The Seventh Sentinel

by Mary Kirchoff

  The mage approached Lyim with caution, suspicious of his good mood. The front of the bust came into view. Guerrand drew in a sharp breath. The marble had been shaped into a near-perfect rendering of Guerrand’s likeness as a younger man, with one exception.

  No mouth had been carved.

  “I remembered you best from our days in Palanthas,” he explained, as if Guerrand’s age were the statue’s greatest distinguishing feature. He traced a gloved index finger over Guerrand’s marble locks, past the temple, to the left cheek and stopped. “You may have noticed the absence of a mouth,” he remarked without waiting for a reply. “That is how I see you in my mind’s eye, Rand.

  “Surely you can see the symbolism,” Lyim continued. “You have remained silent at so many crucial junctures. Shall I list them?” Lyim extended the fingers on his gloved hand, to tick off items as they were recounted. “You agreed to remain in Palanthas while I cleared things up in Thonvil—”

  “At your insistence!”

  “Nevertheless, your decision,” Lyim returned smoothly. “You regarded my mutated hand with silence. Then, when you could have set things right at Bastion—all you needed to do was open your mouth and say ‘yes’ to my request! You refused. Silence of a sort again, Rand.”

  “I wouldn’t have remained silent if I’d realized what a snake you had become,” Guerrand spat.

  Lyim looked up in surprise. “You’re angry with me! That’s a switch for us, eh, Rand?” Lyim untied the dusty apron he wore and slipped it over his head. “Anger is an emotion I seldom feel the need to indulge these days. I suppose I have you to thank for all this,” he said with a sweep of his gloved hand. “You and this gauntlet.”

  Guerrand was at once conscious of his goal here and the passage of time. But he couldn’t suppress a shot. “You profess a hatred for magic so great you would see it destroyed, yet you owe your pampered existence here to the magic your gauntlet absorbs and redirects. Isn’t that a bit hypocritical, even for you?”

  “As you noted so aptly: ‘never explain, never defend’. I would add that only a diamond can cut a diamond. Frankly, I view magic’s destroying itself as a delicious bit of irony. Icing on an already sweet cake, if you will. I am breaking my rule to tell you this,” Lyim added, his eyes glinting with malicious humor, “only because of our long-standing friendship.”

  “We were never friends,” Guerrand responded, though he knew Lyim’s comment was facetious.

  “No,” agreed Lyim, “I have only one friend, and I wear her on my hand.” He held the gauntlet up to the light. “Have I told you about Ventyr? Only she speaks the truth.”

  “It speaks to you,” Guerrand repeated, looking from Lyim’s face to the gauntlet oddly. “You must know from your training the power magical artifacts can have over the mind, Lyim.”

  “Is that concern I hear in your voice?” Lyim sneered. “Save your compassion for someone who needs it. I control the gauntlet, because only I, as potentate, can wear it. Even the Council of Three is frightened of my power.”

  “If it’s true you’re in control,” Guerrand charged, “take off the gauntlet. Prove that it isn’t stealing your freewill.”

  A spark grew in Lyim’s eyes, signaling the rekindling of his old competitive spirit. Then he wagged his finger at Guerrand. “Nicely done. Almost.”

  Instead of removing the gauntlet, Lyim pushed it more firmly onto his hand. “How can I ever take this off, with all the assassins the Council sends after me?” He looked slyly at the mage. “You aren’t an assassin, are you, Rand?”

  Lyim snorted. “No, you’re far too good for that. In fact, I’ve always found it odd you ever chose to don the red robes. You’re more suited to white, though I can certainly see why you found Justarius more inspiring to follow than that old walking stick, Par-Salian.” Lyim actually hunched up his shoulders and squinted, trying to imitate the master of the White Order. But when he got no reaction from Guerrand, he dropped the charade, obviously irritated. “You’re no assassin, Rand.”

  Guerrand acknowledged that possibility as well. In moments Lyim would dispense with him first. Guerrand pretended to scratch his right forearm, releasing the catch that held the mirror in place. It slid quickly to his cuff, where he caught it in his cupped hand. He was sure his heart was beating hard enough for Lyim to see it banging against his tunic.

  Guerrand slowly turned his hand over. Sunlight glinted off the mirror in his trembling palm.

  Lyim squinted suspiciously. The light caught him in the eye, blinding him.

  Guerrand repeated the phrase he and Bram had agreed would lead Bram to him through an opening in the foggy mirror world. “I’ve brought you a message from the Council.”

  Guerrand’s heart skipped a nervous beat. He looked from the mirror to Lyim’s darkening face, and back to the mirror. Finally he felt the mirror shake slightly in his hand, and he set it on the floor. Bram’s head and shoulders popped from the mirror, followed immediately by the rest of him. He held aloft his carved wooden staff and spun around quickly to get his bearings.

  “What are you—?” Lyim’s shout was cut short when Guerrand smashed him in the mouth and nose with his fist. Lyim dropped to his knees, holding his bleeding face.

  Bram cast his first spell before Lyim could recover. There were no gestures or arcane words to reveal Bram’s intent as when a wizard drew from the magical fabric. But Guerrand knew, he recognized the subtle shift of Bram’s staff and posture.

  With a sound like rushing water, a ring of tiles along the walls of the studio burst up from the floor for a length of at least a dozen paces in both directions from Bram. Two more lines cut off the long hall from the doors at both ends. In a matter of heartbeats, the shattered floor was covered with twisting vines that were hard, woody, and bristling with thorns. They climbed the walls and intertwined themselves in needle-studded lattices across every window and formed two walls across the hallway. The barricades were so thick that the ends of the hallway could no longer be seen. Within heartbeats, the three men were sealed off by the writhing branches, their long, curving thorns threatening to tear at any flesh that came near.

  Lyim’s expression revealed he had no explanation for what was happening. Guerrand could see his nephew evaluating the surroundings for potential, taking in the green plants, floor tiles, and massive marble statues.

  Guerrand’s eyes shifted for a flicker to glance behind Lyim, where enormous potted ivies, knocked over by the upheaval in the floor, were stretching their thick, green tendrils toward the potentate. Their leafy vines were becoming thick and ropelike, and raced toward Lyim with the speed and menace of unearthly snakes.

  “Magic can’t work here!” Lyim roared.

  The potentate lunged straight toward Bram, with the gauntlet extended menacingly. Guerrand jumped to interpose himself between the two, but the move was unnecessary. The vines writhing across the floor had snagged Lyim’s ankle as he leaped, toppling the suddenly unbalanced potentate to the floor. He hit the stones hard, but seemed unfazed. Lyim whipped over onto his back and stabbed his gauntleted hand toward the plants. The thick vines surged forward without pause and snaked around Lyim’s shoulders, trying to pin his arms to his sides. He struggled against them ferociously, rolling from side to side, but made little progress. Each vine that he threw off was replaced by two more wrapping around his limbs.

  “Ventyr!” he cried mysteriously. He cocked his head as if listening. Abruptly Lyim’s eyes widened, and he looked up toward Bram in fresh understanding. “You aren’t a mage!” Anger, first at the intruders and then at himself for underestimating Guerrand and overestimating his gauntlet, seemed to release in Lyim the power of many men. He tore at the entrapping vines like an animal. The gauntlet ripped away handfuls of writhing greenery, and was now shredding the attacking plants more quickly than they could attach themselves. In moments, Lyim would break free.

  “Guards!” Lyim screamed again. He flung a handful of crushed greenery at the wall of thorns covering the hall
way and cursed aloud.

  Guerrand glanced desperately at the doors. “Hurry and finish what you’ve started!” he said hoarsely to his nephew. It was a race against time now. Guerrand knew they held the upper hand, but if the first spells expired or Lyim tore free of the trapping vines before Bram could craft another spell, the course of the fight would change completely. Guards were already chopping at the thorns from the other side.

  Then the mage spied the sculpting mallet and chisel on the floor, near where the mirror lay. He snatched up the mallet, intent on delivering a killing blow before Lyim could regain his feet.

  “Get back, Rand!” cried Bram, speaking for the first time since leaving the mirror. “You’ll be caught in the spell!”

  Guerrand leaped back to a safe distance. As he did so, he caught movement out of the corner of his right eye. Thinking someone had managed to cut through the brambles, Guerrand, the mallet raised high above his head, spun around to face the intruder.

  And stumbled over something on the floor, something that hadn’t been there before.

  Wearing men’s trousers and tunic, Kirah DiThon was crouched on her knees next to Guerrand’s magical mirror. Her eyes were locked on Lyim as he continued shredding the vines.

  “What in the Abyss are you doing here?” Guerrand demanded as he picked himself up.

  Bram looked up at the sound of Guerrand’s voice, his concentration broken. He saw Kirah on the floor for the first time. “You promised to stay in the mirror!” he raged.

  “I meant to, but the walls in there closed in on me, and then it just sort of spit me out!” she cried.

  “Stand back, Kirah!” Bram yelled, seeing that she was now standing almost directly between him and Lyim. “I can’t cast the spell with you so near him.”

  “Too late,” Lyim said through blood-flecked lips. He burst free of the last vines and sprang to his feet. Kirah screamed and punched, but she was no match for Lyim’s strength and speed. His arms were wrapped around Kirah before Guerrand could reach her. Holding her slight, wriggling frame before him as a shield, Lyim skipped sideways behind a row of statues.

  “Things have certainly taken an interesting turn,” said the potentate a bit breathlessly.

  “Let her go, and deal with us,” Guerrand said softly, nodding toward his sister.

  Holding Kirah tightly from behind, Lyim laughed into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. “She may look angry, but from the way she’s pressing herself against me, I don’t believe the lady wants to go,” he said with a wicked smile.

  “Take me instead,” Guerrand prompted.

  Lyim signaled his rejection of the idea by jerking Kirah hard. His head shook with mock sadness. “Poor Guerrand. You really don’t understand, do you? Not only wouldn’t you be as distracting as Kirah, I already have you. All of you.” He jerked his head toward the end of the hall behind Guerrand and Bram.

  Both DiThon men looked back anxiously. The guards with axes and pikes had made great progress chopping and prying apart the wall of thorns. Shreds of the unnatural plants lay over the floor. In moments the guards would be through.

  Kirah yelped. Both men swung around but couldn’t find her where she’d last stood with Lyim.

  “There!” cried Bram, pointing to a dark shadow on the floor of the studio. Guerrand saw that a statue had been shifted aside, revealing a shaft leading down and out of the closed-off hallway.

  The guards forced their way through the last of the wall of thorns. Three angry, sweating men with axes leaped through the opening, followed by the dark-robed elf, Salimshad, two more guards with spears, and the man who had originally met Guerrand at the copper door. Shouting and pounding feet could be heard beyond the thorn wall, racing down the hall.

  “Into the mirror!” Guerrand ordered Bram, reminding him of the way they had planned to escape. Once inside, they could jump through another mirror in the palace, or one back in Thonvil. Bram placed a foot on the shard, expecting to slip inside. His boot landed on the hard surface of the glass and stayed there. He looked helplessly at his uncle.

  The soldiers dived at Bram first, knocking him to the floor. His arms were pinned before he could fashion another spell.

  Guerrand dropped to his knees and bowed his head to the floor in a gesture of abject surrender. As the guards rushed toward him, he groped for the shard of mirror, hoping to tuck it unnoticed into his sleeve. But a boot crashing into his ribs and flipped him onto his back. He raised his arm to shield his face from a second blow, but the hob-nailed boot made it through his desperate defense, knocking him into unconsciousness.

  Safely inside his bedchamber, Lyim loosed his grip on Kirah, turning her about to face him. The young woman twisted and strained to free herself but stopped when she realized Lyim was enjoying her fruitless struggles.

  Kirah scowled up into his smug face. He looked nothing like the lighthearted young man she had first met in a cove on the windy shore of the Strait of Ergoth. Strangely, he was not dressed all that differently—casual tunic and trousers, soft boots—though Guerrand had once told her Lyim liked to dress elaborately.

  Once, luxuriant locks had flowed over Lyim’s broad shoulders like a river of black ice. He had looked dashing, where now he merely called to mind a pirate with his shadowy stubble. Beyond anything else, Lyim looked powerful … and dangerous.

  She stared fearlessly up into his dark, penetrating eyes. “I believe I want you dead more than Guerrand and Bram.”

  Lyim threw back his head and laughed at her brave words. “Even more than the Council of Three?”

  “I don’t know any of them,” Kirah snarled, “but I’m sure they can’t hate you more than I do.”

  “I think ‘fear’ would more accurately describe their current feelings for me,” Lyim said loosely.

  Kirah squared her shoulders defiantly. “I don’t fear you.”

  Lyim regarded her intently. “You never have.” He let her go abruptly and walked to a small table covered with the leavings of his dinner.

  Kirah watched Lyim pick up a pitcher and consider it briefly, putting it back down. He strode to the far door, opened it, spoke to someone outside. Within moments, a bottle of amber liquid passed through the door. Lyim took a swig while walking to a tall, arched window. He parted the blue curtain fringed with gold tassels and stared beyond.

  Kirah stood perfectly still, but craned her neck to consider the door behind her, wondering if it was locked. The portal was not very far away, closer, in fact, to her than Lyim.

  “You’ll find guards beyond both doors now,” he informed her, still looking out the window.

  She gave him a cagey glance. “I thought you no longer used magic.”

  “I don’t,” he said. “It doesn’t take a wizard to guess that escape is on your mind.” Lyim took a long, slow pull on the bottle, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “It would be on mine.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me,” Kirah said imperiously. “I was actually thinking about how I was going to rescue Guerrand and Bram,” she lied.

  He shrugged. “Then you’re not as intelligent as I gave you credit for being.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Because I might care more about someone else’s safety than my own?”

  “I learned long ago that the only person you can count on is you,” he said, still gazing vacantly outside. “Any evidence to the contrary is merely a temporary illusion.”

  Kirah couldn’t suppress an unexpected shudder of pity for the man she had so admired. The horror of his mutated hand had obviously turned his zest for life into a bitter cynicism. She said nothing, knowing the thought would only anger her captor.

  What she said instead was, “What are you going to do with all of us?”

  Lyim looked away from the window at last. “That question requires three very different answers.” He strode to the table, splashed amber liquor into two goblets. “I don’t choose to consider Guerrand’s and Bram’s fates while in the presence of a beautifu
l woman.” The potentate held one of the goblets toward her.

  Kirah squirmed under his gaze, but forced her feet forward and took the glass, assiduously avoiding Lyim’s hand. Kirah took a drink so that he would not see her embarrassment, though she suspected Lyim saw everything. The liquor was strong and burned her throat. It warmed her belly, however, and steadied her nerves.

  “Don’t potentates have rooms full of concubines waiting to do their bidding?” she asked artlessly.

  “I did,” he agreed, “but I have no interest in women who are not of my choosing. Aniirin III’s wives were … released from their duties when I became potentate.”

  Lyim’s eyes traveled over her thin tunic, settling at last on her face. “You’ve changed, Kirah. Grown up. And very nicely, too.” He raised his left hand to almost tenderly brush a wisp of blond hair away from her face.

  Kirah stepped back. “Having your limbs turn to snakes gives you a new perspective,” she snapped bitterly. “I trusted and admired you, and you tried to kill me!”

  “No one knows the pain of having that happen better than I,” Lyim said soberly. “Don’t forget that Belize was my master. Because of him my right arm was a snake for nearly a decade. It changed my life irrevocably.

  “Believe it or not,” he continued smoothly, “I am relieved to see you alive. I always regretted having to give you the plague,” he confessed softly. “You were caught in the middle of a struggle between your brother and me. Isn’t it an odd twist of fate that you still are?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Lyim stood and began pacing. “You asked before what I intended to do with Guerrand and Bram.” He stopped before her with his arms crossed, gloved right hand glittering on top. “I believe I’ve come up with a solution that benefits us all.”

  Kirah leaned forward eagerly. “Yes?”

  “Stay with me.”