"Believe them all, and more."
With a muttered curse Desrenaud turned to the wysard. "And where's that hell-daimon Dagar now? Why has he not come to face you? Surely he knows you're here."
"I am far from certain he does," Ryel said. "But even if he did, the dawn is rising, which means his powers will be much diminished. When night comes again he and I will meet, be sure of it."
"See that you prevail, sorcerer. But what is it you stare so straightly at to the west?"
Ryel squinted. "I think I see the captain of the mercenaries coming out of his tent."
"Rare early hours, his." A thought seemed to come to Desrenaud, one that lit his eyes. "Use that sorcerer's sight of yours, and tell me his looks. He is young, is he not? Barely thirty?"
Ryel shook his head. "Much older. Fifty years, at least."
"Hm. But fair, doubtless? Pale of skin and silvery of hair, and that hair very long, in four great braids?"
"Not at all," the wysard said. "Swarthy, with wiry black hair gone gray high on the temples, all a-bristle on his crown and shaven at the nape."
"But bearded? A great beard down to his belt?"
"Hardly," Ryel said, mystified. "Shaven clean, save for a thick mustache."
"Is he, now. But surely he is my height or thereabouts, and craggy lean?"
"Far from either. Very little in stature, and round as a tub—uncommonly strong-seeming for all that. But why—"
Despite so much contradiction, Desrenaud seemed far from displeased. "One last thing. Is he exceeding grum of manner, haughty and rough?"
"Never a bit," Ryel said. "He has a smile for everyone, with many a slap on the back and hug round the shoulders. I'm sorry, Guy, but he's not at all the man you seem to wish he was."
Desrenaud startled the wysard with his laugh. "You're dead wrong there, enchanter. Blood and damnation, but this is wonderful."
Ryel was extremely surprised. "Why? Who is he?"
"Our luck, magician," the earl said, triumph in his voice. "Our first luck. I did not dare believe it, and thus was roundabout with you in asking his looks—a trick I got from my grandame. The man you've so minutely limned is none other than Rodhri M'Klaren, one of the toughest old warhorses of all the North."
"What, do you know him?" Ryel asked, astonished.
"Know him? Look at him again with your sorcerer's vision, and tell me whether or not he has one dark eye, and one light."
Ryel looked, and nodded. "He does indeed."
"There you are," the earl said with satisfied finality. "It's him, beyond the breath of a doubt. Whilst I was espying on the Sovran's guard, I heard them say that a great captain had come down from the North in the pay of the Zegrys, and I knew that it had to be none other than Rodhri the Ransacker, as he's known to his men. I first met the M'Klaren when he led a force against the Hralwi during the border wars—mercenary troops called up by the Domina when she learned that the Hryeland army was deserting in droves, and that most other able-bodied men were shirking conscription in every way they could. We've been drunk together times out of number, the M'Klaren and I, and pledged eternal brotherhood at every bout."
"Then you trust him?"
Desrenaud shook his head at once, with a wry laugh. "Not a whit. He's a knave in grain. But that's all to the good, since he and his soldiers are more than likely snarling sick of cooling their heels outside the eastern gates whilst Michael's crew gets first snap at the Diamond Heaven's beauties and makes off with the prime plunder, and the Zegry force rifles the jewel mines in the mountains. From what I've heard, Rodhri was promised loot rather than wages, a bargain he willingly shook hands on. But the prospect of rich pillage has waned to the point that the M'Klaren would turn his coat to the Sovran's side forthwith, given assurance of ready gold."
"Priamnor has abundance of that, at least," Ryel said.
"Then it's settled. I've only to get to Rodhri's camp. Use that Art of yours to find me a stratagem, sorcerer. Another of those translation-spells, such as you last wrought."
Ryel shook his head in absolute denial. "It's too soon for a second time. You'd infallibly die."
Desrenaud smote the edge of the parapet with a curse. "Then think of something else—but be quick!"
Ryel briefly meditated. "I know of one method only a little less desperate. But first I must ask you how good you are at scaling walls."
"You called me a crag-crawling savage ere this, sorcerer. All I'll need is enough rope, as long as you can convey me safely to the eastern wall."
"You'll have it," Ryel said.
"Then what are we standing idle here for?"
"Because the light's rising, and I have to consider the best method for us to negotiate our way unseen."
"Aren't you a conjurer? All you need do is render us invisible."
Ryel gave a snort very like Edris'. "Easy for you to say." He leaned his elbows on the parapet, contemplating the city's ruins and the smoke rising therefrom, thinking of how very far Almancar was from Markul. He remembered the smooth gloomy granite of his own City's buildings, the eternal overcast, the mists so thick that often he required the Art to find his way to the walls …
"By every god," he half exclaimed. "That's it."
Desrenaud jerked around. "What? A magic cloak?"
"Something better."
"Then shake it out, enchanter."
Ryel leaned out over the parapet, and closed his eyes, and gave all his thought to obscuration. Soon he felt chill damp on his cheeks, and at last heard Desrenaud's underbreath oaths.
"Damnation. You did it, magus. We're utterly shut in."
Opening his eyes, the wysard no longer saw a vista of smoking ruin and encroaching armies. All that met his gaze was clammy gray cloud. "Good," he said, muffling Edris' mantle about him. "No one will find us in this murk. Let's go."
Silently he led the way through the yielding wall of white, unerringly finding the right path amid a maze of corridors and courtyards. All about him he heard cursing guardsmen, startled servants, alarmed courtiers, most of whom had never known such weather in their lives. But Ryel passed among them as if through a dream with Desrenaud at his side, making his way to the gallery where Jinn stood entranced, waking her and silencing her neighs of recognition with whispered words of Art.
At the stables he housed Jinn in one of the extravagant stalls, and wordlessly bid her farewell with caresses to her gold-silk mane. Finding a strong length of rope, he led Desrenaud with him to the remembered door, and broke open its lock with a touch. Once they had entered the secret passage, Ryel closed the door behind them.
"You can speak now," he said in the darkness.
The Northerner made muffled noises of disgust. "This is worse even than your fog, magus. Cobwebs a foot thick, and moldy as a grave—"
Groping in the black Ryel took one of the torches from its wall-socket, and commanded it to spring aflame. Desrenaud blinked as he looked around him. "Where are we?"
"In a tunnel leading to the Diamond Heaven," Ryel replied.
"Ha. I'm sure young Priamnor made use of it, often and often."
They made their way slowly, hampered by webs grown more thick than ever, but Desrenaud now pushed through them undismayed.
"At least now I can see a clear ten feet ahead of me. It reminds me much of the passages under Grotherek Palace, save that Bradamaine kept hers better swept."
"Tell me why you didn't wish to see Belphira tonight."
Desrenaud halted. "I did, sorcerer. Believe me, I did. She that I've not laid eyes on for years—never a day of them gone by without some thought of her, every thought fresh and lively as a blow athwart the face, or a knife in the guts. It's raw luck, sorcerer—to have come so close to her, then instantly taken the best way of never seeing her again—but there's no help for it."
Ryel started. "I thought you foresaw no danger in meeting with Rodhri M'Klaren."
"One always runs some risk with a hired blade," said Desrenaud, grimly resigned. "Especially when Bradamaine's
last orders to the M'Klaren were to throw me in chains if ever he encountered me again, and compel me Northward for judgment. She promised him no inconsiderable reward, as I recall, and I much doubt the M'Klaren's yet heard about the late changes in Hryeland."
"Then by all means you shouldn't—"
Desrenaud waved away the wysard's concern. "I'll take my chances, enchanter. But here we are at yet another door for your arts to open."
At the wysard's word the locks and bolts screeched back, and the great iron door swung a little ajar. The door was further barred by an overgrowth of vines; these Ryel replaced when they had exited, and caused the door to shut and lock again, strengthening the portal with great spells as a final measure of surety.
On their way to the east wall they more than once collided with members of Michael's faithful, but bore themselves so menacingly and ready-bladed that they were never once challenged, though often cursed and brusquely told to watch where they were going. These incidents decreased, however, the further they went, until in near-total silence Desrenaud leaned to Ryel's ear. "I'm good as blind, sorcerer. Where are we?"
"At the Temple of Atlan," the wysard whispered. "Careful with the steps."
As they made their way through what remained of the Jewel Path, the wysard was glad that he could not see the ruins around him, and wished he could not smell the cruel reek of spilled stale wine, smoke and putrefaction. The tangled fetor was horribly overlaid with the spoiled perfume of essence-bottles wantonly broken open, rich delicacies wasted, rare blossoms trampled and crushed, all of which the two men were forced to tread upon or kick aside as they went. Ryel did not need eyes to know that the canal which once so brilliantly divided the Jewel Path was choked with garbage and corpses.
Desrenaud sounded sick. "Did you have to lead me here, warlock?"
"It's the quickest way to the wall," Ryel replied, knowing that his whisper, too, was harsh with anguish. "And as you can hear, it's somewhat less than thronged."
All too apparently looters no longer found it worthwhile to rummage in the wreckage for some overlooked bit of plunder. The only sounds in the cloud-dimmed Heaven were an occasional fall of rubble or crash of glass. Heavy of heart Ryel remembered that night of laughter and song, of lamp-lit boats gay with revelers afloat on the River of Bliss, of Atlan's most ravishing nymphs exultant and aglow with wine and wit, of Priamnor Dranthene beautiful as a god treading the exquisite measures of the zarvana; and all those fair memories dissolved and crumbled and blew away into the mist, leaving in their place only brutish drug-stunned lust, the giggling shrieks of a false whore, the excruciating stab of a black and gold blade.
Desrenaud's hand on his wrist tightened its grip. "You're the one with the warm cloak, wysard. No need to shiver."
"It is difficult to bear."
The Ralnahrian heard Ryel's voice break, try as the wysard might to speak steadily. "I understand." His hand slid to meet Ryel's and grip it tightly a moment. "But it won't last, if I can do anything about it. Have we reached the wall yet?"
"Just arrived."
Silently they climbed the stairway to the rampart, meeting no one on the way. Desrenaud fastened the rope to an iron ring on the parapet's ledge. "Well, I'm off."
"Good luck go with you," the wysard replied. But he had little hope.
"A favor I'd ask you, Ry," Desrenaud said as he pulled on his gloves.
Never before had the Northerner called the wysard by that name. "Ask whatever you will," Ryel replied, his heart crowded by emotion.
"Lend me your cloak awhile."
"You're cold?"
"My insides are. I could use a little of your magic, now. And besides, the hood will hide my face until I get to the M'Klaren's tent."
The wysard took off the cloak and handed it to Desrenaud, feeling suddenly stripped and bereft. "I won't rest easy until you're returned safe."
"My thanks. But I don't know when—or if—I'll get back. Whatever befalls, make sure that beast Meschante never gets near her."
Ryel understood. "He won't while I'm alive."
"Tell her…nothing. She need never know I was here. You understand me?"
"I understand."
"Good. Until our next, sorcerer." Another moment and Desrenaud had wound the rope around his body and pushed off the wall, rappelling with the smooth agility of a born mountaineer. Instantly he was swallowed up by the fog, and after a time Ryel turned and departed, as much in turmoil as if Desrenaud had fallen to his death.
*****
Retracing his steps through the stinking vandalization of a place once famed as the world's wonder, Ryel sought out the wreckage of the Garden of Dreams, running a sorrowing hand down the defaced marble of the gallery columns before climbing the broken stairway to the roof-garden. Once on the upper terrace he found the spot where he and Priamnor had spoken with Belphira that terrible night. Every ornament had been looted, and all else destroyed. Dropping to his knees amid the wreckage, the wysard pressed his cold palms to his face.
"You did this," he whispered, so full of fury that he sickened with it. "And when I find you..."
A voice that all but stopped his heart broke in, deep and resonant and mocking. "You've only to open your eyes, fool."
Michael Essern stood before him, not twenty feet away in a sudden clearing amid the mists—Michael tall and tattered in black robes and dirt, his once-shaven head now covered with crimson skeins that trailed down his scar-seamed back, his eyes scornful under the lowering dark brows, his body yet more truculently muscular through the rents of his rags.
Ryel leapt up, drawing his dagger. "You."
"I'm not armed, fool."
Past the cold pale gray of Michael's eyes Ryel loathingly discerned dirty mud-brown. "Show yourself in your true form, Meschante."
"I'll keep this guise. It suits me better." The fanatic gazed around him, and grinned. "Now this is a heaven indeed. A place free at last of any sin."
"You're a murdering swine, Meschante."
"My work was holy, Markulit. I've made Almancar clean—most of Almancar, I would say. Purified of its iniquitous debasements. Now we shall have no regiment of strumpets and catamites, but good order such as the Master wishes. Time now for the good folk of the Fourth District to assert their power, which as you see is strong if well directed. And not only have Almancar's whores met their judgment; my children have taken full vengeance upon the rich and titled who despised them. They have burnt the books they could not read, and sacked the mansions where they once toiled in ways no slave would tolerate, and wrecked the temples where their ignorance was abused."
"They had no right. They were never maltreated in any way."
"No? What was it, to have the Diamond Heaven's allurements and excesses waved in their faces? To be daily tortured with the sight of luxuries they could never possess? To see slaves and sluts prized and esteemed, whilst they themselves were scorned for their lowly service? Were they tame beasts, to be dumbly thankful for their water and straw, and never wish for more?"
"You know and I know that you care nothing for those people." It was much to endure, suffering the taunts of a monster veiled in the flesh of one so suddenly and surprisingly become a friend, and only too untimely lost. "Where is Dagar?"
Meschante struck his chest. "In here." He put his dirty hands to his head. "In here." He covered his eyes with his hands, and when he took them away again, those eyes were complete empty black, and he was laughing in a high thin sneer. "Meet your Master, young blood. I hold Almancar, and soon will have all the realm. And I'll have you, and your pretty little—"
With a shout Ryel hurled a spell at Dagar, Lord Garnos' spell that would exile the daimon forever to the Void. But his words fell on empty air. The Enemy had vanished like a thread of mist.
"Invisibility," Ryel murmured. "Great Mastery, or else a deceitful vision." But visions seldom or never smelled so much in need of a bath. Retrieving his weapon, the wysard made a last search round for his adversary. He found nothing; only sca
ttered bright plumes roughly wrenched from masks that had once veiled the costliest beauty, and crushed crystal splinters of goblets delicate as bubbles, and everywhere the dark stains of wine and blood.
"I missed my chance," the wysard whispered, despising himself. Nevertheless, he expected nothing Artwise untoward to occur until evening, when Dagar's powers would take their fullest strength from the darkness. Alone through the enveloping brume he returned to the palace complex even as he had come, his mind full of misgivings for Desrenaud and fear for those others he had come to love, so incalculably menaced now.
Within the Eastern Palace every denizen was awake and variously bewildered and dismayed by the mist that no window or door could keep out, however tightly shut. His tread soundless, Ryel passed from room to room. But as he rounded a corner he ran full force into a woman, or rather a girl. For a moment they stood embraced and breathless, she looking up into his face with startled adoration and surprise.
"Oh, Priam—I mean, most exalted—I never thought to..." her gaze grew searching, then widened into blue-centered circles. "Ryel?" She said his name in bewilderment at first, then all but shrieked it. "Ryel! Oh, my brother—" Before he could reply she threw her arms around his neck, hugging hard, but then in the same moment pushed out of his arms and struck his chest with a fist remarkably strong for its smallness. "So it's you, finally. You might have told me, brother."
"Told you what, Nel? I only just arrived."
She gave him a furious frown. "That's not what I meant, and well you know it." A gleam of suspicion came into her eyes. "Did you have anything to do with this fog?"
"Well, I…"
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