by D Mickleson
The duke eyed the man, as though gauging whether he’d just been insulted. Apparently deciding to the contrary, he answered, “Just so, Azerban, just so. Cousin, I believe you’ve met the wizard Azerban?”—they bowed—“And how are you coming along with your task?”
“I’m ready, Eminence. Do you wish to see a demonstration?”
“Indeed!” said the duke enthusiastically.
The wizard led them to a corner of the pavilion where Triston’s curiosity was aroused by a man-sized replica of the duke’s statue, this one lying on its side like its colossal counterpart.
Gubrius bounced on his heels, wagging his finger at the wizard. “And remember, Azerban, there can be no wobbling or the stress will—marble that size—the whole thing comes crashing down on the crowd and—”
“If Your Eminence will pipe down we can begin.”
The duke’s mouth snapped shut. They all watched while the wizard bowed his head as though praying, then raised his staff from the ground. Alessia squealed with delight. The statue slowly righted itself. Then, while the wizard grunted with concentration, it levitated with perfect balance to a small pedestal set up a few feet away, landing with a muffled thud. Gubrius gave an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“I knew you were the right choice, Azerban! That will do. That will do! Just repeat that performance tonight with the real thing and I will be deep in your debt.”
“A hundred gold Crowns in my debt to be exact,” said the wizard conversationally, a hint of mirth in his deep voice.
The duke’s face flushed. “Hmmm. Really, wizard, your prices are sky high. I do wish you’d reconsider . . .” His voice trailed away as the wizard’s prominent eyebrows raised. “No, you are worth it. The only one who can do such things in these parts so—” He stopped abruptly, giving a hasty, side-long glance at the Seer, and his pink face turned red. “Except you, of course, dear cousin.” There was an awkward pause, then he continued, “I knew you were busy with other matters so I didn’t want to trouble you.”
The Seer bowed graciously. “You were quite right to choose the great wizard Azerban, my lord. My own powers are insignificant next to his. And of course, your majestic likeness deserves nothing and no one but the very best.”
The duke nodded his fervent agreement, looking across the pavilion at his statue with a lover’s gaze.
Triston let out a small scoff, disgusted by the Seer’s performance. At the same moment the wizard chuckled, hastily covered with a cough. Their eyes met, and Azerban winked again.
“Tell me, Your Grace,” he said, “who is this young man? I didn’t know the High Fane took male acolytes.”
Everyone looked at Triston. “This is Triston Slendrake of Wyrmskull, my lord wizard. I see you know the name. Yes, his father was the renowned warrior Trinian, and for this reason, and others, I’ve decided to take him under my tutelage for a time.” She spoke easily, but Triston read a subtle threat in her eyes as she looked at him.
Now it was the duke’s turn to scoff. “Other reasons indeed!” he said, looking between Triston and the Seer. “You ought to be careful, cousin. Taking up with a young man in so obvious a fashion.” He wagged a finger at her reprovingly, “People will talk.”
The Seer merely returned his gaze coolly, and for the first time, Triston thought she openly betrayed something of her true feelings for her royal cousin.
“Oh, I don’t know, Eminence,” said Azerban. “Her Grace may see real potential in the young man that she wishes to fine tune. I’ve found—”
“Yes, I bet she does! If I remember right,” he said cheerfully, “she saw a lot of potential in the father too. She did some ‘fine-tuning’ with Trinian—”
“That will do, cousin,” interrupted the Seer, and now the hostility in her face was clear for all to see. Triston felt as though someone had just slugged him in the stomach. He closed his eyes, his palms tingling and sweating, wishing he could strike the Seer on her lying lips with a stinging rod. Forcing himself to think of Alden, and whatever tortures he was facing, he remained silent.
He opened his eyes and found the wizard watching him closely. “Let’s see what potential he has,” he said, and to Triston’s surprise he handed him the ashen staff. “If you don’t mind, Your Grace?”
The Seer nodded tersely, looking like she minded very much, but the wizard took no notice. “Now, Triston, you will have to concentrate very hard. It’s all about willpower, magic, and it takes an extraordinary amount to do anything. You’re young and inexperienced, so you won’t be able to do much, but let’s see if you can’t nudge this miniature a little, just make it move an inch or so on the pedestal. Go ahead.”
Triston welcomed the distraction, and bent all his mind on the task. The staff he found thrust into his possession was ordinary enough; no burst of electricity or sudden heat wave touched him as his hands clasped it, but the feeling was strange nonetheless. He felt somehow connected physically to everything and everyone in the room, as though he might influence them by mere thought even as he could control his own muscles by thinking. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he lifted the staff, as he saw the wizard do, and imagined the statue tipping slightly.
There was a loud crash, followed by a squawk from the duke. Triston opened his eyes and found everyone gawking at him. He looked at the pedestal and his own eyes widened. The statue lay in a crumble of ruins at their feet. Pieces of stone were still spinning and rolling everywhere.
Azerban seized the staff. “My, my” he said enthusiastically. “I better take this before you wreck the big one too.”
“Well, that settles that,” said the Seer, her eyes still popping as she looked at Triston. “Now, if my lords will excuse me, we really must be getting back to the Fane.” She bowed, then taking Triston firmly by the arm, began walking away.
“You two will be there for the big unveiling, cousin? It’s less than four hours away now,” Gubrius called after them in the flustered tones of one still recovering from surprise.
“I will be there,” the Seer called over her shoulder without slowing her pace.
Back in the bright square, eyes squinting in the sudden light, they found the Seer’s carriage, which her escort had managed to negotiate right up to the Firefount. They climbed in, and Triston faced the Seer.
“You were never with my father. Say it was a lie, now!”
“You have little room to speak of lies, young serpent. You have been most dishonest with me from the start, as that little display in there makes clear.”
“TELL ME YOU LIED TO THE DUKE! YOU WERE NEVER—” But the shouted words died as the Seer held up her ring and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.
“Silence! You will never disrespect me again or it will be the last thing you do. Driver! Takes us to the Fane. Now.”
Triston slumped against the window, the right side of his face smashed against the glass while his arms dangled uselessly at his side. He felt the Seer’s iron will overpowering his own, controlling his body as though he were one of the little dolls with strings tied to each limb he’d seen a vendor make dance for a gaggle of children earlier that day.
Beside him, Alessia was crying again. Through the window, the city rolled by. In a roped off ring, two chained minotaurs had locked horns, raining down fist blows while a throng of men cheered. More stone buildings swept past, the crowd thinning a little as they left the square behind.
“Now then,” came a hissing whisper close in his ear, “you feel the uselessness of resisting me, young fool.” He felt a sharp throb on his left cheek and became aware that he had punched himself. His left arm raised itself for a second blow. “I’ve made men choke themselves, stab their own hearts, jump into icy rivers for refusing me. Such will be your fate unless you tell me where it is!”
This time, he was aware of her order to his left arm to punch hard at his face. He felt his muscles strain to obey, but there was something else there, something dragging them back. His own will was resisting. The punch went w
ide and merely grazed his nose.
The Seer laughed cruelly. “You see! Your willpower is highly developed. Who trained you?” Triston glared. “Still not talking are we? Well, we’ll have to see to that. But you should have been more careful not to give yourself away.” He felt the burn of her will withdraw, and knew she’d released him.
“Crazy witch,” he spat. “I haven’t got it. I don’t know where it is! I don’t know anything.” For a moment, as he scowled at her still enchanting visage, he imagined his hands closing on her slender neck, squeezing. But once more the thought of Alden drove that idea from his mind.
“Don’t make me laugh. My eyes may have grown dim before their time, Triston. Long study of the cryptic records will do that to you. But I am not as blind as that yet.”
She spoke with increasing fervency, and the light of her ring waxed to match her voice, its emerald glow reflected demonically in her eyes. “All accounts agree this thing was hidden in your village in ancient days. Now, what with your father’s fiery legacy and the show you just put on for the duke, I cannot doubt the lost Relic of Magog has surfaced at last.”
Triston’s palms were dripping sweat like wet rags and his breath was coming in short gasps. The combination of fear and anger was like a constricting snake around his chest.
“Listen you, you evil—no, I’m sorry. Just listen. I’ve never heard of—”
“Very well boy. Keep playing your game for the time being. You only add to your own torment by resisting me. So be it.” She leaned forward again. “Do you know what inhabits this stone?”
Outside, Triston heard the clatter of the carriage wheels grow suddenly loud, and their pace quickened. A quick glance told him they had left the crowds behind and were now climbing the arc of a long stone bridge.
He turned back to the Seer. “Just let me and Ald go and I won’t tell a soul what I overheard.”
“A sylvana. A pathetic little wood fairy, or rather, the spirit of one.” She held the ring before his eyes so the dancing light filled his mind. “That’s all,” she went on, “But even the spirit of such an insignificant creature yields impressive command of the physical world to one whose will is trained to domination.”
The ring fell from his sight, and her face was back, so close their lips brushed as she spoke. “You’re lucky you met me, you know. To weave sorcery with my fairy ring, or the wizard’s imp staff, is one thing.”
The command came with no warning.
Triston tried to stiffen his will against it, but it was too late.
He felt his left arm strike his temple, and the right side of his face smashed against the carriage door. His vision blurred and his mind exploded with pain. The Seer’s face swam before him, twisting itself into dream-like contortions, now painfully beautiful, now hideous as a snake. He felt his head smash into the door again and darkness came. He seemed to be falling.
From far away, a musical voice drifted down into his consciousness.
“But you! To play at sorcery with the spirit of a dragon! It’s like I told your father. You’re lucky to be alive.”
NINE
FIEND AND FIRE
The gift of heaven to mankind is not intelligence. Is not all their history but a record of ignorance and vice? No, the power of men lives solely in their will to dominate.
—Arzule Letterforge, On Men, recovered from the dwarven ruins of Khorge
Stop. Make it stop.
Triston’s wrists were burning. His skull ached like a sledgehammer had been dropped on his head. He twisted painfully and awoke. The pain grew.
He found himself lying on his back on cold stone. His arms were beneath him, bound without mercy with ropes which cut into his skin. His left shoulder was on fire, probably ripped from its socket when they threw him to the floor.
Opening his eyes, he found no change in the utter blackness which engulfed him. Knowing there would be no escape from wherever he was, he nevertheless tried to stand, but a wave of agony washed over him and he fell back to the floor, breathing hard.
His eyes closed again of their own accord and his thoughts gave way to a waking dream. He was back in Wyrmskull, sitting at a rough, bareboard table. Every line and scratch was familiar, as was everything else in the little shop and one-room cottage which somehow were no longer a smoldering ash heap. Familiar hands, beautiful hands, delicate and wrinkled, placed a platter of bread and cheese before him, and he looked up into his mothers’ smiling eyes.
Except they weren’t his mothers’.
“No!” he shouted into the darkness. He heard footsteps echoing on a metallic surface somewhere above him, and a hated, melodious voice growing near.
She would not find him lying prostrate. Hardening his will, he slowly sat up, stinging pangs protesting every inch. Triston embraced the agony.
“If you’re not hurting, you’re not living,” Alden sometimes said.
Alden. Triston would never see him again. Neither would return to Wyrmskull alive.
Triston stood, swayed dangerously, unbalanced with his arms bound behind him, but remained upright. A metal door opened with a clang and light flooded in. He found he’d been cast into a stone-walled pit only a couple of feet taller than himself. Its sides were smooth and straight. Bound as he was, the pit might as well be a mile deep.
“Place his things on the table, Palpo, item by item. I want a complete inventory of everything.”
“Are we looking for contraband, mum?”
“Something like that. Here, give me the torch.” The light drew nearer and the Seer stepped into view above him. “And how are we doing down there?” she asked pleasantly. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Luskoll so far. Is it everything you expected?”
Triston’s voice was haggard and dry, but filled with defiance. “I heard the women here would take my breath away, but so far I’ve seen nothing but an old hag.” The joke was lame, and he’d probably just thrown away his last chance of being released alive, but he was grimly satisfied to see rose-hued blotches bloom on her face.
Behind her, the unseen man called Palpo let out a low whistle. “This what you were looking for, Your Grace?”
The Seer spun on the spot and hurried back to him. When she spoke a moment later, disappointment dripped from her words.
“Pitiful contraband. I thought, perhaps . . . but no, not yet. Still”—she stepped back to the pit and glowered down at him—“it might come in useful if the duke inquires too closely. Are you a muddler too, Trist,” she cooed, using the slang for sellers of exotic intoxicants, “or did your friend find your bag a convenient hiding place?”
Triston said nothing, but felt the blood drain from his face.
“Haiseroot, and are those Hellcaps?” she taunted. “Tut tut, my dear. What would your father say if he could see you now?”
Silence. He would not give her the satisfaction of knowing how much her words rankled.
“Dear Trinian. He was my favorite, you know. I was young then, but not inexperienced. Still, of all my lovers, he was the—”
“Burn in hell, witch.”
“Dear me, you do have a lack of proper respect. I think we’ll have to change that. Palpo?”
The man shuffled forward into the torchlight. “Your orders, mum?”
“You’ve finished the inventory? No? Well, I need a gate opened right away. Run and tell the porter, then come back and finish up after that.”
“Very well, Grace. You want number seven or nine? We can’t do eight because Boss is down with something awful. A grizzly that hacks up blood like a cat with ulcers is no good to—”
“I think number one is in order.”
The man took a step back and stared at her, unblinking. After a moment he managed a whining protest. “But the cagers are down at the carnival, mum, and I’m not trained to use the prods and sparkers. They don’t move number one without the whole team—”
“Do as you’re told, scribe, and don’t forget to whom you speak.” The man bowed and hurried away.
Triston waited for the fear to come, but was aware only of a consuming rage.
The Seer turned back to him, the excitement on her features appearing maniacal in the flickering torchlight. “Now, what shall we talk about while we wait for the scribe?”
“You know what the funny thing about all this is?” he said. “I don’t even have what you’re looking for. That’s my one satisfaction. You’re going to kill me like you killed—”
“Your father?” the Seer interjected with a little laugh. Triston stopped short, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat. He had been about to say Bullistrode, but now a new prospect, worse by far than anything he’d imagined, opened up before him at the Seer’s words.
“Ah yes, the dashing young warrior from Wyrmskull,” she mused. “Well, you can hardly blame me that I was smitten. We all were. You can’t imagine what a sensation he caused when he single-handedly drove back the Wildmen of the Wood. And the rumors of dark sorcery! Men feared him. Women swooned over his brawny arms and eyes like seething coals.
“I was young. New to the job. Old Begunda had just died tragically—someone had poisoned her they thought. I was the most promising acolyte, so the old duke, Gubrius’s father Corzin, appointed me. And then news of the attack reached Luskoll. Well, of course I had to journey to Wyrmskull to find out more.”
The Seer opened her mouth to go on, but her words were drowned by a sudden clamor behind Triston which made him jump. He heard a long, drawn-out grind of metal on metal, the creak of chains, then a resounding boom. Turning reluctantly, he now saw reflected dully in the yellow light at the far side of the pit a rusted grate, ominously wide, and closed fast for the moment.
“Of course, the other women’s lust was not my own. Men are useful, if a little stupid, but not worthy of obsessive love. But I wanted power, and I believed Trinian had it.”
