The man half-grinned. "I asked your opinion, Master Vishov, because I truly seek it. You must understand that when you've reached my years, you view things through an ever-narrowing window. I can only contrast what is with what I have seen in the past. You, your sister, my son—even your mother, remarkably enough—have the vision to see this place as it can be. Might I ask you to indulge me?"

  "As you wish, my lord."

  The baron stroked his chin with a hand. "In your mind, where do you see Silverlake in five years? I mean, it will physically be here, of course, but, well—take this glade. We're well south of Silverlake, but how will this place be? Will the trees have been taken for building and fire? Will people level the hills and plant crops? What is it you see for the future?"

  Jerrad's brows arrowed together as he concentrated. "Well, there's an old quarry. That's where Thornkeep got most of its stones. If we get some more stonecutters, we can build real walls. And there's mud here, white mud, which I think is really good clay. With some potters, we could make and sell urns and bowls and all sorts of ceramics. The Murdoons say the earth is good, so we can grow crops, maybe send things back to pay for the ones you've brought in. Five years, I guess, we could be five times as big as we are now, maybe twice that."

  "The size of Cesca, then."

  "Yes, my lord."

  The man slowly nodded. "I cannot say I disagree with your vision."

  From his tone, Jerrad couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing. "Is that how you see things, my lord?"

  "Yes, son, I do believe so." Creelisk looked past him, focusing distantly. "In five years, Silverlake would rival Thornkeep—nay, it will have surpassed it. People will start flocking to the Whip Banner come spring, and others will trade with Silverlake preferentially over Thornkeep. Blackshield's domain will wither. In fact, the night he scourged Silverlake was probably the last chance he had to save his realm."

  "I think my mother would rather find a peaceful solution than fight with Blackshield."

  "I'm certain she would, were that opportunity given her." Creelisk shook his head. "I can see from your expression this talk is unsettling. You'll forgive me. As I said, I can only see things through the past. Politics colors everything. Surely Blackshield can be made to see reason and bloodshed can be avoided."

  "Yes, my lord."

  Creelisk smiled, but it didn't carry up into his eyes. "I thank you for your opinion, Jerrad. Back in Ustalav, when I speak to others who might wish to travel here, I will share your vision for the future. I'm certain you will inspire many to visit the wood."

  Jerrad bowed his head. "Thank you, my lord."

  Creelisk waved vaguely back toward Silverlake. "Please, don't let me detain you."

  "You're most kind, my lord. Enjoy your walk." Jerrad retreated quickly, putting two hills between them before he slowed down. He shivered. Something about that conversation seemed wrong. He felt as if the baron intended two meanings for every word, and one of them wasn't good.

  He almost doubled back to trail the baron. Had it been just curiosity, he would have done it. But because he felt something was wrong and didn't wholly trust the man, he'd be spying. That just wasn't an honorable thing to do to a friend. Were he discovered doing it, his mother would be disappointed, and his sister would see him as having interfered with her relationship with Ranall.

  "Whatever he's doing, it doesn't matter. He's leaving soon." Even if he was lying about something, like returning in the spring, it wouldn't matter. Unless he categorically refused any request by Tyressa for supplies—thereby endangering his own son—there really wasn't anything he could do to affect Silverlake.

  Confident in his analysis, Jerrad headed back to Silverlake. The town would take care of itself, of that he was certain. He didn't know if his vision was right or wrong, but he was willing to bet more on the former.

  Silverlake is the future, my future. Jerrad smiled to himself. And there's nothing I won't do to make the vision come true.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Wheels Turn

  Creelisk waited until he was certain the Vishov boy had departed. There was something odd about the boy—more than just his being a product of that bloodline. He considered the possibility that Jerrad might have somehow detected the true nature of his ring. Though the baron was by no means a scholar of the Vishov family, he couldn't recall ever having heard of the Vishovs being magically inclined. Nothing the boy had done since Creelisk's arrival even hinted at magic—but then, the baron was willing to admit to himself, he'd really not paid Jerrad that much attention.

  It hardly matters. Even if the boy were able to work magic, he had no one in Silverlake to properly instruct him. Moreover, the child was guileless. Had he somehow detected the reanimation magic and traced it back to the baron, he'd have reported it immediately to his mother. That she had said nothing to him about it, nor reacted to him any differently than she had at the start, suggested she'd been told nothing of the kind.

  Creelisk thought for a moment. If Jerrad was able to work magic, it made him a bit more valuable. Were he saved from the doom that would descend inside the week, he could be trained and become an engine for vengeance. A wizardly avenger would certainly attract attention and support for Creelisk's endeavor.

  The problem was simply that magic made the boy unpredictable. Creelisk was fairly certain the ring's magic couldn't be traced back to him, but that was by no means an absolute truth. If, at some point in the future, Jerrad did learn the truth, he'd become a serious threat to the Creelisk bloodline.

  No. Even if the boy could work magic, the danger of keeping him alive greatly outweighed the risk of leaving him to whatever fate had in store for him. And if by happenstance Jerrad managed to survive the slaughter—especially through the use of magic—Creelisk could always welcome him home, and provide him training so they could avenge their dead. I could arrange for him to be managed and, if needed, destroyed.

  Dismissing that matter from his mind, Creelisk wandered deeper into the woods. He came to the edge of a ravine, near where he'd found a strip of the ogrekin's flesh hanging from a branch previously. The sun and air had dried it down into a curled piece of leather no longer than his little finger. He pulled it from a pouch on his belt and tucked it through the loop of his ruby ring. Then, seating himself between the roots of an old oak, he triggered the ring's magic.

  This was the greatest of the ring's magic, the whole point of the gambit. He needed a way not only to control a single animated creature, but to allow that control to spread from there to the living. The necromancer had called it his life's work—ironic, given that Creelisk had the man killed shortly after the ring's delivery.

  Though parts of him still ached from having been linked to the undead ogrekin as its fellows tore the creature apart and devoured him, the baron marked that as a sign that the linkage critical for the success of his plan had been established. The verbal argument he'd made for the ogres to attack had only been to align their thoughts. They were thinking what Creelisk wanted them to think as they consumed the ogrekin.

  They had ingested carrion with which he had a magical link. As he invoked the ring's power, pushing it through the lock of hair, the bit of bone and scrap of skin, it connected with those other bits that yet existed inside the ogres. A sliver of bone worked down between tooth and gum. Some hair as yet undigested. A bit of meat or fragment of nail that had lodged in some intestinal pocket, escaping evacuation. All of these resonated with magic.

  The magic flowed through them and into the ogres' blood. Where the undead flesh had gone to strengthen muscle or grow new brain tissue, there it was the magic moved. In the ogres' minds, the magic touched upon the dreams and fantasies of conquering Silverlake. It kindled fears of the humans who dwelt there. It triggered hunger for manflesh. It recalled the glorious tales of Mosswater's fall and assured the ogres that their conquest of Silverlake would be just as memorable.

  And in one ogre, more intelligent than the rest, it suggested that their attacking and feasting on the night of the human feast would, in fact, be a joke of the highest order.

  Each day, as he took his walks so he "could remember Silverlake," he made time to inject himself into the ogres' minds. They resisted at first, but it became simpler and simpler. As the magic brought their thoughts to him, he remembered and reinforced things. He let each ogre know that its particular thoughts were right. He let them believe that if they didn't destroy the men, the men would destroy them. And if the ogres did destroy the men, they would be counted as the greatest among ogres.

  This time, as always, he finished by sending the feeling that the night of the full moon was the perfect time for them to do their work. He slipped the image of that bright, cold orb into their blood-spattered fantasies. He had no doubt they would do what he desired, on the night he desired.

  Which means I only have a short time to finish my work.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Creelisk returned from the wood and immediately sought Tyressa. He found her in the longhouse, seated at her desk amid an ocean of notes and diagrams. He smiled at her. "I would not disturb you were it not important, Lady Tyressa."

  She looked up, her eyes red with fatigue, and managed to smile. "I welcome the distraction."

  "Your devotion to Silverlake, your level of sacrifice, speaks to your character. I tell you truly that I can think of no other person from Ustalav who could have created and held together this community."

  Tyressa stood. "My lord, you will be leaving in less than a week. There is no need for flattery."

  He shrugged. "Perhaps there is. I ask an indulgence of you."

  "What would that be?"

  "When I return to Ustalav, I shall head for Caliphas. I shall speak to the prince, about you and Silverlake. I will tell him that a great injustice has been done to you and your family. I'll ask that he transfer control of Vishov lands to someone else."

  "Because, my lord?" Tyressa fingered some papers. "I hope you've not found my requests for materials and supplies to be onerous."

  "On the contrary, I find you being more conservative than is prudent." He brought his chin up. "This creates a problem for me because people will judge me by what gets sent. They shall assume I wish to doom Silverlake so your family's holding will fall to me."

  "I could inflate numbers."

  "But you know that even were I to give you everything, I should still be judged this way. I cannot win." Creelisk glanced down at the wooden floor. "Neither can the prince.

  "The fact is, my lady, that while many welcomed your exile, not everyone did. Your being here is seen as an injustice. As stories of your successes circulate, Silverlake will be seen as a point of pride for Ustalavs, and more proof of your virtue. Thus the injustice of your exile will be made more apparent. The prince, I believe, needs to look upon Silverlake as an Ustalavic colony. He needs to support it. The lords of the River Kingdoms might not be pleased, but Silverlake could add stability to the area and serve as a bulwark against the ogres of Mosswater raiding further east."

  "Then the indulgence of which you speak is...?"

  "Allow me to speak to the prince on your behalf. If you would be so kind, please write him a letter sharing with him your dreams for Silverlake. You know politics and the court at Caliphas well enough to know the letter will not remain secret. Let those who would learn its contents and dream of joining you discover through your words the wonder that is Silverlake. As more people support you and dream of your city, so must the prince support it."

  Tyressa nodded slowly. "I don't deny your read of the politics or nature of secrets at court. I won't say I'd not considered writing such a letter. A report on our first year, perhaps."

  "Events would warrant earlier reportage, my lady."

  "I will accept your judgment in that regard." She hugged her arms around her stomach and met his gaze. "I must ask you something."

  "Please."

  "I would not discount or denigrate what you have done here. Your counsel has been wise and I shall never forget you and Ranall taking lashes. For me to do that was expected since I was his mother, but for you to do it—that meant more to the people than I could ever have possibly imagined."

  Creelisk pursed his lips for a moment. "It was the first time I felt I had been accepted by the people."

  "You made yourself one of us. I don't doubt that you are." She raised an eyebrow. "I do have to ask, however, why you would invest so much of your personal prestige in Silverlake."

  "You want to know what kind of return I expect to see from my investment."

  "I wouldn't have put it in quite that pragmatic of a way."

  "But that is how you meant it. No, please, take no offense." He smiled. "If you didn't ask that question, you would not be the person who could have created this place. So I'll answer you squarely. I have two main reasons for aiding you. The first is simply this: just east of Cesca, on the West Sellen River, I shall establish a ferry service and trading post. I'll pay well for furs and other goods, yet charge an absurd amount for drayage of same across the river. I'll ferry settlers over for modest fees, charge more for those returning to Ustalav, and make a considerable amount of money through arbitrage. My risk will be minimal, and the return will be incredible. I will also establish a trading post here to serve the needs of settlers and hunters, lumberjacks or returning crusaders."

  "You could better assure your plan's success by maintaining control of Vishov assets."

  "I could, but I'm sure whoever the prince places in stewardship can be bought and, if he proves greedy and tries to renege, things will have become lucrative enough that I can convince the prince that only he can properly protect your interests. He'll take over, or he'll pardon you and place the Vishovs back in charge, where you should be."

  "Elegantly explained and well thought out."

  "My walks have given me time for reflection." He held a hand up. "Lest, however, you think me someone whose only interest is in gold, I should mention the second reason: my son."

  "Everyone here is quite fond of Ranall, my lord."

  "I know. Time once was when I would have been envious of him, but age tends to strip one of vanity. The fact is that he's asked me to let him winter here. I think, unless your daughter were to chase him with arrows all the way across the river, he would never leave Silverlake. I have to say, this does not displease me. In fact, it makes my heart soar."

  "I don't understand, my lord."

  "I would have thought that if anyone would, it would be you." The baron opened his hands. "As we have just discussed, Ustalav is a land of many political intrigues. Such intrigues killed your brother. Had mine not died, he doubtless would have preceded your brother to the gallows. Were you to look at the generation of noble scions which includes my son, I believe Ranall would stand out as being inspirational, or at least sufficient for some to pin their aspirations to. I don't want him caught up in webs of deceit. I'd rather him here, taking his chances in a land with goblins and ogres and petty tyrants with whips, than in a truly dangerous place like the prince's court.»

  "I see." Tyressa shuffled some papers, then looked up. "You know that there will be those who claim we've taken your son as hostage against you giving me what I want."

  "I'm certain that's true. In fact, I considered asking you to entrust Jerrad to my care, to take back to Ustalav for the winter, to counter such a claim. I would see to it he had the best tutors, of course—and they would come back here next spring to continue his education. But I won't ask for your son to accompany me."

  "It would break my heart to let him go."

  "And his to be sent away." The baron nodded. "So, I shall just entrust my son to you. If there were an announcement next spring or summer of troth being pledged—preferably to your daughter—it would put the lie to those rumors and make Silverlake that much more of a fanciful place."

  "That would please me, my lord."

  "Me, as well. It would give me an agent I could trust here in Silverlake." He half-bowed. "Ever the pragmatist, I am."

  Tyressa shook her head. "I don't believe that of you, my lord. I wondered why you came when you did, but I've watched you here. Even were the night of the whip forgotten, you would truly be seen as one of us. You've sweated and toiled by our sides. Your hard work has benefited Silverlake greatly. It saddens me that you will not be here to join us in celebrating all we have done."

  "I wish I could remain." He straightened up. "But I return to our home to make preparations, so next year I can return and, perhaps—just perhaps—I'll never have to leave again."

  Chapter Thirty

  The Interloper

  I didn't realize you didn't like him." Jerrad reached deep into the shadeberry bush to pluck the purple berries. "Should I have noticed you didn't like him?"

  "Not particularly." Nelsa shrugged. "Something 'bout Baron Creelisk weren't right. I like his son fine. Now don't you get pouty, I don't like him like that."

  "That wasn't me pouting, that's me disappointed in myself." He pulled his hand out of the bush, dumped a handful of berries in his basket, then held his hand out toward her. A small droplet of blood welled up near the base of his thumb. "Leaves still on the bushes and I don't find a thorn. Bushes bare but for berries and I get stuck."

  "Shadeberry bushes are tricker than blackberry bushes." She leaned over and kissed the tip of his thumb. "There. Better?"

  "Yes, thank you." He wiped the blood off on his trousers. The weather had turned cold, and a frost had settled over Echo Wood for the two nights before the harvest feast. The berry bushes stood on the north side of hills, so never really warmed up. With the frost, the berries went from a bright red to a deep violet. Nelsa insisted that meant they'd be sweeter than ever and that her father made a wonderful berry wine out of them.

  "Will we get enough for your father?"

  "More than last year. No real frost." She smiled. "May make only a bottle or two, but that will be enough."

  Jerrad thought for a moment. "Next spring, if we came back here, chopped out some terraces and planted more bushes, we'd..."

 

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