The Sorcerer

by Denning, Troy

  “He can wait,” Clariburnus replied. “After the trouble you two caused us, I hope he chokes on his tongue.”

  “I am sure that would make the Most High very happy,” mewled a familiar voice. “Especially after he has waited all this time for you to recapture them.”

  The dumpy form of Malik el Sami yn Nasser pushed between the waists of Clariburnus and Brennus and stepped into view. Dressed in a gray tunic with a tabard of black shadow over the top, he seemed an unwitting parody of the imposing forms of the two princes—especially with his weary, bloodshot eyes and his cuckold’s horns proudly displayed atop his head.

  Malik turned and called back between Clariburnus and Brennus, “Go and fetch a few barrels of water, and hurry. If the giant is harmed, I will see to it that the Most High has your heads.”

  To Galaeron’s amazement, half the troop turned and scurried to obey. Any doubt that Malik had meant his message to lure Galaeron into a trap vanished at once.

  “I see you’ve come up in the city,” Galaeron said.

  “No thanks to you.”

  The little man came forward, and brushing aside the black pike Clariburnus put out to keep him from getting too close, stood over Galaeron.

  “How could you leave Vala to suffer so long? Your cruelty nearly got me killed!”

  Putting aside for the moment how one might be connected to the other, Galaeron asked, “Then she’s still alive? Your message said—”

  Clariburnus used the pike to push Malik away. “It is not this lizard’s place to discuss the slave of a prince.”

  Malik shrugged, spread his hands, and said, “He is right. Perhaps, if you please the Most High, he will intervene and let you see for yourself all the terrible things that Escanor has been visiting upon her at night.”

  Galaeron would have smiled at Malik’s cleverness, had the answer itself not filled his head with so many terrible images. The bones in his broken hand began to throb, and he thought of the crimson stain Dove had placed on it and how he would explain that to Telamont Tanthul.

  The water arrived, and without leaving any for Galaeron, Malik led the soldiers carrying it over to his friend Aris. Clariburnus seemed to take delight in watching Galaeron lick his lips as he watched the little man trickle it down the giant’s throat. Finally, Telamont Tanthul returned from his gift-making, and seeing where Galaeron’s attention was fixed, motioned him to his feet.

  “Come, you must be thirsty as well—and curious about your friend’s condition.”

  He waited for Galaeron to rise, then placed an icy sleeve across Galaeron’s shoulders and started toward the giant.

  “I’m sorry for the difficult journey,” Telamont continued. “It was my intention to bring you here in a more pleasant fashion, but you know dragons … I fear Malygris and his consorts may have been somewhat rougher on you than necessary. That young blue you killed in the Saiyaddar?”

  Galaeron nodded, scarcely able to believe that the Most High was speaking to him as though he had just returned from a short trip outside the enclave.

  “It was one of theirs,” the Most High explained, just as they reached Malik and the water barrels and stopped. “To tell you the truth, you’re lucky you made it here at all. They kept giving us beholders and asabis and demanding that we help hunt down the murderers.”

  Galaeron’s throat grew even drier. Blue dragons were not particularly family oriented, but he had talked to enough of them while serving along the Desert Border South to know that it offended their sense of magnificence to have a warmblood kill a wyrm of their own line.

  “Then I’d say we were very lucky,” he said.

  “We arranged something,” said the Most High. He lifted an empty sleeve and pulled an ebony dipper out of the shadows, then filled it with water and passed it to Galaeron. “They really can’t tell the smell of one moon elf from another, and it was a simple matter to sneak the hide into a camp one night.”

  Galaeron found the water going down the wrong passage and choked, spraying it out in a cone of silvery droplets.

  “You didn’t!”

  “What choice did you leave me?” Telamont said. His voice had assumed that cold levelness it acquired whenever he struggled to contain his temper. “They kept bringing gifts, and I could hardly tell them it was you.”

  Galaeron looked at the empty dipper and wondered if he dared fill it again. Having tasted water, he could think of little except his thirst, but he had seen Telamont in moods like this and knew how risky it could be to presume in his presence.

  On the other hand, what was the worst the Most High was going to do? Certainly not kill him, and angering him might make it easier for Galaeron to resist his will. He refilled the dipper and drank.

  Telamont watched, platinum eyes burning with fury, but his empty sleeves folded calmly in front of him.

  When Galaeron had finished, he asked, “Good?”

  Galaeron met the shadow lord’s gaze and smacked his lips.

  “Have another.” Telamont took the dipper and refilled it, then passed it back and said, “I insist.”

  Galaeron found himself gulping the water down like a drunkard breaking a long abstinence. Once the dipper was empty, Telamont took it and refilled it.

  “You left Arabel with a caravan bound for Iriaebor, did you not?”

  “That’s so, but we were bound for Evereska.” Galaeron told the lie quickly, trying to get it out before Telamont’s will began to press down on him and force the truth. “To join the fight against the phaerimm.”

  Telamont passed the dipper back to Galaeron, and again he found himself gulping the stuff down as though it might evaporate before he could finish.

  “That is what our agents suggested, and yet Yder’s point troubles me. What was it he said?”

  Before Galaeron could answer, a pair of yellow eyes appeared in the darkness behind Telamont.

  “That starting a beggar’s riot does not seem a very good way to sneak out of a city.”

  Yder’s gaunt face took form around his golden eyes, then he emerged from the shadows and stood at father’s side.

  “I also thought it strange,” Yder added, “that they announced their departure by selling all of the giant’s work.”

  Yder glanced over at Aris, who lay stretched out on his back, unaware of his surroundings, with Malik kneeling astride his chest dribbling dippers of water onto his cracked lips.

  Telamont refilled Galaeron’s empty dipper, and Galaeron began to gulp it down. He was no longer thirsty—he could already feel Alustriel and Dove sloshing around inside, banging off the walls of his stomach—but he could not stop himself from gulping it down as he had all the others.

  “Had they needed the coin for their journey,” Yder continued, “I would put this down to necessity.”

  “But if they needed the coin, why give it all to the beggars?” Clariburnus asked. “Something here stinks like the sulfur pits of Carceri.”

  Telamont refilled the dipper. Though Galaeron’s stomach was already so bloated it ached, he found himself reaching for it.

  “It does sound odd, does it not?” The Most High pulled his hand away and asked, “Perhaps you care to explain it?”

  Again, Galaeron forced the lie out before Telamont’s will had a chance to compel the truth. “The statues earned more than we expected.”

  His fingers touched the dipper’s handle, but Telamont did not let him take it.

  “Is that so?” Telamont asked.

  He released the dipper, and Galaeron began to pour more water into his swollen stomach. He was already in pain, but his mind insisted that he was as thirsty as before. Stopping was out of the question.

  Telamont waited until Galaeron was finished, then refilled the dipper and held it in front of him. Though Galaeron felt like he might vomit up what he had already swallowed at any moment, and spill Alustriel and Dove on the Most High’s feet, he wanted that water. He ached for it in the way he ached to touch the Shadow Weave, in the way a suffocating man ac
hes for air.

  “There was too much,” Galaeron said. “We couldn’t carry it.”

  Telamont continued to hold the dipper away, but remained silent. His will began to press down on Galaeron, and this time Galaeron could think only of how thirsty he had been crossing the desert and how much he wanted that water, of how badly his stomach hurt already, of how good it would feel when he drank that last dipper and finally grew so full he had to bring up everything he had swallowed.

  He heard himself saying, “Besides, Prince Yder is right. We wanted to be captured.”

  This drew a smirk from Yder and a flash of interest from the Most High. Telamont allowed Galaeron to take the dipper, then watched with the purple shadow of a smile as the contents vanished down the elf’s throat. Galaeron felt water sloshing in his throat, and his jaws began to ache.

  Telamont took the dipper and refilled it, and Galaeron found his hand reaching for it yet again. Telamont held the handle away and remained silent. The weight of his will was crushing, and Galaeron could think of nothing but his aching jaws, his bloated stomach, and his overwhelming thirst.

  “We came to rescue Vala,” he said.

  “You see?” Malik was up and sliding off Aris’s chest, flinging water in all directions as he gestured with his dipper. “My excellent plan worked!”

  Telamont remained silent and continued to hold the dipper out of reach. Galaeron felt the shadow lord’s will crushing down on him, trying to force out the rest of the truth. He clenched his jaws and thought only of Evereska and his loyal friend Aris, of how the giant and the Chosen were risking so much to help—and there was his mistake. A dark voice arose inside him, reminding him of the blood on the Chosen’s hands, telling him they could not be trusted, whispering of necessary trade-offs and secret bargains with the phaerimm.

  Galaeron’s mouth began to open, and it seemed to him that it belonged to someone else, to the dark being inside—

  And Malik was at the Most High’s side.

  “Anything I want,” he said. “That was our bargain.”

  “If you brought me Galaeron Nihmedu,” Telamont said. “As I recall, Malygris did that.”

  The weight of his will diminished, and Galaeron’s mouth became his own again.

  “It was my message that lured him out,” Malik said. “If I had not sent word telling him to come and save Vala, he would still be hiding from your magic in his Arabellan bolt hole.”

  “Be careful who you argue with, little man.”

  Telamont grew distracted enough to let the dipper drift into reach. Still possessed by his thirst, Galaeron snatched the handle and began to drink … and knew his stomach had reached its limit. Even as he drained the last of its contents, he began to gag.

  “This is not some back alley flea market,” Telamont continued, paying no attention to Galaeron’s discomfort. “And I am no trader in trinkets.”

  “Nor am I some idiot dragon who can be bought off with your unkept promises,” Malik retorted.

  This was too much for the Most High. Telamont’s sleeve lashed out in Malik’s direction, and the little man tumbled away into the shadows. Three heartbeats later, a loud thud sounded from the gloom high up in the vaulted ceiling. A long breath echoed down afterward, and a softer thump from a dark corner.

  Galaeron drained the last drops in the dipper and felt the contents of his stomach starting to rise. Realizing there was no fighting his own body’s reflex, he flung the dipper aside and covered his mouth with both hands, then began a frantic search for someplace he could expel the Chosen where the Most High and his princes would not see.

  The blow that Telamont had struck Malik would have been enough to kill most men, much less the impact against the wall that had followed, or the long fall that had followed that. Yet even as Galaeron was pushing past Clariburnus with both hands over his mouth, Malik was limping out of the darkness, one impossibly twisted arm raised in Galaeron’s direction.

  “Ask him,” Malik said. “Ask him if he did not receive a message from me that Vala’s life was in grave danger, and if he did not allow himself to be captured so he could save her life.”

  There was an instant of silence then Telamont said, “As you wish … but I warn you, my patience is at an end.”

  Galaeron felt a familiar burden settling over him, but this time, the Most High would need to be patient. By then, Galaeron was leaning over Aris’s leg, ejecting a watery torrent down between the giant’s knees. He saw a pair of silvery flashes come splashing out and disappear into the shadows beneath Aris’s huge thighs. He continued to vomit a foul-smelling bile, and the weight of Telamont’s will vanished.

  “I think we will leave the question unanswered for now, Malik.” The Most High sounded a little queasy himself. “The fact of Galaeron’s return matters more than who is responsible. Name your price—but do not presume too much.”

  “Me? Presume too much?”

  Malik’s delight was evident even over sound of Galaeron’s continued retching.

  The little man thought for a moment then said, “I am not the type to ask for much, er, much more than I think I can get. All I want is my friend Aris.”

  “The giant?” Telamont asked. “You wish me to spare his life?”

  “Yes, that is what I wish,” Malik said. “And to have him as my slave, since I am very sure you do not want him running loose in your city again … and since his statues will bring an even greater profit if I have no need to share.”

  “I see.” Telamont began to chuckle. “You may have the giant—and with him, the responsibility to see that your slave does Shade no harm.”

  Galaeron finally stopped retching. Wiping his mouth, he turned to see a very battered Malik standing a few paces away, examining the giant from head to foot.

  A cold sleeve settled on Galaeron’s shoulder, and he turned to find Telamont standing beside him.

  “Come, Galaeron, let us return to the Palace Most High,” Telamont said as he guided the elf toward the Marshaling Plaza’s gloomy exit. “After such a difficult journey, I am sure you must be starving.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  1 Eleasias, the Year of Wild Magic

  No hammer had ever felt so heavy in Aris’s hand, nor any stone as unyielding—nor any work more forced. He was standing at the Black Portal inside his master’s new church—Malik’s Temple of the One and All—cutting a three-level relief of Cyric’s sun-and-skull sigil above entrance. It was a perfunctory piece without heart, and given the egg-shaped corona surrounding the skull, badly flawed. He told himself that this was what came of slave labor, of forcing an artist to execute someone else’s vision, but he knew better. The truth was that he lacked strength. With not a single opportunity since his arrival in Shade to expel Khelben, Laeral, and Storm from his stomach, he had refused to eat, and the long fast had left him too dizzy, weak, and blurry-eyed to do a good job.

  Aris’s guards—three of a dozen Shadovar warriors hired by Malik to keep constant watch over him—made approving noises from below. Like most of their fellows, this trio acted more like assistants than keepers, passing him tools and running to fetch water kegs whenever he grew thirsty. They also heaped praise upon everything he did, even on the shape studies he made before beginning a new work. Aris did not know whether this was something they genuinely felt or that Malik had instructed them to do in the hope of keeping him happy and productive. In any case, the adoration had grown so ludicrous that the shape studies had to started to disappear when he was finished with them. He had started to shatter the roughs before discarding them, lest the guards—or, more likely, Malik—sell them as Aris originals. Even slaves had their standards.

  Finally, he stepped back into the narthex to study his work and banged his skull on the rib of a ceiling vault. His head began to reel, and he had to brace himself against a column. His hammer, which he had not even realized he had dropped, clunked to the floor and sent a flake of marble as large as a vulture skittering down the arcade.

  A guard pee
red out from around the column behind which he had dived for cover, his sapphire eyes shining like blue stars in his dark face.

  “Aris?” The wispy voice belonged to Amararl or Gelthez—Aris could never tell one Shadovar from another. “Are you all right?”

  Aris nodded but continued to lean against the column.

  “You’re sure?” This guard was bold enough to step over beside Aris’s knee and ask, “Do you need a keg of water?”

  “No, I am well.” He flicked his free hand in the direction of the sun-and-skull relief and said, “Though it would be hard to tell from that.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked the first guard. “It’s not beautiful, exactly, but compelling—very compelling. And those empty eyes …” He shuddered. “I can almost see the dark suns burning in them.”

  Aris pushed off the column and leaned forward, studying the eye sockets.

  “You do not think the left eye is pear-shaped?” the giant asked.”

  The guard craned his neck to study the dark sigil.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Or the other one too large?” asked Aris.

  “Larger than the other one,” said the third guard. “But it only adds to the effect—and places it firmly in period.”

  “In period?” Aris scowled down. “What period?”

  “Your Slave Period,” the first guard said. “While your excellence of detail has slipped under Malik’s output pressures, it’s widely acknowledged that under bondage, your work has raised grimness to a level of the sublime.”

  “There’s quite a debate raging among the princes as to whether this is your best work or your worst,” said the second guard. “The Most High has yet to decree.”

  “What do you think?” asked the third. “It would be interesting to hear the artist’s opinion.”

  “My opinion is that your princes know nothing about art,” Aris grumbled. He started to retrieve his hammer, then suddenly realized there was a reason his keepers behaved more like assistants than guards. Trying to suppress a smile, he placed his hands on his knees and stooped down so he could speak quietly. “But I am flattered to know you think so highly of my work.”