“What’s the secret?”
“Not now. You need no help when it comes to explosions.”
Graegor hadn’t really expected Contare to tell him right now anyway. “Traugott sounds like a Telgard name.”
“It is.”
“I thought the firework priests were from Adelard.”
“The brotherhood fled to Adelard from Telgardia over four hundred years ago, when your family lost the throne.”
Graegor was startled. “My ancestors knew about fireworks?”
“The Traugotts were closely associated with the royal house, so, yes—some younger sons of Torchanes kings did join the brotherhood.”
“They were real lightning-riders, then.”
Contare laughed. “Yes.”
“None of the priests have ever told the secret?”
“They consider it a sacred pledge, to God and to the Hierarchs.”
“So the firework priests will never turn heretic. Will they?”
“I hope not.” Worry overlaid Contare’s presence in his mind. “These heresies are out of control. They’re tearing the north apart, even without rockets.”
Graegor had heard that the lords of Adelard and Thendalia were raising armies to crush the roving peasant bands who had joined the heretics. He hoped that Tabitha’s father’s duchy was still peaceful.
The staging platform seemed to be flat now, and four or five hunched-over priests were moving carefully around and across it. “What are they doing now?”
“Laying burn lines. They lay them so that they only have to light the first one, and then as the lines burn, each rocket is launched at the right time.”
“How much longer until it starts?”
“When the priests run away, it’s about to start.”
It seemed to take a while, and Graegor’s attention started to drift, but then the priests abruptly sprinted from the platform, where a small cloud of smoke was rising. A thump, a hiss—and a bright red star bloomed above the Hippodrome and broke into a million tiny sparks that covered half the sky.
The Hippodrome erupted in a noise to rival anything Graegor had heard yet. But after the first burst of cheers and shouts, most of the crowd was too enthralled to do anything but watch. Yellow, white, and blue fireworks followed red, then a line of smaller green bursts fountained up and trailed down, the afterglow looking like a row of willow trees. A spark shot into the air, climbing higher than all the others, and broke into a white circle; another, beside it, broke into another white circle, then seven more circles appeared in rapid succession. For an instant, a circle of circles hung above the hundred thousand gathered together on this Equinox night to honor the new sorcerers.
There was a pause, during which the crowd found their voices again, and Graegor added his, standing and clapping like Arundel and Ilene were. Reflexively he turned to see Tabitha’s reaction, but it was too dark.
Suddenly every nerve in Graegor’s body flared hot, and he spun around as Contare and Josselin and everyone surged to their feet. Power like streaks of colored light blazed past the dark purple shields around Graegor’s mind even as the bright real light of a cluster of fireworks shot straight at his eyes.
“Get down!” Contare’s voice speared into Graegor’s brain at the same instant that his silvery bond with Tabitha turned molten with her terror. Torn, he stood there as the fireworks flew over his head, but then someone grabbed his arm and yanked him down to the marble floor.
“Lasfe!”
So many minds, so close—so strong! His medallion was hot against his chest. Through Contare he could sense the Eighth Circle, their power forging air into a wall of steel, mental shields becoming true shields held against the rockets still launching from the platform.
Magic crashed over him like water, red with an orange cast that to him meant Essena—either Rossin or Lord Lasfe. Then something big as a boulder was falling from the roof above the box seats. His whirling mind tied to Contare’s, he knew it was a barrel of black powder, and he saw a rocket burst beside it—Josselin was right there—they hurled it straight up, up, up—it flashed—
His head seemed to split apart under the sound of the explosion, and then he could barely hear anything. He couldn’t see—he rolled onto his stomach, trying to get his feet under him, but his hands slipped in a puddle of wine and all his weight seemed to come down on his chin as it hit the floor. Tabitha was in shock, there was blood everywhere, he had to get to her—strong winds scattered the ashes of the barrel—water, Contare was pulling every particle of water from the island’s night air and funneling it at the fireworks platform, to douse the burn lines and kill the rockets.
Again Graegor tried to get up, tried to keep his own power locked into his shields as he felt the spinning purple knot straining toward the magic that was rising from everywhere. His quarterstaff was in his hands, and he braced one end to the floor to help himself stand. Another rush of power from Contare—then white light and sharp shadows fell across the box seats, and Graegor’s ears seemed to pop open. Right next to him Lord Henrey was wincing and holding his arm tightly to his chest.
Jeffrei— He stretched his mind across his telepathic link to his friend, hoping he had enough control to get through. Relief flooded him when Jeff quickly answered without words—he was all right, and so were Patrick and Marcus and all their other friends. They were at the doors at the main archway where they had processed in. Were the fireworks launching at the sorcerers?
Graegor also didn’t bother with words, sending to Jeff what pieces of the confusion he could organize in his head, but then his concentration slipped and he lost the link. It was Contare ... Contare and his Circle were doing something ...
A scream somewhere close faded, and stopped. Graegor felt his own breathing slowing down, his death-grip on the quarterstaff easing, his fractured thoughts smoothing over. Contare and Josselin and the others were melting the shield wall, sending its power into the air in cool waves, to stop the crowds of people crushing each other into the aisles to escape.
Graegor had wondered how a sorcerer could put down a riot, and now he saw one smothered before it truly came to life. The stadium was too big, and most of it too dark, for anyone not in the immediate area to realize that what had happened was not part of the show. But panic had overtaken the packed stands around the box seats, and the rows of empty benches gave stark contrast to the scrambling tangle of bodies trying to push down the stairs. As Graegor helped Lord Henrey to his feet, he saw in Contare’s mind the effect of the Circle’s magic on the crowd.
The shouts and cries stopped first, giving way to normal breathing, slowing heartbeats. The feeling of danger had gone, and as people realized that, they stopped shoving each other, stopped needing to get anywhere. Slowly, like a heavy wheel grinding to a halt, the people separated from each other. They backed away, filled up some of the empty rows, and, almost one by one, sat down again, with the sense of being very tired and a little drunk.
Circle-bound magi moved among them, finding those who were hurt, kneeling to work their healing magic. Magi women gathered up stunned children separated from their parents. Large magi manned the doors to ensure that no one got in or out. And the magi with the talent for extended sight were looking for the rogues.
Rogue magi—the firework priests aren’t heretics, they’re rogues, and they just tried to kill us!
“Not the priests,” Contare told him at once, and Graegor felt himself jerked back from the edge of panic. “The rogues lifted the staging platform.”
Of course—winch the edge of the platform up, and the rockets would be aimed not at the sky, but at the sorcerers ...
Graegor shook himself back to where he was standing, what he could see with his own eyes under the bright globes that now hovered directly overhead. Lord Henrey was still holding his arm close to his chest, but his bony face was set in telepathic concentration. Contare and Josselin, their hands joined, were turned to the left, gazing over the quieting crowd. Beyond them, Koren�
�s tiny form was supporting another woman, easing her into a chair, and the light showed dark red patches that would become bruises on both their faces.
Lord Pascin was standing at the front edge of the dais, with several bright-lit globes hovering over him. His voice was amplified, and everyone in the Hippodrome could hear him as he explained that something had gone wrong with the fireworks. He asked that everyone stay in their seats. The doors would be opened soon, a section at a time, so that everyone could go home.
Graegor hoped that they would do as they were told and stay put. Until the Circle-bound magi found the rogues, they couldn’t let anyone leave. Under his shirt his medallion still felt warm, and was sticking to his skin. He looked at the row of chairs behind him and saw Karl, unhurt, and like Lord Henrey, standing very still with his eyes unfocused. The other Telgard and Khenroxan magi seemed to be safe, and so did the Tolanders in the third row behind them. But on Karl’s other side, three empty seats away, Ilene and a group of Medean magi were clustered tensely around one of their own, lying on the floor.
Tabitha—oh, God, what about Tabitha—she was still in shock—the blood—
He used his quarterstaff to push through the second row of chairs, trying to see her. He thought he saw her chair—it was turned into the curtain behind it—there, he could see the white of her dress, she was still there, but she was leaning over the chair arm, looking down at the floor behind her. Was she sick?—Was she hurt? He scrambled up to the third row and knelt by her chair’s other arm, and she sensed him and turned to look at him.
Her grey eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them, her cheeks drained of color and her lips parted in trembling breaths. The silver cords binding them still pulsed hot and raw, as if new-forged. She was so unnerved, she couldn’t keep up any pretenses, and he could tell that his being there made her feel better, safer.
This filled his heart like air filling his lungs, and he touched her sleeve. A tiny violet fell from her hair onto his arm.
“Shit!”
The single explosive curse came from Lord Natayl. Graegor finally noticed the old Thendal sorcerer on the other side of Tabitha’s chair, sitting back on his heels on the floor, his face contorted with rage. And there was blood soaking his clothes, blood covering his hands, blood splattered on the white curtains tangled among the overturned chairs. Graegor stood up and saw someone lying on the floor behind Tabitha’s chair, and it took him a long, horrified moment to recognize King Motthias.
His throat was gone, torn out by the impact of the firework that had left char and ash all over him. The pool of blood beneath him was as big as a puddle in the rain, and what was left of his face looked like melted wax.
“You are useless!” Lord Natayl shouted at Tabitha, who flinched back from him. “Why did it have to be you?”
Tabitha just stared back at him, and Graegor’s hands clenched on his quarterstaff.
“Stop the bleeding!” the old sorcerer raged. “That was all you had to do!”
“But I can’t ...” she protested, her voice very small, but Lord Natayl would have none of it.
“You didn’t need magic, you needed to do what I told you—press your hands over the artery! Just for a moment until I got back! Instead you sat there and watched him bleed out!”
The dark purple core of Graegor’s power spun even faster, and suddenly Lord Natayl looked at him. They glared at each other while between them Tabitha shrank smaller in her chair. Graegor didn’t care if Lord Natayl was her master—no one had the right to shame her like that, no matter what. Lord Natayl’s power churned like a winter storm, and he did not care if Graegor could break the earth apart, no one told him how to discipline his apprentice. Fierce winds threatened to spawn thunder—lightning—
Suddenly Graegor sensed Contare’s presence. But the calm blue waters had turned icy, and Graegor truly did not know if Contare meant for him to hear what he said. “You created this.” He was speaking to Lord Natayl, whose glare sank even deeper. “If he wants to, I can’t and won’t stop him.”
The Thendal sorcerer made no reply. After a frozen moment Contare asked, “Are you going to summon the king’s guards and tell them what happened, or shall I?”
Graegor’s grip inexplicably relaxed at the shift of subject. He found himself feeling glad that he didn’t have to explain to anyone how it was that King Motthias had been killed while sitting among eighteen sorcerers. King Raimund’s decision to avoid these celebrations had been horribly vindicated.
Thank God Audrey and his parents weren’t here.
Lord Natayl stood, wiping his hands on his velvet cloak. With a last glower at Graegor, he turned to where the dead king lay. Two Thendal magi were running up to him, carrying bandages and sheets. Lord Natayl made brief eye contact with a third magus bringing up the rear, who nodded, set two wooden poles on the floor, and retreated back the way he had come. The other two set about making a stretcher, neither of them looking directly at their king or their sorcerer.
“Are you all right?” Contare asked Graegor, his tone considerably thawed.
Graegor took a deep breath. He was all right. But Tabitha ... he looked down at her again, started to crouch to talk to her, but stopped. Just when he’d been sure that she wanted him to stay with her, their bond told him otherwise. She was extremely embarrassed, and the light of the floating globes cast his shadow sharply over her as she huddled in her chair, like a white flower closing up in the cold. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.
“She needs a moment alone,” Contare advised gently. “Come back down.”
Graegor wanted to touch Tabitha’s hand and tell her that he’d be there if she needed anything. But she wouldn’t look up at him. It felt like the cords binding them were actually pushing him away. With great reluctance—actually dragging his feet—he turned from her chair and went back down to where Contare was standing with Karl and Josselin.
Lord Pascin’s reassurances seemed to have had the intended effect, at least for now. The crowd sat on their benches, and beyond the stands surrounding the box seats, they didn’t seem to have been touched by the surge of panic that Contare and the others had shut down. But everyone was tired after the long day, and disappointed that the promised fireworks show had ended so abruptly, so they would soon become restless. Graegor glanced back at Tabitha, who had not moved, before asking Contare, “Have they found any of the rogues yet?”
“No.” The lines of Contare’s face looked more severe than usual. “But they have to be here. It would take at least twenty of them to lift that platform.”
“Did they really think they could—” His throat got stuck on the word, but he told himself to be tougher, and forced it out: “—kill us all? Just like that?”
“As many of us as they could. Lasfe ...” Now something seemed stuck in Contare’s throat, and Graegor stared at him in horror.
“Lasfe? They killed Lord Lasfe?” What will happen to Rossin?
“No. No, but it was very close.” Contare sighed. “One of the fireworks hit him in the chest. Natayl was nearest, so he went to help while the rest of us summoned the shield wall.”
Just for a moment until I got back. That was why Lord Natayl hadn’t been able to get to King Motthias in time. For those critical few seconds, he had been saving his brother sorcerer’s life.
Graegor looked back at the third row, past Tabitha, to where the Essenans were gathered close around someone—Lord Lasfe, of course. The globes above them gave their pale hair and skin an unearthly shine. Rossin was not among them. “Is he—will Lord Lasfe recover?”
“I’m sure he will.” Contare looked at Josselin, who held his arm, and she, too, seemed older, more worn. But then both of them turned their heads, their eyes intent upon Lord Pascin.
The Adelard sorcerer was striding across the dais to its far side, where four magi were coming up from the stadium floor, tightly packed around a struggling fifth. Lord Pascin met them at the top of the stairs, looked briefly at the prisoner, and
gestured for the magi to precede him up behind the chairs to the servants’ area.
“Go back with everyone else,” Contare told Graegor as more magi came into the box seats and started helping people to stand. “Josselin and I are going to keep an eye on the crowd.”
Graegor hurried up to the third row, but before he got there, Tabitha had already been helped to her feet by a burly magus. Ferogin was following Lord Pascin and the magi with the prisoner to the back wall, where the prisoner made a loud hacking noise and fell to his knees. The Thendal magi with the stretcher had covered King Motthias with a white sheet and were carrying him toward the back ramp that led to a private courtyard outside the stadium. Two more Thendal magi were using a stack of towels to mop the blood off the marble floor, and Graegor’s stomach lurched as he edged past.
He couldn’t see where Tabitha was, or Lord Natayl. Arundel and Ilene were supporting Ilene’s mother between them as they carefully shouldered through the crowded space, but Ilene’s father was not with them. Princess Nitara was standing with Lord Oran near the Adelard magi, her dark eyes glittering as she peered past Ferogin at the prisoner, but Borjhul was directly opposite Graegor, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. Karl was talking rapidly with one of the Essenan magi, but Graegor could not see the others. Koren and Lady Fainhe were nearby, and Koren was standing very straight, with her arms pressed against her stomach. A group of Khenroxan magi hurried toward her, and the magus in the lead sank to one knee and briefly bowed his head. Kneeling, his eyes were on a level with hers as he started talking, fast and low and urgent.
The light from the globes over the box seats was suddenly dimmed. Graegor turned to see two magi pulling the white curtain, stained with royal blood, back into place behind the third row of chairs. A sharp word from Lord Pascin made everyone fall silent, though his attention was focused on the prisoner kneeling on the floor. The low rumble from Hippodrome crowd outside only emphasized the quiet in the stuffy space as the Adelard magi pulled the prisoner to his feet.
He was Adelard too, with straight dark hair and a plain shirt and trousers. His face would have been unremarkable except that his expression was so severe, and Graegor suddenly remembered the white herald in Farre that the bluecloaks had captured—Ahren, who had thought Graegor was the One. In fact the situation was almost the same: the lords’ sworn men had captured a renegade who had started a riot. Graegor took a few steps closer, joining Lord Henrey and Karl.
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