by Thomas Locke
“I felt something,” the old man said. “I must have, since I found this tiny element and brought it back.”
“You were right to do so.” Hyam panted through three tight breaths. “I am in your debt.”
“Nonsense, your lordship. It is my honor to serve the one who vanquished the red lord.” The old man bent in so close his breath touched Hyam’s fingers. “Truly, this is from your orb?”
“Yes.” Hyam let the old man peer for a moment longer, then slipped the shard into his chest pocket. Close to his pounding heart. “Alembord.”
“Sire?”
“The money Bayard gave us. Let me have it, please.”
Alembord untied the leather pouch from his sword belt and passed it over. Hyam opened the mouth and poured gold into the old man’s hand.
The merchant protested, “It is too much.”
“You have earned it all,” Hyam assured him. He turned away and said to the others, “We go.”
“Sire . . . a moment, please.” When Hyam turned back, the merchant said, “I’ve spent my life serving the lesser desires of mortal men. But I’ve never done willing harm to another, unlike others I could name along this shadowed alley. Never sold what might be used to twist the fate of some helpless maiden or hapless spinster. Never dealt in poison or fiendish potions. And for a few bitter seasons I’ve almost starved as a result. Cast out during the red lord’s reign, I was, left to fend for myself among the badland tribes and then working as a healer’s apprentice in Falmouth. An apprentice, me at my age!” He dragged a sleeve about his face, then waved it all aside. “When I was younger I wanted nothing more than to study with the Falmouth mages. But I never showed an ability, more’s the pity. Still, I held to the creed, my lord. I held to the creed!”
“I believe you,” Hyam said.
The fire dimmed in those ancient eyes, and he withdrew a strand of silver wire that was slung about his neck. On it was a small key, which he fitted into a slit in the stone wall. “There’s said to be a company of witches that call the yellow wasteland home. Years back, I met a drover who said he had discovered a treasure that once belonged to them. I wasn’t sure I believed him, for he carried the look of madness in his gaze. But I bought what he offered just in case.”
Hyam watched as the old man withdrew a wooden box and carried it back over. “In case what?”
“In case the instrument inside can do what the drover claimed.” The old man’s voice was hoarse now. With fear or eagerness or simple fervor, Hyam could not tell. “I couldn’t risk allowing such powers to fall into the wrong hands, not and hold to the creed!”
Hyam started to open the box, but the old man waved him to a halt. “Not here, good sir. Not here! There are foul winds that still blow through Emporis on moonless nights. I detect the enemy’s stench in the dark hours. Take this somewhere safe, do with it what you will. Only not here!”
The wood was scarred and featureless and very light. “What did the drover tell you?”
“Inside this box is an eye. If you peer deep and ask the right question, you can glimpse around time’s boundary. But only backwards. Not into the future.” The hoarse voice shook now, and Hyam realized the man was desperate to rid himself of this possible threat. “But seek a wrongness, the drover said, or seek for the wrong reason, and the forces locked inside will swallow you whole.”
18
When Meda stepped inside the spice merchant’s tent, she held the curtained doorway slightly open with the hand not resting on her sword hilt. Shona inspected the fancy shop, the benches with silk cushions, the ornately carved central table with its inlaid surface of silver and pearl, the gilded lamp hanging from the oiled ceiling timbers. Joelle seemed blind to everything except the white flowers.
The tradeswoman settled Joelle onto a padded bench and asked Shona, “Won’t you sit down, my lovely?”
“I’d like to stand if that’s all right.”
“Whatever pleases you is excellent by me.”
The tradeswoman turned to Meda, but before she could speak, Meda replied, “I’ll remain here by the door.”
“Of course you will, and how fortunate these two ladies are to have such a capable officer guarding their backs.” She beamed down at Joelle. “When did madame leave the woodlands?”
“I was born and raised in the great forest. I was fifteen when I left.” Joelle’s voice sounded far off, as though spoken from inside a dream. “I have not been back since.”
“Far as the great forest I have not traveled. But I know of what you speak.” The tradeswoman spoke in a sultry melody, almost crooning the words. She bustled about, setting out various vials and implements, lighting a gilded brazier that stood upon a polished steel tripod. “Far to the west, with the Galwyn Hills as its boundary, yes? It must have been a beautiful abode.”
“The most beautiful place in all the world.” Joelle’s voice grew increasingly vague.
Shona asked, “Is everything all right?’”
Joelle opened her mouth to respond, but no sound emerged. Far overhead, the eagle screamed, and for a reason Shona could not understand, the sound caused her to tremble. She watched as the woman drew out a small silver chest, as ornately carved as everything else in the room. The woman took a rose-colored block, long as her finger, and set it upon the fire’s heart. “Here, let’s enjoy a bit of perfumed wood. That should spice things up nicely, don’t you think?”
The smoke gradually filled the tented room, and as it rose the woman weaved her hands in an intricate fashion. She chanted softly, releasing a faint pink trail from her mouth. As the two smokes thickened, Shona realized she was imprisoned. She could not move. She could hardly breathe.
“There. That should hold you well enough. Don’t you ladies agree?” Each word thickened the smoke, which strengthened until it formed snakelike tendrils that bound all three women.
Then the old woman moved to the entrance, took the curtain from Meda’s frozen hand, and shut out the world. The sorceress inspected Meda, then smiled and declared, “You’ll roast up nicely, you will.”
Hyam followed Connell down the winding steps into the citadel’s lowest cellar. Fareed guarded the cellar’s entry, there to keep any curious acolyte from following. Each stair was twice as wide as he was tall and wound about a central pillar that ten men could not have encircled with their arms. Everything about this ancient castle was oversized.
Down and down they went, past one high-ceilinged level, then another. At the stairs’ base Connell said, “This is where Trace and Mistress Edlyn spent the most time with their cleansing spells. I dread to think what foul mischief the red lord concentrated on down here.”
Hyam felt the sizzling energy course through him, strong as when he had first touched the scrolls. “Somewhere below us, four great rivers of power join together.”
“So Trace informed me.” Connell held the mage-light aloft and studied Hyam. “You feel it?”
“I sense something. You?”
“Nothing save the same faint dread I’ve always known in these lower reaches.” He drew the light closer. “Perhaps a bit of your powers are returning.”
Hyam had been wondering the same thing. But he merely said, “Let’s get started. I have an appointment with a bird.”
The castle’s lowest level held just one vast chamber, larger than the Earl of Falmouth’s main banqueting hall. Connell strengthened the light to where both men squinted against the brilliance, and still the hall’s far end was lost to darkness.
Hyam sensed the weight of untold years. The stones seemed as implacable to time’s passage as the city’s walls. He thought he smelled a faint trace of more recent evil, but it lay upon the cavern like dust on a disused table. The force here was implacable. Ages of men, wars, and strife—all this meant little.
Connell dimmed the mage-light to where it did not hurt the eyes. They were instantly encircled by shadows. “What happens now?”
“I am going to invoke the spell. After that, I have no idea.”<
br />
“The spell that no one else can read.”
“It’s there. Otherwise the enemy would not have tracked the desert trader across the yellow realm. Perhaps you should leave the light here with me and go back—”
“I am going nowhere,” Connell declared.
Hyam did not argue. In truth, he was grateful for the company. He drew out the fragment of his former orb. The shard was no larger than his thumbnail and hardly as thick, a mere shaving of cracked and splintered crystal. And yet it called to him with an intensity that caused his blood to sing. He set it down in the center of the circle formed by Connell’s light and began the incantation.
He knew that he was invoking a binding spell—that much was clear from the scroll’s structure. What would happen, the scroll did not say. But ever since he’d first touched this fractured remnant, Hyam’s heart had flamed with the hope that the spell might rebuild his orb. Even when he knew too much of the material had been lost in the battle against the crimson one. Such logic held little sway down here in the ancient chamber, surrounded by forces older than the race of man.
When Hyam completed the incantation’s first portion, he inspected the man standing beside him. “Do you sense anything?”
Connell shifted nervously. “Perhaps. Are you finished?”
“No. This is the midway point.” Hyam saw how Connell peered into the shadowed reaches. “Tell me.”
“Your voice was the faintest whisper, and yet . . .”
“You felt its resonance.”
Connell nodded slowly. “And something else. Every now and then, the walls flickered. Like, well, I’m not sure what it was like.”
“Energy coursing about us. I felt it as well.”
Connell glanced down. “Look at the glass.”
“I see it.” The shard of his orb pulsed softly. A faint throbbing beat that his own heart echoed. “I’m starting on the second part now.”
Hyam kept his eyes open. He wanted to witness. He wanted to engage. Which meant he was able to watch as the power surged about the chamber. Every pulse of the shard at his feet was repeated with great silent streams that flickered lightning-fast over the walls and floor and distant ceiling.
Hyam did not lift his hands so much as permit the force to fill him. Fire crackled from his fingertips. It raced out, loud and explosive now, as though the energy could no longer remain silent. The incantation grew to a booming thunder, then in a sudden flash exploded outward. Hyam felt the shift as much as saw it, a circle of shimmering fire that grew and spread until it vanished, all but a flickering echo.
Hyam hesitated a long moment, then invoked the next word. Instantly the force returned, a silent circular wave of power that rushed back inside the chamber.
Only now the force carried with it a cloud of colored dust.
Larger fragments sparkled with the same power that surged about the ancient stone. The incantation carried such energy Hyam saw tendrils of fire take shape with the words, binding the dust together. Initially the dust carried two distinct colors. Some held a putrid pinkish tone. More was violet laced with silver fire. But as the words and the power united the flecks, the color changed, transforming into a silvery lavender. A new shade for a new fabrication.
On and on Hyam recited the Milantian words, marveling at how the shards followed commands he scarcely understood, binding into . . .
Not an orb.
A multitude of miniature globes.
Each was perfectly fashioned, a diminutive orb. They all gleamed with the same force that resonated about the vast hall. All of them were a perfect circle. Except one.
Hyam finished and let his hands drop to his side. The silence resonated strong as the thunder. Connell’s breath rasped in and out, as though the mage sought air for them both.
A glowing field of orbs lay scattered about them. The living fire bathed them with pulsating energy. And at its heart was a tear-shaped gem that burned brightest of all.
19
The market beyond the draped entryway was lost to Shona now. Even so, she heard a frantic echo as the eagle cried once more.
Fear swarmed like a mad blind thing inside her. Shona was unable to move. Her eyes could track, and she managed tight gasping breaths. Nothing more.
The woman paused in front of Shona, inspecting her carefully. The crooning voice sang the words, “I don’t suppose you’ll be needing that perfume after all, will you, my lovely.”
Shona had been around warriors all her life. For years she had lived in the shadow of the crimson mage. Talk of war and the threat of defeat had been real and constant. But looking into those eyes revealed something she had never known before. Shona saw a malevolent force that took pleasure from another’s misery. The promise of doom, the sucking penetrating force that devoured hope. All was revealed.
The woman traced one fingernail down Shona’s cheek. It scraped her skin like a talon. “The master’s only interest is in the half-breed wed to the enemy. He said nothing about you. Which means you can be my toy, at least for a little while. I’ll have to work up something special, my lovely. Yes, indeed.”
The woman stepped over and inspected Joelle. “I wonder what all the fuss was about. You’re not half the threat they described.” She hefted the trough, took a huge breath, then blew the petals all over Joelle. “There you are, my dear. Your forest shroud.”
Joelle appeared in even worse shape than Shona. Her eyes were blank, vacant as death. A petal landed upon her lower lip, another upon her left eyelid. Joelle did not respond. Shona was not even certain that she breathed.
The woman set the trough down upon the brazier and began chanting softly. Hidden beneath the petals was a lumpish red mass that the woman picked up, inserted into her mouth, and swallowed. Then she drew in a great breath and inhaled all the smoke, expanding to where she almost filled the chamber. Shona felt the acidic fumes sucked from her lungs, across the room, into the ever-expanding woman.
Then it was done, and the sorceress resumed normal size. “There. That’s better.” She turned and smiled at her frozen guests. “I disliked placing so much of myself out there, don’t you know. Exposed and weak, it left me. But never mind. Orders are orders.”
She drew from the brazier a knife whose blade was turned crimson by the heat. Her few steps back to Joelle became a sinuous dance. “Which brings us to the next order of business. You and your young man have been such pests.” The sorceress crooned like she would to a lover. “Your Hyam murdered my sisters in the Galwyn Hills and stole their orb. Then he had you carry that Milantian blade about like it belonged to you. Then you two show up in Emporis with that great army of yours, surprising the red lord. And now you’ve destroyed my master’s favorite pet. Shame on you both. Such actions as these must be punished.”
Shona might as well have been chained at the bottom of the ocean. She struggled with a ferocity that threatened to wrench her joints. But to no avail. Despite her utter stillness, the sorceress noticed her frantic attempts and said, “Hold to patience, my beauty. It will be your turn soon enough.”
The sorceress set the blade down beside the trough and drew a small crystal vial from the folds of her dress. She uncorked it with a smile and crooned to Joelle, “You have something my master wants.”
The sorceress placed the vial beneath Joelle’s nostrils. Then she placed her free hand firmly on Joelle’s chest. The witch mashed her hand down hard, forcing Joelle’s breath out of her frozen throat. “That’s it, my troublesome young lady. I’ll take everything but that last thread of life and deliver it to my master. Along with your hide, which I’ll soon be skinning away. That will send a message to your man, one he’ll never forget. One that will draw him . . .”
The idea came to Shona in a single terrified rush. Soon as it formed in her mind, she acted.
She sought the power. For a single heart-stopping moment, she could not find it and feared it was not permitted in this befouled chamber.
The mage stowed away the vial and reached fo
r the knife. “I do so hope there’s enough of you left to appreciate my skill with the blade.”
Shona found the power where it had first been located, there in the fingertips of her right hand. She clenched the force and drew it up and about herself. Then she flung it at Joelle.
The sorceress leapt up, dropping the knife in her alarm. “How can this be?” She swung about, hunting, her eyes blazing bright as the superheated blade. She fastened upon Shona. “You!”
Shona sent the shielding force surging out in the opposite direction, flowing around Meda.
The sorceress dropped to all fours. She scrambled about until her talons gripped the knife’s haft. As she rose she snarled at Shona. The crimson blade was now aimed at Shona’s heart.
Shona frantically reached to the fire flaming in the brazier.
And claimed it.
The chamber was blasted from within. Shona saw nothing but fire. It coursed about her. Shona’s panic granted a ferocity to the flames.
She heard a long piercing shriek. When that faded, there was no sound but the crackling flames.
The shop was reduced to ash and cinders. The market’s din swept about them now, cries and protests and alarm sounding from all quarters. Shona wanted to cough. The smoke caused her to gag, almost strangling her. But she still could not move.
Then she saw a tear course down Meda’s cheek, and Shona knew it was safe to give in to the darkness of exhaustion.
20
Hyam locked the miniature orbs in Connell’s study, while the master mage sent a message through the mirror that another conversation with Trace and Bayard was urgently required. Hyam asked a passing acolyte about his wife, and knew an instant’s keening concern when he learned that the women had not yet returned from the market.
Despite the earl’s wishes that Shona continue on with them, Timmins had insisted that she remain in the Emporis castle until the next squadron could escort her back to Falmouth. Hyam had repeatedly pointed out the value she had shown, the awakening abilities, the bravery. But he had gone silent when Timmins grew red-faced and demanded the right to decide the fate of his only daughter. Now they were out shopping, and the sun was descending, and the enemy was loose, and Hyam wanted to go find them. But first he had to speak with a bird.
