The Seventh Sentinel
Page 13
Guerrand’s face reddened with the half-truth. Secretly, he believed the Council of Three had sent assassins after the renegade mage and that Lyim had been slain years ago. He more than suspected it, because Par-Salian had said, “Lyim Rhistadt will be dealt with in the manner of all renegades.” According to the laws of the Orders, that usually meant death; the only exception was that the Black Robes were known to try converting renegades of other robes to their order, killing them if the offer was rejected.
“What about you?” Kirah asked abruptly. “Any regrets about marriage?”
He repeated the question dully. “Some. I’ve told you it wasn’t my choice that Esme and I parted ways.”
“There’s been plenty of time since for other women,” Kirah pointed out.
“Time, perhaps,” nodded Guerrand, “but neither opportunity nor desire.” The mage leaned back and folded his arms. “If it had been important just to marry, I might have wed the ‘Bucker princess,’ ” he said, chuckling at Kirah’s long-forgotten nickname for the Berwick woman Cormac had plotted for Guerrand to marry.
Kirah dropped a handful of plucked petals to the ground and brushed her hand. “It’s up to Bram, then, to provide the DiThon heir, since he’ll get no help from us. That is, if he ever comes back from wherever he’s gone.”
“You’ve had that thought too, eh?”
“Who hasn’t?” she said. “Even the villagers are beginning to wonder. I heard them talking during the harvest.”
“I was afraid of that. I’ve tried to contact Bram myself, but the spell failed.” Guerrand sighed. “Actually, I’m not sure if the spell failed, or if I did. My skills seem to be slipping,” he confessed, thinking he might feel better if he spoke his fear aloud. In fact, he felt worse.
Kirah shook her head. “I don’t understand. You changed the weather. That can’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t, and that’s just the point. I had to cast the spell twice.”
“You’ve never had a spell fail the first time?”
Guerrand’s expression was grim. “Not the way this one did.”
“So it was one spell. You were under extreme duress to get it right, and fast.”
“It wasn’t just one spell, Kirah.” Guerrand told her of the other problems he’d encountered with far simpler incantations.
“So what’s the solution?” she asked.
Guerrand stood to pace. “I don’t know. I’ve tried to determine if it was lack of concentration, or bad components, or just plain rusty spellcasting skills.”
“The problem isn’t you, Uncle Rand.”
Both Guerrand and Kirah snapped around at the unexpected voice. A man who was familiar and yet a stranger slipped, as quiet as a child’s breath, into the garden. He wore a robe of blended brown hues that seemed to spring from the earth, resembling a sturdy oak; thick at the hem, tapering upward to arms that brought to mind branches. In one hand was an elaborately carved staff. Guerrand’s eyes followed the folds of the robe upward to the man’s face.
“Bram,” he breathed. The change in Guerrand’s nephew was astonishing. His hair was much longer than Guerrand remembered, a charcoal color draping Bram’s broadened shoulders in a manner that reminded the mage strongly of the way bark hugs a tree. His face had thinned; his cheekbones and jawline looked molded from steel under his naturally swarthy skin.
“You’re back.” Guerrand was at a loss for words.
As usual, Kirah was not at a loss for action. She threw herself into Bram’s arms. His wooden staff flew from his hands and clattered to the ground as he caught her. “Bram!” she repeated. “You look incredible, so different from what I expected!”
He smiled fondly, a slow, lazy lift of his lips. “Did you think I would return in the pointy felt hat of Weador’s tuatha?”
Kirah blushed furiously, confirming the answer. “Of course not,” she denied nevertheless. “Where have you been all this time?”
“On a journey to find my soul.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I was actually wondering where your body went.”
“That’s much less important, and more difficult to explain.”
Bram sounded so much more serious than usual, even Kirah paused uncomfortably. “So did you find your soul?”
“As much as I believe any man is meant to find his, yes.”
Guerrand watched his nephew, and still he could not think of the words of welcome he’d rehearsed so often. Two years explained hair growth and weight loss, but those were the most superficial changes to Bram’s appearance. Bram’s attitude—his aura—was different than any the mage had encountered. His new confidence went beyond the experience of travel to an earthiness that seemed organic, not donned like his new cloak.
“Did you find her?” the mage asked quietly, finding his voice at last.
Bram smiled serenely at his uncle. “Yes.”
“Was it—”
“Frightening? Wonderful? Unpleasant? Fascinating? Enlightening?” Bram bent down to retrieve his staff. “Yes. I can’t honestly say whether, on balance, it was good or bad. It was, however, necessary that I go and stay long enough to learn from Primula.”
Guerrand refrained from asking Bram what his mother was like. He felt certain his nephew would reveal these things in his own time.
“Does this mean you’re back to stay?” Kirah asked Bram.
The question obviously surprised the lord of Thonvil. “I have no interest in living among the tuatha for the rest of my life, if that’s what you’re asking. I missed Thonvil more than I would have thought possible. There is much I can do for this region with the skills I have learned. We won’t need to rely so heavily on Weador’s tuatha, or they on us.”
“Can you use magic now?” Guerrand asked.
Bram nodded. “I have skill wielding magic of a different sort than yours, similar to but not the same as a druid’s. Tuatha magic springs from the earth and Chislev, the goddess of nature,” he explained, “not the moon gods of the Orders of Magic who require practice for successful spellcasting.” Bram held out his staff, an elaborately carved length of wood topped with an uncut, glittering gem. “I shaped this myself as a channel through which my magic flows; I can’t cast spells without it. It also helps me focus my thoughts.”
“Perhaps that’s been my problem,” Guerrand said. “Lack of concentration has been hampering my spells.”
“You aren’t to blame for the glitches in your magic, Rand,” Bram repeated firmly. “Something odd is happening in the magical cosmos, the fabric from which all magic springs.”
Guerrand was flabbergasted. “Your magic is misfiring, too?”
Bram shook his head. “The faerie realm is inherently magical, so all tuatha notice a ‘wrinkle’ in the fabric, so to speak. I confess, it has not affected tuatha magic—yet, anyway. Because of that, I believe the problem lies with the moon gods, and not the nature of all magic. Weador believes this, too.”
“Is that why you’ve come back now?” Guerrand recognized the offended gleam in Kirah’s eyes. All her life—since she learned of her mother’s death during her own birth—the young woman had been touchy about people’s motivations for leaving or returning. In fairness, Guerrand had to admit she had reason. He, himself, had fueled that obsession.
“I returned to see what I could learn about this on the Prime Material, yes,” Bram said. “But also because I was ready to return home. I thought of you both, often.”
Kirah’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Despite Bram’s ominous missive, Guerrand could not help but feel cheered by his nephew’s presence.
He clapped Bram on the shoulder. “Welcome home! We’ve all missed you greatly. It’s obvious the trip served you well. You look like a new man.”
“I am happy to be back, delighted to see that I was right to leave things in such capable hands.” His gaze traveled from the nearby topiaries to the harvested fields, to the sprawling village beyond. “Thonvil looks just as I remember it—better, even,” he added kindly.
“I don’t need a celebration,” said Bram. “I’d feel more comfortable if I just slip back into my role as lord. I’m eager to see the progress you’ve made, Kirah. Perhaps you’d spend this evening reacquainting me with the ledgers and books.”
“Of course!” she said, her eyes shining happily.
Bram turned his peaceful gaze on Guerrand. “First thing tomorrow, I’d like to speak with you at length about magic, one wielder to another.”
Guerrand smiled. “I’d enjoy that, Bram.”
His nephew nodded in satisfaction. Kirah looped her arm through Bram’s and led him away toward a side entrance to Castle DiThon, chattering the while.
Guerrand watched them go, thrilled beyond memory to see Bram back where he belonged.
Then why could he not silence the tiny prick of foreboding the discussion of magic had set to tapping at the edge of his happiness?
* * * * *
For the first time in more than five years, Guerrand’s dreams placed him upon the Death Walk that encircled the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas. As always in the Dream, the mob stood below, anxiously anticipating their first glimpse of the wonders inside the magical tower. Any moment now, the regent of Palanthas would turn over the key to the wizards’ storehouse of knowledge. Eyes fastened on the prize, the mob did not see Guerrand atop the tower, ready to throw himself from the walk in the name of the Art all wizards loved.
As usual in the Dream, the Head of the Conclave, a wizard of the White Robes, used a silver key to close the gates of the tower for the last time. The regent reached out his hand, eager for the key.
Rannoch’s voice, ringing clear and cold from atop the Death Walk, stopped the crowd short. They looked up in disbelief as his words echoed across the tower’s courtyard, to the Great Library itself.
“The gates will remain closed and the halls empty until the day when the master of both the past and the present returns with power!”
Even in his dream state, Guerrand knew what to expect next. He raised his robed arms like the wings of a bird. But, unexpectedly, the Dream departed from its usual course. For a brief moment, Guerrand stood both in the body of the wizard and below among the crowd, peering skyward.
The wizard leaping from the tower wore a red robe, wore Guerrand’s face.
This time he was not Rannoch as he plummeted from the walk. The spikes atop the gates spinning dizzily toward him were talons eager to tear his own chest.
This time when Guerrand awoke, he was not afraid. There was only a strange calmness borne of knowing he’d received a piece to the puzzle of the Dream.
And an unshakable premonition that Justarius would be contacting him soon.
“Damn this place,” the man cursed softly to himself. Dry, powdery snow mixed with dust rose to his muscled thighs, making travel worse than difficult. He couldn’t tell if it was still snowing, or if the wind was whipping up already fallen snow. The cold bit into his legs and face. Ice had formed on the upturned sheepskin collar of his cape, and he stretched his neck to avoid its needlelike scratchings. He tugged the bottom of his fur-lined cape closed, a futile gesture, for it was pushed back open by snow with his next plowing step.
Isk plunged ahead anyway. He would have preferred a job farther north at this time of year, but he had been unable to turn down the incredible coin offered for this one.
Now Isk knew why it paid so well. He’d heard the weather was bad in the Plains of Dust, but he hadn’t expected near white-out conditions. The assassin feared he might miss the city, even though he was following the western bank of the river on which Qindaras was situated. Poor visibility forced him to follow the frigid, rushing waters of the Torath more by sound than sight. How big could Qindaras be, anyway, out here in the middle of nowhere?
It was strange, Isk reflected, that no matter how civilized an area considered itself, a man in his line of work could always find employment. Death was the final argument, and Isk had been the agent of death for more people than he could remember. Uncivilized folk do their own killing; the civilized ones pay me, he mused.
The mages who hired him for this mission certainly thought themselves civilized. Still, in this kind of weather, they could have used their magic to deposit him a little closer to the mysterious city. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t frozen by the time he got there. The old wizard with the white hair had said they dared not use their magic any closer to Qindaras, for fear it would be detected, or even absorbed. They believed the ruler of the city had a device that consumed magical energy, though he professed to no longer use magic himself.
Of magic, Isk knew only that it had never before prevented him from doing his job. Like most decent folk, he distrusted it. Isk had tracked men across whole continents with only his own sense and cunning. Three leagues hadn’t sounded far to walk when he was back in a warm villa in Palanthas.
The wizards had obviously left out a few details.
He couldn’t say they had lied. In fact, they’d been brutally honest about the two assassins sent to kill the man who was now potentate of Qindaras. Mages both, they’d reputedly died hideous deaths. That fact bothered him less than did the depth and fury of the snow.
Damn it, he wasn’t dressed for a storm so severe! Isk didn’t like being unprepared. It could prove deadly in his business. What else about this job was he unprepared for?
Through the impenetrable whiteness Isk sensed that the river was slowly bending east, the beginning of the forks between which Qindaras was situated. The mages had told him to look for a bridge that arched over the eastern fork. Isk thought that a foolish bit of advice now, since he could barely see one step ahead.
A dark shape appeared in the unbroken expanse of white. As Isk advanced toward the shape, it slowly grew into the curving form of a wide bridge, arched high to accommodate ships. Though surprised, Isk was a superstitious man who saw the miraculous appearance of the bridge as a sign that his luck was about to change.
The belief was furthered when a man in a furry hat poked his head out from a small guardpost. Obviously reluctant to brave the storm, the man just waved Isk across.
Further heartened, the assassin proceeded across the bridge. Snow on the decking had been recently flattened by wagon wheels. The waters of the Torath roared below.
Once across the midpoint, the bridge sloped downward, and Isk could almost make out the closed gates of the city ahead. He could also see another guardpost, built into a towering wall that stretched off into snowy obscurity to Isk’s right. The mages had said that Qindaras was surrounded by an impressively thick city wall. The storm seemed less severe here. Though the wind still howled, the snowfall grew noticeably lighter as he approached the second guardpost.
This time, however, the assassin was not waved through. A stout soldier with snow-covered mustache and eyebrows stepped from the guardpost and placed himself between Isk and the closed gates. The soldier pushed back the brim of his furry hat to scrutinize the ill-dressed stranger.
“Welcome to Qindaras,” said the man, looking down his thick, red nose. “Where do you come from on foot, so poorly dressed for a blizzard?”
The mages had prepared him for at least part of the question. “I was following the Torath from Shrentak, on my way to Tarsis to purchase some of the city’s prized warhorses for my lord,” Isk said. “My own sorry mount died beneath me some ways back. I’d heard the weather here was unpredictable, but I confess I hadn’t considered the possibility of a blizzard when I left home some days ago.” Isk stamped his cold feet. “Thankfully I stumbled upon the bridge, or I might have suffered my horse’s fate. What city did you say this is?”
“You have come to Qindaras,” the guard informed him. “How long do you plan to stay here?”
Isk started. “I hadn’t planned to be here at all, so I can’t say. Long enough to purchase a new mount and restore my health a
nd supplies.” Isk’s eyebrows knit into a line. “I have traveled far and wide for my lord, but never have I been asked that question by a city guard.”
The guard shrugged. “We are required to ask for the census.” He ducked his head into the protection of the guardpost to scribble something on a clay tablet.
The guard turned back to Isk. “Are you bringing any weapons into Qindaras?”
The guard could clearly see the scimitar strapped across Isk’s back, and so the assassin had no choice but to nod and point.
Frowning, the guard made another note on the tablet. “Visitors are required to check their weapons at the gate. They’ll be returned when you leave Qindaras.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed the assassin. “Do many people comply with this rule?”
The guard shrugged again. “Either they hand over their weapons, or they are not allowed to enter the city. Three short years ago Qindaras was the most dangerous city in the Plains of Dust,” he explained. “Why, even our own ruler, Potentate Aniirin III, was slain in the street! Because of that, Aniirin IV’s first official action was to pass a law requiring all citizens to surrender their weapons. Further, no visitors would be allowed to bring them into Qindaras. Some citizens were opposed at first, but crime is almost nonexistent now. We have no need for constables anymore.”
“What happens if a citizen is caught with a weapon?”
“The penalty is death.”
Isk whistled appreciatively. “Severe, indeed!”
The guard brushed the accumulating snow off his arms. “It works.”
Isk briefly considered killing the guard, his usual method for dealing with overly conscientious lackeys. But a scimitar was a difficult weapon to hide; he would only be stopped later and punished for the offense. Resigned to the loss, he slipped the scimitar from his back. His fingers lingered on the beloved weapon. It had served him well since he had acquired it, during his first mission as a professional. Isk knew he would never see it again, since his task here would require a hasty departure. Still, he had no choice but to hand it over, particularly if he wanted to prevent a search that would reveal the dozen or so other weapons he wore concealed between his layers of clothing.