20 - Roderic

  The communication crystal sat before Wallace, its surface glimmering from the sunlight pouring into the borrowed parlor. He had chosen a separate room, one that had less dust and more austerity for the gravity of the situation. No need to show his majesty the grime of the battlefield. He could see the barest hint of his pale reflection in the stone - eyes slightly too wide, hands clasped tightly to keep them from trembling. The man that stared back did not help.

  “Your majesty,” he began.

  “Shut it.”

  Wallace lips pressed together, his jaw tightening. On the other side, King Roderic of Savidor sat upon his throne, chin resting against a fist, heavy-lidded eyes weighing Wallace as if he were a dead rat. Maybe he was about to be.

  “You said we found it. Why haven’t we got it yet?” the king demanded.

  Wallace swallowed. “The Adernian commander is…resourceful. Our contact on the inside-”

  “Resourceful? Really? That’s the word you bring to me? It has been three months since that shame you call a ceasefire was signed. How dare you drag your feet.”

  “We are trying every avenue,” Wallace tried again.

  “Clearly not every avenue,” King Roderic snapped.

  “Majesty, the high commander of Adern is not just any leader. His Second Order-”

  “Is one we had control of when we had the weapon!” Roderic barked. “What are you not understanding, Wallace? Must I call you home to remind you of your place and your charge? Or should your mother start looking for another heir?”

  If one could go paler, Lord Wallace did.

  How was this his fault? He wanted to shout. Instead, he balled the question into fists just below line of sight so Roderic couldn’t see.

  After his meeting with the spy, Wallace had been assured everything would be handled, and he had stupidly believed it. But then, nothing. Silence. Three weeks of it, too. How was he supposed to appear competent when everyone else beneath him was useless?

  Garrick’s Second Order wasn’t just like trying to fight your way into a fortress. It was like trying to fight your way into a vault with nothing more than a rusted potato knife. During the war, Roderic’s disappointment at Wallace’s failures to place a spy in the Second Order had been tempered when the monster was still within their grasp, when they could send it to play havoc with the boys and girls in blue while the foot soldiers dealt bitter blows to Adern’s forces. At least then, Wallace could tell Roderic they had the Second Order cornered as he worked hard to overcome the High Commander’s damn paranoia. Everywhere else had been simpler. The city planning? Easy. The army? Like child’s play. Even slipping someone into the castle was a sight easier than attempting to approach the Second Order’s ranks. And now, he had nothing. No leverage to gain a foothold. No eyes to find them out, and no monster.

  No fucking monster.

  Dammit.

  “Your majesty, it’s being handled even as we speak.”

  Wallace whirled. Varos. The slimy bastard mage lounged in the doorframe, eyes shining as he smiled his serpent’s smile.

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  “Varos,” Wallace hissed.

  But Varos ignored him completely, striding forward and leaning over the table to look Roderic in the eye. Roderic scowled.

  “That’s the last thing I want coming out of your mouth, grimspawn,” Roderic snapped.

  But Varos rolled his eyes. Wallace’s breath caught. The damn bastard! He was going to get them both killed.

  “Your majesty, I think what’s trying to be said-”

  “Your majesty,” Varos said, talking over him. “I understand your concern about the weapon and our lack of success in securing it again. I assure you, however, the situation is being dealt with as we speak.”

  “You’ve had three years, magister - three years to deliver me Adern.”

  “No, I had three years to deliver you a weapon, and I have. How you use it is up to you.”

  This insolent fool! Wallace swallowed as he noticed Roderic’s eye twitch slightly.

  “Besides,” Varos said, willfully ignorant of the blossoming anger. “An opportunity has presented itself.”

  Both Roderic’s and Wallace’s brows tightened, drawing together.

  “If there is a presented opportunity, Wallace, why did you not report it right away?” Roderic demanded.

  “I’m…I was…”

  “He was unaware,” Varos said. “Don’t take it out on him. The information only just arrived. While he was discussing the situation with you, your majesty.”

  If looks could kill, Varos would have been dead ten times over, and Wallace only because he was standing next to him. His fists shook with suppressed rage. How dare he blame the king for this! Didn’t he know what would happen?

  But even as Wallace glanced at Roderic, he saw not rage, but a cold, calculating stare.

  “I will forgive you your insubordination, grimspawn,” he said, practically spitting the last word. “But only if you swear to me the opportunity is truly as great as you say.”

  “It is most advantageous,” Varos promised with a sly grin.

  Wallace was beginning to wonder if it was a requirement that all magisters learn serpentine smiles.

  “Your majesty,” Varos said. “Please allow me to remind you - we have had three years of successes. Perhaps the war is not yet won, but it is not lost either. How much land have we taken from Adern? How much have they lost and spent defending themselves? When they rejected Atalan’s alliance proposal, they sealed their fate. Now, we only have a little more to go. Please trust us, your majesty. One more time.”

  “You’re a slimy bastard, grimspawn,” Roderic muttered.

  “Thank you, your majesty.”

  Roderic rolled his eyes and growled.

  “I am tired of waiting. Send me the details via Raven. I trust no stone to speak of confidential information. If this does not yield results, heads will roll,” Roderic growled.

  His image vanished from the surface of the stone, and all Wallace could see staring back at him was his own wide eyes and Varos’ smug grin.

  “Are you insane?” Wallace growled.

  But Varos only grinned wider.

  “I grow more insane every day. But you’ll like this.”

  The lord shook his head, red flushing back into his pale cheeks at the sheer audacity.

  “You bastard!” Wallace yelled as Varos slid him a small correspondence paper. “You idiot! If you want to die, at least don’t drag me down with you! How the hell is it that you think you can speak to his majesty in that manner…”

  His voice trailed off as his eyes scanned the single line. He read it again. And again.

  “Is this real?” Wallace asked.

  Varos nodded, that smug grin somehow getting wider. “Of course it is. It came through one of your pocket stones while you were busy with his majesty. You doubt yourself too much sometimes, Wallace. Sometimes all it takes is a little patience while waiting for the strain to break something.”

  Wallace looked up, his heat suddenly snatched away. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe its impossibility. After all these years. And yet the paper sat pinched between his fingers, bowing slightly from the warm breeze brushing through the open door.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Of course,” the magister crowed. “As I told his majesty, an opportunity has finally presented itself.”

  Wallace’s hands shook, but this time in excitement. He didn’t know what happened. Frankly, he didn’t want to know. But somehow, someway, the spy had pulled it off.

  They were getting access to the Second Order.