by Jack Massa
Instantly, he retreated back through the portal. It closed behind him in a burst of light and sizzling heat.
Cursing his failure, Pheng streamed up the tunnel of spaceless passage. Soon the rings of light dissolved around him. He stood once again in the underground tomb.
The belly wound caused a piercing ache; the Iruk’s sword had struck deep. Hissing, Pheng wiped his belly with a huge hand, stared at the dripping purple blood.
“My lord, you are hurt?” The witch Arkasha stared at him, pale and worried.
“Yes, I failed. This time. Come, place your hands on the wound. Assist me in regenerating the tissues.”
The witch hesitated, her face aghast.
“Come!”
Reluctantly, she sidled forward. Wincing, she placed both her hands over the wound and cast healing energies. As Clorodice’s senior subaltern, Arkasha had lately been assigned to stay continually in the tomb, attending to the phingarr’s needs. Plainly, she liked the duty less and less.
Pheng placed his hand over hers, adding his will to the staunching of blood and knitting of flesh. Opening his other hand, he examined the amulet still clutched there: a topaz stone set in a web of gold filaments.
He had taken this trinket from one of the lesser witches, then imbued it with the second flight talent stolen from the drell. At first, he had thought he would need to cut off the maid’s wings, but that had proven unnecessary. Simply stroking the delicate wings had given him the ability to siphon off their power. From there, it was a simple matter to encase the power in the amulet. Whole new worlds of knowledge were opening to his mind. He could scarcely remember the time when he shunned the studies of magic and sorcery.
In this first foray, the amulet had worked flawlessly. He had known that the Iruks occupied a residence in the Tuan’s palace. Once he mastered the skills of mental navigation, moving there through the corridors of light had been almost effortless. Had he not underestimated the barbarians’ vigilance, he would have carried off his prize.
He remembered Glyssa all too well, the one who had wielded the Cloak that morning in Fleevan and routed his forces. He had chosen her to be the first of the Iruks to feel his vengeance. Next time, he would be better prepared.
Now he grabbed Arkasha’s wrists and pushed her away.
“The bleeding has stopped. Enough for now. Bring food.”
Cringing from his touch, the witch slumped off. Across the tomb’s main chamber, she opened a cell and went inside. After a moment, she emerged, leading a small boy by the wrist. The child moved sleepily, his mind well-enthralled. The flesh would be tender. Pheng licked his lips.
His eyes roamed to the far wall, where the drell witch lay curled on a pile of straw in a corner of the light-cage. The phingarr needed the power drawn from her wings, and so he kept her alive. Still, he allowed himself a taste of her exotic blood every so often, scraping his talon over her skin. Soon, he thought, the Iruks would be caged beside her, and later, the witch Amlina. And when they all had been devoured, perhaps his cursed uncle the Duke and his equally treacherous sons … Perhaps, in time, even the witch Clorodice herself. How he would enjoy torturing all those who had betrayed and humiliated him.
Pheng sat down on the floor and picked up the boy with both hands.
“Do we still think we should not inform Amlina about what’s happening?”
Eben left the question hanging in the air for any of his mates to answer. The Iruks sat at the low table in their common room over a breakfast of rice cakes, fruit, and tea. They had just received a message from Amlina by courier, which Kizier had read aloud. The witch had noticed their absence at the Tournament events and simply inquired if all was well.
“All is not exactly well,” Eben added. “We are facing an enemy who carried off one of our friends, and has now attacked two of the klarn in their bed.”
“An enemy that Lonn’s sword drove off,” Draven pointed out.
Eben shrugged. “So you believe we should keep all this from Amlina?”
“I did not say that,” Draven answered.
“I think we must tell Amlina the truth,” Glyssa said. “She has a right to know. But we should not make the tale sound worse than it is, and not ask her to abandon the Tournament to come to our rescue. We are surely able protect ourselves, as Lonn proved last night.”
Eben leaned a hand on his chin. “I hope you are right about that.”
Their deliberations were interrupted by a butler approaching the table. “Your pardon, nobles. Guests are at the door: the Ambassador of the Drell and two of his attendants.”
Shortly, Prince Spegis and two drell maidens flew into the common room. As they landed, Eben saw that one of them was Allenawey, she who possessed the second flight.
“My friends, please pardon the intrusion.”
The Iruks rose from their bows.
“Of course.” Glyssa gestured at the breakfast table. “Will you sit? May we offer you refreshment?”
“Thank you. No. We are here because Lady Allenawey sensed a disturbance during the night, which she believed resulted from a manifestation of second flight. She was able to trace the source to this wing of the palace. When I learned your residence is here, we came at once. Did anything unusual occur in the time after midnight?”
“You could certainly say that,” Eben replied.
Lonn and Glyssa described the creature’s appearance in their bedroom and how Lonn stabbed it and drove it away. Lady Allenawey asked to examine the room. After flying around and touching all corners of the chamber, she reported definite traces of spaceless travel, but that the trail was now too faint to follow.
“If I may make a suggestion,” Prince Spegis said. “Having been thwarted in its purpose, the creature might attack again. If Lady Allenawey were on the scene, she might have a better chance of following.”
The Iruks all indicated agreement with the plan. “Lady Allenawey is welcome to stay with us for as long as she wishes,” Glyssa said.
Absorbed in her vision, Clorodice stared at the baleful countenance of the phingarr, reflected in the mental construct of a bronze mirror. Its form seethed with unbridled power.
The beast was becoming too hard to manage. Increasingly, the phingarr seemed to yield up the power grudgingly, to retain more and more for himself. In the formulation contest, Clorodice had succeeded in bolstering Elani’s performance, such that she finished second and was now tied for second place overall. But Amlina had finished third. Clorodice’s efforts to sabotage the renegade were not as successful as they should have been.
It might be necessary after all to destroy the phingarr once the Tournament was done. That course too had its dangers. Clorodice’s life-force was now so enmeshed with the anti-self that killing the creature while preserving her own mortal life would, by all accounts, be a delicate operation.
But first she must tend to the Tournament and ensure that Elani won the Cloak. For a period of time she channeled psychic power to her apprentice, strengthening her for the upcoming contests.
Then Clorodice turned her thoughts on Amlina, whom Clorodice still perceived as the most dangerous threat. Tomorrow’s event was trinketing, an art on which Amlina prided herself. The trinkets of all the contestants were already forged, of course. Clorodice’s chance would come at the moment the magic of Amlina’s trinket was unleashed. With pure shaping power drawn from the phingarr, she would tamp down the trinket’s effect.
Then another idea came to mind—Amlina’s sponsor, Melevarry. Was the Mage of Randoon casting hidden power to influence the Tournament, even as Clorodice herself? Highly improbable. Probing at the notion, Clorodice verified it was not so. And yet, Amlina plainly drew emotional support from her patron. Would removing that support undermine Amlina’s confidence? Might that be enough to tip the scales for the Tournament’s later events?
The idea appealed. Melevarry was herself a low-born witch from the provinces, her attitudes permissive, her positions
in Council often hostile to those favored by Clorodice and the Thread of Virtue. It was only because of Melevarry’s sponsorship that Amlina was even considered a candidate for Keeper of the Cloak.
Yes. Upon rightful reflection, Clorodice concluded she was justified in launching an attack on the Mage of Randoon. And this was something she could do without drawing on the phingarr.
Rising from her meditations, she walked to a secret cupboard and gathered the materials she would need—candles, a brass brazier, a witch’s knife, tinctures, and oils. She filled the brazier with charcoal and placed it on a table. She set the candles in a half-circle in front of the brazier—all except one. That candle she carved into a rough approximation of a woman’s form.
Whispering her intentions, Clorodice lit the charcoal and then the candles one-by-one. Chanting, she poured the oils and tinctures into the flames. As the fires burned she continued to chant, affirming again and again that the carved waxen image was identical to Melevarry, the Mage of Randoon.
Finally, the moment came. Clorodice unleashed her magic and dropped the carved candle into the flames. She gazed wide-eyed as it sizzled and burned.
Thirty-One
The seven witches competing in the Tournament had been assigned private rooms in a residential wing of Ting Ta Roo. On the morning of the third event, as Amlina dressed for the procession to the Circle of Sublime Balance, she was interrupted by a knock on her door. She opened it to find a chamberlain in the company of a courier from the palace. Amlina was handed a scroll bound by a wax seal.
Unrolling it, she found a letter written in Kizier’s hand. In response to her message from the day before, he assured her first that he and the Iruks were neither sick nor injured. But Amlina read in growing alarm as the rest of the letter disclosed her friends’ situation. Eben had been assaulted and Trippany carried off. Everyone believed the attacker was the same ogre reported to have committed murders in the outer city. Two nights later, the creature appeared from nowhere to attack Glyssa and Lonn in their bed. Kizier took pains to make it clear that the mates felt able to defend themselves and did not want Amlina to quit the Tournament. They had enlisted the aid not only of the Tuan’s Imperial Guard, but the Drell Ambassador Prince Spegis and his warriors.
Amlina had not even finished the letter when another crisis snatched her attention. A neophyte witch appeared in the doorway to announce that Lady Melevarry begged Amlina to attend her. The Mage of Randoon had fallen ill and was unable to leave her apartment.
Hurrying to the Mage’s chambers, Amlina found her sponsor lying in bed, attended by her apprentice Wenpheenae Chon and another witch who wore a healer’s sash. Two maid servants stood nearby. The air held a close, sickly smell.
Melevarry appeared withered, as if her very life force had been drained. Amlina intuitively recognized the signs of a magical attack. Glancing warily at the others present, she kept that thought to herself.
In a parched and shaky voice, Melevarry asked to be left alone with Amlina and Wenpheenae. When the others had gone, the Mage took hold of Wenpheenae’s hand. She fixed Amlina with a bleary eye.
“You see what has happened to me?”
“You were attacked, I think.”
The Mage nodded. “A potent and malicious mind, scrupulously hidden.”
Acting instinctively, Amlina laid her hands on the Mage’s chest and used pure shaping to send healing energy. Melevarry looked surprised, then relaxed into a peaceful smile.
“Thank you, my dear. But you must save your strength for the Tournament.”
Amlina stiffened. The Mage struck down, her friends at the palace attacked, an ogre out of ancient legend loose in the city. All of that added to the mysterious power interfering with her actions on the stage. All linked, she thought, by some hidden purpose.
“With all the potent evil at work,” she murmured, “my ambition to win the Tournament hardly seems to matter.”
“No, you are wrong,” Melevarry whispered. “A conspiracy is afoot, to be sure. More, it comes from within the House of the Deepmind. Wenpheenae’s deepsight and mine both agree on this. But as Mage of Randoon, I have little importance in Minhang. Why should the conspirators attack me—unless to undermine you? Whatever their ultimate goals may be, it appears ever more critical that the Cloak be won by a witch who can be trusted—trusted to act nobly and serve the Land righteously …”
Her voice trailed off as she struggled to breathe. Amlina squeezed her hand. On the other side of the bed, Wenpheenae’s face was etched with grief.
“My noble Amlina,” Melevarry sighed. “I am sorry I cannot stand on the stage with you today. But you must go there and do your best.”
“Barang-xing, commonly known as trinketing. In this art, the witch generates a magical design and binds it to a material object, allowing the power to be unleashed by another person at another time.” Standing before the crowd, under a pale and cloudless sky, the Mistress of the Tournament described the third trial. “As chosen by lot, the seven contestants will display their trinkets to our esteemed judges and then unleash their designs here on-stage. As with yesterday’s event, the effects will be evaluated on the bases of potency, presumed difficulty, and style.”
Amlina scarcely listened, her thoughts lost and ominous. The friends she held dearest in the world were in danger. A compulsion to rush to their aid gripped her. Yet she had promised Melevarry that she would continue the competition. And that was what Kizier and the Iruks also urged. The Imperial Guard, the Archimage’s Council were both battling the threat. For Amlina to believe she could do more was arrogant and foolish. No, she must keep her promise to Melevarry and do her best.
Her purpose was to serve the Land as Keeper of the Cloak. But was that still even possible?
Full of foreboding, Amlina watched as the witches walked forward one by one to show their trinkets.
Von LuiTong held up a lacquered tortoise shell. When she set it on the stage, a giant, living tortoise seemed to hover above it. Slowly, it rotated in the air, the shell flashing with ideograms foretelling good fortune for the Tuan and the Land.
Elani Vo T’ang displayed a snow globe, then dashed it on the floor. As it shattered, a blinding snowstorm blew out of the sky, winds shrieking. The blizzard lasted the space of several heartbeats, then just as suddenly vanished.
Tolanga of Gon Fu’s trinket produced a warrior drog that strutted across the stage, waving twin swords. Shen Tra Lo opened a vial of green glass, producing a spume of purple smoke. From the smoke emerged a book with arms and legs, which walked about the stage and answered questions shouted by the crowd.
When Amlina’s turn came, she produced from her robe her necklace fashioned of silver and garnets. Holding it high, she tapped each red stone in turn. The garnets emitted their cheerful music—tunes of harp, flute, and drum that echoed over the plaza.
Even as the charm spread, Amlina felt less power in it than she expected. Had the hidden interference struck again, diminishing the trinket’s effect? Yes, perhaps. But she also had to admit that several of the competitor’s entries were more impressive. In constructing her trinket, she had scrupulously avoided using techniques she had learned outside of Larthang, for fear they might be noticed and disqualify her work. Maybe she had been too cautious.
The final contestants displayed their trinkets, and then the judges tallied the scores. When the golden cloud appeared overhead, Amlina’s heart sank.
All her hopes had been pinned on today’s event. Finishing sixth, she now stood at ten points total, fifth in the list. Even if she won tomorrow’s event, magical combat, she would most likely finish outside the top three.
She had done her best it seemed, and she had failed.
When the procession returned to the House of the Deepmind, Amlina stepped down from the chariot but did not go inside. Instead she wandered off, thinking a walk through the city, away from the House of Witches where she had been sequestered for so long, might clear
her head.
Still wearing the ceremonial robes of the competition, she roamed back along the wide North Road, lined with civic buildings and mansions with their gated entryways and walled gardens. The crowds had thinned, festival goers heading off to their dinners or evening entertainments along the canals. The sky grew dim, a wet cold breeze blowing from the north.
Dusk had fallen by the time she returned to the Circle of Sublime Balance. The witchlight bubbling up from the huge fountain shimmered in the gloom. Amlina stared for a time at the center of the pool, where porcelain statues spouted their many jets of bright water. Eventually, she circled around and marched up the East Road. As she walked toward the Tuan’s palace, a cold rain began to fall.
The sentries at the monumental gates were surprised by her appearance—a witch in fine robes arriving unescorted at dusk, soaked from the rain. Extra security was in force, and the guards held her until a captain could be summoned. This officer recognized Amlina from both the Tournament and her past residence in the palace. Still, because of his strict orders, he would not simply admit the witch to the palace grounds. Instead, he sent a guard to the Iruks’ apartment. A while later the man returned, followed by Brinda. The Iruk woman wore linen clothing but carried sword and dagger in her belt. She confirmed Amlina’s identity and that she was a welcome visitor.
“Your Larthangan is much improved,” Amlina observed as they marched along the peristyle of a vast courtyard. Brinda, who seldom spoke at all, had conversed fluently with the captain.
The Iruk showed a faint smile. “Yes. We have all been working hard on the language. Even Karrol is improving. Why are you here?”
Amlina gazed straight ahead. “Because I needed to be with my friends.”
“I thought you had to stay in House of Witches.”
“Not strictly speaking. The isolation is recommended, but not required or enforced. I received Kizier’s letter. Is all well with you?”
