Wizard's Conclave

by Douglas Niles

  Finally, he stood, turning toward the opposite wall of the hallway, confronting his own reflection in a crystal mirror, in an ornate platinum frame. With a strangled cry, Kalrakin smashed his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass. Ignoring the shards on the floor, he stalked on through the Tower.

  This was the second time he had assaulted the wizard-locked door. The first had been weeks earlier, shortly after he and Luthar had arrived here. The first time the sorcerer had smashed the planks with a great battle axe. The blade, heavy steel of dwarven manufacture, enchanted with ancient magic, had bounced off the wooden planks without making so much as a scratch. Kalrakin had exhausted himself banging on the portal, without making any progress.

  This time, he had focused on the stone, holding it while he caressed a multitude of magical items that he had collected while ransacking the Tower. Thus he had drained away the enchantments in pitchers that never emptied, weapons of rare ensorcellment, doorknobs and saddles and lamps that had each been infused with potent magical power. They were mundane and lifeless now, the enchantments having been absorbed by the Irda Stone.

  But even that potent blast of stored magic had been thwarted by the wizard lock.

  Kalrakin spiraled down a long ways, past many other doors and landings, passages leading through the still-imperfectly mapped tower. He found Luthar in the great dining room in the foretower. The rotund mage sat at the big table, eating noisily.

  "Come-I wish to try again."

  "You can't wait for tomorrow?" Luthar said with a grimace.

  "We have been waiting for too many tomorrows," snapped the tall sorcerer. His hawk-nose jutted angrily toward his compatriot. "We are making no progress-none at all! That door must be sealed by the power of the gods themselves! I sent a surge of wild magic that would have torn down a castle-but it rebounded against me, had no effect on either the door or its frame."

  "That makes only five rooms, all sealed, in this whole tower," Luthar reflected. "There are a hundred times that many we are able to enter and make our own. Again, Master, I counsel patience. These doors will open to us, in time. In the meantime, think what we have: food of any variety, as much as we want, provided by the Tower; drink; and treasures galore!"

  "Bah-I have no patience for petty delights! Or for fools, Luthar. We have discovered apartments both Spartan and sumptuous; galleries of rare art, pantries and cisterns and training halls. All of them are filled with silly trinkets and novelties-paintings with moving pictures, dishes that wash themselves, rings and bracelets of various natures. But where are the true artifacts: the library of scrolls, the laboratory of potions and elixirs? What of the treasures of the ages, those items that will pave my way to ultimate mastery?

  "No, my slow-witted friend, these all-important relics are still hidden away from us. And those are the secrets of the five doors, the doors locked by the ancient wizards, doors that still resist our most potent magic."

  "Every lock can be broken," Luthar replied plaintively. "If not with a spell, then with great force. You must collect a greater force.

  "No, these ancient wizard locks require a clever solution." Kalrakin said. "Clearly they encompass all sides of these chambers, including the floor and ceiling-I have tried to warp the stones in all dimensions, but they resist every probe, every advance of my wild magic. I need to find another way."

  "There are times, Master, when I feel as though this cursed tower is alive, is working against us-it's like a secret enemy, lurking around the corner of every hallway-watching, scheming. I tell you, I don't like it! It is dangerous here, and we don't need this place! The whole world is open to us-maybe we should just go somewhere else?"

  "No. There is a purpose here, a reason that we were invited in. The Tower beckoned to us, drew us through the dark wood, brought us safely within. It wanted us to come."

  "Now, perhaps, it wants us to leave," suggested Luthar.

  The gaunt sorcerer shook his head and ran his fingers through the long tangle of his beard, turning a slow circle as he inspected the dining hall. "I care not what it wants. I am here, I like it here, and I intend to stay. Now, come with me," he said abruptly.

  As usual, Luthar had to trot to keep up with Kalrakin's long-legged stride. They made their way to the great central stairway and headed up, the taller sorcerer taking the steps three at a time, while the shorter mage huffed and hurried behind. Passing the scattered remnants of plate mail he had earlier wrecked, the wild magic user returned to the stubborn door that had resisted his most potent casting.

  "You dare to taunt me?" he declared softly, addressing that door. He did not expect a reply, but Luthar's words had pointed him toward a truth: There was some being listening, observing, watching him. The Tower was indeed a sentient presence who was testing him-and with this realization, the tall mage had determined a course of action.

  Kalrakin kept his eyes on the locked room as he reached his gloved hand behind his back and pushed open the door to another chamber. Only then did he spin around and stalk into that room, one of several small art galleries that he and Luthar had discovered weeks earlier, upon their first explorations of the Tower. The sorcerer waved his hand, and light flared from the crystal chandelier overhead, illuminating a large, irregular chamber that was dominated by a life-sized statue of three humans, a trio standing back to back in the center.

  Executed by a talented sculptor out of three shades of marble, the statues depicted archetypes of the three schools of godly magic-or perhaps, the three deities ruling those orders. One image carved in pure white displayed an elderly man, wrinkled and slightly stooped in posture, leaning on a knobby staff. His eyes were kindly, his smile beneficent, and if his flowing beard and hair bespoke great age, his visage had a benign aspect that, when he had first glimpsed this statue, Kalrakin found it patently absurd.

  Next to him was the likeness of another man, cut from stone of ebony black. This was a younger wizard, smoothfaced and short-haired, with penetrating eyes. The third image was female, carved from some exotic version of marble that was nearly blood-red in color; the sorceress was of indeterminate age, stern-faced, and slender, and her hands were raised slightly, reaching outward in a gesture of encompassing embrace.

  "Artifacts of the distant past," Kalrakin sneered aloud. He leaned back and crowed toward the ceiling. "Pathetic symbols of a time gone by-but they are part of you still, are they not?"

  He glared at the trio of statues and raised his hands toward the female figure in red marble. Intertwining his thumbs, the gaunt sorcerer roared, making an animalistic sound of fury. With a sharp gesture he broke his grip and whipped his arms apart-and in that instant the statue shattered, scattering shards of crimson stone across the wooden floor of the gallery.

  Kalrakin stood still, every sense quivering. He heard it first as a groan, a sound of nearly physical pain, followed by the faintest of tremors. The floorboards rippled slightly under his feet. "Feel the force of my displeasure!" he shouted to the ceiling, his voice exultant. "And know that there is no limit to the pain I can inflict!"

  With sharp, brutal gestures, he then wove a spell of wild magic around the white and then the black statues, leaving them likewise destroyed. Shards of rock in three colors now littered the floor of the gallery, and the suffering of the Tower became tangible. The floor shivered more violently; an elaborately jeweled lamp, with a surface of carved turquoise, trembled atop its marble pedestal. With a flip of his hand, Kalrakin caused that precious treasure to slide from its perch; it fell and broke against the hard floor.

  The sorcerer breathed hard, snorting like a bull through his massive beak of a nose. He glared at a shelf of crystal vases then turned to scrutinize a painting of exceptional age, depicting an elven patriarch from beyond the Age of Heroes. He toyed with the thought of further mayhem. But perhaps his point had been made.

  With a growl, he exited the room, glaring across the hall at the doorway that taunted him.

  "Do you dare to tempt me into further retributi
on?" he asked, his voice rising. Once more he rooted his feet to the stone floor-and felt the wild magic surge. Curling his hand into a fist, still clutching the Irda Stone, he aimed his strongest blow at the wizard-locked door, expended the full force of his magic in one mighty hammer strike.

  This time the force rebounded against him so hard that he was hurled against the wall; his skull rang as he bit down, hard, on his own tongue. He was utterly unconscious by the time his insensate body hit the floor.

  The pale, cringing Luthar crept into the hallway, and with a deep sigh, and a small snort of disgust, slumped down next to Kalrakin, to wait.

  10

  Shadows in the Wild

  Settle down, Dora!" Coryn snapped. Confronted by a familiar, stubborn glare, she whacked the mule across the snout and repeated her command. Turning more docile, the shaggy animal fell into pace behind Diva and Dolly until once again the three mules shuffled patiently along, following Coryn, who was following Jenna.

  As Coryn had been following Jenna for more than three weeks, now. They were somewhere in the western half of what used to be called Qualinesti, Coryn was pretty sure. That much she had gleaned from Jenna's conversations with innkeepers, knightly patrols, and the occasional traveler they encountered. As to why they were here or where they were headed, Coryn had no idea.

  Coryn had learned, quickly, about the mules: how to feed, load, unload, lead, and occasionally prod them to greater urgency. She worked hard, ate as well as Jenna did, and still had no idea why her grandmother had sent her to visit this unusual, and admittedly intriguing, woman. Certainly she had seen more of the world in these past three months than in the whole of her previous sixteen years. But there must be more to it than that.

  At night, rolled in her bedroll near the fire, Cory would pretend to sleep. Through slitted eyelids, she would watch as Jenna went through mysterious routines. Often these involved reading-the girl knew that one of the mule's saddlebags bulged with books, more books than she had ever seen before. The older woman was very protective of these tomes, so Coryn had never been able to see inside them, but she stole compelling glimpses of the red leather covers, with their shiny binding and silver filigree inscriptions. She suspected the volumes were similar to Umma's little book, the one hidden under her mattress. Once she had asked Jenna about them, only to be told-curtly-to collect more firewood for the evening's cooking.

  When Jenna read at night, she did so by the light of a medallion, one of the many pieces of jewelry that she wore on slender chains around her neck. Cory was fascinated by the nature of that illumination, brighter and more steady than any lamp. On one very still night, she had heard the woman whisper a strange word as she touched the medallion. It was one of the word's from Umma's book; of that Coryn had been certain!

  That had been only yesterday, and now another long day of forest-track was behind them.

  "Down there, in that hollow. We'll camp there tonight," Jenna announced, gesturing to a narrow trail descending steeply away from the winding forest track. "I remember a nice clearing near the stream. And nobody will be able to see us from the road. Take the mules down there and wait for me-I want to have a look around and make sure of our safety."

  "All right," Coryn agreed, eyeing the narrow trail dubiously. They hadn't seen a single person since the innkeeper at the crossroads, at least ten miles and six hours ago, but she knew not to challenge the older woman's sense of caution. "Diva, lead the way."

  She took the bridle of the lead mule and started down the path, which was more of a dry ravine than any kind of hewn trail. Still, the animals followed with surefooted ease, and they rapidly descended between the lofty, moss-draped trunks into an area of soft undergrowth. Sure enough, the little run debouched into a tiny meadow carpeted with small, white flowers. Nearby was a placid stretch of water. With the first sweep of her eyes, Cory spotted a least a dozen fat trout, and her stomach was already rumbling as she unhitched the mules and started to spread out their small camp.

  With practiced ease, Cory removed the saddlebags and tack from the mules and tethered the animals near the stream, where they had ready access to a nice patch of clover-heavy grass as well as fresh water. Next she pulled the cooking gear and bedrolls from Diva's saddlebags. Dolly's load contained their dried provisions and extra clothing. Dora's bags, containing Jenna's books as well as many other mysterious items that the girl had yet to examine, were left to Jenna to handle, for Cory knew better than to open them.

  Jenna, her red robe damp around the fringe from the wet underbrush, strolled into the clearing a few minutes later. The girl never ceased to be amazed that her companion, who was draped with bangles and chains and feathered gewgaws-as well as the golden medallion-could move so silently.

  "This is a good place to camp," Coryn offered with a smile. "Really hidden down here. Did you remember it from an earlier visit?"

  "Long ago I spent a pleasant couple of days down here," Jenna replied. "I wasn't much older than you, I guess. I was on my first trip outside the Tower, traveling in the company of a young knight-"

  Abruptly, the older woman paused, her lips creasing. "Come to think of it, I was a little older than you are."

  Cory would have liked to hear the rest of the story, but she had learned to take Jenna's snippets of conversation for what they were: tantalizing pieces of a personal history that, the girl hoped, she might someday put together to make sense. Whenever she asked to hear more, Jenna was likely to change the subject or, more likely, send her off on some errand.

  This time she went and gathered firewood without being asked. In only a few minutes she had collected a plentiful supply of dry, hard wood. Jenna was going through the mysterious components of Dora's saddlebags, and, as Cory arranged the wood, she worked up the courage to ask a question.

  "You mentioned you came here after you were in a tower. My grandmother used to talk about a tower, too-is that where you know each other from?"

  Jenna looked at her sharply, carefully setting down a bag of jars that clinked musically together. "Yes, as a matter of fact. That was a long time ago. In fact, it was the last time I saw Scharon—that is, your grandmother."

  Cherishing this tidbit of information, Coryn quickly built a cheery fire. The sky, viewed through the halo of surrounding tree tops, was still pale blue with late afternoon sunlight, and she looked toward the deep pool where the brook eddied near their camp. "How about fresh fish tonight?" she asked. "I could probably catch us a pair of nice trout before it gets dark."

  "Good," Jenna agreed. "I have some reading to do."

  Coryn went to the portion of Diva's saddlebags that had been given over to her few possessions. She took out her bow and strung the weapon. With one arrow in her other hand she went over to the bank of the stream. The trout were as thick as before, meandering through the clear water. The pool was only three or four feet deep, with a silted bottom, perfect for bow-fishing. Every few seconds the surface roiled as one of the fish struck at a careless fly or waterbug.

  The girl studied the fish, picking out three of the largest. Slowly she drew back her bowstring, holding it close to her ear. Tension thrummed in the taut strand, in the bend of the sturdy bow, in the quivering of the carefully aimed missile. Her eyes flicked back and forth, watching the fish meander, waiting until their paths drifted close together.

  Coryn drew a breath in through her nose. She relaxed and felt the wild sorcery tingling in the soles of her feet, pulsing in the air around her. That power was reflected in the silky patterns on the surface of the water, in the dappled scales on the sides of the three trout.

  It was time. She let the arrow fly as she exhaled, and with her will she drew the power of magic from her surroundings and channeled it, tightly, into her shot. In that breath the arrow became three, each missile slicing unerringly into the water, aimed slightly below the apparent location of the targets—Coryn had done enough bow-fishing to know that she had to correct for the bending of the light as it passed through the water.r />
  The trio of missiles penetrated the water with barely audible splashes, and each drove through the body of a fat target. The fish thrashed and leaped momentarily, but the shots were true and, moments later, each floated lifelessly to the surface, pinned by identical wooden shafts. Since the late summer evening was warm, Cory had no qualms about stripping off her trousers and wading into the pool to retrieve her prizes. She was feeling rather proud of herself as she bore the trout back to the shore and climbed onto the bank. Only when she started toward the fire was she aware that Jenna had put down her book and stood to face her, hands on her hips.

  "What did you think you were doing?" asked the older woman, no sense of amusement, or even tolerance, in her voice.

  "Getting dinner," Cory said defensively. "I told you-"

  "I am referring to how you got those fish! That was corruption-you sucked the energy out of the very air! How dare you?"

  "Dare I?" The girl was irritated by the stupid question. "I have been fishing like that since I first learned to use a bow. What harm did I do?"

  "Harm?" Jenna drew a breath and made an obvious effort to control her-to Coryn—surprising anger. "Didn't your grandmother teach you anything? "

  The girl bit back her growing temper. "Umma taught me a lot, nearly everything that I know!" she retorted. In the face of Jenna's stony silence she continued. "About that, what you call 'wild magic,' I guess I figured some things out for myself. But Umma knew and didn't care. Why are you so upset?"

  "You wouldn't understand," Jenna said sternly.

  "Of course not! You won't tell me anything! How am I supposed to understand anything?"

  "Now is not the time. Throw those fish away-I will not eat them, and neither will you. We have plenty of flatbread and dried fruit for dinner. That will serve us as well tonight as it has for the past weeks."