When he opened his eyes again, there was another mouse in his tent, sniffing the bowl that held the scraps of porridge Alwyn had left behind. Scowling, Alwyn shooed it away—he should have expected a camp like this to be full of vermin.
Before he could settle back down, though, the tent opened again. Alwyn winced in the sudden light, but could immediately tell this was a different orc.
“Get up,” the guard said. His voice was gruff, hinting that he would take no argument or questions. Alwyn stumbled to his feet as quickly as he could, but the orc still grabbed a fistful of his robe to push him out of the tent, keeping the tight grip as heled Alwyn through the camp. He could barely keep up with the orc’s longer gait, stumbling through a maze of tents and fences—he tried to keep track of the way they went, his eyes darting all over, but was too disoriented to retain most of what he saw.
Finally, he was shoved through the opening of a large tent covered in a multitude of garishly colorful panels. The inside was dim, and Alwyn had to blink hard to get his eyes to adjust to the light once again.
The room came into focus around him: it looked almost like a war room absent of all decoration, save for a long table in the center, taking up most of the space, surrounded by chairs with a map spread out on top. Sitting at the head of the table was an orc with dark hair shorn close to his skull, watching Alwyn with a wary expression. Behind him, on a chair pressed up against the back wall of the room, was an ancient orc with a mess of gray hair falling down his shoulders and deep lines carved across his weather-worn face.
Alwyn became acutely aware of the presence of a deep magic, as if the mountains surrounding the camp had grown eyes, turning to peer down at him all at once. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he forced down an involuntary shudder at the sudden focus. This had to be the druid—and he was exerting his magical prowess as a show of force to intimidate Alwyn.
He wasn’t sure if it would be better to act cowed or defiant. But he wanted to gain their trust, so he shrunk in on himself a bit, forcing himself to look away from the druid and instead focus on the orc sitting at the table.
“Your name?” the orc said, his voice flat. Alwyn blinked, hesitating. Thishadto be Zesh, but considering all he had heard of the rebel warlord, he had been imagining a greater threat, the wellspring of a vicious force that would unbalance the newfound peace between their two nations. He couldn’t quite reconcile the image with the orc that looked at him now with only a tireddistrust, as if Alwyn’s presence were simply an inconvenience he was eager to be rid of.
He cleared his dry throat before speaking. A pitcher of water stood on the table beside the orc, making him wish they’d given him more than just a cup of the tepid liquid with his breakfast. “Alwyn Alara. And you’re the warlord, Zesh, aren’t you?”
A tired, joyless smile crossed Zesh’s features. “Yes. You came in with an orc, who said you claimed to want to speak with me.”
“It’s true,” Alwyn said, nodding quickly. He started to step toward one of the empty chairs, but the guard who brought him in tightened his grip on Alwyn’s robe to hold him in place. He huffed in annoyance, but remained where he stood.
The tent was suffocating, despite the cold air. The warlord could snap his neck at any time, and the druid was an entirely new, unknown threat. But he had to focus—Krujha’s words echoed in his mind.Framing that truth and getting people to see only that, and nothing I don’t want them to see.He had to concentrate on the truth he wanted them to see.
“I’m a High Sorcerer. It means I have a respected position within the Library of Aefraya, where all mages in service of the crown are trained,” he said.
Before he could add more, he felt the intense focus of the druid’s magic again, this time probing him directly. His voice trailed off as he instinctively tried to shield himself. Then he remembered all the training he’d done with Krujha, and instead drew in his magic, compressing it tight until it was as small as he could make it. The force of the druid’s magic felt a little further away when he did—the sensation of something just barely grazing his skin, instead of gripping it hard—and he had to hope that would be enough.
Still, it meant he couldn’t quite focus on what he’d been saying, and Zesh’s eyes narrowed when he fell silent. Before he could recover the thread, the orc spoke again.
“By all logic, I should kill you where you stand,” he said, leaning forward on the table. Alwyn’s eyes darted back to him—he leaned only on his left arm, as his right was missing, the empty sleeve pinned to his coat. “Tell me why you came here, High Sorcerer.”
Alwyn glanced uncertainly back at the druid, who remained motionless and impassive, before speaking again. “I think this unification was a mistake. There are orcs in Castle Aefraya now—a place that should be only for elves. If helping you is what it takes to end this farce, then that’s what I’ll do. So I came looking for you and your rebellion. We want the same things, and I can help you. I have information about Castle Aefraya you would never get access to otherwise.”
When Alwyn finished speaking, the intense feeling of magic around him dissipated, and he could breathe a little easier. Whatever the druid had been looking for, he seemed unconcerned now—though his lack of expression or movement left Alwyn unsettled.
Zesh regarded him with an appraising look, then turned slightly to glance back at the druid sitting behind him. The old man’s eyes finally moved, darting to meet Zesh’s gaze, and they seemed to have a silent conversation.
This might be his one and only chance, Alwyn thought. Both Zesh and the druid were here, easily within reach of his magic. He could kill them both—and the guard still roughly gripping the back of his tunic—then flee in the chaos, having accomplished his goal. He might never get another opportunity as simple and clean as this.
But other guards surrounded the tent, and Alwyn suspected they were near the very center of the camp. He might be able to kill everyone in this room, and maybe even most of the guards that would certainly come rushing at the disturbance, but then what? Could he fight his way through an entire camp of this size?His magic gave him an advantage, but in the end it would be a numbers game.
There would be honor in dying here, he considered. But what then of Krujha? Would he be able to get away, too? Would he be under immediate suspicion, as the one who had brought Alwyn here in the first place?
He cursed himself for caring. The prospect of what might or might not happen to Krujha should have had absolutely no bearing on his decision-making in this, the most important task Tessarion had ever given him.
But he knew he couldn’t leave Krujha behind to fend for himself without warning. He had to bide his time and believe he would get another chance—one that gave them both a better shot at getting out of this alive.
“He is a mage. That is true,” the druid said, startling Alwyn as his age-worn voice broke the silence. “One of middling strength. It is believable he would have some position of power within the elven army, and access to some privileged knowledge.”
Alwyn’s heart stuttered in his chest. His attempt at shielding himself must have worked—but he couldn’t let the relief show on his face.
“If he is associated with the Library at all,” Zesh said, turning to face Alwyn again. “Can you prove you are who you claim to be?”
“Yes,” Alwyn said, nodding. “Have your guard reach into the inner lining of my cloak, on my left side. There’s a pocket there disguised with magic that has all my identifying papers.”
Zesh frowned. Alwyn felt the guard behind him tense.
“Go on, then,” Zesh said. The orc hesitated; but when the warlord cast his gaze over Alwyn’s shoulder, he moved quick enough. The guard yanked hard, turning him to the side and reaching unceremoniously into his cloak. Alwyn scowled at being so manhandled, but the expression on the orc’s face waseven darker, so he kept his complaint to himself. After a moment of feeling the dark cloak, the guard’s fingers disappeared; he froze, then begrudgingly withdrew a folded piece of fine parchment.
