping him stuck with just the weight of his iron mind.

I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish by spying on me, but I can assure you that none of what you’ve seen will ever reach your King. But I am not a cruel man. I will give you a choice. Swear fealty to me, here and now, or die. Here and now.

Samuel could only think of breaking free. With a powerful, painful wrench, he pulled as much mana as he could into his head, creating a protective shield against Knarlick’s hold. The pressure lightened slightly, and he could feel some of his control returning. He sent a mental message back. You’ve been to the ethereal plane.

That’s what you care about? The voice was half incredulous, half amused. Yes, Champion of Arcana. I have traveled where no man has tread before, and become stronger for it. I possess magic you cannot know.

Maybe, for now, Samuel threw back. He could feel the pressure reducing more. This might be his only chance for escape. Through a blur, he could see several of the soldiers branching out and approaching, clearly aiming to surround and bind him. Or kill him. Stephan for his part was pacing deliberately forward, the pressure of his mind growing in waves. As fast as he could, between waves, Samuel threw off his grasp, and felt his way into nothingness, letting his mana carry him far away. In the blink of an eye, Stephan Knarlick vanished from view.

He’d returned, shaky and unstable, to the library in the College, startling several students who were studying in the late evening. They gave shouts of surprise as he appeared suddenly, losing his balance and slamming into a desk. The pressure from Knarlick’s mind was gone now, and he lowered himself to the ground, chest heaving. So Tomas had been right, he reflected. He knew unique magic, from the ethereal plane, and was the first entity in Ahya to bring that magic over. He wasn’t only a mage, but the single-greatest that Samuel had ever seen. And worst yet, he was leading an army to invade Gorteau.