The Old Discipline

Jandar bought the boat because everyone else was taking too long.

That was how he explained it later.

The truth was less flattering.

He missed sailing.

The vessel tied at the end of the Ilbus dock was barely worthy of the word ship. It had one small mast, a shallow hull scarred from years of river work and enough patched timber along the port side that Jandar suspected at least three previous owners had independently decided it was someone else's problem.

It was perfect.

The fisherman selling it wanted more than it was worth.

Jandar told him so.

The fisherman told Jandar to buy something else.

Twenty minutes later, they had a boat.

Deacon stood on the dock watching the transaction conclude with the expression of a man witnessing a preventable accident.

“How much?”

Jandar handed over the coins.

Deacon stared at him.

“It floats.”

“That was not my question.”

“It has a sail.”

“Still not my question.”

“And I negotiated.”

Deacon looked toward the fisherman, who was already walking away much faster than seemed necessary.

“You did something.”

Jandar climbed aboard before the conversation became unpleasant.

They needed the boat.

That part was true.

The road from Ilbus to Windmarch would have taken longer, and after the previous night no one was interested in remaining somewhere the drow had already found Xil. The surviving attacker had given them little beyond confirmation that a network of watchers existed throughout the surface realms.

Xil had said almost nothing after the interrogation.

Jandar understood silence well enough to leave it alone.

The captive had not survived the morning.

Jandar had made that decision himself after it became clear they had learned everything the man intended to tell them. He did not regret it, although he had noticed Xil leave before it happened.

That mattered.

He had not decided yet what to do with the fact that it mattered.

For now there was a boat.

Boats were easier.

A deck either held beneath your feet or did not. Wind came from somewhere. Current moved one direction or another. A line was secure or it was badly tied.

People were much less cooperative.

Jandar inspected the rigging while Deacon and Zook loaded their packs aboard. Vegon carried himself with the stiff annoyance of someone who believed physical labor represented a personal failure of civilization. Xil remained disguised while they were on the docks, though the spell seemed to trouble him more than usual.

Magic had become worse.

Not dramatically.

That was almost more concerning.

Every spell now seemed to demand a little more from them than it should. A brief hesitation. A wrong sensation. A pulse of heat, cold or nausea that had no place in the working.

They had all learned to live with it.

Jandar had begun to wonder whether that was a mistake.

“You're leaving without me.”

Mills stood at the far end of the dock.

He held a small lute against his chest.

Jandar stopped tightening the line in his hands.

The instrument was not the one Mills had lost in the swamp. This one looked older and cheaper, its wood worn pale near the neck. Mills himself looked better than he had a week ago. Cleaner. Rested.

Still too thin.

His voice still carried the damage whenever he spoke.

Jandar glanced toward Xil.

The drow had already noticed it too.

“We were considering it,” Jandar said.

Mills walked closer. “I would like to come.”

“With us?”

“That is usually what those words mean.”

Jandar looked around the boat.

Zook grinned.

Deacon did not.

Vegon appeared more interested in the rigging than the conversation, which meant he was listening carefully.

Xil studied Mills.

“Why?”

Mills seemed surprised.

“Because you're leaving.”

“That is not a reason.”

“It is if I want to go where you're going.”

Jandar leaned against the mast.

“You have just returned home after being poisoned, caged by grung, nearly eaten in a swamp and dragged through a temple full of things trying to kill you.”

Mills nodded.

“Yes.”

“And your conclusion is that you should continue traveling with us.”

“When you say it that way, it sounds poorly considered.”

“It is poorly considered.”

Mills looked at him.

“So I should fit in.”

Zook laughed first.

Even Deacon's expression shifted.

Mills smiled.

Then the humor faded.

“I don't want to stay here.”

That was different.

Jandar waited.

Mills looked toward Ilbus.

People already knew he had returned. Jandar had watched half the town greet him the night before. Whatever else Mills lacked, he was not unwanted.

“I thought about it,” the minstrel continued. “Going back to what I was doing before.”

“Singing badly?” Jandar asked.

Mills looked at him.

“Too soon?”

“Very.”

“Good. I wanted to check.”

Mills adjusted the lute against his chest.

“I don't know if my voice comes back all the way. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't. But I went into that swamp looking for a story because I thought Ilbus was too small and nothing happened here.”

He looked around the group.

“I was wrong.”

Jandar followed his gaze.

Zook sat on the rail with his red hair bright in the morning sun. Deacon stood near the stern, arms folded, pretending the conversation had nothing to do with him. Vegon had finally stopped inspecting the rigging. Xil remained near the gangplank, disguised face unreadable.

“The world is doing something,” Mills said. “You all know it. I don't.”

“That is an excellent reason not to come,” Vegon said.

Mills nodded toward him. “And yet you're going.”

Vegon opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Jandar smiled.

Mills continued before Vegon recovered.

“I can write. I can listen. I know songs and stories most of you probably don't. I know people. I can help.”

Deacon finally spoke.

“Can you fight?”

“Poorly.”

“Can you cook?”

Mills considered.

“Also poorly.”

Deacon sighed.

Jandar looked at him. “He has honesty.”

“We already have you.”

“That was hurtful.”

Xil stepped closer to Mills.

“Coming with us may kill you.”

There was no humor in his voice.

Mills met his eyes.

“I know.”

Jandar thought of the black water.

Of Mills walking into it while barely conscious.

Of Xil dragging something unseen out of him one piece at a time.

Perhaps he did know.

Xil reached beneath his cloak and removed the strand of prayer beads he had worn since before Jandar met him. He held them loosely in one hand and closed his eyes.

Jandar watched.

He had seen Xil ask his god for healing, protection and guidance. This was quieter. No light filled the dock. No divine figures appeared.

Only a man seeking an answer.

The magic took hold.

Jandar saw the moment the taint moved through it. Xil's fingers tightened. His breathing changed.

Then the discomfort passed.

Xil opened his eyes.

“Well?”

Mills asked it first.

Xil studied him for another moment.

“I see no reason you should not come.”

Jandar looked toward the others.

“That seems dangerously close to approval.”

“It isn't.”

Mills stepped onto the boat.

Deacon pointed toward the bow.

“Stay out of the way.”

Mills smiled.

“I can do that.”

Jandar doubted it.

The first day taught them several things.

Vegon was a terrible sailor.

Deacon was competent at almost everything given sufficient irritation.

Zook learned faster than either of them.

Xil could see farther through darkness than any navigator Jandar had ever known.

And Mills sang while working whether anyone asked him to or not.

The last problem proved the most difficult.

Jandar spent the morning teaching them the basics.

Not because they needed to become sailors. He had no intention of trusting any of them with that title. They needed to know enough not to kill everyone if something happened to him.

Deacon absorbed instruction as though preparing for an examination.

Zook asked practical questions.

Vegon asked theoretical ones.

Xil listened.

Mills wrote down almost nothing and later claimed he had remembered all of it.

By afternoon, Jandar had placed him at the bow where he could do the least damage.

“This rope?”

“Line.”

“It looks like rope.”

“It is a line.”

“When does it become rope?”

“When it's not doing a job.”

Mills stared at him.

“That is ridiculous.”

“That is sailing.”

“So if I take this line off the boat—”

“Don't.”

“—it becomes rope?”

“Yes.”

“And then when I put it back—”

“Stop touching it.”

Mills grinned.

Jandar reconsidered every decision that had led to this point.

The river carried them south faster than expected. What had taken weeks traveling north became easier with the current behind them and even easier once Jandar stopped letting everyone interfere.

They passed the defensive palisade where the party had fought gnolls on the journey north. The guards recognized them before they were close enough to hail.

The gate opened.

Jandar stood at the stern guiding the boat through.

For a moment he saw the bridge as it had been during the attack.

Bodies.

Smoke.

Gnolls pressing against frightened defenders.

Deacon killing with a cold precision Jandar had not yet seen in him.

Now the damaged sections had been repaired. New timber reinforced the walls. Men moved normally along the parapets.

Life had continued.

Jandar liked that.

One of the guards shouted something as they passed.

Jandar raised a hand.

Mills waved both arms.

“That was excessive,” Jandar said.

“They are admirers.”

“They were waving at me.”

“Of course.”

Mills picked up the lute.

“No.”

“I haven't played anything.”

“That is why I am acting early.”

Mills played anyway.

The first version of the Hand of the Storm song appeared sometime before sunset.

It was terrible.

Not entirely.

There were pieces Jandar liked.

Mills had found a rhythm in the story of the swamp, something that made the miserable journey sound heroic without completely removing the mud. The bridge became larger. The guardian became darker. The drakes acquired qualities Jandar did not remember but considered improvements.

Jandar's role was surprisingly restrained.

He objected.

“I killed the guardian.”

“You are in the verse.”

“Briefly.”

“You get two lines.”

“Deacon gets four.”

“He shot more things.”

“That is quantity, not narrative importance.”

Mills strummed the chord again.

“I'm the artist.”

“You met us a week ago.”

“And already I understand you.”

“That is impossible.”

Mills smiled.

“Pretty one.”

Jandar pointed at him.

“That needs to stop.”

It did not.

By the second day the others were humming pieces of the song.

Vegon denied it.

Jandar heard him anyway.

They divided the work so the boat could continue longer each day.

Jandar preferred navigating at night.

Darkness did not bother him, particularly with Xil beside him, and fewer small boats crowded the river after sunset. During the day, Deacon and Zook handled most of the steering while Vegon stood nearby offering advice that became less theoretical after the first time he nearly ran them into a bank.

Mills learned to keep out of the way.

Mostly.

The river widened as they traveled. Marsh gave way to firmer banks. Settlements appeared more frequently, first isolated docks and then villages built where roads met the water.

With every mile, the Great Swamp felt farther away.

The Grimoire did not.

They kept it protected near the center of the boat, wrapped exactly as it had been since the Temple.

Vegon checked it constantly.

Jandar counted four times the first day.

Six the second.

By the third he stopped counting.

“You know,” Jandar said, “if you simply held it the entire time, you could save yourself considerable walking.”

Vegon looked down at the wrapped book.

“I am ensuring it remains secure.”

“It has not moved.”

“It is on a boat.”

“So are you.”

“That is not reassuring.”

Jandar smiled.

The old high elf had nearly died twice in the past week.

Once in the swamp.

Once in Orozon's Temple if Jandar counted generously, which he did when it strengthened an argument.

Vegon had returned from both experiences with apparently no increased respect for mortality.

Jandar found that reassuring.

Then the river tried to kill them.

They heard the waterfall before they saw it.

The current had been strengthening for some time, but Jandar was asleep when Deacon finally noticed how quickly the banks had begun moving past.

The shouting woke him.

He came onto the deck barefoot and found Vegon braced against the steering oar while Deacon hauled on a line with Zook. Ahead, the river narrowed between dark stone.

The sound beyond it was unmistakable.

Jandar was instantly awake.

“Shore.”

Deacon looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Now.”

The boat resisted.

Current pulled harder with every yard.

Jandar grabbed the steering oar from Vegon and put his full weight against it.

“Zook, forward. Deacon, that line around the root when we get close. Xil, get Mills away from anything attached to the boat.”

Mills looked offended.

“Why specifically me?”

“Because I know the others.”

They reached the bank badly.

That was still better than reaching the waterfall.

The hull struck mud and scraped along stone before Deacon got the line around a tree root thick enough to hold them. The boat swung downstream, current catching it broadside.

For several seconds the line groaned.

Then stopped.

Jandar looked toward the white water ahead.

“How far?”

Zook climbed onto the bank and disappeared through the trees.

He returned several minutes later.

“You don't want to know.”

“That means close.”

“Yes.”

Mills peered downstream.

“We could ride it.”

Five people looked at him.

He lowered his voice.

“Or not.”

The waterfall itself was not enormous.

That made it worse.

A larger drop would have made the decision obvious. This one was just small enough for Jandar to imagine surviving it and just dangerous enough for that thought to be stupid.

They unloaded the boat.

Then they moved it.

Jandar had participated in portages before.

He had never done one with a wizard complaining about leverage, a cleric suggesting magical solutions that might unpredictably explode and a minstrel attempting to compose a work song while everyone carried several hundred pounds of timber through the woods.

At one point Deacon stopped beneath the weight of the hull.

“If he sings one more verse, I'm dropping this.”

Mills stopped singing.

Jandar waited until Deacon turned away.

“Good decision.”

“I value my life.”

“Learning already.”

It took the better part of the afternoon.

They emerged below the falls bruised, filthy and carrying a boat that now had several new scratches Jandar decided not to examine closely.

When they returned it to the water, everyone simply stood looking at it.

Zook wiped sweat from his forehead.

“We're keeping this thing?”

“I paid for it.”

Deacon stared at Jandar.

“You paid very little for it.”

“That does not reduce the emotional bond.”

“It should.”

Jandar climbed aboard.

The others followed.

Mills waited until Deacon was seated before quietly beginning the work song again.

Windmarch appeared two days later.

Jandar saw it first.

The city rose above the river on its great cliff, stone walls catching the afternoon light. Even from this distance the Citadel dominated the skyline, towers rising above the surrounding roofs like something built to watch not merely the city but the land beyond it.

Home was too strong a word.

Jandar had never been particularly good with that one.

But the sight of Windmarch did something to him.

They had left as five members of the Silver Crown following an assignment almost nobody understood.

They returned with a Grimoire written by a dead Scourge Lord, a minstrel they had accidentally acquired, several new scars and enough questions to make Eticus regret ever meeting them.

Jandar leaned on the steering oar.

“About an hour.”

Mills stood at the bow.

“Until what?”

“Windmarch.”

Mills stared.

He had grown up in Ilbus. Jandar remembered that only when he saw his face.

The Citadel was visible even from here.

“So that's it?”

“That is it.”

Mills immediately reached for his lute.

“No.”

“I need an arrival song.”

“You do not.”

“We have a name now.”

“A questionable one.”

“People need to hear it.”

Jandar looked toward the others.

Zook seemed amused.

Xil had gone quiet the moment Windmarch appeared.

Deacon was inspecting equipment.

Vegon—

Vegon made a strange sound.

Jandar turned.

For an instant he thought the wizard had tripped.

Then he saw his hands.

Every finger had curled hard enough that the joints whitened.

Vegon's back arched.

His mouth opened.

The scream that came out of him silenced the entire boat.

Jandar dropped the steering oar.

Vegon fell sideways but did not collapse normally. His body remained rigid, every muscle drawn tight as wire.

Xil reached him first.

“What happened?”

Vegon could not answer.

His jaw had locked.

Another sound forced its way through his teeth.

Jandar had heard men scream from wounds that should have killed them.

This was worse.

There was no wound.

“Hold him.”

Deacon caught Vegon's shoulders before he rolled against the rail. Jandar took his legs.

The muscles beneath Vegon's clothes were rigid.

Not trembling.

Contracted.

All of them.

Xil placed both hands against his chest and called on divine power.

The spell answered with a flicker of light.

For one brief second Vegon's body relaxed.

He dragged in a breath.

Then every muscle seized again.

Xil pulled his hands away.

“It came back.”

“What came back?” Jandar demanded.

“I don't know.”

Vegon's eyes rolled back.

He went unconscious.

His body remained locked.

Mills stood frozen near the mast.

Zook moved to the steering oar before the boat could drift.

Jandar looked toward Windmarch.

An hour.

Maybe less.

“Get everything out of his pack.”

Deacon frowned.

“Why?”

“The book.”

They tore open the pack and pulled free the wrapped Grimoire.

Nothing changed.

Vegon remained rigid.

“The magic items,” Xil said.

They removed those too.

Still nothing.

Jandar looked at the wizard's face.

Vegon did not wake.

“Windmarch.”

Zook already understood.

He turned the boat downstream.

Jandar ran to the sail.

“Deacon, help me.”

They coaxed every bit of speed they could from the old boat.

The wind was wrong.

Jandar adjusted.

The current helped.

Not enough.

Xil remained beside Vegon, trying one thing after another. None lasted. Divine power could loosen the constriction briefly, but something inside the wizard simply seized again the moment the magic ended.

Jandar stopped looking back.

He focused on the river.

That was easier.

Angle.

Wind.

Current.

Distance.

Things with rules.

The city grew larger.

Mills had put his lute away.

No one spoke.

By the time they reached the Windmarch docks, Jandar had stopped caring what happened to the boat.

The hull struck timber hard enough to throw Zook sideways.

“Good enough.”

They needed something to carry Vegon.

A dockworker produced a cart.

Deacon rejected it when one wheel nearly fell off.

Someone found a cargo net instead.

Between the five of them they lifted Vegon into it.

The wizard remained unconscious.

His body still refused to relax.

They carried him up the cliff stairs toward the Citadel.

Mills followed.

At first he stared at everything.

The walls.

The towers.

The Silver Crown banners snapping above the gate.

The armed patrols.

Then Vegon made another sound.

Mills stopped looking at the city.

They entered the Citadel wet with sweat and river spray, carrying one of their own in a net.

The clerk at the front desk recognized them.

His expression changed.

“What happened?”

“Get Eticus,” Jandar said.

The clerk looked toward the Grimoire under Deacon's arm.

Then at Vegon.

He ran.

Eticus arrived with a cane in one hand and irritation already prepared on his face.

The irritation disappeared when he saw Vegon.

Then Deacon put the wrapped book onto the table.

Eticus stopped.

His eyes moved to it.

For one heartbeat Jandar saw pure astonishment.

“You found it.”

“Yes,” Jandar said. “And he did this.”

Eticus looked back at Vegon.

The astonishment vanished beneath concern.

He knelt.

His hands moved over the wizard without touching him at first, feeling for something Jandar could not see.

Then Eticus closed his eyes.

Magic gathered.

Jandar tasted metal.

The taint.

Eticus opened his eyes again.

“I know what this is.”

Xil stepped forward. “Can you stop it?”

“Yes.”

Jandar exhaled.

Eticus pointed toward the stairs.

“Bring him.”

They carried Vegon upward.

Eticus levitated him once they reached the narrower steps, taking the wizard's weight from the net and guiding him through the air.

Jandar followed.

Eticus looked back.

“No.”

“What?”

“You stay here.”

“He's one of ours.”

The words came out before Jandar considered them.

Eticus looked at him.

Something in the old wizard's expression softened.

“I know.”

“Then we're coming.”

“You are going to get in my way.”

“That has rarely stopped us.”

“Jandar.”

No humor.

Jandar stopped.

Eticus continued more quietly.

“I can stabilize him. Let me.”

Jandar looked past him at Vegon.

The high elf hung rigid in the air, unconscious and helpless in a way Jandar had never seen.

He hated it.

“Fine.”

Eticus nodded.

“And the Grimoire?”

Deacon held it up.

Eticus's eyes returned to the wrapping.

Even now, curiosity moved behind them.

“Leave it with me.”

Jandar laughed once.

“No.”

Eticus looked at him.

“We crossed a swamp for that.”

“And you were sent to recover it for the Citadel.”

“We were sent to recover it for you.”

Eticus considered the distinction.

Deacon settled the argument by placing the wrapped book in the old wizard's hands.

“Fix Vegon.”

Eticus took it.

“I will.”

He disappeared up the stairs with both wizard and Grimoire.

For the first time in weeks, the five of them became four.

Jandar discovered he disliked the arithmetic.

Vegon woke the following morning.

Eticus summoned them shortly after.

They found the high elf sitting upright in a bed near one of the upper Citadel workrooms, looking irritated enough that Jandar knew immediately he would survive.

“Good,” Jandar said. “You look terrible.”

Vegon closed his eyes.

“I was informed you said the same thing in the swamp.”

“It was accurate then too.”

Mills entered behind them.

Vegon looked at him.

“Why is he here?”

Mills smiled.

“I joined.”

Vegon stared at the others.

“When?”

“While you were conscious,” Zook said.

Vegon thought about that.

“Oh.”

“He was very enthusiastic,” Jandar added.

“I remember none of this.”

“That may be for the best.”

Eticus stood beside the window.

The Grimoire of Orozon rested on a table behind him.

Unwrapped.

Vegon noticed immediately.

Jandar saw his entire attention shift.

“No,” Eticus said.

Vegon looked at him.

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask whether—”

“No.”

Jandar smiled.

Vegon glared at him.

Eticus crossed the room.

“You nearly died yesterday.”

Vegon looked down at his hands.

They appeared normal.

He flexed his fingers slowly.

“What happened?”

Eticus leaned on his cane.

“That depends on whether you want the short answer or the complicated one.”

“The complicated one.”

“Of course.”

Jandar found a chair.

So did the others.

Eticus watched them settle.

For a moment, he seemed older than Jandar remembered.

Not frail.

Burdened.

“You have all heard the old stories of the Hand.”

No one answered immediately.

They had heard more than stories now.

Prophecy.

Scourge Lords.

Ancient ruins.

The same word Mills had unknowingly given them in a tavern.

Jandar glanced toward the minstrel.

Mills noticed but did not understand why.

“One member of the ancient Hand was a War Mage,” Eticus continued. “A wizard trained for battle in ways our modern schools no longer teach.”

Vegon frowned.

“I've read references.”

“I know.”

“They weren't a separate tradition.”

“Not at first.”

Eticus moved toward the table.

“Modern wizardry survived the Sundering in pieces. Some schools rebuilt well. Others survived only in fragments, names without practices, diagrams without explanation.”

He glanced toward the Grimoire.

“A War Mage was not simply a wizard who fought.”

Vegon had gone very still.

Eticus continued.

“They learned to make magic react with them. Defense without preparation. Power shaped by instinct. A kind of arcane discipline designed for people who expected spells and steel to reach them at the same time.”

Jandar looked at Vegon.

“That sounds useful.”

Vegon ignored him.

“What does it have to do with me?”

Eticus met his eyes.

“Everything.”

The room quieted.

“What happened on the river was not an attack.”

Xil frowned. “It nearly killed him.”

“Yes.”

“That seems like an important qualification.”

Eticus nodded.

“His body was attempting to accommodate something it had never done before.”

Vegon stared.

“What?”

“Magic.”

Vegon's expression sharpened.

“I already have magic.”

“Not like this.”

Eticus rested both hands on his cane.

“The discipline is awakening in you.”

No one moved.

Jandar looked from Eticus to Vegon.

Vegon looked almost offended.

“That isn't possible.”

Eticus smiled faintly.

“You have had an interesting month for impossible things.”

“That does not make this less impossible.”

“No.”

Eticus looked toward the Grimoire.

“But impossible appears to be losing ground.”

Vegon glanced at the book.

Then back.

“You are saying I am becoming a War Mage.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Vegon disliked that answer visibly.

Jandar understood.

“How rare?” Deacon asked.

Eticus looked at him.

“We have not seen one since the age of the Hand.”

That landed harder.

Jandar sat back.

The prophecy returned.

When the greatest hour of need comes, the Hand will rise.

Mills had named them the Hand of the Storm as a joke.

Mostly.

Jandar no longer found the coincidence amusing.

Zook looked toward him.

He had made the same connection.

Xil's expression suggested he had too.

Vegon remained focused on the practical question.

“Will it happen again?”

“Not like that.”

Eticus crossed to him.

“I stabilized the change. There may be other manifestations, but your body should no longer attempt to tear itself apart every time the discipline advances.”

“Should?”

Eticus smiled.

“I am a scholar, Vegon. I choose my words carefully.”

“That was not reassuring.”

“It was not intended to be.”

Eticus raised one hand.

“Try something.”

Vegon frowned.

“What?”

“Reach for magic. Do not cast.”

Vegon did.

Jandar could not see the difference immediately.

Then something shifted around the high elf.

Not a shield.

Not exactly.

The air near his body tightened for an instant, bending like heat above stone.

Vegon felt it.

His eyes widened.

Eticus nodded.

“Again.”

Vegon repeated it.

This time the distortion came faster.

Controlled.

“What is it?” Xil asked.

“Arcane deflection,” Eticus said. “A reflexive shaping of magic toward defense. A War Mage learns to turn power against the thing trying to harm him before conscious spellwork would normally be possible.”

Vegon studied his hands.

Jandar smiled.

“So you nearly died and became harder to kill.”

Vegon looked at him.

“That is an oversimplification.”

“Is it wrong?”

Vegon considered.

“No.”

“Then I like it.”

Eticus pointed his cane toward Jandar.

“You should not.”

“Why?”

“Because every old thing returning seems to delight you until it tries to murder you.”

Jandar thought about the past several weeks.

“That is unfairly accurate.”

Mills had been silent longer than usual.

He looked at Vegon.

“One of the old Hand was a War Mage.”

“Yes,” Eticus said.

“And now he is.”

Eticus's gaze moved toward him.

“Something like that.”

Mills slowly reached for his notebook.

Five voices answered at once.

“No.”

He stopped.

Jandar stood.

“We are learning.”

Mills looked disappointed.

Eticus did not smile.

That caught Jandar's attention.

The old wizard was looking at all five of them now.

Not Mills.

The five Silver Crown members.

The way he had looked at them once before.

Back when five bodies had been returned to the Citadel and Eticus had whispered two words Jandar still remembered.

Too soon.

Jandar felt the humor leave him.

“You knew this might happen.”

Eticus's eyes settled on him.

“No.”

“That is not the same as saying you didn't suspect it.”

Vegon looked toward his mentor.

Eticus sighed.

“Suspect what, Jandar?”

“The prophecy. The Hand. Him.”

Jandar pointed toward Vegon.

“Us.”

Silence.

Mills looked from one person to another, suddenly aware that he had walked into a conversation already years old.

Eticus finally spoke.

“I suspected that events we considered finished were not finished.”

“The Scourge Lords.”

“Yes.”

“The crystals?”

“Perhaps.”

“Orozon's Grimoire?”

Eticus looked toward the book.

“Certainly.”

“And Vegon?”

Eticus hesitated.

“No.”

Jandar believed him.

That did not make the answer comforting.

Eticus walked to the Grimoire.

He placed one hand on the cover.

“I have begun examining this.”

Vegon leaned forward immediately.

“And?”

“I cannot read it.”

Jandar laughed.

Vegon looked almost pleased.

Eticus pointed at him.

“Do not enjoy that.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“A little.”

Eticus shook his head.

“The script predates every surviving system I know. Some structures are familiar. Not the words.”

Vegon looked toward the book.

“So we still know nothing.”

“No.”

Eticus's hand remained on the cover.

“We know Orozon wanted this protected.”

They all remembered the guardian.

Jandar heard the final words again without wanting to.

You do not know what it is you have done.

Eticus looked at each of them.

“We know ancient magic is waking. We know creatures and mechanisms thought lost are appearing again. We know a magical discipline unseen since the original Hand has just manifested in one of you.”

His gaze stopped on Vegon.

“And we know someone wrote a prophecy saying the Hand would rise again when the world needed it.”

Mills slowly lowered his notebook.

No one told him to.

Jandar looked at the four people beside him.

Zook.

Deacon.

Xil.

Vegon.

They had returned to Windmarch expecting answers.

Instead, as usual, Eticus had given them a larger question.

Mills broke the silence.

“So the name stays?”

Jandar looked at him.

The minstrel's expression was completely serious.

For one second.

Then Zook laughed.

Deacon shook his head.

Even Xil smiled.

Vegon sighed.

Jandar looked toward Eticus.

The old wizard did not object.

That decided it.

“The name stays.”

Mills immediately opened his notebook.

Jandar pointed at him.

“One song.”

Mills smiled.

“I already have three.”

“Of course you do.”

Behind them, the Grimoire of Orozon lay open beneath Eticus's hand.

Beside Jandar sat a wizard carrying a discipline unseen since the world had broken.

And somewhere inside the joke Mills had made in an Ilbus tavern, a name had stopped being merely a joke.

The Hand of the Storm had returned to Windmarch.