Tournament of Witches

by Jack Massa

  “Celebrating,” she cried. “For three small-months I’ve been confined in Ting Ta Roo, atoning for my misdeeds. Now I am free again!”

  On the stage, the poet was still intoning and plucking his lute. Audience members turned to cast dour looks and wave for the pair to be quiet.

  “Let us go where we can talk,” Eben whispered.

  They wound their way to the rear of the garden, where a fountain of green marble splashed and paper lanterns hung on strings.

  “Will you take some wine with me?” Trippany asked.

  “Gladly.”

  The drell flew off and presently returned holding two goblets. Fluttering to the ground, she handed him one. With an enticing smile, she touched her cup to his and they drank.

  “That is lovely,” she said. “I have not tasted wine since the night before we parted in Randoon. Perhaps tonight I have tasted too much.”

  “Your punishment was not harsh, I hope,” Eben said.

  “Oh, no. Tedious rather. I spent thirty days scrubbing floors and reading in a cell, reviewing the adages of ‘proper respect and obedience to senior witches.’ My mentor understood why I disobeyed the Mage. And Lady Melevarry, I believe, did not ask for severe punishment.”

  “I am glad,” Eben said. “You deserved reward rather than punishment. We might not have gotten out of that dungeon without your help.”

  She lowered her eyes, smiling. “And how is your wound?”

  “Oh, mostly healed.” The hair had grown back, though it was still shorter where the scalp had been shaved. To hide the conspicuous scar, Eben had taken to wearing the sort of cap favored by court musicians. His klarnmates liked to tease him with the Larthangan word for ‘dandy.’ Timidly, he pulled off the cap to show her.

  Trippany winced, then hurried to offer a sympathetic smile. “I am glad it is healing. Where are your companions tonight?”

  Eben smoothed the cap back in place. “Gone to bed early. They do not enjoy poetry so much as I.”

  “You are a lover of poetry? You continue to surprise me, Eben. You are both wild and civilized—rather like my people.”

  “Well, I don’t know how civilized. But I do find the poetry is helping me polish my language skill.”

  “Yes!” She seemed to suddenly recall that, on earlier meetings, they had spoken only Tathian. “You speak now very well. I am impressed.”

  He waved the compliment aside. They gazed into each other’s eyes.

  Presently, Trippany put down her goblet and took hold of his wrist. “Shall we walk?”

  Like one in a dream, Eben allowed her to lead him. They strolled under a flowering arch and into a maze of hedges. Grizna was a rose-colored shape at the peak of the sky, a face wearing a mysterious smile.

  Holding his hand, Trippany stopped beside a jade statue of a graceful crane bending over to drink. “I have thought about you often,” she said.

  “I have thought of you very often,” Eben confessed.

  Staring at her shiny black eyes, he saw amusement, perhaps desire. He leaned close to kiss her. She pressed a finger to his lips, giggled, then flew away.

  “Wait!” Eben stumbled as he tried to follow.

  Laughing, she swooped down the path. As she turned a corner, she glanced over her shoulder. Eben ran after her. When he got to the corner, she was gone.

  He looked around, called her name. She answered with laughter, and he looked up. She floated down near him. He reached up a hand and she darted out of reach.

  She continued the game and Eben continued to chase her. Twice more she disappeared, only to show herself when he thought she was lost. Finally, when they were deep in the maze and far from anyone, she settled to the ground. As he walked near, she held out her arms in their gauzy sleeves.

  Eben kissed her. Their lips opened and his tongue slipped over her pointy teeth.

  Breathing hard, he stared at her shiny eyes. “I have often wondered, “ he said, “with your wings and delicate bodies, how your people make love.”

  “Oh, much like your people, I should say.” She touched a fingertip to his chin. “Of course, there are differences.”

  “I would be very interested to learn,” Eben avowed. “If you might show me some time?”

  She grinned, unabashed. “Why not now?”

  Twenty

  At dawn on the appointed day, Melevarry came to Amlina’s cell. The Mage was clothed in silver ceremonial robes and headpiece and carried a staff topped by a black onyx the size of her fist.

  Amlina had already risen, bathed, and dressed. She wore her best witch’s robe and all of her bangles and rings—trinkets with magical properties she had fashioned over the years. On her head was the moonstone fillet, imbued with protective power.

  Melevarry scrutinized her and nodded approval. From within her sleeve she removed something—Amlina’s dagger in its scabbard, which the Mage had taken away when Amlina first came here. “You will need this as well.”

  Amlina took the dagger and attached it to her belt.

  “If you are ready,” the Mage said, “we shall begin.”

  Amlina followed into the corridor, crossing the threshold for the first time in more than a month. During that time, the strict routines of diet and physical and mental exercises had nourished and strengthened her. She felt more alert and calm than she had for a long time—ready to face the trials ahead and whatever future the Deepmind might decree.

  Melevarry walked in silence to the stairs at the end of the passage. They had used these same stairs to descend to this level. Now they went down farther, the air stale and humid, their shuffling footsteps the only sound. When the lamplight from the passage above was lost, the stone in the Mage’s staff flickered to life—casting a faint, golden witchlight.

  Down and down they walked, till Amlina lost count of the number of floors they had passed. She understood there were crypts at some of these levels, tombs of witches from ages past, as well as vaults and chambers where magic ceremonies were practiced in earliest times.

  Finally, the Mage halted on a landing before an arched portal. There still seemed to be many flights of steps below, and this landing looked no different than many others. Beyond the arch lay an alcove and an iron door. Melevarry took a key from within her robe and turned it in the keyhole. The door moved sideways, creaking on metal wheels as it slid into the wall.

  “This is the way to the Labyrinth of Gar Tuo,” Melevarry said. “In ancient times, neophyte witches entered here for trials of initiation. It was also used to purify ones who had strayed from the rightful path—as we shall use it today. Come.”

  She reached out her hand. Amlina grasped it, and they stepped across the threshold. They moved in silence down the passageway. From what Amlina could see, both walls and floor were made of plain black stone.

  Presently, they came to an alcove. Melevarry stopped and directed Amlina to look. A shimmer of light appeared. Within floated a face like an ancient mask. The mask spoke in a soft and hollow tone.

  “Why are you here?”

  The language was Old Larthangan. Melevarry answered: “This one must be purified.”

  “What is her stain?”

  “Answer, Amlina,” Melevarry prompted.

  She had not been prepared for this. The exact details of the rite had deliberately been kept from her. She struggled to frame a reply and to call up her command of the old language.

  “I am tainted, stained by blood magic.”

  “Are you still wed to these practices?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I wish to be healed.”

  “Surrender something, and move on.”

  Unsure, she turned to the Mage.

  “Leave some of your jewelry,” Melevarry said. “Eventually, you will need to surrender all.”

  Amlina removed her bracelets and set them on the floor.

  Melevarry nodded to show her approval. She took Amlina’s hand and led on. They reached a corner, turned, and tr
aversed another passage. At the end, they found another alcove. A curtain of light rippled inside and once more the mask appeared.

  How much of this magic came from designs cast by Melevarry and how much from the ancient labyrinth itself, Amlina could not say. She guessed it was some combination of both.

  “What has the stain done to you?” the voice asked her.

  She cast a helpless glance at Melevarry, whose look indicated that she must answer for herself.

  “It has … Sometimes it fills me with rage and power. Other times it … eats me inside. It hungers for more and more power, and when I deny it, it … feasts on my heart.”

  A mind seemed to probe at her, an ancient presence reading her spirit.

  “You know the truth of it. Surrender something and pass on.”

  Amlina placed her dagger on the floor. Melevarry led her away.

  They walked down a side corridor. The air grew warmer and wetter, tingling on Amlina’s face. Or was that a perception caused by increased sensitivity?

  They stopped before another alcove and again the mask appeared. “What do you love?”

  A completely unexpected question. Amlina contemplated, asking herself. Draven came to mind, and Glyssa and the rest of her crew. “A certain man. My friends.”

  “What else?”

  She examined her heart. “Witchery. Constructing trinkets, weaving designs. I love the energy I feel, and the power to make effects in the world.”

  The mask scrutinized her. “Surrender these and move on.”

  That was the point, Amlina realized with a pang. To be purified she must surrender everything, including her love and her power. As a token of this, she removed her rings and set them carefully down.

  “Come.” Melevarry touched her arm.

  Amlina walked on, fearful and tingling, as if layers of her skin were being peeled away.

  Passing through two more corridors, they came to another alcove. This time the floating mask said: “To what do you aspire?”

  “Peace,” Amlina answered. Then, pondering, she had to admit there was more. “Achievement, recognition … to be of service to the Land.” The last surprised her. Yet that aspiration had grown the more she used the Cloak. Larthang was her home, and the kingdom was troubled. She felt called to help.

  “Surrender these and move on.”

  Amlina removed her moonstone fillet, her last and most loved piece of jewelry. She set it on the floor.

  “Come.” Melevarry was already moving down the passage.

  Amlina followed, numb inside. Now it almost seemed that her skin was gone, her flesh fading away.

  At the end of a long corridor they came to a door of ribbed iron. They stepped close and Amlina spied blue light fluctuating on the metal surface. This time no mask appeared, only the voice.

  “What do you fear?”

  The question struck a note of terror at her heart. “The dark power, the rage that is inside me.”

  An image appeared in the blue light, looming large as it seemed to flow toward her—Beryl, the Archimage.

  “What else?” Beryl’s voice cried.

  “That I will be destroyed.”

  Beryl vanished, and other forms drew near: witches in the robes of the Academy, the shades of teachers who had treated her with contempt. “What else? What else?” they cried.

  Amlina searched her mind. She shuddered at the answer: “That I deserve to be destroyed, because I am unworthy.”

  “What else?” Another face joined the witches: Amlina’s mother. The vision of this ghost terrified her—a haughty, angry woman who had ruled their home like a tyrant, who had never loved her.

  “What else?” she screamed.

  “That I am worthless. That I am nothing.”

  The blue light vanished, leaving her staring at the bare black iron.

  “What does the Canon say that we are?” Melevarry asked gently.

  Amlina stared up at the tip of the Mage’s staff, which now cast the only light. Her own voice seemed to come from far away.

  “We are only thoughts of the Deepmind, waves on the surface that rise and disappear.”

  “What else?”

  “That we have purpose.”

  The iron door rumbled open. The Mage smiled. “Surrender all and move on.”

  Amlina gazed down at her empty hands. “But I have nothing left.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Oh, I see.” Amlina said. All must be surrendered.

  She bent and removed her shoes, then straightened and pulled the heavy robe up over her head. After stripping off her shift, she stared uncertainly at the Mage.

  “Go ahead,” Melevarry said. “You are ready now.”

  Naked, Amlina stepped through the doorway. Gray light emanated from the walls, enough for her to discern that she stood in a square chamber some thirty paces across. A square arrangement of steps led down to a square opening in the floor—an inky blackness. Not knowing what else to do, Amlina walked down the steps.

  All must be surrendered. She was nothing. With these thoughts, the dark rage crawled to life inside her. Pain writhed in her chest. Looking down, she envisioned the scarlet worms eating at her heart. But they seemed weaker now, their power diminished by the month-long solitude and preparations, by her passing through the labyrinth and sacrificing everything.

  She was nothing. She recalled what the Iruk shaman had said, that at bottom, her affliction was nothing, a void she must allow herself to release.

  She reached the bottom of the steps and peered down into the dark. It seemed bottomless, silent as death.

  She stepped off the edge.

  As she fell, terror blazed inside her. She surrendered to it. It did not matter. She was only a thought. Red sparks rushed up past her eyes. Detached from her heart, the worms flew away into the void.

  Her body faded to nothing …

  In a vision, she marched into a grand rectangular hall with redwood pillars and white, opalescent floor. On a dais at the far end of the chamber sat a throne, black but swirling with iridescent colors. A man in multicolored robes detached himself from the throne and walked toward her. As he moved, he seemed to fracture, splitting into more and more persons—like an infinity of images seen in two facing mirrors. Drawing near, the figures coalesced into one—a man of noble mien, broad-shouldered, ageless. Amlina gasped as she spotted scarlet worms writhing around his heart.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am the Land.” The words reverberated as though spoken by countless voices. “As you see, I am infested. Lust for power has corrupted many. The world is out of balance.”

  “That is why you have been called here.” Amlina’s shoulders jumped as a woman strode up beside her—a tall witch, of solemn countenance, dressed in ancient fashion. Amlina peered hard. She had seen this woman before.

  “Throughout time, the Sacred Balance is established, then lost. The current problems began a century ago, when Beryl stole the Cloak of the Two Winds. Since then, the world has been disrupted, drifting toward chaos.”

  Now Amlina recognized the woman, from images she had seen on statues and paintings. Eglemarde, the Weaver of the Winds.

  “You have returned the Cloak to Larthang,” Eglemarde said. “But now others seek to possess it, to feed their ambitions and cravings for power. You, Amlina, are charged with keeping the Cloak from them, and to use it only as it was meant to be used—to heal the Land and maintain the Sacred Balance.”

  Amlina felt the truth of these words in her deepest soul. All the twists and turns of her strange, wandering life had led her to this. To serve the Land as Keeper of the Cloak: this was her purpose.

  Staring at the visage of Eglemarde, she gave a shaky laugh. “When I leave here and return to the surface world, I will likely have a hard time believing this. I always think I have too high an idea of my own importance.”

  “Ha!” Eglemarde answered. “So too did I.”

  The bright hall faded. Amlina’s body floated m
otionless in darkness.

  Blue witchlight flickered below her feet.

  She began to rise. The witchlight was a power that both lifted her body and filled its every fiber. Riding the power, she floated up out of the pit, above the level of the steps, high toward the vaulted ceiling. The entire chamber pulsed with blue light.

  All the rage and fear were gone.

  Naked, full of power, she willed her body to drift to the floor. Her bare feet settled easily on the stone.

  At the doorway she met Melevarry, who scrutinized her.

  “You are purified,” the Mage said.

  “Yes. And I know my purpose.”

  

  Dressed in her robe and shoes again, Amlina followed Melevarry back through the tunnels of the labyrinth. Her steps came with an easy balance, her spirit calm and poised. Had she ever felt so strong and certain?

  Stopping at each alcove, she retrieved her fillet, rings, and dagger. Reaching the first alcove, she bent to pick up her bracelets.

  A voice cried out in her mind. “Look up!”

  Even as she recognized the voice, Amlina flicked up her eyes, spotted a shadow in the darkness. She flung her body aside just in time.

  A tiny feathered dart clattered as it struck the wall beside the alcove. Amlina leaped up and summoned her power. She swept out her hand in time to deflect a second dart. Instinct told her they were poisoned.

  “Halt!” Melevarry commanded, raising her staff and casting its light toward the attacker.

  The witchlight shone on a slim man dressed in the scale armor of the Warriors of the Chrysalis. Instead of the usual pike or sword, he held a bamboo tube. The light showed him inserting another dart.

  “Halt, I say!” Melevarry’s voice conveyed her power.

  The assassin’s hands fell to his sides, the bamboo dropping from his fingers. His eyes were wide and blank—the eyes of a thrall, a mind-slave.

  “Down on your knees!” The Mage strode toward the man. “Tell me who sent you.”

  For an instant, the thrall hesitated, unsure. Then instead of kneeling he whirled and fled into the darkness.

  The Mage lowered her staff, but kept it’s light at high intensity. She knelt to pick up the discarded tube. “A blowgun,” she muttered. “Used for hunting in the jungles of Zindu. Not a Larthangan weapon, but useful for assassins.” She slipped it into her robe.