“Guess they’re not used to strangers,” Timothy said.
Caiaphas grunted in agreement. “We may have to alter our expectations of hospitality.”
But by then they had nearly reached the mage who had left the path. Timothy took a moment to glance up at the terraced pyramid as they approached. It seemed somehow smaller than he imagined now that he was nearly upon it, but the one impression that did not go away was the idea that it had sprung from the earth not unlike the crops in the eastern fields. He turned to glance at the nearest pyramid, across the river, and a spike of pain shot through his side. Wincing, he put his hand over it again. Pressure on the cracked ribs hurt the bruised area, but that was superficial. On the inside, the pressure relieved some of the pain.
“Good evening,” Caiaphas said as they neared the mage, whose eyes seemed in the dusky light to be the same stone gray as his robe. “Kind thoughts on this day.”
The mage regarded them carefully. Timothy paused, perhaps twenty feet from the man, and Caiaphas glanced at him a moment before he halted as well. They were a ragged pair, no question. Timothy’s tunic was torn from catching on branches during his fall. He knew he was bruised, and though his injury was not visible, his constant wincing and the way he held his ribs would have made it obvious. Caiaphas still wore the veil of his vocation but his robes were also torn, including an entire swath that had been torn away to fashion his sling.
Still, after a moment, the stony-eyed mage smiled at them. “On this and all days,” he said, offering the traditional response. “What brings you here, travelers? We see sky carriages often enough, but rarely received visitors.”
“Our Grandmaster—” Timothy began.
“Has summoned us back to Arcanum,” Caiaphas interrupted, shooting a meaningful glance at Timothy. “Unfortunately I am not always as cautious navigating as I ought to be. I’m afraid our sky carriage was ruined. We were fortunate enough to emerge with so few injuries.”
Timothy saw the way the man’s gray eyes narrowed as he listened, trying to find the truth in Caiaphas’s tale. The mage was suspicious of them, unsure whether to believe them. Caiaphas was being cautious, but Timothy suspected the man would have treated any outsider the same way.
He glanced past the gray mage. Others had clustered on the path, watching them parley. Within the terraced pyramid, windows had begun to glimmer with illumination. He had seen little light beyond that spell-glass before, but now the structures began to come alive with warmth.
“Do you admire the ziggurats?” the gray mage asked.
“Is that what they’re called?” Timothy replied. “Yes. They’re amazing. And lit up like that … they’re beautiful.”
Those stony eyes regarded him for a moment, then he looked at Caiaphas again. He had not responded to the navigation mage’s story and he deliberated for several moments longer.
“We haven’t a sky carriage, I fear,” the mage said at last. “We do not believe in the artifice of such travel.”
Timothy’s shoulders sank in disappointment and he winced with fresh pain from his side.
“However,” the gray mage went on, “evening is upon us, and the Children of Karthagia would not turn away those in need. You are injured and, I wager, hungry as well.” He smiled. “Come. We will try to heal and refresh you so that in the morning we may set you on your path with good wishes.”
Caiaphas bowed.
Timothy attempted to follow suit, but hissed in pain and could only manage a sort of nod of his head. For the first time Timothy saw sympathy in the mage’s eyes, and much of his anxiety about this place dispersed. They would be safe here, he felt. For the night, at least.
Chapter Six
I am called Finn,” said the bald, gray-cloaked mage. He walked a step or two ahead of them, guiding Timothy and Caiaphas toward the entrance of the ziggurat. When he spoke he glanced back. “Might I ask your names?”
“Of course. Forgive our rudeness,” said Timothy’s companion. “I am Caiaphas, navigator by trade.”
Finn inclined his head in a casual nod even as he continued walking, his robe dragging on the ground. “Well met, Caiaphas.”
“Indeed,” Caiaphas replied.
“My name is Timothy Cade,” the boy added.
The gray mage paused and turned slowly toward them in the failing light of dusk. One eyebrow was arched and he surveyed Timothy more carefully now. There was no hostility in his attentions, but the boy frowned regardless, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.
“Cade. Son of the great Argus Cade.” Finn smiled. “We have heard of you here in Karthagia. The un-magician, yes?”
Nervous, Timothy glanced at Caiaphas before replying. “Yeah. That’s me.”
The kindness in Finn’s expression then surprised him.
“I see you are anxious, Timothy. Worry not. You are welcome here.”
He said nothing more, but Timothy felt himself relaxing as he and Caiaphas followed Finn up to the massive doors of the ziggurat. He was exhausted and hungry and the pain in his ribs was agonizing, but the relief that swept over him, knowing that they had a place to rest, even only for the night, was enormous. He and Caiaphas had to get back to Arcanum to find out what was wrong with Leander, to help him and to warn everyone else. But a meal and a night’s sleep in a comfortable bed would be like a kind of magic all their own.
Timothy glanced around the village of Karthagia a final time before entering the ziggurat. The last of the day’s light was draining out of the western sky. The river burbled quietly as it meandered among the buildings. The ziggurats were lit up, beautiful and elegant crystal towers that shone from within. He felt at peace here.
If things were different, he would have wanted to stay for a time, to learn more about these people. But that would have to wait for another day.
Finn led them inside the ziggurat. At first there was only a high-ceilinged, narrow corridor made entirely of stone, save for the doors, which were fashioned from a gleaming golden material that was neither glass nor stone. Timothy at first thought it was metal, but after passing several of these passages—the doors had neither hinge nor knob nor lock—he determined it must be pure magic, not unlike the spell-glass in the windows.
At the end of the corridor they emerged into what was obviously the core of the ziggurat, and Timothy staggered to a halt, eyes wide. A smile touched his lips and he uttered a soft laugh of amazement.
The entire center of the building, the heart of the ziggurat, was open, the interior a series of staggered balconies that mirrored the terraced design of the exterior, lined with doors Timothy imagined led into the private quarters of the residents of the building. There were gardens and fountains everywhere, and on each level there were people strolling, children laughing. It was as though an entire city existed within that one structure, gleaming with warm, golden light that was like sunshine.
In the midst of it all, an axis upon which the life in the ziggurat turned, was a quartet of elevator shafts. Catwalks stretched from that central core out to each balcony level like spokes upon a wheel. But the lifts did not only go up. Feeling a rush of excitement, Timothy hurried past Finn and Caiaphas to the edge of the balcony. He leaned out over open space and stared down. There must have been twenty-five or thirty levels above the ground. Below, there were easily twice that number.
“Oh,” Timothy whispered, and he pulled back a little from the edge. The building continued to widen as it went deep underground, with each balcony farther from the elevators than the last, and looking down into that vast open space made him feel as though he would fall.
He had fallen enough, recently.
“Remarkable,” Caiaphas said as he and Finn joined Timothy at the edge of the balcony. “It is beautiful. We saw children, and some of your guild members, outside, but it seems as though your society is all contained within this building.”
Finn smiled and smoothed his beard thoughtfully. “Within each building, actually. Though at the lowest level there are passages
that connect the ziggurats, one to another.”
“Under the river?” Timothy asked.
“We cultivate the land and enjoy it, but we are largely a private culture. Much of our world is subterranean. And we do not hold with all of the traditional beliefs of most guilds in the Parliament. In truth, we are not members of Parliament at all.”
Caiaphas blinked several times. Timothy thought he was in shock.
“How can that be?” the boy asked. “I thought every guild—”
“No. Not all. What sort of government would they be if they forced everyone to do things their way?” Finn asked.
Timothy nodded. He had lived on Terra a short time, but he thought he might be able to tell Finn stories about the Parliament of Mages that would horrify him.
“This is why we cannot be of very much help to you, I’m sorry to say,” Finn went on. “We keep to ourselves, and though we will offer courtesy to accidental visitors such as yourselves, we do not invite interaction with other villages or guilds. Our ways are not your ways. We have no sky carriages at all, for instance, for none of the Children of Karthagia ever leaves.”
Caiaphas had his brows knitted in thought. Timothy knew they ought to be discussing their plight and what they would do tomorrow, when the hospitality of Karthagia would be politely withdrawn and they would be set on their way. But at the moment he was distracted by his hunger and the pain in his side, and also by the ziggurat itself.
“We are grateful for your help,” the navigation mage said at last.
Finn nodded, clasping his hands together in what Timothy imagined was a traditional gesture of thanks or respect. “Come, then,” the mage said. “I shall need to speak briefly with a clan chief so that the guild masters are aware of your presence, and then I can show you to rooms where you may wash and be refreshed. I shall send healers to your quarters, and food and drink as well.”
“Masters?” Caiaphas asked. “You have more than one leader of your guild? No Grandmaster?”
“Seven. One for each ziggurat,” the gray-eyed mage replied.
Timothy barely listened as he took in his surroundings. He followed the two mages across one of the catwalks that led to the elevator core, careful to be sure that the surfaces he was stepping on were metal or wood and not glass or the golden magic that those spell-doors had been made of. Even with that as his focus, his attention was drawn away by what was the most amazing sight to greet them yet.
As they crossed the catwalk, Timothy saw the source of the warm light that suffused the entire central chamber of the ziggurat. On either side of me elevator core there sat a mage, cross-legged upon the floor with hands outstretched and palms upward. From those upturned palms the light streamed, as though they held mini-suns in each hand.
Timothy craned his neck. On every level above—and when he looked he saw that they were on every level below as well—there were two more. Perhaps 150 mages in all, just to light this building.
“Finn?”
“Yes?”
He gestured to the illuminated mages as they walked to the elevators. “Is this your only source of light?”
“At night, certainly,” the mage replied.
Caiaphas stared at him, even as Finn passed his hand over a sigil on the elevator door, summoning it.
“These mages are here all night?” the navigator asked, incredulous.
Finn smiled, but there was a flicker of displeasure in it. “Only until the clans take to their beds for the evening. By then they have generated enough power to provide light in the individual quarters if it is needed.”
“The lights I saw at the top of each ziggurat—” Timothy began.
The elevator arrived and the doors slid open. The three stepped on and it began to descend, sliding deep into the ground.
“They are mages as well,” Finn confirmed. “One mage at the top of each ziggurat. While we all must take our turn illuminating the interior, the mage at the peak is always the same. One chosen from each clan, mastering that magic, and remaining atop the ziggurat for all the long years of his life. It is great sacrifice, but it is the core of what we believe. It would be hard for you to understand.”
“It is,” Timothy confirmed.
Both Finn and Caiaphas shot him looks of disapproval. Timothy didn’t care. He was troubled at the idea.
“The mage at the peak siphons sunlight all through the day. At dusk, her sorcery—for our current illuminator is female—passes that fight down to each of those who provide the light within for the evening.”
“But…” The boy shook his head even as the elevator continued to drop below ground. “What about ghostfire? Wouldn’t ghostfire lanterns be so much simpler?”
Finn’s smile disappeared. His nostrils flared, and the look he gave Timothy then was full of dismay, even disgust.
“That is the primary difference between our guild and others, young Master Cade. It is the fundamental reason we are not members of Parliament. Ghostfire, lad, is comprised of the souls of dead mages. It is cruel, but worse, it is blasphemous. The spirits of our dead deserve their rest, Timothy, and we would not disrespect them so profoundly as to capture their souls upon this world, to keep them here, twisted to our service. It is a horrid, barbaric practice.”
Timothy stared at him, mouth agape. The way he spoke, ghostfire sounded no different from the souls that Nicodemus had tainted and made into his slave-wraiths. He’d always been made to believe that ghostfire was harmless, that the mages’ real spirits were not contained, but only a portion of their essence. If what Finn said was true …
The boy looked at Caiaphas. The navigator shook his head doubtfully and made as if to argue, but then the doors swept open and Finn walked quickly from the elevator, forcing them to follow.
The conversation was over.
But it would echo in Timothy’s mind all through that long night.
Cassandra made her way quickly along a gently curving stone hallway. She glanced over her shoulder from time to time. She could not have said, if asked, why precisely she did not want the residents of SkyHaven to know of the meeting she was about to have. It was simply that she knew something was out of place, and it was more than the attack on Leander’s sky carriage, more than the Grandmaster’s illness or Timothy and Caiaphas being left behind. These things had started a panic in her heart, but beneath that was something else, a strange, creeping dread that she did not really understand.
But it made her secretive.
She had instructed Carlyle to wait by Leander’s quarters until the healers had emerged with word of his condition, not because the man would be needed there but because he was far too inquisitive and she wanted to go unnoticed. Now she paused a moment, took one final glance over her shoulder, and then hurried around the corner to the tall door of Timothy Cade’s workshop.
Cassandra rapped softly on the door. She heard a metal rasp from within the room and it took her a moment to realize it must be the mechanical lock that Timothy had installed. It was strange to her. Spell-locks were security enough. With the right spell, the door could have been sealed tight against any visitor who did not have authorization to enter. But even for his own benefit, Timothy did not trust magic. Instead, he had put in a heavy bolt that slid into the frame of the door so it could be locked from within.
Now it opened with a whisper. The workshop flickered with the light of a single lantern. This was not ghostfire, of course, but hungry fire, the dangerous, consuming flame that burned wood and flesh and almost anything else it touched. Yet Timothy had used flax-oil, cloth, metal, and glass to make a lantern in which hungry fire burned safely. The flame danced inside the glass like a darting lightning bug, somehow throwing shadows and light in equal portion.
From the shadows came a ruffle of feathers. Off to her right, among some of Timothy’s inventions, Sheridan was so still that he might have been inactivated. It sent a shudder through her, seeing him like that. Cassandra had never thought of the mechanical man as precisely alive, but now
she realized she must have begun to think of him as a person, for in that moment he looked dead, and it frightened her. Then his red eyes flared to fife in the darkness and a soft sigh of steam escaped the valve at the side of his head, and she smiled in relief.
“Ivar,” the mechanical man whispered, a new assurance in his voice. “Close the door.”
Cassandra frowned deeply, glancing around, peering into the shifting light and darkness of the room. She almost shouted in alarm when the shadows behind the open door took sudden form. Ivar had been there all along, the unique camouflage of his skin’s changeable coloring keeping him hidden. Now the Asura warrior nodded to her and she stepped out of the way to allow him to close the door. Cassandra watched the Way the black tribal markings that decorated his skin shifted as he moved. He slid the bolt back into place, locking the door, and then turned to face her.
“Grandmaster,” the Asura said respectfully.
She blinked in surprise, shaking her head. “No, I—”
But Cassandra did not bother to continue the protest. For the moment, at least, she was Grandmaster. In the past few months she had gone through an incredible sequence of emotions on that subject. It was what she had wanted, so desperately: to succeed her grandfather as Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred. But when the time came, all too soon, she had been forced to realize she was not ready. Leander Maddox had begun to teach her, to help her prepare for her eventual inheritance. And now that it appeared that it might be thrust upon her, even temporarily, while Leander was ill, she did not feel ready.
Fate, however, did not seem willing to give her a choice in the matter.
“I am not Grandmaster yet,” she said at last, glancing from Ivar to Sheridan, and then to the gleaming black spot in the shadows of the room that she knew must be Edgar, the rook. “For the moment, I am in charge, yes. While Leander is not well. But only temporarily.”
“Perhaps,” Ivar said, and his normally emotionless features narrowed with a dark concern. The Asura was deeply troubled, but did not seem inclined to explain why.
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