by Lyndon Hardy
As Duncan worked, the chamber rocked and rumbled with the attacks and parries that flew about the library below. Lectonil steadied himself in the stairwell and occasionally glanced down the spiral, frowning at the uncertainty of the outcome.
"And that is one," Duncan said explosively. As he spoke, he held out the uninscribed sphere triumphantly in his hand. The sphere was no longer opaque rock, but danced in a rainbow of refracted light that radiated through its interior. In the very center, Alodar saw a tiny and perfect human hand suspended.
"The shielding hand," Lectonil said, mounting again into the chamber. "Here, let me have it while you finish the other."
As Alodar saw Lectonil stretch his right hand forward, he sprang from the chamber wall and over the table into the magician's open arms. The force carried both to the floor. As they fell, Alodar grappled for the old man's hands to force them apart.
"Quickly, Duncan, quickly," he gasped. "Help me subdue him while I pin his arms. Then you can finish the other and we will be away before they return."
The floor rolled with another crash. Duncan hesitated and took one step around the periphery of the table, then paused. His face froze in renewed terror as he caught sight of the sand which yet remained to fall.
"Help me!" Alodar yelled. "There is no time to waste."
Duncan put his hand on the tabletop, but his eyes remained fixed on the falling sand. With a shudder, he suddenly turned and climbed up onto the windowsill from which Alodar had originally entered the room. In an instant he was gone, completed sphere in his pocket, climbing hand over hand down the face of the pyramid.
As Duncan fled, Alodar summoned new strength; with a powerful whirl, he spun Lectonil around striking his head with a crack against the floor. The magician remained silent, and Alodar scrambled to his feet.
He shielded his eyes from another flash and steadied himself from the rumble that followed. Almost half of the sand was gone.
There was still time to run. But if he did his entire quest would have been for nothing. He was no match for Duncan in rattling off the ritual by rote, but somehow he had to perform it on the second sphere.
He climbed back over the table and relit the incense; the ritual was begun. Alodar rang the triangle and this time it quieted at the proper time. Fumbling with his sketchy notes, he slowly began to lay out the twine on the table, covering and looping the strings in a way that would form a knot like a beehive. With the last tuck in place, he pulled the ends tight. The coils shrank into a lopsided triangle.
Steeling himself against the impulses that tried to make his hands shake, he undid the mess and again methodically went through the steps that formed the knot. He pulled the ends and the loops slid shut with beautiful symmetry. Encouraged, he began another and quickly laid a second by the first.
"The three knots define the plane in which the bees move to pollinate," he muttered to distract himself from his pounding heart as he began the third. "Three knots to form the plane to cleave the sphere." He stopped and hesitated. "Such a step makes sense for the first sphere, but what of the second with the fine line already dividing it in two?" Alodar frowned and concentrated on the lore which he had studied the past month. With the line already breaking the symmetry, the three points were redundant; they would lie in the plane already formed. He could proceed as before and the result would still be the immovable hand.
Alodar stopped completely and glanced up at the glass. If he continued, there was probably still enough time to complete the ritual as Duncan had done. A shielding hand in a sphere of protection was a king's ransom indeed. But the second sphere was different and somehow the ritual should be different as well. Perhaps a power far greater would be his if he acted with decision. But his notes would not help. He would have to get the reference from the library floor.
Alodar gauged the sand remaining and jumped over the table ft third time. The floor shook and another scream exploded up from the doorway. Four minutes, he thought. If he could be back in four minutes, then he would still have a chance.
He grabbed the balustrades with both hands and bounded downward, six steps at a time. He closed his eyes to slits to block out the bursts of light and ignored the bells which immediately began to chime. Against the brightness, he could just barely see the black robes dancing to and fro among the benches to dodge and launch their magical blows.
In one corner he saw gloves like Lectonil's clap together and a yellow bolt arch out to shatter soundlessly against some invisible barrier in the way. Beyond the transparent wall, two magicians huddled, rapidly working their craft. Elsewhere the black forms grappled arm to arm, ladders of energy streaking outward from the ring of one to strike the gemstone of another, fining the air with a sharp pungency from the discharge.
Alodar reached the floor without a challenge and quickly ran for the tier that contained the reference he needed.
"The neophyte," someone yelled behind him. He dove forward and rolled as the yellow flash lashed out over his head and hit the tier in front, ripping scrolls apart and sending small scraps fluttering to the floor. Alodar crawled to his left and overturned a table as a second bolt followed the first, crashing into the protesting beams he flung in the way. A moment passed and no third shaft came. Inching up on his knees, he saw his attackers facing another direction and warding off the thrust of a dagger which seemed to dart through the air of its own volition.
Alodar scrambled back to the tier and with both arms spread the jumble of manuscripts. His hand closed on a familiar form; and with a feeling of sudden triumph, he grasped the other handle of the scroll he sought.
He bounded to his feet and ran back to the staircase, ducking and dodging the blasts of magic power that came his way. He thrust the scroll into his belt and started up the incline, both hands pulling him forward. He circled around a third of the distance, not pausing to look back but thinking only of the sand that remained in the glass. Suddenly he tripped and lurched forward, shins banging against the steps ahead. He wriggled his feet frantically, but they remained steadfast to the step on which he had just landed.
"The all-holding glue of Deckadin," he heard above him and looked up to see Fulmbar slowly descending in his direction. "It is well I decided to take a vantage point up here," the magician said, "although I did not suspect to have my trap sprung so quickly."
The room rocked with another rumble and the stairs groaned in protest. Alodar's legs wrenched violently with the wave of power but he remained firmly rooted still.
"The sphere!" he yelled. "Release me so that I can finish the ritual, or we are all lost."
"I am a master magician, neophyte," Fulmbar snapped back. "I will not be guiled by a trick so transparent. Lectonil has the matter well in hand, else I would see him bolt down these stairs to signal us to safety. You will hold your position until I summon aid."
Before Alodar could speak again, Fulmbar's eyes suddenly widened and he threw his hands upwards. Alodar instinctively ducked and felt cold metal fly by and brush over his back. He looked forward to see Fulmbar suddenly enmeshed in a net of fine silver wire that clung to him tightly and pulled him down.
"The net of the perfect catch," Fulmbar shrieked as he tore at the mesh, while it propelled him stumbling down the stairwell. The magician lurched against Alodar and dug a hand into his arm as he stumbled past. Alodar was twisted around by the grip, and then pulled backward onto the hard steps as his feet remained firmly locked into place. Fulmbar continued down the stairs and Alodar felt nails cut deep as the grip slipped up his arm. Using his free hand, Alodar tore at the fingers which held him, grasping at a beaded bracelet around the magician's wrist. With a final scream, Fulmbar relinquished his hold and fell with a rush, bounding headfirst on each step as he went. The bracelet snapped in Alodar's fingers; simultaneously his boots popped free.
Another bolt of yellow sizzled up after Alodar as he rose to climb, but he paid it no heed. The building shook with the biggest explosion yet, and he saw a gaping hole torn in the
north wall, creating a shower of brick and gleaming red stones.
His lungs heaving, Alodar reached the apex and closed and locked the heavy door in the floor. He looked quickly at the remaining sphere which now glowed red hot with a line of fiery yellow around it
He unrolled the scroll and began to scan rapidly down the contents. The entire ritual fitted into a fifth-order magic square, and the tying of knots occupied the center cell. Replacing the three knots by two changed the value from five to nineteen and the square no longer balanced its sums.
Alodar hurried over the bulk of the text which dealt with the shielding hand and its variations. Near the end of the roll he found what he wanted, a footnote on transforming the squares so that they became panmagic, summing the same on all diagonals as well as by row and column. Quickly he worked the equations to produce the four non-equivalent variations. The third was the one he sought; the first two elements were the same as the ritual he had started, but the rest were permuted and the central value was nineteen.
Alodar drew a deep breath and plunged into the ritual. He poured a ring of fine powder around the box containing the sphere, lit it in a flash of smoke, and nodded with satisfaction as the globe began to spin. He clapped his hands together thrice, then slammed the lid of the box shut, wincing from the burn to his fingertips. "Another knot next," he growled and began weaving together four short pieces of colored twine.
The steps followed one another rapidly and Alodar lost track of the time in his concentration to perform each one with precision. He would have no chance to go back and try again if all was not done correctly. Finally he approached the end and beat out the syncopated rhythm that had been third in the standard ritual. He lifted the small flute to his lips and started the slow count to thirty that would signify completion.
Now with only one step remaining, Alodar's eyes darted to the glass, to see the last of the sand begin its fall to the lower chamber. He filled his lungs to blow before the final particles hit but checked himself with the knowledge that it would do no good. The blast of the pure note must come when it was needed, not before.
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he watched the trickle slow and a hole grow in the smooth surface and begin to widen to the edge of the glass. Five counts to go, and the sand continued its relentless fall.
Only a layer seemingly one gram thick coated the neck of the tube; then, with one coordinated wave, it rolled downward through the opening. Four counts remained?three?two. Alodar grimaced from the expected impact of the explosion to come. Then, as the final grains hit the mound beneath, he blew a piercing note that filled the small chamber with sound.
The echoes faded quickly, and Alodar's shoulders slumped with relief in the silence. The ritual was perfectly and precisely completed. The power had been released and transformed. It would now last forever. Alodar waited a minute more in the luxury of the quietness; then he thrust the orb into his pack and scrambled up onto the window ledge. Seeing the product of his labor must wait; escape from the warring factions of the Guild had to come first.
In an instant he was clambering down the wall and across the esplanade, dodging between the initiates and acolytes who stood gaping at the pyramid as it roared and shook from the battle inside. Shortly thereafter, beyond the bounds of the Guild, Alodar looked backward through the protective distortion in the morning sunlight. Even through the shimmering, he could see a huge towering plume of flame where the library had once stood.
On the trail northward beyond the village, Alodar turned from the path and paused to catch his breath. He squinted back the way he had come but saw no dustcloud of pursuit. He reached in his pack for the sphere, now quite cold, and brought it to eye level. The opaque darkness was gone; in its place gleamed a sparkling transparency. But unlike the one Duncan had taken, the center of this sphere held a single eye, lidded closed. It was tiny, like the shielding hand, delicately sculptured with fine detail. Small wrinkles wove across the lid and minute spike-like hairs curled in a precise line along the bottom edge.
Alodar blinked in surprise and quickly spun the sphere around, looking for one of the magical symbols he had expected to see. He shook the orb violently, as if to rearrange the contents, but the closed eye did not change.
Duncan had escaped with a hand of protection, and what king would not give a treasure to be safe from any mortal blow? At the very least, Alodar had expected a magical object of equal value. But all he had to show for outwitting the safeguards of the Guild was yet another mystery. He was no nearer his rightful heritage or his true place in life than the day before the gates of Iron Fist slammed shut. In bitter disappointment, he thrust the sphere back into his pack and scowled at the ground.
He rested for a few minutes in silence, and then sat erect and looked up the trail. It would return him to Ambrosia. But what did he have to show the queen to turn her head from the others? A mere bauble that could have been fashioned by a jeweler. The eye did not even provide an imitation of magic. Nothing of what he had read in the library told of magical eyes, either closed or staring full open. Such a logo would be more appropriate to charm of the sorcerer than the impersonal ritual of the magician.
Alodar blinked at what he had just thought. He stopped and withdrew the sphere a second time from his pack. He brought it to eye level and stared, frowning into its interior. Surprised at what impulse directed his actions, he sat unmoving, concentrating on the tiny eye. For several minutes nothing happened; then he felt the weak tendrils of strange shadows rising from the depths of his mind.
His eyes blurred out of focus, and a hazy image formed in his thoughts. As if stroked by a gentle feather, fleeting snatches of a distant scene were pushed into place, and he saw a barren landscape, dominated by a single thrusting crag. Stunted and gnarled shrubs fought a strong wind to retain their meager leaves, and the sun hung low in the sky. Alodar felt himself drawn inside the huge monolith, into a tomblike cavern carved from the solid rock. In the very center was a coffin sealed with a thick glass lid.
The landscape was the same as that in the vision when he passed through the curtain. He gasped as the shock of recognition dissolved the scene, like a stone thrown into a reflecting pond. He looked quickly about and saw only the empty trail and the hills which contained the magicians' Guild.
Alodar struggled for several minutes more, but the feeling did not return. He lowered the sphere to his side and focused on the horizon. "Sorcery," he mused, "sorcery. Of the five arts it is the one concerned with expanding the limits of the mind to see in time and space. And what I just experienced can be related to nothing else."
He savored the sensations of the sphere while they were still fresh and then sprang to his feet. The disappointment of only a few moments before washed away in a wave of new enthusiasm. Well, why not? With only a piece of parchment he had plunged into alchemy; with two hunks of rock, he had braved the magicians' Guild. Perhaps in sorcery and with the eye, he would finally find what he sought. The quest would go on.
PART FOUR
The Sorcerer
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Illusions of the Court
"HERE, take the bauble back," Cedric rasped as he tossed the ruby in Alodar's direction. "You cannot clear your conscience with a bribe, nor will I accept it in lieu of your toil. When we left Dartilac's more than a season ago, I instructed you to be here in my courtyard the morning after. Instead some thaumaturge appeared nearly a week later with the stone offered as an apology."
"Periac," Alodar said as he glanced around the familiar vine-covered walls of Cedric's field of instruction. Like a warrior being reviewed, he stood before the warmaster while Cedric paced back and forth. "I must seek him out as well when we are finished. Does he still room at the inn where I saw him last?"
"I have not kept a record of your appointments." Cedric frowned at the interruption. "But for a fact, he is in Ambrosia no longer. Two days ago he saw me again, asking if I had news of you. Then he departed for the north. 'The milk has soured,'
he said. 'The people in the capital have become panicked into hoarding their gold, rather than spending it on the likes of my craft.' Panicked indeed! The city is like a bubble of marsh gas, awaiting a spark. Vendora holds a royal ball tonight to foster the image of nonchalance. And her visit to Arcadia is broadcast to be only a formality of state, but everyone knows she sails tomorrow in desperate search for aid."
"Tomorrow," Alodar said. "But why must she go at all? And what of her court? Does sorcerer Kelric follow her as well?"
"It is as she feared," Cedric answered. "The kingdoms to the south have ceased their bickering long enough to coalesce their armies into one. This morning they have crossed the border, so the sorcerers say; nothing stands between them and Ambrosia. And no mere ambassador can she send across the sea to plead her cause. King Elsinor remembers all too well how he personally had to beg on bended knee for aid in suppressing a rebellion of his own. He expects the fair lady and no one less to argue for the return of the favor. As for Kelric, I imagine he sails with the rest. The barge is big enough for half her household, although not as seaworthy as many a smaller craft."
"Then I must seek him quickly," Alodar said, "before it is too late."
Cedric stopped and looked up and down Alodar's rough clothing, wrinkled and duly after his journey from the south. "With your appearance and unpolished manner, you will fare no better than I," he said. "It is time for a man to be measured by what he can do, but they cling still to the trappings of blind tradition."
Alodar opened his mouth to reply but Cedric cut him short. "Too old," he spat "They said I was too old for command. Why even now, I am worth three of their young sons, wet-eared boys who have been no more than nicked by cold steel." He crashed his fist into an open palm. "It was not my age, but that I still refuse to play by their rules. What difference does it make if it is Feston or Basil that I would follow, so long as my sword swings swift and true? But since I would not declare, neither side will have me. And so one less arm is raised in Procolon's cause."
