李淳罡死了还是飞升了

It was a rare thing for Brightblade to show even the slightest hint of worry, and that she did so now could only mean her plan was a risky one, with the outcome still uncertain.

Still, Arran did not give himself over to pointless fretting. Instead, he passed the day training his sword skills, calming his thoughts by focusing on the familiar movements of practice.

Even if the situation was not one he could resolve with his sword, just feeling its heft in his hands as he practiced provided a sense of control. Amid the intrigue and treachery of Valley politics, it was good to be reminded that the world still held things as simple and reliable as the steel of a sharp blade.

Late in the afternoon, two messengers from the Matriarch arrived, one for Arran and one for Brightblade. Both carried the same message: that there was to be a meeting of Elders the following day, and that their presence was required.

They already knew about the meeting, of course, but Arran realized that there would be dozens of messengers all over the Ninth Valley delivering the same message to the Valley’s Elders.

Whatever Brightblade’s plan was, it had been set into motion, and there would be no stopping it. Now, all that remained was to see where it would lead.

Arran’s sleep was troubled that night, filled with dreams of faceless Elders scheming against him, and he awoke the next morning feeling more tired than he had before going to sleep.

Fortunately, a hearty breakfast and some hours in the hot spring proved more refreshing than the night had been, and by midday, he felt rested and prepared for whatever the day would bring — as prepared as he could be without knowing what he would face, anyway.

That his weariness had passed by then was a good thing, too, because not long after midday, Brightblade approached him.

"It’s time," she said.

Arran looked at her in wonder. She was wearing formal white robes, but if her intent was to look venerable, the unusual outfit achieved the exact opposite. The white robes were ill-fitting and awkward, like the kind of thing a fresh novice might wear when summoned by an Elder.

Even a simple training robe would have been better. There were enough strong mages who looked down on finery and formality, with strength and training the only things they cared about. And in a training robe, she might be seen as one of those.

But this... Arran frowned in puzzlement. To his eyes, she looked every bit the part of a young, inexperienced mage, nervous at the thought of even meeting a single Elder. Her youthful looks were no help here, either — to someone who didn’t know her, she would barely look older than Arran himself.

Yet he understood that Brightblade was no fool. If she had chosen to dress like this, it would be intentional.

His suspicions were confirmed when Brightblade looked at Arran with barely veiled amusement. "Doesn’t it almost make me look like a young girl again?"

Arran was in no mood for levity, and he gave her a flat stare. "What do you expect me to do at the meeting?"

"I expect you to keep your mouth shut," she replied. "Those old foxes are crafty, and they will use your words against you if given even half a chance. Only speak if it’s absolutely necessary."

To this, Arran had no objections. Even ignoring his distaste for politics, his time at the Ninth Valley had been spent studying magic, not learning about its Elders.

He gave Brightblade a short nod, and with that, they set off toward the meeting.

The Elders’ meeting hall was in the House of Seals, and although Arran did not know exactly where, Brightblade knew the way already.

The hall was less than a quarter-hour away from Arran’s mansion, the route leading them through a series of wide paved streets that were lined with opulent stores and mansions.

Still, for all the grandeur along the way, Arran nearly found himself speechless when they arrived.

Some part of him had expected the hall to be just that — a hall, though perhaps a large one. But instead, he found a grand palace, its thick walls seemingly hewn from a single giant slab of marble and covered in numerous intricate carvings. Although it was well over a hundred feet tall, it had been constructed with such attention to detail it almost resembled an ivory carving.

"Not exactly subtle, is it?" Brightblade said as they approached.

Arran did not answer. He was too busy taking in the spectacular sight.

They reached the entrance a moment later. There were over a dozen mages guarding it, but although Arran recognized none of them, their leader clearly knew who they were. He quickly waved them inside with a small bow that was polite if not exactly friendly.

Inside, they found a large hall that was already filled with mages. Arran briefly thought that these were the Elders, but then he saw that this chamber led to another one, and realized that this was merely the antechamber. The mages here, he realized, would merely be the Elders’ students, stewards, and other hangers-on.

Well over a hundred pairs of eyes shot their way as soon as they stepped into the hall, but Brightblade ignored them entirely, continuing onward at a steady pace without giving the mages so much as a glance.

The crowd parted as they walked forward, hushed whispers sounding around them. While the mages might not know who they were — or why they were even there — it was clear as day that they were heading for the main hall, where only Elders were allowed.

Although the massive wooden doors leading to the main hall were closed, they were otherwise unguarded. But then, with the Valley’s Elders all gathered inside, there was little point in having guards — anyone who did not fear the Elders would certainly not be deterred by mere guards.

Brightblade casually waved her hand, and the massive doors swung open with a loud creaking sound. She gave Arran a glance, then said softly, "Remember, don’t speak unless you have to."

As they stepped into the main hall, Arran was immediately surprised at the number of people inside. There were well over a hundred, probably even twice that.

If all of these were Elders — and they must be — then the Ninth Valley held several times as many Elders as the Sixth Valley. An astonishing number, even if he suspected the Sixth Valley’s Elder might be stronger than there.

There was no time to give it any further thought, however, as all these Elders’ eyes turned toward Arran and Brightblade as soon as they entered the hall. And this time, ignoring the curious looks wasn’t so easy.

These were the Valley’s most powerful and influential mages, and Arran had no doubt that their decisions today would have major repercussions for his future. Yet he could not let the pressure get to him — not now, with his future at stake.

He swept his eyes across the large hall as calmly as he could, and only now did he realize that there was a broad dais at the end of the hall, with the throne that stood upon it holding the Matriarch.

"Step forward, Ghostblade," she said loudly. Although she sounded every bit as confident as she had in the past, Arran could not shake the memory of the previous day. The Matriarch had looked fragile to the point of breaking, and if she was like that just a day earlier, he suspected this confidence was a mere front.

"Go," Brightblade said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Clenching his jaw, Arran did as she said, moving forward through the crowd of Elders with what he hoped was a calm and dignified expression.

As he approached the dais, he cast some curious looks at the Elders, and quickly realized that they were divided into groups. There was one group in the crimson robes of the House of Flames, another group he thought consisted of members of the House of Shadows, and many more from various smaller Houses within the Valley.

However, the largest group consisted of the House of Seals Elders, and these, Arran recognized instantly.

There were over three dozen of them, all gathered near the right edge of the dais that held the Matriarch. Yet with a second look, Arran realized that the group itself seemed to be split into smaller groups.

The smallest of these held just over half a dozen mages, and they stood closest to the Matriarch. Arran instantly recognized three of the mages among this group.

Two caused him little surprise — the two mages the Matriarch had sent to accompany him, who had been driven away by Brightblade. Yet the third was unexpected — the mage who had first taken him to the Matriarch, whom he had believed to be a mere Master. Incorrectly, it appeared.

All the mages in this group paid at least as much attention to Brightblade as they did to Arran. Doubtless, word of her earlier display had spread among them.

The other two groups, however, only had eyes for Arran. Both of them were roughly the same size, and he had no idea what caused them to stand a pace or two apart in the hall. All he knew was that their eyes were focused on him, and that their expressions seemed far from friendly.

When he reached the dais, the Matriarch gestured for him to stand beside her, and she flashed him a brief encouraging smile as he did so.

But a moment later, her expression turned back to a practiced calm and confidence, and she turned her eyes toward the crowded hall.

"Elders of the Ninth Valley," she began in a severe voice. "As some of you already know, there was an attack on my apprentice just over a week ago. Six adepts of my own House attempted to murder him, in broad daylight and barely a stone’s throw away from the House of Seals. Since then, I have—"

"Lies," a voice interrupted her.

With a glance, Arran saw that the word had come from a middle-aged mage who stood among the most distant group of House of Seals mages. He was handsome, with a sharp but cold face beneath his brown hair, and he was dressed in fine, dark-gray robes with golden embroidery,

"Elder Heran," the Matriarch began. "If you could please remain—"

Again, the man interrupted her. "I will not hold my tongue. Two of my students were brutally murdered, and now, one of their killers dares claim he is the victim? Preposterous!"

Clenching his jaw, Arran locked eyes with the Elder. A hint of malice crossed the man’s face, but Arran felt no fear. Rather, he felt a cold rage, along with a trace of regret — regret that he wasn’t yet strong enough to cut the man down where he stood.