Page 17

I know that makes her vulnerable.

I do not yet know how much that vulnerability will cost.

4

RHYSANDIR

Chaos enters the neptherium war table through my palms.

The polished black surface absorbs the first thread of magic without reaction. I increase the pressure, directing power through channels carved beneath the stone. Pale lines ignite under my fingers and spread outward in a branching pattern.

The table answers.

Stone rises from its surface in miniature ridges. Valleys deepen between them. Rivers form as narrow bands of dark silver, moving through the landscape with a faint gleam. Within several breaths, the Causadurn Ridge stands before me in three dimensions.

Mountains fill most of the table.

Their highest peaks reach my waist. Snow clings to their carved slopes despite the warmth of the war room. A touch could scatter it, though it would become dust rather than water when the spell ends.

Chaos does not create the ridge. It persuades the neptherium to hold another shape for a time.

I lift one hand.

The map remains stable.

My other hand directs a current beneath its western edge. A road appears, winding through narrow passes and descending toward the mining settlements. Small markers rise beside watch posts, bridges, and fortified gates.

Several burn gold.

Others burn red.

I touch a red marker near Simimuese Bluff. The surrounding terrain expands, pushing neighboring mountains aside without altering their proportions. A crimson line crawls through the high ravines north of the bluff.

Waira territory.

The line is not a fixed border. Waira do not respect political boundaries, and their hunting grounds shift with prey, weather, and the strength of competing packs. The crimson marking reflects attacks recorded during the past ten years. Three incidents occurred this season alone.

I draw the nearest mining route across the ridge. Its pale thread passes too close to the southern edge of the territory.

A caravan disappeared there nine days ago.

No bodies were recovered. That means the waira fed well or dragged survivors deeper into the mountains. Neither possibility improves the account.

“Move the eastern escorts to the bluff,” I say.

Joran stands on the opposite side of the table. The Miou captain leans forward, violet eyes fixed upon the terrain.

“That leaves the north road with twelve guards,” he says.

“Twelve are sufficient.”

“Against raiders. Not a full waira pack.”

“The north road has not seen waira in six years.”

“Six years is a poor shield.”

“Terrain is the shield.”