The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  Unless she is directly involved.

  That thought leads her to speak the incant that reveals a door of stone in the far wall, hidden behind a crimson and yellow tapestry. Years ago, that small illusionary incant would have required but a trickle of her spirit energy, but today, as with every other simple incant, it demands more of her. Not a lot, but enough to be noticeable.

  She doesn’t turn at the grating of stone or at the soft steps that approach her from behind. Instead, she waits until the purple-robed figure circles around and stops before her, just this side of one of the Council member’s tables, a bloom of color in his hands.

  “Magister Urdran,” Alsyn greets him.

  Urdran bows, his unruly brown curls flowing with the movement. “Head Magistrate. How went the assembly?”

  She sighs in response, and Urdran’s dark eyes flick to her fingers, which are still twisting her hair. He chuckles at the tell-tale nervous habit.

  “That bad, eh?”

  Alsyn realizes what she’s doing and forces her hands into her lap. “They don’t fully understand the implications, Urdran. If the strain remains, if it worsens and magic fails completely, we all lose our power. And I am not willing to give it up. I have worked too hard, too long to be where I am today.”

  “Of course, Alsyn. I, of all people, understand.”

  “You always have.”

  Urdran beams up at her, his ageless features handsomely chiseled and only a little unsettling. She’s unaware of his true age, but knows he is much older than her own forty-three years. Possibly by decades.

  “Did you perchance bring up any of my suggestions?” he asks.

  “I did.”

  “And did they take to any?”

  Alsyn grimaces. “Take to? No. In the end, the only concession I won was that they would continue accepting less students to begin training as mages.”

  Urdran bows slightly. “That is the most important issue that presses us. I see that as no small victory on your part.”

  She waves a dismissive hand, but does offer a small smile in response to Urdran’s praise.

  “If what we believe to be happening with magic is true,” Urdran says, “that this is a localized problem, then decreasing the number of magicians should relieve the stress on available magic in Wrought Isles.”

  Alsyn nods at that. She’s reached out to other cities. None have reported anything about magic failing. Not even a hint that something is wrong with magic elsewhere in the world.

  “If anything,” she says, “at least it will limit the amount of people who realize what is happening.”

  “Which was my primary goal with that suggestion. Until we find out why magic is losing its potency, determine why such an infinite resource seems to be growing finite, we must limit the number of people utilizing magic. A few people asking questions can be silenced. An entire class of people would be problematic.”

  “And if that’s not enough?” she asks, more to herself than to Urdran. She clenches her fists, gathers her thoughts, then speaks directly to him. “What of our other option?” she asks, hoping the reports delivered to her this morning were false.

  Urdran takes a moment to answer. “Anderest Herchsten is dead.”

  “So, it’s true?” She purses her lips to keep from cursing. Herchsten was the one true lead to solving the problem of the weakening magic. It was he whom Alsyn had gone to when the problem first manifested earlier this year. “That is a pity. His work for us could have changed the tide. How did he die?”

  “In pain,” Urdran says, sounding a touch disappointed.

  “Arcane magic?” she asks, almost rhetorically. Urdran is the unknown, unofficial ninth Magister of Wrought Isles, representing the fifth magical talent. The unholy arcane.

  Urdran inclines his head.

  She knows better than to ask details. “We should have pressed him harder. He was on the verge of creating a solution. And now that he’s gone,” she takes a breath, unwilling to let herself be stymied by that detail. “What of his work?”

  “It will be gathered. There are a few items in question, but of course, there is the one in particular.”

  At that, Alsyn perks up. “He succeeded, then?”

  Urdran spreads his arms, his hands—empty now, she notices—slipping out from the voluminous sleeves of his robes. “There are only rumors.”

  “Is that why he was killed? Did someone find out about it?”

  When Alsyn first approached Herchsten and set him on finding either a reason or a solution to what is happening with magic, she took great pains in ensuring his work be kept secret. She told him it was for the good of the city, but truth is she feared the knowledge of his progress falling into someone else’s hands. Any number of factions in Wrought Isles would kill for his work on this particular project. To have a crystal with unlimited and infallible storage, a practically infinite source of magic, while the rest of the city dealt with the increasing strain, would be the key to holding power. Wars had started over far less.

  “Again, only rumors,” the dark mage says.

  “We must have it, Urdran. We must take an active role in securing it for our own, to keep us in power. If we don’t secure it first, the city will tear itself apart fighting for it. Power like that can’t be left dangling before the common folk.”

  “I will need help.” Urdran, wise and powerful, is never one to shy from asking for assistance when he needs it. In any other man, it might be seen as a sign of weakness. In Urdran, it is a testament to his character.

  “It will be done.”

  “Thank you, Alsyn. Now, with your permission?”

  “Of course. You may go. And Urdran?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for efforts. I know it goes unrewarded in the public eye—”

  “Serving you is reward aplenty,” Urdran assures her, bowing at the waist. He turns with a flourish of his robes before leaving the way he’d come, this time empty handed.

  A flash of color catches her eye. Urdran left three flowers on the table by which he had stood. Curious, as the man does nothing without purpose, Alsyn stands and makes her way down to the present he’d left for her. She stops at the table and examines the flowers. Long yellow stamens thrust forth from vibrant orange petals, the insides stained deep-purple. She cocks her head and, as recognition floods her, recoils quickly.

  Heaven’s Bane, a rare flower, devastating to the health of a mage, as it can render them powerless. Even in non-magical beings, it can cause anything from a simple nosebleed to seizures to paralysis. She’d believed the plant had been eradicated from the land.

  Where had Urdran gotten these from? And why did he leave them here for her?

  Not in warning, she knows. Urdran would never threaten her. He doesn’t wish to sit at the Head Magistrate’s chair, as it would expose him to the city and reveal his secret ties to the Arcanium, the Aristocracy’s age-old enemy. Nor does he wish her deposed and replaced by someone less … impartial to the dark arts.

  No, this was for reasons she did not yet grasp.

  After a few heartbeats of eyeing the cursed flowers, she draws from her power and sets them ablaze with a single, precise incant. They go up in a flash, burning orange then red, then dying to a flickering blue, leaving only ash in their wake, which she scatters with another base wind incant. Again, the magic required more than should have been necessary. If she was unaware of the situation, she may have discounted the extra effort to her being tired, or a random quirk. But, knowing the truth, there was no denying the facts.

  She has much to think on.

  It truly is a pity the old man died before finishing his work. Curse the bastard who murdered him, who killed the best chance for her and the Magician’s Aristocracy to make it through these tumultuous times.

  Curse the bastard who may have just sent Wrought Isles into a dangerous race for power, and woe be to person who stands in Alsyn Offren’s way of retrieving Herchsten’s legacy.

  4

&n
bsp; THE FIRST FUNERAL FLOWERS

  The Folded Hills. Where the well-to-do dwell in estates larger than an elf’s ego. I look up at the imposing sight, to the buildings of marble and stone and glass, glittering audaciously in the late morning sun. Hells, even the broad leaves of the trees catch the light and dance in the wind, reveling in a life to which most of us peons could only aspire.

  What would have taken half an hour to reach on horseback or coach—fifteen by a mageworks turbine coach—took me a good two hours on my own two hooves. I could have shaved a third of my walking time but, things being the way they are, I had to go the roundabout way to avoid certain neighborhoods and districts. Even in a big city like this, I still have to keep my head down. I’ve stepped on too many toes, friends and enemies alike, ever since I left the Watch to venture out on my own.

  With my hands in my coat pockets, I begin my trudging trek up the hill. Thankfully, I don’t have to walk the entire length of the main road as Anderest Herchsten’s estate is nicely tucked into a depression between two rises, one of the namesake folds of this large northwestern section of the city. I cut through rows of unnaturally even hedges, munching on an apple I snagged from a private orchard, and toss the core aside when I make the southern outskirts of Anderest’s estate, which is defined by a wall of fitted stone low enough to barely challenge even the shortest of dwarfs.

  I stop just a few paces away from the deceptively meager-looking barrier and the apple in my stomach churns to a sour sauce. For any normal person, this wall wouldn’t present much of a problem. But, I’m not exactly normal, and neither is the wall. It’s warded with spirit magic designed to keep arcane mages and evil creatures at bay. Thanks to my father, I’ve got just enough arcane magic in my blood to tip the scales against my favor.

  It’s either this or I walk around to the main entrance, where the Watch will have set at least two men on guard to keep uninvited guests out as they attempt to determine the cause of Anderest’s death. With a deep breath, I step toward the wall.

  It’s the anticipation that burns the most. Just as I get close enough to spit on the stones, a persistent tingle catches hold of my fingers and toes, growing into a painful vibration that settles in my teeth. Bracing myself for the worst of it, I push forward and step over the stones, feeling as though my very blood is boiling in my veins as the magic of the ward tries to lay me low. I make it over, my jaw sore and my forehead drenched in sweat, and stumble forward to my knees. I crawl a few more paces away from the wall, until I’m fully out of its range of influence.

  Gathering my breath, not to mention my dignity, I regain my feet and gesture crudely back at the wall. In my prime I used to just jump that wall, allowing the wards set in the stones only a few seconds to inflict burning torture upon my body. Now I guess it’s more of a trial, a ritual for me. It reminds me that that part of me inherited from my father is something that can be managed, even when set against magic meant to keep those of the arcane influence at bay.

  It reminds me of Anderest and what instilled in me.

  I brush myself clean and gather my thoughts. Thank the gods above I’m only relegated to feeling half the strength of the ward. A shudder passes through me as I imagine someone like Durmet going up against that unseen barrier. A fully arcane creature like him would probably die from the ensorcelled pain.

  Looking ahead, I pick my way through bush and tree, to come up to the servant’s walkway. Here, a two-stall stable and covered outbuilding squat at the juncture of an incoming dirt road and a paved path leading to the rear of the huge manor. With the master no longer in need of his servants, the outpost is empty, quiet. Time was when this was a gathering spot for the servant’s children, the perfect hiding place to take kiddie-sips of filched grown-up drinks.

  I find myself smiling as I walk by, running my hand along the worn, smooth wooden hitching posts, jingling the polished brass rings dangling from the wood.

  “Gideon Knell.” The harsh, demanding whisper knocks the smile from my lips. I didn’t think the Watch would have people out back. But, to put sugar on rotted fruit, at least this particular watchman isn’t the worst of the lot.

  Nor is she a man.

  Juniper Leesh steps out from the other side of the stable, no doubt where she’d been lounging in the shade. Juniper’s blessed with the shapely body of an elven goddess but cursed with the face of an ogrish deity. I stand stock still as she looks me up and down with her dark, beady eyes. Her thin lips part in confusion and the wind plays at stray strands of her auburn hair.

  “Good to see you, June,” I say.

  She crosses her arms at her chest. “What are you doing here, Knell?”

  So much for formalities.

  “Anderest’s granddaughter hired me on.”

  It takes a moment for her to respond, and when she does it’s with, “This is Watch business.” She’s not rude by any means, but her tone holds a certain bite.

  Still angry at me for leaving the Watch, for leaving her. So I spit out something from my stint in the Watch, some statute that I know for a fact to be relevant in this case.

  “I’m acting on behalf of the deceased’s closest kin, and in doing so, I am in complete accordance with the law.”

  Her hands drop, and she glances back toward the house. “Captain Standard finds out you’re here and you’ll be twice as old when you see the sun again.”

  I put on a face of compliance and say, “I’ll just be but a moment, June. Trip doesn’t have to learn of my visit. Not yet.”

  With a hand on her shapely hip and a condescending tilt of her too-thin lips, she says, “And you think I won’t say a word? That’s brazen, even for you, Knell.”

  “For old time’s sake,” I try.

  When that wide nose of hers twitches, I know I’ve won her over. She curses under her breath then closes the distance to embrace me firmly. I return the favor, my mind traveling back to when we used to patrol—among other things—together. Juniper Leesh may not be blessed with a face to send men to war, but she’s got something much more in her that would send me on a one-way vacation to the Ninth Hell just to make her smile.

  I ease her away with my hands on her shoulders. Even through the rough fabric of her uniform, I can make out the definition of her muscles, the resting tension.

  “Really, just in and out, June,” I say.

  She looks up at me and warns, “We’ve got a near-dozen men here, Knell. They’re questioning the servants and live-ins. For some reason, Captain is taking this seriously.”

  I look past her to the rear of the manor, which is all porches and porticos, potted plants and clinging vines. “Are they in Anderest’s room?”

  “Not at the moment. They’ve got most of them in the side parlor, using the other rooms to keep them isolated ’til they speak with them all.”

  Going back to her, I ask, “Likeliness of one of them being the killer?”

  She arches a bushy brow at that, likely curious as to how I came to believe it was a murder.

  “I told you, the granddaughter came to me last night. She told me she was the one who found … the body. Said he was murdered.”

  Juniper relaxes and gives a slight shake of her head. “We don’t know for sure it’s unnatural.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  She shrugs. “I was one of the first to go up and secure the room.”

  “And your gut?”

  After chewing on her lower lip, she perks up. “My gut says something’s not right.”

  She’s always had a sharp mind.

  “Then let me on up. I can verify your gut.”

  “You can’t get in, Knell. Like I said, watchmen are covering the entrance.”

  “Who says I’ll be taking the entrance?” I say through a cheeky grin.

  “You know of another way to get three stories up without drawing an eye?”

  “After all these years, you still doubt my talents?”

  Now she grins. “Some of your talents I never doubted
.”

  I cough and turn away to hide the blood rushing to my face, but Juniper laughs all the same. I turn back and she’s looking at me expectantly.

  “I know of a way in,” I tell her. “And it doesn’t involve stepping foot anywhere near the entrance.”

  Some internal debate keeps her tongue in momentary stasis. Finally, she relents and steps back from me. “If you get caught, I’ll make a grand show of locking the shackles on you. I can’t be seen going easy on you.”

  “Never wanted you to go easy on me,” I say with a leer, then get a fist to my stomach for the trouble. That lone apple in there is getting punished this day.

  “Go,” she says with a flick of her head toward the house. “I won’t be out here when you leave.”

  I press my lips to her forehead then make my way to the back of the manor, where two columns rise just close enough to the rough stone of the house for me to do my best imitation of a starved monkey going for the topmost bunch of bananas. Like a good many other things, this used to be easier in my younger years, and I slip more than once as I hug the column tight and wedge myself up inch by laborious inch.

  A few minutes later, out of breath and with two separate tears in my trousers, I step lightly through the window of an unused bedroom, then close it behind me. A double-wide bed draped in floral curtains dominates one side of the room while free-standing closets big enough for my office to get lost in dominate the other. A plush center rug muffles my steps as I head for the door and crack it open a finger’s width.

  Voices, indistinct and leagues away downstairs, are all I can make out. Just to be sure, I stay hunched there, peering through the crack into the wide hallway, waiting, listening.

  Satisfied, I step out and wind my way past oak doors and through halls replete with paintings and art-laden niches. Still no sign of the Watch as I push through the double doors leading to Anderest’s personal room. As I close them behind me, my foot squelches on the small entrance rug. A vase full of flowers on the table nearest the door has been knocked over and water has dribbled over the edge. The flowers are vibrant and appear freshly cut but when I take a deep inhalation, I swear all I can smell is death. It batters my senses as I take in the rest of the room, purposefully avoiding the bed in the center.