The Seventh Sentinel

by Mary Kirchoff

  “You didn’t give me any choice,” she said simply. “I overheard your plan to use the mirror last night after my argument with Guerrand. I went to the gallery this morning to try one more time to talk some sense into him, but he wasn’t there. Is it my fault he left the mirror sitting on his table, where it could catch my eye?”

  “Gods, Kirah,” Bram breathed, running a hand through his hair, “Guerrand would strangle you with his bare hands if he knew you’d defied him.”

  Kirah curled into herself, as if to make herself invisible. “I admit it was rash of me to slip inside the mirror,” she conceded, as near to an apology as she was capable. “But I couldn’t just sit back at Castle DiThon, embroidering like good womenfolk are supposed to, while you and Guerrand risk your lives to kill Lyim!”

  “That’s not why you stowed away in the mirror,” Bram replied evenly.

  “It’s at least half of the reason,” Kirah countered churlishly. “I can’t believe you, of all people, would question my motives. You were the one who took care of me when my limbs turned to snakes because of Lyim.” She leaned in. “You saw what he did to your friend Nahamkin.”

  Bram closed his eyes against the memory of his friend’s tortured death. “I don’t question your reasons for hating Lyim,” he said. “But this isn’t some romance adventure story, Kirah. I know you think it’s going to be like when you and Lyim fooled Berwick into thinking you were his daughter Ingrid—I’ve heard you speak of that often. But this is nothing like that. Lyim is trying—and so far, succeeding—to destroy magic. Even the Council of Three fears his power.”

  Kirah straightened her thin shoulders. “I’m not afraid of him,” she said fiercely.

  “That’s what worries me,” remarked Bram. “You should be. He’s not the man you believe you knew. He’s not even as reasonable as when he spread the plague in Thonvil.”

  “Nevertheless,” Kirah said, her chin jutting stubbornly, “I know I can distract him so that you and Guerrand will have opportunity to kill him.”

  Bram’s dark hair was already swinging from a prolonged shake of his head. “That’s not going to happen, Kirah, so just give up the thought right this minute. Even if I were crazy enough to allow you to help, Guerrand would never agree to it.”

  Kirah laced her fingers together before her and looked around with wide-eyed innocence. “I don’t see Guerrand here to stop me.”

  Bram said nothing, not willing to admit the truth of her observation. He had to acknowledge, though, that his options here were few. He didn’t dare use his magic to send her away or keep her inside, for fear of somehow alerting Lyim or his gauntlet. Kirah could return to Castle DiThon through the mirror, but there was no way to force her into mentally imagining a mirror there and stepping through it to safety. He knew better even than to raise the question. What was worse, Bram had no way to contact Guerrand and alert him of Kirah’s presence.

  “Guerrand may not be able to stop you, but I can,” he said firmly. “I’ll tie you up in here if I have to, to keep you safe.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He gave a threatening squint. “Don’t test me on this, Kirah. It’s vitally important, both to your safety and to the success of what Rand and I are trying to do, that you stay here. Our plan simply doesn’t allow for any modifications. I will ensorcel you, if I must.”

  Kirah raised her eyes to meet Bram’s steely gaze in challenge and held it for many heartbeats. She wavered, then finally was the first to look away; Kirah took a breath and abandoned the fight. “All right, you win,” she hissed. “I’ll be a good girl.”

  Bram actually threw back his head and laughed out loud. “I think it’s a little too late to hope you’ll ever be that, Kirah DiThon.”

  * * * * *

  The plan was simple: get to the palace as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, then request an audience with Lyim under his own name. It was possible, Guerrand supposed, that Lyim would order him killed instantly, as Justarius’s sources reported was standard procedure with mages in Qindaras. But he was banking on Lyim’s curiosity.

  After Bram slipped into the mirror, Guerrand hastened toward the bridge, where the first guard merely waved an arm out the small guard post. The man’s sleeve was quickly covered with falling snow and dust. Guerrand tipped his hat and continued over the bridge.

  He was not as lucky at the second post, but he was prepared. He gave his name as Enoch, and said he was a glass blower. He reported he would stay no more than a fortnight while studying local glass-blowing techniques. There was nothing about his appearance to suggest that he was lying. He wore tunic and trousers under the drab-colored robe, and he carried no magical equipment. The portly guard in ceremonial soldier’s garb made a few notes in a ledger and let Guerrand pass.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Guerrand said before leaving. “Can you tell me the way to the palace? I’ve always wanted to witness its splendor with my own eyes. It would be a shame to travel all this way and miss it.”

  The old guard responded without looking up. “All roads lead to the palace, but the Avenue to Enlightenment is the most direct. It’s straight ahead, through the bazaar. You can’t miss it.”

  The guard looked up. “However, this might not be a good time for a viewing, since every citizen of Qindaras—but me,” he added a tad bitterly, “is gathered in the courtyard there to hear Potentate Aniirin IV’s public proclamation.” The guard spat. “Just my luck our great leader makes his first public appearance during my watch.”

  “You mean no one in Qindaras has ever seen Ly-Aniirin?” Guerrand stumbled, stunned.

  The guard studied him closely. “Some have. He has retainers and such.” He squinted through the doorway. “You’re awfully curious for a glass blower.”

  Guerrand put his hands up, adopting an expression of innocence. “Idle curiosity, I assure you.” He ducked his head from the man’s view. “Well, I must be off. Thanks for the advice.”

  Guerrand walked with great purpose through the broad gates and headed down the Avenue of Enlightenment. He noticed the improved weather first; inside the walls it was warm enough for just a tunic and trousers. Guerrand’s second thought was that Qindaras seemed unnaturally clean. There was no rubbish in the streets. Many of the major thoroughfares had elevated walkways, so pedestrians could avoid any unpleasantness that might, but hadn’t, collected in the roads.

  The guard was right: nearly everyone else in the city had gone to the palace. Guerrand walked through empty market stalls that should have been teeming with people, but now were eerily silent. He saw less than a dozen people in as many blocks.

  Guerrand rounded a shallow bend in the Avenue to Enlightenment, and the palace rose up directly ahead. The enormous edifice shimmered in a way that reminded Guerrand instantly of his brief view of the Lost Citadel—not in design, but both magnificent fortresses glittered with a visible aura of magical energy. Considering how much Lyim had robbed from the magical fabric, the Palace of Qindaras now had a lot in common with that most magical of places.

  Guerrand passed through a massive gate in the palace wall. He was instantly confronted by a throng of humanity, filling an interior courtyard that was several times the size of the parade field outside Castle DiThon. The whole expanse was crammed with people of every age, sex, and race, many thousands in Guerrand’s estimate, perhaps tens of thousands. He wasn’t sure how large Qindaras’s population was because none of the council members had bothered to say.

  The mage began ruthlessly elbowing his way into the crowd. Before long he could hear that someone was speaking up ahead. Guerrand drew many angry scowls and curses as he pushed and squeezed his way forward. Eventually he could understand what was being said and could even see the somberly decorated balcony. The speaker appeared to be an elf, and a religious figure of some sort, judging by his garb. Then Guerrand heard him introduce the potentate, Aniirin IV; the mage from Thonvil strained to get the best possible view.

  At first, Guerrand wasn’t even sure that th
e man on the balcony was Lyim. His appearance had changed dramatically. The shaved head and somber clothing were unlike the flamboyant apprentice or the superbly confident mage Guerrand had known. But when he heard the voice, there could be no question that this was Guerrand’s old friend-turned-enemy. At this distance he could just barely make out the magnificent glove on the speaker’s right hand, occasionally reflecting the sunlight as Lyim waved his hand or raised it in a fist.

  Lyim did not speak long, but his words made Guerrand shiver as if cold fingers had played across his bare neck. The crowd, too, seemed moved, but in a different way. Their applause as the potentate disappeared behind the large blue curtain continued without a break. The citizens filed like lemmings to the tables where priests waited to sign them to Lyim’s army.

  Guerrand gently patted the mirror against his beating breast for reassurance before pressing his way through the swaying crowd.

  Guerrand waited for the crowd to recede before he crossed the courtyard and followed the road around to the palace’s entrance. To his right, the Avenue to Enlightenment branched around a bust of Aniirin I. The cobbles rejoined at the base of a marble staircase leading to the palace’s towering entrance.

  The steep stairway had an aura of not having been used in a some time. Gazing up, Guerrand spied an arched, double door of lustrous orange copper at the top of the steps. There was no guard, and no other obvious means of entrance. The mage hurried up the hard steps.

  Guerrand’s plan with Bram was simplicity itself. Just get inside, he told himself. Request an audience with Lyim, Bram will spring from the mirror, and—Guerrand reached forward to open the door, but there was no knob. He banged boldly on the cold copper panel.

  The mage had waited only a few moments when he heard a scraping sound from behind the doors. Then there was a slight clang, and one of the doors creaked open a hand’s-breadth.

  An aged servant stood behind it, his expression annoyed. “Yes, what is it?”

  Guerrand cleared his throat. “I’ve come to see the poten—”

  “The potentate’s announcement was in the square, but it’s over,” snarled the man, starting to swing the door shut in Guerrand’s face. “Go home.”

  “You don’t understand,” Guerrand pressed, stabbing a booted toe through the doorway. “I’m an old friend of Aniirin’s.”

  “The potentate sees no one whose presence he hasn’t requested.” The man frowned at the foot in the door and pushed harder.

  Guerrand leaned into the opened door. “Just tell him Guerrand DiThon says, ‘Never explain, never defend’,” he pressed. “If Aniirin still doesn’t want to see me, you have nothing to worry about. But I wouldn’t want to be you if you turn me away offhandedly and the potentate finds out,” he added slyly. The mage pulled his foot from the threshold.

  The man considered the request with pursed lips as the door closed. Guerrand heard fleeing footsteps, unsure if he’d just made it easier for the servant to shut him out, or if the man was passing the message. He waited with growing impatience and was nearly convinced that he’d have to try another approach when the copper door swung open again with greater intent.

  Holding it was a person altogether more disconcerting than the annoyed servant. Guerrand recognized the elven priest who had introduced Lyim before his speech. The elf looked more like a shadow than substance. Dark, delicate elven features were outlined by a pitch-black version of the white headwrap Guerrand had seen in abundance in Qindaras. Black robes, belted at the waist though flowing at the feet, covered a wiry frame. He was at least a head shorter than Guerrand, but the mage could not help but feel threatened by the severe gaze of his slanted elven eyes.

  “Come with me. Aniirin will see you.”

  Guerrand’s heart hammered as he crossed into the entry way behind the mysterious elf. Despite his nerves, he noticed the stark contrast between the interior and exterior of the palace. Every inch of the floors, arched walls, and vaulted ceilings were inlaid with intricate repeating patterns. Thirty columns ringed the circular entry, each topped by a capital fashioned of rolled copper, then connected by arches carved from alternating wedges of black and white marble. Light filtered through stained-glass windows high above. Guerrand spied the magical text at the base of the dome. He recognized the protective spell and made a note of its presence in the palace.

  Guerrand followed the silent elf across the entryway and under a towering arch. Just inside was an open-air hanging garden, squared in on all sides by balconies. His guide turned left up an ornately curving staircase. Guerrand peered over the railing at the gardens; ficus trees in enormous pots soared three stories toward the sky.

  “How large is the potentate’s palace?”

  The elf didn’t answer, but kept walking with the quiet purpose of the ensorcelled specter he resembled. It left out any need to correct the missed opportunity for introduction. Guerrand suspected the elf already knew who he was, anyway.

  They passed through endless corridors and bedchambers, a library, a natural-spring bathing room, gymnasium, and dining room, with its impossibly long, polished table. Guerrand wondered if the palace were really a tangled maze, or if he were deliberately being led along a route that would be difficult to recall.

  “My master instructed me to bring you along the most direct path,” the elf explained, as if he could read Guerrand’s mind. “The corridors can sometimes be the longer route.”

  They traveled one by one through doors, empty salons, and deserted bedchambers. Dust lay undisturbed on marble pediments. A thousand rooms never used.

  At last they came to the most elaborate bedchamber of all. Blue velvet curtains edged with gold satin tassels covered arched windows nearly two stories high. An enormous canopied bed, heaped with golden down coverlets, dominated one wall. A small rosewood table, sufficient for one person to dine upon, stood in a corner, covered with the remains of a light dinner served on expensive china. A half-spent cigar lay on the plate, still trailing smoke.

  Guerrand knew he was near Lyim now. He could sense the renegade’s presence.

  The elf led him through a small door to the left of the bed. The room beyond was long and narrow, with a vaulted, two-story ceiling with recessed coffers. Both walls were flanked by a handful of evenly spaced marble pedestals supporting half-finished busts of people and other sculptures. Lush green plants gave the room the feel of a tropical garden. Behind the statues along the right wall a bank of windows allowed light to stream in broken rays to the midpoint of the room.

  Bathed in that light was a man seated on a stool, his back to the elf and mage. The man was bent slightly sideways. He held a chisel to a bust that was angled to catch the rays of the sun.

  “Hello, Rand,” said the man on the stool. He swung his stubbly head up and around. A familiar smile displayed still-perfect teeth. “I would ask what brings you to the Plains of Dust, but I think we both know the answer to that.”

  Lyim turned back to the statue, brushing from it dust and stone fragments. “Frankly, I was not surprised to get your message,” he said. “I have been thinking of you a great deal lately.” Realigning the chisel, Lyim drove a mallet into its end, sending chips of marble flying. Guerrand made note of the hand holding the mallet; it wore an elaborate silver, jade, and ivory glove: the gauntlet. Its workmanship was such that it would have been a treasure even if it had no magical ability.

  Guerrand took a step toward the windows, so that he could address Lyim directly. The elf who had escorted him grabbed at the strap of the mage’s satchel.

  “Take the pack, Salimshad, if Isk insisted you must for security,” Lyim said. “But Guerrand DiThon can do me no harm. His magic is useless while I wear the glove. And I have seen him fight hand-to-hand.” Lyim took the chisel away from the bust while he chuckled, his shoulders shaking in his simple brown tunic. “In fact, you may leave us alone, Salim. I will be perfectly safe.”

  Guerrand felt the cold glass mirror he had secured to his right wrist. He dropped the pa
ck off his shoulder and handed it to the elf. Taking it, Salimshad stared coldly at Guerrand, obviously reluctant to go. At length he slipped from the room like dark fog.

  Guerrand strode casually between the pedestals. “Has sculpting filled the void of the Art you claim to no longer practice?”

  Lyim looked up. After a moment he nodded, his profile to Guerrand. “I have never thought of it that way, but yes, I suppose it has. Magic made me feel powerful. That is, it did until I discovered that the magic blinds a mage into believing he controls the Art, when in fact it is the other way round.

  “But the marble can’t lie,” he continued. “I start with a raw block, and it is altered only where I chip it away. You see?” He sliced at the slab before him to demonstrate. “I control the marble. I can shape it into my own vision.”

  Guerrand traced a finger down the perfectly smooth, aquiline nose of a piece two pedestals down from where Lyim worked. “I noticed that most of your busts seem to be missing features.” The one the mage was touching had been shaped with only one eye. The next statue down the line had only half a face. “They aren’t finished, are they?”

  Lyim chuckled again, a dry sound in the back of his throat. “We are all works in progress until the moment we die, none of us complete until that precise event.

  “I find my greatest inspiration from people I have known,” Lyim continued conversationally. “That bust, for instance,” he said with a nod toward the one Guerrand still touched. “He was a man named Mavrus, my predecessor’s most-trusted servant. Though he had the use of both eyes, he was effectively blind—to his master’s shortcomings, then to my motives. This myopia led first to his master’s death in an alley, like a common vagrant, then to his own. Interestingly, Mavrus died from a knife thrust through his left eye.”

  “What a coincidence,” Guerrand muttered, dropping his hand from the statue.

  “This one is finished,” Lyim pronounced, dropping the mallet and chisel to the floor. He slid from the stool and stood with his back to the windows as he considered his newest work. “I think you will find this one particularly interesting. Come have a look, Rand.” Lyim’s arms were crossed, his chin cupped in one hand thoughtfully.