The Golden Griffin (Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  Chantmer eyed the empty bed of nails. He stripped to his loin cloth and tentatively stepped onto it. Pain shot through his foot, and he withdrew.

  “Spread your weight or you’ll drive a nail through your sole,” Roghan urged. “Sit down first and slide your body onto it.” He slid from the board in a single, fluid motion, then helped support Chantmer’s weight while the wizard positioned himself. When Chantmer was seated, Roghan returned to his own board. The tattooists started in again.

  Nails stabbed all along Chantmer’s legs and buttocks. He forced himself to remain calm and condemned the pain to a back corner.

  “Where do you store the magic until you need it? In the tattoo?”

  “In the skin itself. The ink of the tattoos weaves across my body, and I imbue it with my life force. When I’m fully empowered, an enemy cannot touch me without a killing jolt, and no man can poison me. This rune,” he said, pointing to a mark on the left breast, “will draw the poison to the skin and bleed it from my pores.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Tell me, wizard,” Roghan said. “How many years weigh on your shoulders?”

  “Two hundred and eighty-three. And you?” It was a question that had drawn Chantmer’s curiosity since they’d met in the Estmor swamps.

  “Somewhere between two hundred and sixty and two hundred and seventy. I don’t know the exact year, but I was born during the Great Drought.”

  “I was a child during the drought.”

  “After my parents died in the famine, Elvelom brought me to Marrabat to train.”

  “Elvelom the Wise?” Chantmer ignored the stares of the younger mages. “He survived the wars? I thought the entire council was destroyed.”

  Elvelom had been one of the five members of the Blood Council during the first Tothian Wars, second only to Memnet the Great.

  “Elvelom survived. He called himself Sendarpho when I knew him. I only learned his identity later.”

  “I have heard of Sendarpho. A powerful wizard. He disappeared about eighty years ago, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right. They say he entered the Wylde to hunt for Toth’s wight.”

  Chantmer scarcely felt the nails against his flesh anymore. “A dangerous pursuit, chasing after dead souls. A task better left to the Harvester.”

  “This from a man whose body was found rotting at the bottom of an Estmor swamp.”

  Chantmer ignored the barb. “Necromancy destroyed Cragyn. It will destroy you, too, if you’re not cautious.” He considered. “You’re sure this Sendarpho was the same as Elvelom the Wise? That he somehow survived a century of war and famine in the wake of the Tothian Wars?”

  “I’m certain. It isn’t unprecedented. There are several others who did the same. Narud and Markal of your order, of course, plus two others who took refuge in the Cloud Kingdoms.”

  “Yes, but those others were young when Syrmarria fell. Narud was a child, apprenticed less than a year when a ravager killed Memnet the Great. Markal wasn’t much older than that freed slave he has taken as an apprentice.”

  “Then there is Toth himself,” Roghan said.

  “He didn’t survive, he was killed. If not for Cragyn, he’d still be dead.”

  “Even so.”

  “My point is that magic was almost lost,” Chantmer said. “A hundred years passed between the end of the wars and the rise of the next orders of wizards. Narud and Markal taught themselves. Then they trained Nathaliey Liltige and me. You must have been training at roughly the same time.”

  And that raised suspicions of Roghan’s claim to have trained under Elvelom the Wise. More likely this Sendarpho had been another child at the time Memnet and Elvelom fell, which would explain the passage of another century before he’d come into his powers sufficient to take on students.

  Chantmer looked around the room. “So many apprentices—how do you manage them all?”

  “Don’t be nervous—I trust them. We may speak freely.”

  “I wasn’t nervous, but now that you raise it, how can you be sure?”

  “I’ve seen so many sultans come through Marrabat that I’ve lost count. I have suffered the misguided, the good, the weak, and the truly evil.”

  “And what about Mufashe? Which kind is he?”

  “He’s a glutton for food and girls,” Roghan said. “Other than that, his taxes are high but not stifling, his soldiers ruthless but not cruel. But even the best of sultans lack a quality possessed by you and me.”

  “The same could be said for our kings, as well. Or the khalifs. They live for the moment. Do they understand the consequences for the ages? If they do, they don’t care.”

  “But what about your Citadel? Didn’t King Steven build it to last a thousand years? That’s what they boast, anyway.”

  “It was built for a thousand years because we insisted,” Chantmer said. “Men and women of power formed the Brotherhood to stand by the Order’s side. It had nothing to do with King Steven.”

  “Ah, but he wished the Citadel to be completed within his lifetime, did he not?”

  “That is true,” Chantmer agreed.

  “Any goal, whether it is mine, yours, or Sultan Mufashe’s, only compels when one can see the idea brought to fruition.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “The difference is, wizards live for generations. We straddle the centuries. We can enact change that will sweep across the face of Mithyl.”

  “Those who are farsighted enough to envision such things, yes,” Chantmer said.

  “Alas, the wizards of Elvelom’s generation, including Markal and Narud, are obsessed with the Tothian War and its aftermath. It is only our generation and our apprentices who look to the coming centuries. Who can shape the world to our own purposes. Forget this obsession with the dark wizard.”

  “You consider the dark wizard a trifle?” Chantmer said. “If we ignore him, will he simply go away?”

  “Of course not,” Roghan said, “but Toth is only one wizard, no matter how powerful. And even Toth has the vision of the ages. Take the Tothian Way itself, for example. If he had not built the Way, the cities would never have been rebuilt, and the people would still speak hundreds of mutually unintelligible languages. When he learns of my purpose, he’ll turn from his destructive ways and join us.”

  What a strange concept this mage held, that the dark wizard could be reasoned with. It wasn’t so different from Narud’s foolish request that Chantmer submit to penance at the hands of the Order.

  “And what is this purpose of yours?”

  “No less than to bring Mithyl under complete control of its rightful owners.”

  “You mean wizards?”

  “Wizards. Mages. The torturers guilds of the khalifates. All manner of conjurers. Those with power and the wisdom and foresight to wield it.”

  “Why do we own Mithyl any more than anyone else?” Chantmer asked. “Millions earn their living from the land in one fashion or another. The Martyr taught that every man owns the world and every man owes the world a debt for his existence.”

  Roghan smiled. “Come, Chantmer. Surely you are not so naïve as that.”

  “Convince me.”

  “Who owns the pasture? Is it the sheep who graze on its bounty, or the shepherd who tends them?”

  “The shepherd,” Chantmer conceded.

  “A man’s sheep produce wool, give lambs, and when they are aged, become mutton to feed the shepherd and his family. Long after the sheep are gone, the shepherd will tend new flocks, or perhaps even turn his lands to wheat or timber. Have we not the same right?”

  “So we are shepherds, and the common people are sheep?”

  “Our lives are longer and our knowledge deeper. The ordinary man is less than a sheep to us, his kings little more than dogs who guard our flocks.”

  “We’re not even in harmony amongst ourselves,” Chantmer said. “We have different beliefs and codes of honor. Some are evil, some foolish. Some withdraw to the Cloud Kingdoms, some fight for the dark wizar
d. How will we agree on anything, let alone a law to rule all people and all lands?”

  “Have you ever noticed that all wizards originate from the same region of Mithyl?”

  “What do you mean?” Chantmer asked, somewhat disingenuously. He knew what Roghan was driving at. “Look around you. Some of your acolytes are dark skinned. A few are almost black. Others are fair, as if from Eriscoba.”

  “Yes, but there’s something different about them, isn’t there? They resemble each other as much as they resemble the people from which they come. We originate—each of us—from the same narrow strip of land between Balsalom and the Dragon’s Spine. A land now become wasteland.”

  “Magic is not a birthright. It chooses a man or woman to serve it. A gift of the Brothers.”

  “That coincidentally falls upon the children of Aristonia and the sons and daughters of Syrmarria.” Roghan smiled. “I’ve read your writings. You know this already.”

  “There does seem to be a concentration of wizardry originating in one part of Mithyl,” Chantmer admitted.

  “And your conjecture as to the reason?”

  Chantmer sighed. His guess would validate Roghan’s assertion. “The greatest concentration of these wizards once lived in Aristonia, but they weren’t Aristonians. They were the original people of that land. Magic flowed in their veins, and they called it naturally from the earth.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They mingled with other nations until they disappeared. But rarely, the blood of these people flows true, and if the magic is awakened, he becomes a wizard.” Chantmer shrugged. “Now, sometimes these wizards can be found on either side of the mountains, or south, across the desert. But this is not unexpected. The Tothian Wars scattered the Aristonian survivors across Mithyl.”

  “So you see,” Roghan said. “Magic is our heritage. To rule is our birthright. Not taken by us, but a gift from the gods.”

  Chantmer looked around the room. The sheer number of apprentices amazed him. And all of them in concentration, their breathing steadied and in harmony with their companions.

  “I asked before, and you didn’t answer,” Chantmer said. “How do you train so many?”

  “Poorly, that’s how I do it. My time is stretched. That’s one reason why I called you back. I need your help.”

  “One reason?” Chantmer asked. “What are the others?”

  “I’ve read your writings and guessed that you would agree with my purpose. The misguided Order of the Thorne cast you from their number. Now you shall join me.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I need your knowledge. We are poor in books and scrolls. The people of the sultanates are not great scholars. I’d hoped you could expand our magical knowledge.”

  “What you need are books to copy and read, not merely my wisdom. Although my knowledge is great,” Chantmer added.

  “Hence, Balsalom.”

  “Ah. Kallia Saffa. The daughter of the khalif. So this is why your sultan extends his reach north. It wasn’t his idea, it was yours.”

  “He is an avaricious man,” Roghan said. “It took only a suggestion.”

  Before the Tothian Wars, there had been two great libraries in Mithyl. The first was in Veyre where Toth studied, but it burned after Toth’s death, when his fire salamanders savaged the city. The second was in Aristonia—now the wasteland of the Desolation of Toth. The kingdom had suffered annihilation, but a handful of wise men and women had fled west with the bulk of the tomes and scrolls. The surviving volumes had scattered across the land, but the biggest portion had arrived in Balsalom, built upon the ruins of Syrmarria.

  There was, however, a greater power than all the other books combined: the five volumes of the Oracular Tomes. At least one of these books survived. Chantmer had held the miraculous work in his hands a few months earlier. But he didn’t know how much Roghan knew of the Tome of Prophesy, and he didn’t want to reveal its existence and location until he was sure he could not retrieve it by his own actions.

  Roghan rose to his feet. “The sultan demanded my presence an hour ago. I keep him waiting sometimes. It reminds him that I am not a slave to be summoned at whim. Come with me, friend. I will show you the limit of my own strength.”

  #

  Sultan Mufashe tried to conceal his anger, but Chantmer could see it in the hard line of his mouth and the tension in his shoulders. “At last, my mages make a belated appearance.”

  Half a dozen bodyguards stood around the sultan, and young women lounged on the pillows and rugs surrounding his throne. Most of them had drunk too much wine and taken too many pulls of the hookah. One woman giggled and batted her eyes at the two wizards.

  The sultan’s throne chamber was small, with clusters of fluted pillars and arches that lent intimacy to the room. Gold calligraphy laced the walls, together with brightly painted flowers and geometric designs in relief. The pillows on the floor were fine silk with jeweled tassels. The young women dressed in diaphanous silk paijams and wore jewels in their hair, adding to the ornamentation.

  The only incongruity was a flat metal disc that lay on the floor in the middle of the room. Its surface was hammered lead or pewter, and it gave off a dull sheen.

  Chantmer stood near the doorway. To his annoyance, Faalam had rejoined him the moment he’d left the training room with Roghan, even though the two wizards had departed through a side door that led into the dressing chambers where Roghan had left his robe.

  Mufashe waved for the women to leave. When one hesitated over her wine, he picked up a braided whip and lashed her over the shoulders. She let out a cry of protest—the blow hadn’t been hard enough to inflict pain—and followed the others.

  “Pigeons have arrived from Balsalom,” Mufashe said when the women were gone. “The Balsalomians have left the city.”

  “What are their numbers?” Roghan asked.

  The Sultan shook his head. “My son Hassan sent the pigeons, but the princess left at night while the fool boy slept, and he couldn’t gauge the strength of her party. It will be several days before my spies return with specifics.”

  “And you want me to use the mirror?” A weariness crept into Roghan’s voice.

  The sultan poured wine into a golden flagon and drank, then gestured for Faalam to pour wine for the two wizards. Roghan took a glass, but Chantmer declined. The sultan’s guards took station at the doors.

  Mufashe savored the wine for a long moment before he turned his attention back to Roghan. “Yes, my servant. I know the effort will cost you greatly. But I can’t wait for my riders. I must know the truth of the matter.”

  Roghan set aside his goblet and approached the flat gray disc. Everyone in the room but the sultan’s guards gathered around while Roghan squatted next to it. Chantmer watched with interest.

  The mage rubbed his right hand across the surface. As he did, a tattoo on the back of his hand flared bright red and green. The gray metal shimmered and turned to quicksilver. Roghan removed his hand and waited for the waves to stop rolling across its surface. When the liquid calmed, he chanted in a low voice. Magic raised the hairs on Chantmer’s arms and neck.

  Images appeared in the quicksilver. A road of sand passed between two dunes, their ridges held by desert grass. A camel caravan carried blocks of salt. Dust-dry towns appeared along the Spice Road, where men and women irrigated date trees, herded goats, and stacked bundles of myrrh branches. Roghan waved his hand above the quicksilver to move the view along the road. The scenery raced across the surface with the speed of a diving falcon. Even so, it took several minutes to locate the Balsalomians.

  They traveled in a caravan of several dozen camels and horses. Most were laden with the khalifa’s supplies, but a few carried men-at-arms. Roghan wiggled his fingers, and the caravan grew in size until individual faces came into focus. One of the men on horseback wore a gray tunic and carried a straight-edged Eriscoban sword. A Knight Temperate. This was an unexpected development.

  “Where is the princess?” Mufas
he asked. “Which one is Marialla?”

  “I’m looking,” Roghan said. “Patience.”

  The mage moved his view, but before he did, the knight looked up at the sky, as if he felt their gaze. Chantmer’s stomach clenched in sudden recognition. It was Daniel, the ruler of the Free Kingdoms. Or rather, the former ruler. He had stepped aside in favor of his brother, Whelan, who had fashioned himself as a warrior king.

  Chantmer had once guided Daniel, as a tutor might lead and teach a child. But the former king’s mind had been poisoned by Markal. He would now count Chantmer as an enemy.

  “There she is!” Mufashe said.

  There was no question which woman in the caravan was Marialla Saffa. She rode on a litter, its sides opened to catch the late-afternoon sun. Her face was carved like a fine statue, her body well-proportioned. Slaves carried the litter, and several young women walked on either side, holding bowls of dates and figs.

  “She’s beautiful,” Roghan said. “I can see why you wish to marry her.”

  “She looks old,” Mufashe said.

  “She’s twenty-nine,” Chantmer said. “Hardly old.”

  The sultan lowered himself to the ground next to the quicksilver pool. “I had forgotten how poorly women age. I should have looked at some of my wives to remind myself. Their faces weather like a hitching post in the desert. After twenty-five their dugs sag like empty wineskins.”

  Roghan spoke in a quiet, soothing voice. “Oh Sultan, light of my life. Will you not marry this woman?”

  The sultan waved his hand dismissively. “No, I have no interest in another pampered princess.”

  “You must feign interest, then,” the mage said.

  “I’ll find a wife from the retinue. Perhaps several. Some of Marialla’s slave girls show promise.” He turned to Roghan. “Let’s take a look at the guards, shall we?”

  Roghan waved his hand again, and the view shifted. Marialla had no more than fifteen armed men with her. Enough to prove troublesome, but not so many that they could defend the princess should the sultan wish to overwhelm with force. But Daniel’s presence was still concerning. What other surprises did the party bring?