The Seventh Sentinel

by Mary Kirchoff

  Guerrand adjusted his full pack to a comfortable position between his shoulder blades. “I’m nearly ready,” he announced. “Where are we joining the faerie road?”

  “The herb garden,” Bram replied. He turned toward the door and placed a hand on the knob.

  Guerrand cleared his throat. “Wait a moment, Bram.”

  “Yes?”

  Guerrand had a long rectangle of sealing wax in his hand. He held one end to a lit pillar candle. When it was suitably softened, he dabbed the butter-yellow wax to the flap of the letter he’d folded when Bram had first arrived. He sealed the letter by pressing the face of his ring into the melted wax, leaving the outline of a sea gull in flight.

  Bram recognized the imprint of Zagarus, which Guerrand had commissioned to honor his familiar. The wily sea bird had died while trying to save Guerrand from the poisonous blows of a naga during the destruction of the first Bastion. Yet another in a mounting list of crimes caused by Lyim Rhistadt.

  Guerrand turned the folded letter over and quickly scrawled Bram’s name on the front.

  The mage held it toward his nephew. “You are to read this in the event anything happens to me in Qindaras,” he said calmly.

  Bram scowled. “Then I’ll never read it. Nothing is going to happen to you that won’t happen to me, too.”

  “I hope not,” Guerrand whispered, his tone hardly consoling. He slipped the letter into a narrow drawer beneath the table. “In any event, you know where it is.” Guerrand blew out the candle, then watched the plume of gray smoke drift about his sunny study. His eyes settled on the view of the sea; a hand lingered on the spine of a dusty spellbook.

  “Let’s go,” he said abruptly.

  Bram opened the door, and the two men exited the gallery. They passed no one, not even a servant, as they walked through the cool, silent corridors, down the sweeping staircase. The unevenly worn stone landing led to the northeast door and the herb garden beyond.

  Bram stepped between two towering rosemary bushes. He’d trimmed them years ago into the shape of enormous horses’ heads and painstakingly maintained them ever since. Maladorigar had trimmed the pungent shrubs during the two years Bram had spent with Primula. Bram looked out over the vast expanse of his holdings, the late autumn fields, harvested just before his return. He was leaving it all again so soon.

  “Take my hand,” Bram said abruptly, holding his right one out to Guerrand. He needed no coin to travel the realm of the tuatha as he had the first time, now that he was one of them. But his uncle was different.

  “Don’t let go for any reason,” Bram cautioned him. “You aren’t protected in the faerie realm without me.”

  Guerrand gave an ironic chuckle. “In that regard, the faerie road is not much different than where we’re going.”

  “Qindaras,” Bram supplied, thus opening the faerie road by speaking their destination.

  The assassins from Thonvil were on their way.

  The crowd of citizens had been gathering in the courtyard at the edge of the palace for two days, ever since the notices that the potentate would address the people had been posted on every pillar and shop front in the city of Qindaras. Some had come out of curiosity. Most had left their homes early for a prime seat to view the potentate to whom they were totally devoted but had never seen.

  “I still think this is folly, master,” Isk said nervously, chewing a thumbnail. Lyim found the habit particularly irritating. “It would be too easy for a determined assassin to get to you—”

  “I’m on a balcony high above them!”

  “Couldn’t someone fire off a spell?”

  “First, we’ve slain all the mages in Qindaras,” Lyim reminded him, speaking slowly as if to a child. “Second, if one happened to get by you, I’m wearing the gauntlet. It will protect me. Besides, I’d only look better for having survived an assassins’s attack and destroyed a bit of magic before their very eyes. Now that I think of it, I should have arranged such a demonstration.”

  Isk raised a brow. “The Council of Three may have arranged it for you. It’s only reasonable to assume that they haven’t given up trying to kill you.”

  Lyim shrugged. “I have no reports from the gate guards of newcomers. Besides, I’m certain the risk, however small, will be worth it. After I remind them of all that I’ve done for them. That is,” he smirked, “all that devotion to Misal-Lasim I inspired in them has brought. The citizens of Qindaras will do whatever I ask.”

  No one could deny that Qindaras and its citizens had undergone tremendous change during the two years of Aniirin IV’s reign. The potentate’s priests explained daily during mandatory afternoon prayers that the city’s improvements were gifts granted by Misal-Lasim for Qindaras’s rejection of magic. For one, the climate was warmer, and not just inside the palace; snow no longer penetrated the city walls. Though it was the dead of winter today, no cloaks were required, the day warm and sunny, as most were. For that reason alone, few citizens found reason to venture beyond Qindaras’s walls.

  And why would they want to leave? Crime was nearly nonexistent. Businesses thrived in a city spilling with lush trees and bathed in the warm yellow light cast by the palace’s five hundred thirty-four onion domes whose finish had been meticulously restored.

  As a result, new temples to Misal-Lasim were going up daily, providing jobs aplenty. Anyone who wanted employment could always find it with the city. Scores of able-bodied men were paid to maintain Qindaras, though it no longer seemed to need human attention. Those who remarked on the folly of paying workers to scrub sidewalks that never got dirty, or to walk behind livestock whose leavings mysteriously disappeared, were never seen again. Most considered silence a small price to pay for the new quality of life in Qindaras. They were content enough with their new wealth not to question the priests or the potentate’s godlike status. That they had come out in droves today to meet their ruler proved this.

  Lyim stood above them, impatiently waiting for Salimshad to whip the crowd into a frenzy sufficient for his first public address. He tugged at his collar, feeling confined in the ceremonial garb. Once Lyim had dressed flamboyantly every day. He wondered now how he’d ever tolerated it.

  Lyim had devoted an inordinate amount of time considering his clothing for this appearance. He had not thought about it so much since his days as an apprentice who drew the ladies. It was important he look the part of a potentate, yet it was vital no one draw similarities between him and his predecessor.

  Lyim had settled upon a costume that was simple, yet regal. He abandoned the loose tunic and trousers that had become his uniform since coming to Qindaras in favor of a long frock; the garb was loose, almost puffy around his legs, but snug like a doublet around his chest. Though uncomfortable, Lyim thought his attire flattering.

  Anxious to get started, Lyim peered through a split in the blue velvet curtain that kept him screened from the crowd. He gasped, then smiled with great satisfaction. The courtyard beneath the balcony was jammed beyond capacity, a veritable swaying sea of humanity. No one but the old and infirm must have stayed home today.

  Lyim needed them, each and every one, to serve in the army he hoped to mobilize. After two years of waiting in Qindaras, he had grown impatient to destroy all magic. He had been pondering moving his mission beyond Qindaras for some time. The decision was made, though, just after the incident with the nabassu erupting in the boiler room. Ventyr had informed him that she had drained away nearly all of the magical energy that she could easily access from Qindaras.

  He knew a great deal more about the Gauntlet of Ventyr than he had on his first meeting with her. Ventyr told him that she functioned much like a grazing animal. Before Lyim had worn the glove, she had drawn the magic in small, unnoticeable bits from the vicinity of Qindaras itself. The drain was so minor that the mages in the city never noticed it.

  That had all changed when Lyim became potentate. He had learned early on that, unlike his first impression, the gauntlet did not draw its power from spell
s as they were cast. When wizards cast spells, they drew energy from outside themselves and shaped it into a desired effect. The gauntlet drew the bulk of its power from the overall pool of magical power that all wizards accessed. Though quite a bit of energy was needed to run the palace, the amount was small compared to the total quantity available, and so its loss had never been noticed.

  But Lyim had been deliberately using the gauntlet to increase its demand for energy. This had consumed the magical supply within the gauntlet’s range. Ventyr searched farther and farther afield for new sources, concentrating her efforts on those areas rich in magical energy. But the strongest supplies—Palanthas, the Tower of High Sorcery, Bastion—pushed Ventyr’s range. Lyim wanted the gauntlet to do more than disrupt their functions—he wanted to shut them down.

  Lyim meant to move against these places soon, because his informant at the tower had told him that the Council of Three was aware of his plan to destroy magic. He didn’t fear their reprisals, of course. He had the gauntlet, and they could not use magic to destroy him or Qindaras. But they could fortify their strongholds, making it harder for them to be breached when he marched his followers to destroy them.

  Lyim’s plans relied heavily on the willingness of these citizens to follow him, literally, to the ends of the world. He felt the pressure to give a speech that would bring the citizens to their knees in adulation, then send every man, woman, and child straight to the tables where the potentate’s priests were waiting, quills in hand, for all to sign away their lives in Lyim’s service.

  Lyim smiled, supremely confident, when Salimshad called him from behind the lush curtain, saying “I give you Potentate Aniirin IV!”

  He flexed his fingers inside the gauntlet and tugged at the cuff, a habitual preparatory gesture, then stepped through the luxurious blue curtain.

  “People of Qindaras, faithful followers of Misal-Lasim, and loyal subjects: our blessed city stands at a crossroads. Never before, not even in the long-ago age of myth and legend, have the forces for change converged so completely in one time and place, or focused themselves so tightly onto one small group of people.

  “This convergence is not the product of chance. We are not gathered here, in this most fortunate of cities, as the haphazard result of random fate. Rather, it is destiny, guided and shaped by one, single, overriding force, that has placed us here. That force is Misal-Lasim, whose favor shines on us in Qindaras like the sun.

  “Destiny, wrought by the will of Misal-Lasim, has positioned us at this most crucial turning point in the annals of Ansalon. We possess the power to change the world forever. We can burn down the corrupting structure of magic as Misal-Lasim burns out the weak and unworthy with his cleansing fires of vengeance. His torch is in our hands; he waits for us to touch his flame to the dry tinder of humanity grown weak and insolent, enslaved by its own dependence on magic.

  “Those who are caught in the crushing grip of magic’s vise cannot break free on their own. They are wooed by its mystic promises, seduced by its silken beauty. But its beauty is all illusion, and its promises are hollow chants and lies.

  “We in Qindaras have discarded all magical trappings and endeavors. We have placed our trust in the strength of Misal-Lasim, and we see how he rewards our faith. Our granaries are full, our streets are safe. We are protected day and night from the ravages of weather. Misal-Lasim has given us his sign. He has brought us to this unparalleled position. From him we have the strength, we have the means, and we have the clear indication of a goal: the destruction of all magic!”

  The crowd roared its support. Lyim’s lips turned up in a haughty smile. He would have no trouble recruiting followers willing to die for his cause.

  * * * * *

  Since protections on the palace had prevented them from entering it directly, the faerie road deposited Guerrand and Bram safe from prying eyes near a bridge outside the city. The bridge arched over a murky brown river, flowing with ice chunks. More than a foot of snow mixed with gray dust blanketed the barren landscape, though a path had been beaten from where the Ergothians stood, leading to the bridge. The air was cold, but the late-afternoon sun warmed Bram’s face.

  “The Torath,” he said aloud, recalling the name of the river from a kender-made map Justarius had pronounced reliable at Bastion. He pointed to a small cubicle to the right of the bridge. “There’s the first guardpost. You won’t be stopped there, but you’ll have to give a name and your purpose for visiting Qindaras at another post across the bridge.”

  “I remember Justarius’s briefing,” Guerrand said. “It’s time, Bram.”

  The lord of Thonvil glanced sideways at his uncle and saw the small shard of mirror reflecting sunlight in his palm. He grimaced. “I know I’ve got to get into the mirror before I’m spotted with you by a guard. But I hate the thought of leaving you to negotiate your way to the palace by yourself.”

  Guerrand chuckled. “I’ve been in worse spots, believe me. If Justarius’s information is correct, it won’t be long before I get in to see Lyim, either of my own doing, or because his guards alert him to the presence of a mage. Just remember to stand still in the mirror and listen for the signal we rehearsed. If an impossible amount of time seems to pass, assume I’ve failed. You know what to do then.”

  “Recall a mirror in Castle DiThon,” Bram said, repeating the rest of Guerrand’s instructions. Bram stared hard at his uncle. “You know I won’t leave you there.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t have any choice, Bram,” Guerrand returned solemnly. “You haven’t seen any mirrors inside Qindaras to envision and step through, and you won’t be able to exit the mirror without being called by my voice. If you don’t eventually return to Castle DiThon or some other looking glass of your memory, you may be trapped in the mirror world.”

  Bram shifted the load on his shoulders. “Have you considered that your possessions might be confiscated before you’re allowed to see the potentate?”

  “I won’t carry the mirror in my pack,” Guerrand assured him. “No one will find it.” The mage squinted toward the sun dropping in the west. “Step into the mirror, Bram, before someone crosses the bridge and sees us together.”

  He reached toward Bram, dropped his hands, then reconsidered again and drew his nephew into a brief embrace. “Good-bye.”

  Puzzled, Bram grasped his uncle by the elbows and searched his face. “Good luck, certainly, Rand, but not good-bye.”

  “Yes, of course,” Guerrand agreed quickly. “I’m just anxious to get this over with.”

  Bram patted his uncle’s shoulder one last time. “We’ll be dining on Castle DiThon’s winter grouse before the week is out.”

  “That reminds me,” Guerrand said, snapping his fingers. “Don’t forget to ration your food supplies.”

  “I can stretch them if I need to,” Bram assured his uncle with a wink, referring to his magical skills. That said, Bram tipped his head toward the mirror in his uncle’s palm, feeling odd that he believed he could fit inside the small surface. But he immediately felt the pull on his head and shoulders, felt his feet slip from the ground, though there was no sense of him falling.

  Preoccupied as he was, he didn’t hear his uncle call again, “Fare-thee-well, Bram.”

  * * * * *

  I’m inside. So far, so good, Bram thought. Lyim’s gauntlet hasn’t seemed to affect the mirror. He staggered a bit in the disorienting fog. All around him was a world of gray. It was impossible to judge distance. There were no landmarks of any sort. The ground was flat and smooth and practically invisible, being the same color as everything else.

  Bram stood just steps from where he’d entered the mirror world, arms crossed casually, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He felt foolish when he recalled that his uncle had said it could be days before he heard Guerrand calling to him from inside the palace.

  Bram sank to the ground near the big heap of sticks that had been the nest of Guerrand’s sea gull familiar, Zagarus. Crossing his legs, he clo
sed his eyes and began to meditate.

  He was halfway through the mantra when a noise, intangible as the fog, pricked the edge of his senses. Bram cracked one eye open and looked about. He held very still.

  Light, irregular footsteps.

  Bram opened both eyes wide. Guerrand hadn’t mentioned that anyone else could travel through the mirror world. His fingers locked around a thick branch protruding from Zagarus’s nest.

  A misty shape shifted in the fog.

  Bram rose to a crouch.

  The shape moved, grew larger.

  He wrenched the branch from the pile and raised it above his head, every muscle tensed. “Is someone there?” Bram whispered. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Wait! Don’t hurt me!” a voice squealed. Something light but solid smashed into Bram’s chest before he could see it clearly. Arms scrabbled to loop around his neck. He grabbed the scrawny limbs and pushed the creature back.

  “Kirah!”

  She dropped away, a sheepish look on her face. She was dressed in men’s clothing, but that wasn’t unusual for his aunt.

  Bram folded his arms in an angry stance. “Who’s watching my holdings?” he demanded.

  “Maladorigar, of course,” she said. “Don’t worry, he’s capable, and the people have got used to his odd way of speaking.” Kirah tried briefly to disarm him with a smile, but she gave that up with a shrug when her efforts met with a cold stare.

  “We’re in Qindaras, aren’t we?” she asked artlessly. “That’s why you’re in here with me now.”

  Bram scowled. “No, I’m here with you only because you totally ignored Guerrand’s and my wishes, not to mention those of the Council of Three.”