He came to the entrance of the tower a quarter league beyond the edge of the Black Tongue. A smaller, man-size door had been cut into a huge iron-strapped gate blackened by age. He waited there, chaffing slightly at the affront because whoever was doorkeeper these days had certainly been told of his coming by the novices in the watch windows. This was his penance for arriving in a worldly costume.
The little panel in the small door opened to reveal a lovely, girlish face within a hood. It was Anemone, in the white and yellow robes of the outer circle no less. Being of no great talent in the art, she had climbed above the rank of initiate rather quickly, he thought. The fanatic types often did.
"Speak traveller," she said, demanding the ritual from him. If he said anything but the formal response, she had the right to refuse him admission. He could tell by the dancing light in her eye that she would do it too. Fanatic. He would have to do something about her.
"I come as a pilgrim, to supplicate myself before the Unknowable Forces."
"How are you known?"
"By the sign of the seventh essence," he said, tracing the symbol on his forehead, "and by the name Ephemeris, of the outer circle."
The panel slid shut and he heard the snap of the bolt. The small door swung open, Anemone standing there with the doorkeeper's staff in one hand. Ephemeris remembered when he had stood his year as doorkeeper. That staff could paralyze with one touch, and he had thrilled with its power each time he admitted someone. That had been ten years ago. He had learned enough since then to know how foolish he had been.
She looked at the glove tucked into his belt and cleared her throat. "Enter as a petitioner, Ephemeris."
He started to walk past her when she said, "You seem to be in a hurry this time. Some cause for excitement? Important news?"
"I have no word of it, if that is what you mean."
"I simply meant, is there anything a sister should know?"
"No," he said, "there's nothing you should know."
She looked hard into his eyes, trying to see the lie, and found nothing but clear glass, no hint of camouflage. His pursed lips formed something like a smile, and he nodded curtly, walking past her and toward the central staircase.
An empty cell lay next to the dormitory. He tossed his duffle onto the cot and quickly changed into his robes, hanging the ceremonial bronze dagger by a silver chain from his wide silk belt. In his younger days he carried a fighting knife strapped to his forearm under the sleeve of the outer vestment. Now he openly wore the glove. It was known as the Gauntlet of the Ashen Hand, but it was more a glove than a piece of armor, napped grey leather with a skeletal hand outlined in pearl studs.
He had caught wind of it in an old Drendusian jest that mentioned a sorcerous assassin named Myrdas, who used an evil glove that killed with one touch. When he showed the passage to Logic, his old acquaintance said that he didn't think a single name was enough of a clue. But Ephemeris began living in the outer library, and after two months of reading came across the name of a baron that Myrdas had supposedly served. It took him a few more months to sail to Drendusia and find the old baron's estate, and there was where he got lucky. The town register recorded that a Voormin Myrdas had died of plague there in the time of the story. Playing a hunch, Ephemeris stole into the estate's graveyard that night. He could not locate a marker with the name Myrdas on it, but he did find the tombstone of the old baron himself. According to the date, the baron had outlived the assassin. He lay down on the grave and dreamspoke right there with the dead baron, who told him that they had buried the accursed glove along with Myrdas in a grave marked "Yeoman" in the commoner's cemetery near the village. Digging up Myrdas had been the hardest part of the whole quest.
Now Ephemeris never worried about anyone laying hands on him. After all, what was the point in having art and sight and power if a few hooligans could still bludgeon you senseless in a dark street? Not that he really feared such a thing; he knew a few tricks that would scare any ruffian out of his mind. But that was really not the way of the society. If anyone threatened him physically, he wanted to make them very sorry. When at last the final grammarie was revealed, he would be able to call down a rain of swords, would have the power to level cities. For now, he carried the glove.
After tying the elaborate collar he stepped into his sandals and checked himself. All that remained was the wand. He took it out of the travelling case, the golden headpiece of dragon's wings gleaming in contrast to the black coral haft inscribed with the six symbols of the final grammarie. The wand had no enchantments upon it, but Ephemeris thought that it lent elegance to the costume of the outer circle, and it showed everyone at a glance that he had proved himself to be a formidable spell-caster. Those of lesser skill and power received the brass book.
Leaving his worldly things in the cell, he raised the hood of his robe and made his way to the outer shrine. At the door he paused, slipped out of the sandals, and entered barefoot, passing an invisible barrier that shut out all sound.
The room was six sided, and the altar, a huge dragon worked in silver with emeralds for eyes, stood opposite the entrance, the great ribbed wings stretching almost halfway around the room. A parqueted floor described the symbol of the seventh essence in gold and black woods. Six times six candles that never burned down threw light from alcoves in the marble walls.
Ephemeris knelt before the dragon idol, placing his wand aside before prostrating himself fully on the floor, his arms spread wide. It took some time to properly enter the meditation . . . then he was there, face down in the cavern of ice. The frost dragon towered over him, he knew. He dared not look, but he could feel the creature's frozen breath.
"I beseech the Powers," Ephemeris said in the dragon tongue, the only speech that could be used in that spirit place, "restore the lost magic of the lost age and reveal to us the final grammarie, that ultimate power which reigns over all others, the highest of all the arts."
"Time is long, and time is short." The dragon spoke in a voice like high wind inside thunder.
"I have come to make a request. I seek knowledge of E'alaisenne, the sixth of the great elementals."
The dragon exhaled, covering him with a sheet of frost, freezing the sweat to his back.
"Seek then the symmetry of things," the creature whispered.
He gasped for breath then saw that he lay on the floor of the outer shrine. Chills racked his body for a moment. The communion was always hard, even if you kept it short, but he had been answered. He felt elated. He didn't know what it meant — one seldom did when dealing with the Unknowable Forces. Yet it was a good answer, he felt.
In the evening, the present society met for a brief meditation in the outer shrine, the seven faces of the inner circle hidden behind white silk masks. The initiates then went to the refectory and those of the higher circles to their rooms, all to be served the evening meal by novices. Later, after the tower had fallen silent except for studious murmurings from the dormitory, Ephemeris went to the private apartments and tapped at Cipher's door.
His old teacher came to the door unmasked, his silver under-robe a match for his silver hair. Wisps of pungent smoke sneaked past him seeking escape in the draft of the hallway. Cipher waved him in with a bony hand and closed the door quickly.
"How did you know it was me?" Ephemeris said with a grin. He crossed the thickly carpeted room, found a pillow and sat.
Cipher threw another pinch of incense into the brazier. "Your penchant for drama will see you undone. The secretive and swashbuckling Ephemeris, arriving by the Sea Gate as if he had recovered the final grammarie itself. Honestly, old son, I think the novices must soil themselves every time you walk by."
Ephemeris fingered the headpiece of his wand. "Yes, that would be quite a coup, finding E'alaisenne." He looked at his old teacher through the scented haze.
It only took a second for Cipher to get his meaning. His overly-large eyes turned feral with the shock.
"What? How could — "
; "Wait," Ephemeris said, raising his gloveless hand. "I don't know yet; I have to go to Jakavia to be sure. But I need to do a little reading first."
Stunned, Cipher slowly lowered himself to his knees. "If this is so," he whispered, "then the lost magic of the age of power is finally ours."
"I said that I'm not certain. And besides, I don't understand how the six Aevir can be bound together to unleash the old power."
"The frost dragon has told me that it will be revealed when they are in one place. I've always sensed that it could happen in my lifetime, but I never really believed until now." He looked to where his robe and mask hung near the door. "If you have really found it, they'll elevate you to the inner circle."
"Not if Serendipity gets wind of this. One word to her and I'll be ordered to stay here and teach until she can figure it out and go after it herself. Anemone is already suspicious."
"Serendipity knows that her little protégé is easily excitable," Cipher said, already recovering from the jolt. "She's not going to take her too seriously."
He rubbed his long thin nose. "So what is it that you need from an old man who is too frail to travel — other than keeping this quiet for a while?"
Ephemeris rose lightly to his feet and went to the brazier to let smoke flow over his hands.
"I want to get into the inner shrine," he said, "I want to see the other imprisoned elementals and know what it is to feel their presence."
"That is not possible. At least it is not worth the risk of getting caught. Believe me, if you find the last Aevir you will know it as such. But you know that already — what is it that you really need from me?" He leveled his gaze at Ephemeris, who could not meet it easily. The old man still had the power.
"To look at one of the Eddaic scrolls. The restoration of Graifalmia."
"The Pallenborne? You just told me that it was in Jakavia."
"It is. The countryman of mine that may have it recently returned from the Pallenborne. I think that E'alaisenne was summoned and formed in the Pallenborne, and it is possible that it was returned to the place of its making by Graifalmia after she overthrew Derndra. I find the symmetry of this appealing."
Cipher motioned to the pillow in front of him. "Show me what you have."
Ephemeris brought a sheet of linen paper from under his robe. "Here is a copy of the celebrated passage from the Chronicles of Derndra. It has always been translated as, 'Into a valley of men in the lands to the north came Derndra seeking the Stone of Deepness. There he summoned the great elemental through the Stone, taking with him the life of the land.' But look here. This line can be translated 'Into a valley in the lands of the northmen came Derndra' — do you see?"
"Hmm. I suppose you could interpret it that way, but it is a bit of a stretch." He looked at his former student. "I'll get the scroll for you if you want, but I can tell you now that it will confirm your feeling of symmetry."
"I knew it," Ephemeris said, crushing the paper against his chest. "What does it say?"
"Only that Graifalmia returned the captured spirit to the lifeless valley, hiding it well."
"Then that is it. I'll leave tomorrow at first light."
"I hope this isn't another false trail," Cipher said. "Who is this Jakavian and what do you know of him?"
"His name is Airen Libac — I've told you about him. He's the treasure hunter who lives in Mira-Delvin, a rich aristocrat with influence and an estate and such. It makes things harder."
"Mira-Delvin. That's where you spent your early childhood is it not?"
"Yes. I lived as a water-front urchin before I went to sea, and still know the city and its ways quite well. I should be able to move quickly."
"Listen to me. Do not attempt any kind of foolish act such as a room-to-room search in the middle of the night. There's always a chance of something going wrong in a situation like that no matter how good you are. You must proceed slowly and work your way into his trust. Then strike when everything is certain."
Ephemeris nodded. "As you say."
CHAPTER 5: The Magician's Passage
The stones lining the dry wash lay covered with blue and green lichen. It had never been a stream, except perhaps for a few weeks in the early spring when it served as a drainage channel for the runoff of melting snow. The going was steep, yet the footing was sure, and to Reyin it seemed the best path to take, a straight course running from the base of the heavily wooded ridge to the very foot of the Skialfanmir. From the valley floor, the pinnacle appeared to be unscalable. In the remembered history of Lorendal no one had ever tried to climb it. That was what Farlo had said.
Reyin hadn't known what Jonn had said until Farlo translated, but he had known what touched him. The Unknowable Forces had clearly marked that pitiable young man.
He halted at a level spot where morning light bled through the pines. Sitting down on a flat stone, he let go a quiet snort that served as ironic laughter. This was, after all, what he had been seeking was it not? What Artemes had told him to search for, a chance meeting that was not chance, one in which he would feel the very breath of the Essa in the air. He had dreamed of this, dreamed that he could breathe in the Essa to intertwine with his own spirit and become one with it. That was the way it had happened for all of them: Ty'kojin, Artemes, Dimietri, all who had become true magicians, but Reyin did not feel anything like that happening to him. He only felt the hand.
He ate a small portion of the flatbread Kestrin had given him for this day's journey, and the scent of her hair came to him unbidden. He pushed it from his mind. He was too old for these schoolboy thoughts. Perhaps his thoughts ran to this woman to hide from himself. He wanted to pretend that he knew nothing, that he could walk away from the unseen realm, that trying to forget the secret ways of power posed no danger.
He rose and continued his climb up the ravine. The hillside lay thick with evergreens and silence, broken only by the sound of his footfalls and the crackling of dry branches strained by the breeze. Becoming aware of a dull soreness in his ankle, Reyin slowed his pace. The natural trail grew even more steep, approaching the vertical in places, and he now had to climb in earnest, picking his footing carefully. Through a part in the trees he saw the crest of the Skialfanmir looking down on him from a thousand feet above.
As he neared the top of the wash he couldn't help but think of his old master. For years they had climbed the winding trail from Ty'kojin's log house, high on a shoulder of Wind Peak, to the top of the mountain almost every day. How many times had they climbed it? Perhaps a thousand? And every time, his teacher had said the same words as they labored up the final length of trail to the summit. "Look Reyin, look how the path is deeply rutted. Many have walked this path countless times. They are all great and powerful magicians now. They were all like you, once. Think upon this as you go."
Reyin broke though the tree line, and in a dozen long strides reached the open ground at the base of the crag. His heart beat fast. He had no need to reach for the Essa — it was there, flowing up from the earth and falling down from the sky to complete its circle by touching at the center of his being. And so too had it been on Wind Peak. Ty'kojin had said that many such places existed, some at the tops of mountains, others where springs welled up from the depths of the earth, and far out on the Western Sea whole islands stood in the flow of power, as did unmarked places in desert lands.
It had been a long time since he last stood on magic ground, and he wished for a reason to use the art magic. But he wasn't a novice yearning to say his first spell; he had been to this place many hundreds of times. He sat down and brought out the remainder of the flatbread, eating it slowly, patiently scanning the cracks and crevasses and angles and faces of the Skialfanmir. There was no way up.
He had been certain that the sheer, seamless look of the pinnacle was an illusion of distance, and that one of the spurs would offer a route to the summit. Close now, he saw overhangs that would turn back the most nimble climber. The first hundred feet of the near face stood rough and roun
ded and looked easy to climb. He popped the last bit of crust into his mouth and began picking his way up the first boulder that belonged to the mountain proper. He stopped.
The Essa was stronger here, so strong that he feared to take another step — even on Wind Peak it was not so high. He felt as if he could perform magic simply by thinking of it, but that was impossible. Not even Artemes could cast a spell without sound or movement.
He climbed over rough-hewn granite until he reached the vertical wall that formed the east face of the pinnacle. What stood before him was more than obvious, and he wondered why he hadn't seen it from below.
It was a door, smeared with crumbling plaster the same color as the surrounding stone, perhaps hundreds of years, or even hundreds of cycles old. At one time, no doubt, it had been perfectly camouflaged.
Reyin looked at it in the way a magician can look at things if he so chooses. The doorway had set upon it an elaborate guard of fasten, a ward against weakening, and possibly other unseen spells were bound there too.
He tried a few simple words of the Essian Tongue. "Open. Let pass." Nothing happened. No, it would not be so easy as that. He looked more closely. The fastening was too complex for him to ever unravel it. Maybe it had a weak link.
He spoke again in the speech of power, this time the words circling and building in strength at the center of his being — "Thou art broken and severed, split asunder!" — at last letting them burst forth as he kicked the door three times to fix the spell.
He stood there for a moment sweating freely, slightly winded.
A soft grinding — the door swung open and a dank, damp odor drifted past. A stair-stepped tunnel curved up and away into the heart of the crag. Just inside, held by wall brackets, a pair of torches burned brightly as if newly lit.
He lifted a torch from its holder and started up the passage with a cautious gait. Not that he thought anyone was there. He figured, rather, that the torch had been left there for anyone who could open the door. A flame that never burned out was well within the power of the old grammaries.
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