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Horde Thief
Chapter 29
The location set is one that the White Council has used before, according to Harry, during the war with the Red Court of Vampires. It's still a little strange to think about that, three entirely different species of Vampire. Only two of them exist now, which make the consideration a little unnecessary, but it remains a curiosity. And makes you spare a thought to how much Lya is going to love learning of this place, once she finds you.
The old warehouse doesn't look like the sort of place anyone would choose to meet, but that is no doubt the point. So much easier to avoid attention if you're somewhere no one would think to look. But once you're inside, and past some impressively rigorous security checks administered by a group of steely-eyed Wardens, the façade reveals itself as just that.
"They've been busy," Harry murmurs next to you, looking around as pitted metal gives way to insulated drywall and the cold of the early spring fades. Neither of you are bothered by it in the least, but the amount of work done here is telling. Something more permanent than a temporary meeting place, then. Interesting. You pass down several more corridors, and three more checkpoints, before reaching the last one.
"Well, here we are," you take a slow breath, steadying yourself for the type of war that you learnt young was far greater than that committed by swords of steel, in an arena set against you like few you've faced before. It's frustrating to be distrusted like this, but the truth is that you're a victim of your own success. When the White Council gave you the task of removing the Fomor from North America, they did it to get you out of their hair. You're quite sure that no one had believed that you'd actually do it, and proving yourself capable of wiping a continent clear of the forces of a supernatural nation in a week was a statement that had made the Council very cautious of you.
You don't like it, but you understand. The sort of power you can wield doesn't come out of nowhere, in this realm or your own, and any wielder of it always has an agenda. You certainly do. The challenge facing you here is convincing the three representatives the White Council's sending that yours is benign. Not the easiest thing to do, when you're asking them to change.
"You know," your guide muses, watching your expression settle, "if you walk in there looking ready for a fight, they're going to assume the worst."
"I thought they'd already done that?" You point out, rolling your shoulders to let your cape of shifting gold fall better around the fiery robes chosen for the day. "But I wouldn't worry Ser Harry. They are expecting a being of solemn power, who has shattered the hold of an empire. I can give them that, and I will. Just…not as they might expect it." He gives you an odd look, to which your answer is a calm, confident smile. You know what's on the other side of these doors, and you've planned for it. All that remains is to see it through. "Shall we?"
Harry raps his fist against the solid hardwood of the door, and it swings open silently, revealing what you can only call an audience chamber. Rows of seats fan out from a central stage, all of them empty. Groups of Wardens stand at points defining a circle at the edge of the room, and as the door opens, you feel their attention swing towards you, sizing you up with skills hard-won in the Council's last war. You step inside, being forced to take two steps for every one of Harry's, and start down towards the stage at the chamber's heart. Three figures await you there, all dressed in the dark robes and purple stoles of Senior Council members.
They make for an interesting collection. Two tall, one stocky, the latter the mentor of your ally here. It's almost comforting to see someone other than Karrin who's about the same height as you. The shorter figure and one of the tall ones have their hoods up, but the man at the centre of the stage does not. His hair and beard are a snowy white, shot through with silver, and perfectly groomed against the lines of his features. If nothing else, he has features worth his position, and from what little you've been able to uncover, he's earned it, too. You don't get to be the Merlin by collecting bottle caps, so Harry told you. He then had to explain the phrase, but it got the point across. The man might look like some fantastical portrait made flesh, but he wasn't one to be taken lightly.
Eyes of an impassive sky blue follow you down the steps towards the stage, and slender fingers flick around the staff of flawless white wood, without a single mark on it. As you reach the opening between seats and stage, he nods once, and speaks. The language is called Latin, apparently, but it does not trouble you. "Wardens. Close the Circle."
Doors are pulled fully closed, locks click, and a surge of magic sweeps around the edge of the circular hall, enclosing it in a ward that you feel just short of your skin as it seals the room. And for the first time, you feel its presence against your magic. A pressure, subtle, but strong. Not an attack, you realise as you look to Harry, but that knowledge does little to damp your irritation. If you felt charitable,
"Viserys Targaryen," the Merlin dips his head in a nod of recognition, of your presence, nothing more. He continues, in English: "As a formal meeting in the eyes of the Council, we are obligated to speak in its tongue. Do you require a translator?"
"I do not," you reply, in perfect Latin, glad that you had chosen to take the more certain route to know the White Council's language. You couldn't be sure how the circle around you might have affected a weaker working, when your greater ones had been…reduced.
"Very well," the man's face remains impassive, if your knowledge of the language had surprised him, it didn't show. Again, expected. Harry had told you that the current Merlin is as much a creature of politics as Power. With hundreds of years to refine his craft it's little wonder that he can seamlessly mask a reaction, if there'd even been one. "You have petitioned the White Council for an audience. We, its representatives, are here. Speak, and know that all you say will be returned to the full Council for deliberation."
With that, the Merlin yields the floor to you, and you take a single step forward, separating yourself clearly from your guide. Theatre, but theatre which matters. Just as your next words did. "Honoured members of the Senior Council, I have completed the task set for me, and now come to you with the matter I feel most grievous to the world around us."
"For thousands of years, the White Council has stood as a bulwark against humanity's foes. You have discharged that duty in good standing," mostly, but it wouldn't do to be insulting, "but now you face a very different enemy, and one you cannot fight as you have done so the others." A stiffness invests the three Wizards in front of you, and though you can't sense it the way one of them could, you can tell that they're gathering power. You continue as if nothing had changed. "The world has grown, and with it has the spread of mortal magic, which you can no longer keep up with."
The Merlin's gaze hardens. "We are well aware of our limitations in this matter," he tells you, nodding once at Harry. "Wizard Dresden has long since been a champion of these affairs, working to create a network he called the Paranet." There isn't scorn in the old wizard's voice, but it's close.
"It is good that you mention it," you nod, "but as it stands, the Paranet is little more than a wall of sand before the tide. It cannot hold as it is, not without strength. Strength that can only be given by the White Council, and that should be given." You didn't go quite so far as to say it was as much their duty to guide and teach as it was to protect. You knew that it wasn't seen that way.
"You would have us extend greater support to the Paranet." The voice of the stocky figure at the Merlin's left was strong and startlingly similar to Harry's, but deeper and with a more pronounced accent. "We've heard such proposal before."
"This is different," you give the man a tight-lipped smile. "I have seen a little of how far magic has spread in my work against the Fomor. With it stopped, the Paranet will soon find itself under pressure in this continent like it has never been. Without aid, it will lead to an outbreak of Warlocks on a scale I doubt has even been considered. Can the Wardens truly afford such a distraction?"
"More than simply support then," the Merlin makes a move-along gesture. "You have a proposal, Mr Targaryen. Please, do elaborate." You catch the flash of anger just short of your lips, but the Merlin notices.
"There is a way to stop this short. I have discussed the matter with Wizard Dresden, and he concurs. With the help of the Wardens, on a far small scale that would be needed to suppress a mass Warlock outbreak, the Council can add to its ranks without the Laws of Magic ever being broken. Given the tides rising against humanity, surely it is better to make friends, then destroy enemies."
"Wizard Dresden," the third member of the group speaks, his voice clipped and calm. "You have discussed this as Mr Targaryen says?" There's something unpleasant in his voice, an echo that you recognise from your own experiences. The voice of a man about to drive a knife in.
"In my role as a Warden Liaison," Harry replies, and you wonder if he knows how obvious the leashed anger in his voice is, directed almost entirely at his questioner. Something truly unpleasant must have passed between them. "A discussion of that sort lies within that purview."
"Be that as it may," the Merlin cuts in, in the manner of one calming the waters. Not attempting, either: both men subside quickly, though in a way that makes it quite clear that the matter isn't forgotten. "I must say, Mr Targaryen, that you appear to have a great deal of interest in internal White Council affairs for a relatively unknown," his gaze flicks to Dresden, and the emphasis is unmistakable, "outsider."
"Sometimes," Harry replies, hissing breath in through clenched teeth, "a different perspective can offer a new solution to an old problem."
The Merlin hums noncommittally, before turning back to you. "Tell me," he asks, without breaking measure, but offering no space to interrupt. "have you ever actually seen a true Warlock in action, that you would presume to tell us how to handle them?"
