“We have to assume that the Mages have heard of this recurrence. They have their spies, and if their greed is as strong as ever, they will be coming. An advance army, perhaps, borne by hawks or other flying things, but the bulk of their force will surely travel by sea. Nobody knows how far north they fled, so none can tell how soon they will arrive on Noreela. But their threat is secondary. Our time is now. The Mages seek the magic, and without it they are no more than worn-out sorcerers with tricks up their sleeves and false-bottomed boxes. We must find it first. And once found, it has to be destroyed, sent back, purged from the world once more. Humanity was not ready the last time, and since then nothing has improved. It does not belong here.”

Jossua pulled back his hood so that he could stare out at the assembled Monks, frankly and honestly. They met his gaze. “Three centuries ago, I stood on the far northern shores of Noreela and watched the Mages flee, and then I felt magic abandon the land. I felt what that abandonment did to Noreela . . . like halting food for a pregnant woman. She withers and dies, and the potential within her withers and dies also. I was covered with the gore of the Mages’ Krote warriors, my belly filled with their blood, and even before their burning ships had crested the horizon I swore to myself, never again. I was already a changed man. The fury had done that, the hate, and I was a Red Monk in all but name. Whether it stays away or comes back, they’ll never have it again, I swore. We have had false alarms—there have been signs, hints, and we have killed when we deemed it necessary or appropriate—but this is different. This is real. Whatever their reasons for telling us, the Nax have no need to lie or deceive.”

He raised his hand and, with three swipes, divided the assembled throng into three equal parts. “You, head straight to the Widow’s Peaks and commence your search. You, upriver to San, guard the waterway and wait for the carrier to cross. You, take the boats across Lake Denyah, then head for the Mol’Steria Desert. Wait there, but look both ways: north, for the carrier of magic; south, for the Shantasi. I suspect they have heard as well, or will soon, and they too will be keen to claim their prize.”

He raised his head, drew his sword and set its tip between his shoes. With his palms on the hilt he leaned forward, sighing as he took some of the weight from his feet. “This place has served us well,” he said, “but it’s time for history to move on. If any of you have any questions . . . your heart is not true.”

At that, the three hundred Monks stood and began to file out, quickly and quietly.