Aniirin IV knelt down and set the boat on the crystal-clear water of the reflecting pool. “What skills do you propose to bring to the priesthood—besides slaying people in their sleep or in dark alleys?”
The potentate’s tone was so incongruous to the question, Isk was momentarily unnerved. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your skill as an assassin,” the potentate supplied, his back to Isk as he calmly gave the boat a push. It lurched away, rippling the water, then slowly floated to a stop in the absence of a breeze. “I was just wondering which of your mercenary talents you might find particularly useful as a priest.”
Isk’s heart jumped in his chest. His hand traveled to the knife he kept strapped to his thigh.
“You’d be dead before you even pulled it clear of its sheath.”
Isk froze, his eyes scanning the garden for an escape route. He spied at least two dozen guards inconspicuously placed among the potted palms.
“I’m sure you realize there’s only one way you’ll leave the palace now.” Aniirin glanced at the food trays with a disappointed frown. “You haven’t eaten anything.”
Shrugging, the potentate picked up a slice of melon and took a bite. “It’s not your fault you were found out, you know. The Council isn’t playing by your usual rules. I suspect—and you should remember that I’ve had dealings with the Council of Three in the past—that someone on the Council cast a spell on you. Enchanting unsuspecting people is their preferred method of doing business. I can’t imagine how else they got a smart assassin like you to undertake such a suicide mission.”
Aniirin paused to finish the slice of melon. When the last bite was gone, the potentate spoke. “I must credit them for not sending another mage after what happened to the previous two, before I became potentate. In your profession, some unpleasantness is to be expected. Still, their actions so far tell me that Par-Salian and his compatriots are willing to throw away good men on rash gambles like this. In some regards it’s useful, because it tells me the measure of their desperation. I’m almost flattered.” He passed his hand tentatively over the fruit plate, but then paused. “Actually, I should be flattered, having seen the caliber of man they are sending now.”
Isk calculated the time it would take to sprint across the courtyard; the guards would be on him before he even made it to the first ring of potted plants. There was a chance, though extremely remote, that he could draw one of his hidden knives and stab the potentate before a guard could reach him. Still, they would kill him instantly afterward. Isk was not ready to die just yet.
Aniirin continued. “Your presence here is something of a watershed, actually. You’re the first assassin the Council has sent since I became potentate, significant because it means they are no longer honoring the treaty. They were within their rights to try to kill me when I was but an amir, but attacking the potentate is a flagrant violation of the terms signed by the Council and the first potentate of Qindaras. Either that, or they think I’ve broken it, and so don’t have to honor it anymore.” Aniirin’s gaze played across Isk as he mentioned the treaty, but Isk displayed no reaction.
Aniirin stood and wiped his hands dry on a towel laid next to a tray. Then he leaned close and locked his eyes with Isk’s. “Par-Salian can’t stop me. None of them can. They can’t know what I’ve accomplished here, or even how I’m drawing away their magic. They’ve been unable to scry into Qindaras since I became potentate. That’s why they couldn’t tell you anything useful about what you would find here. How I’d love to witness their impotence firsthand.
“Melon?” The potentate held out a pale wedge of casaba. He didn’t wait for an answer, but nibbled the fruit himself.
“Are you hoping I’ll reveal something useful about them before you slit my throat?” Isk saw the first flicker of emotion in the potentate’s eyes.
“I don’t need you to tell me anything about the Council of Three. I lived with them, studied under them, suffered from their lies just like you.”
“Is that why you hate magic enough to decry it in the temples? Why you profess never to use it, yet the city seems to thrive because of it?”
Aniirin’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t listening to the priest yesterday: I no longer cast magic. The city thrives because Misal-Lasim has smiled upon it. What’s more, my methods and motives are far beyond any simple, emotional desire for vengeance. I don’t believe they can really be understood by someone who hasn’t studied and mastered the Art.”
Aniirin sat down on the ledge surrounding the pool, within reach of Isk. “You have good reason to despise the Council, too. They twisted your will with their spells, then sent you here knowing it would very likely mean your death. In their arrogance they judged that their magic was more important than your life.”
The assassin had never considered that the mages had used magic to make him take the job. “If what you say is true, then why am I still alive?”
Aniirin’s voice swelled. “In part because it amuses me to thwart the three most skilled mages alive. However, that is never reason enough to do anything for long,” he said, dipping a finger into the pool and watching the ripples. “You are alive because you’re a skilled and valuable man. I have respect for your special talent.”
For the first time since awaking, Isk felt a little less ill, a twinkle of hope.
“I have been considering ways to pursue my goals beyond Qindaras without leaving the palace. I have already freed this city of all who practice magic. You may have seen their heads on gates all over the city.” The potentate tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I would have you pursue the same goal in other areas of Ansalon.”
“You want me to kill wizards.”
“Why so surprised?” chuckled the potentate. “Isn’t that what assassins do, hire themselves out to kill people?”
“If I agree,” Isk asked haltingly, “who will save me from the wrath of the Council of Three?”
“I think you would be wiser to consider what will happen to you immediately if you don’t agree.”
Isk was forced to nod at that.
“Any of my followers could tell you that I reward loyalty lavishly,” the potentate said. “You would live better than you could hope for if you worked without rest as a freelance assassin. You will want for nothing, just like the man who carves my ships.” The potentate returned to the reflecting pool. He flexed the fingers of his right hand inside the gauntlet. A breeze rose as if from nowhere, sending the small boat sailing swiftly to the other end of the pool.
“However, you should know I have only one response to betrayal on any scale: swift and painful death. Your predecessors here would corroborate that were you to meet them in the afterlife. Keep that in mind after you leave Qindaras. You have seen the length of my reach.”
Aniirin pursed his lips in thought. “You wonder why I detest the Council,” he murmured. “I detest them because they symbolize the unthinking subservience to magic that has blinded so many men to its corrupting effect. They are beyond symbolizing it—they are its highest expression. The council members are living testaments to the ways that magic warps a person’s notion of reality.”
Aniirin stepped up directly in front of Isk and looked squarely into his eyes. “The discipline of magic twists your perception until you believe that because you are gaining knowledge and power, you are becoming wise. But true power grows out of wisdom borne of adversity and struggle.”
The ruler stepped back. “In spite of what the Council undoubtedly told you, I am not a maniac obsessed with revenge. I am going to change the world.”
It was a choice between life or death. Only a fool would choose the latter. Isk was many things, but he was no fool.
“Tell me where to begin,” he said.
Smiling, Aniirin reached out with his gloved hand and picked up the tray of fruit. “With breakfast.”
“Quite a view, isn’t it?” Bram commented to his uncle.
“Breathtaking,” Guerrand agreed distantly. The mountain
air was chilly, so the mage cinched his red robe tighter, then leaned back against the support rail to soak in the panorama.
Guerrand was impressed by the beauty of their surroundings. He would have enjoyed it more, he thought, if only the air were dense enough to breathe. Palanthas, where he served his apprenticeship, was ringed by mountains, yet those heights were mere foothills compared to these magnificent snow-capped peaks. Nestled between and hidden by the massive ranges were lush green valleys, and streams as clear and cold and blue as polished turquoise. As much as Guerrand loved his native Ergoth, he could also see why highland people were so attached to their land.
Amid this tremendous natural beauty was a singular artificial structure. Built into the mountain behind Guerrand and Bram was the largest bank of solid glass mirrors Guerrand had ever seen. The beauty of the mountainscape was reflected in that rectangular block, but the glass gave no clue as to what lay behind it.
Guerrand’s mind was not entirely on the view, or even this mysterious location to which Justarius had summoned them.
“I understand why Justarius sent for me,” Guerrand said. “In fact, I expected word from him, though I’m anxious to learn the exact reason for it.” He shivered involuntarily, recalling the return of the Dream that had given him a premonition of the summons. “But what could the Orders of Magic possibly expect of you?”
Bram smiled softly. “I won’t take offense, since I know you didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Of course not,” Guerrand said, frowning. “I’m just a little anxious to find out what the Council wants.”
“Where did Justarius teleport us to, anyway?” Bram asked. “This isn’t Wayreth,” he said, comparing those flat woodlands to this mountainscape. “Another Tower of High Sorcery, perhaps?”
Guerrand shook his head. “As far as I know, there are only two of those still standing: Wayreth, as you mentioned, and the tower in Palanthas.” The mage closed his eyes at the memory of that black, accursed place, which he had visited so often in his nightmares.
Feeling jittery, Guerrand opened his eyes and saw his nephew’s peaceful pose. Lord DiThon stood impassive, oblivious to the cold air in his heavy brown wool cape. Bram had changed a great deal in the two years he’d spent with his mother and the tuatha dundarael. Guerrand noticed the difference daily, in little gestures, Bram’s more somber but less seen smile. Guerrand knew some of Castle DiThon’s servants didn’t entirely appreciate the changes in their lord. They interpreted his new sense of composure as distance or even disdain.
It was true Lord DiThon moved more quietly and spoke less often to his people. He kept to himself more, tending his gardens, sitting by the sea in contemplation. Guerrand’s nephew said he was meditating to the goddess Chislev, nature incarnate. Bram had an inner peace that his uncle envied, especially now.
Guerrand frowned at the glass again. “Where are those people?” he muttered. “I’m freezing out here.”
Just then, the head of the Conclave of Wizards himself stepped through an unseen doorway in the bank of mirrors and joined Bram and Guerrand on the polished flagstones of the observation deck. He shook hands with Guerrand first, welcoming him heartily.
Guerrand held a hand toward Bram. “You remember my nephew, Bram DiThon?”
“Of course,” Par-Salian said quickly. “Our first meeting may have been brief in time, but weighty in its significance. Thank you both for responding so promptly to Justarius’s missive.”
“I had a feeling I was to hear from him,” confessed Guerrand.
Par-Salian cocked his head in surprise. “Do you know why you were summoned here?”
“Not specifically,” said Guerrand, “but Bram and I both suspect it has something to do with the magical disruption we’ve been experiencing.”
Par-Salian’s lips pursed as he nodded. “All will be revealed to you shortly,” he said in his distinctively clear but quiet voice. “I apologize for the delay. Several issues surfaced at the last minute that will impact our discussion. However, we are ready for you now.”
Guerrand took one last look at the view. “I’m guessing we’re still on the Prime Material Plane. What mountain range is this, Par-Salian?”
“The Khalkists,” the old mage told him. “I’m surprised you don’t know that, Guerrand. Weren’t you a part of the construction of the second Bastion?”
“No,” said Guerrand. “I relinquished my position as sentinel to Dagamier and returned to my homeland before construction began.”
The old man waved his hand distractedly. “Yes, of course, I recall that now. Forgive me, my attention has been much diverted by the events of late, and I forget things.…”
Frowning, Par-Salian bustled them toward the wall of mirrors, which reflected the mountain range. “Speaking of which, I’d better get you inside or LaDonna and Justarius will have my head for delaying things further. Recalling Bram’s first trip to meet us, we have prepared a repast.” Seeing Bram redden, the old mage’s wrinkles stretched into a mischievous smile.
Puzzled, Guerrand looked between the two men.
Blushing through a grin, Bram explained. “By the time I got to the tower at Wayreth when I was looking for you, I hadn’t eaten for three days, so I filched some cookies from Par-Salian’s desk.”
“I was to blame for not offering him food,” said Par-Salian. “Come inside, so I don’t repeat the mistake.”
At a wave of Par-Salian’s hand, the doorway reopened in the mirrors. On stepping inside, Guerrand found himself in a huge chamber, several stories tall. The outer wall was formed by the bank of mirrors, which were transparent from this side. The whole, magnificent vista that Guerrand had enjoyed outside was visible from this chamber, only without the icy wind to probe through layered cloaks. A suspended walkway spiraled gently up to three observation platforms where, he suspected, the view was even better than it was from the floor. There was no apparent structure supporting either the walkway or the platforms; instead they seemed to float in the air.
Par-Salian escorted them across this foyer to a long hallway that appeared to bore straight back into the mountain. The corridor ran straight for many dozens of paces, sloping steadily downward, before coming to any doors. The walls were smooth and dry, yet appeared to be natural rock. “Dwarves helped us a great deal with the basic excavation,” Par-Salian explained. “We could have done it faster with magic, but I doubt as well.”
“So this is the new Bastion,” Guerrand breathed in awe. “The view outside is quite an improvement over the blackness of the demiplane of shadows where the first Bastion was located. I’m curious to know why you placed it on the Prime Material this time, but I can’t wait to see what the rest of it looks like.”
“We endeavored to correct our mistakes in both intent and design from that first fateful experiment,” Par-Salian explained. “But I’ll let Dagamier tell you more about Bastion when she gives you the tour. She is understandably proud of the place.”
“Dagamier is still here?”
Par-Salian’s white head bobbed. “You were right to recommend her, Guerrand. She is an excellent high defender.”
“Wasn’t she that dark and dour wizardess of the Black Robes?” Bram whispered for his uncle’s ears only.
Distracted, Guerrand nodded vaguely, his thoughts on the past. He had detected no indictment of himself in Par-Salian’s kind words about Dagamier, yet he suffered a twinge of jealousy. He considered his own tenure as high defender something of a failure. Who wouldn’t in his place? First he’d fallan for the trick that had allowed Lyim Rhistadt into the fortress. Worse still, Lyim had made it to the gate of the Lost Citadel, an occurrence Guerrand had pledged his life to prevent. Lyim’s trip there had caused the gods to destroy the first Bastion. All this had happened during Guerrand’s watch, which made him responsible. He considered his time as high defender an ignominious addition to his list of credentials.
“Don’t let regrets about the first Bastion trouble you, Guerrand,” said Par-Salian
, as if reading his mind. “We all have them. You were not the first person, nor the last, to be fooled by Lyim Rhistadt.” His soft voice was ripe with meaning. “Besides, those tragic events helped us see the flawed logic behind the construction of the first Bastion.”
“For that, I am eternally grateful,” said a woman’s deep, vaguely accented voice.
Guerrand spun around. “Dagamier!” he cried, moving forward to shake her hand warmly. “The position of high defender obviously agrees with you,” he said, studying her with obvious approval. Her straight black hair was still shoulder-length, and a great contrast to her pale-as-marble skin. She wore the same tight, black silk robe as always. And yet something about the young woman was different. Guerrand concentrated his gaze on her eyes and there found his answer.
Dagamier had always seemed to Guerrand to suffer from a cynical sadness, as if she had witnessed more of the world than anyone so young should. But the Dagamier who stood before him, now five years older, seemed to have grown into her eyes. She was not quite warm—that would never be in the black wizardess’s nature—yet she was obviously happy to see Guerrand. And she remembered Bram.
“You’ve changed very little, Guerrand,” she said. Her gaze turned to Bram. “But your nephew has undergone some metamorphosis. I see it’s true, he does possess druidlike magical skills now. I applaud the improvement.”
“News travels fast,” Bram observed wryly.
“It does in the magical world,” agreed Dagamier. “But then, you must have guessed that’s why you were asked to accompany your uncle here.”
Both DiThon men looked at each other in puzzlement. “We’re still waiting for the answer to that question.”
Par-Salian’s face darkened. “Now, Dagamier, you’ve gone and confused them. Let’s get to the dining hall before things get any more muddled.”
The Seventh Sentinel Page 15
