“Be still, Andris. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”
There was a moment’s silence, then a raspy voice inquired, “Matteo?”
“Who else would guess that you’d be counting off paces in the dark?”
A moment of silence passed, and Andris let out a muted chuckle. Matteo released his grip and rolled off the table. He tossed it aside and helped the winded prisoner to his feet. “Eighty-seven paces,” Andris said. “Another five, and I would have slowed down for the door. You couldn’t have backed up just a little, I suppose.”
“The thought crossed my mind. Briefly.” Matteo threw open the door, and faint light filtered in. Andris’s translucent form was nearly invisible in the gloom, and he looked more ghostly than ever. His face, always angular, was gaunt and drawn.
He’s slipping away, Matteo realized. The grief and dismay this realization brought surprised him. By now, he thought he’d be inured to the pain of losing his friend. He swallowed his dismay and leveled a stern look at the former jordain.
“Why were you attempting escape?”
“It’s not what it seems. Though this might be difficult to believe, I was looking for you.”
Matteo folded his arms. “Here I am. Here I would be, had you merely asked the guards to summon me.”
“Do you think I didn’t try?” Andris retorted. “They insisted the king’s counselor has better things to do than listen to a traitor’s prattle.”
Matteo could see the logic in that. “I should have left instructions with the guards.”
Andris shrugged. “You’re here now. By the way, congratulations on your new office. I can think of no man more worthy of the honor.”
“Please, keep repeating that thought,” Matteo said dryly. “If words truly have power, they might turn that sentiment into reality. Now, what did you want to tell me?”
“I heard the guards speak of the battle against the Mulhorandi invaders,” Andris began. “Was it true, what they said about the necromantic spells?”
“They could hardly have exaggerated.”
“Who cast them?”
Matteo’s brow furrowed. “To the best of my knowledge, the king did.”
“Has he said so?”
The jordain considered this. “He hasn’t denied it.”
Andris gripped Matteo’s arm. “What I’m about to say might be difficult to believe, but hear me out Before I left the Jordaini College to rejoin Kiva, someone sent a blink bird to alert me to books hidden in my chamber. One of these books dealt with jordaini ancestry. I learned the name of my elven forebear. A name you know well.”
“Kiva,” Matteo said slowly. “She could be hundreds of years old, a living ancestor. That was why you cast in with her!”
“It was one of the reasons, yes, but that is a tale for another time. The other book was a grimoire, the spellbook of Akhlaur. Akhlaur the necromancer.”
“Gods above! Are you saying that spell was in the book? That it was a spell of Akhlaur’s creation?”
“That and more. Matteo, Akhlaur is alive. He is back.”
Matteo stared at him in silence. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, but it’s the only logical explanation. Kiva had the spellbook for a while, but she was gone before the spell was cast. Any Halruaan wizard would be quick to claim such a feat. Zalathorm has neither claimed nor denied it I suspect he has come to the same conclusion I have. He’s allowing people to think what they will as he prepares for the inevitable confrontation.”
Matteo’s head whirled as he tried to assimilate his friend’s grim logic. He didn’t wish to believe it, but neither could he refute Andris’s words. He blew out a long breath, then drew one of his daggers and took a bit of flint from his bag. A single deft movement produced a spark and set a wall torch alight. That accomplished, he turned to his friend.
“I think you’d better tell me everything you know.”
Andris nodded. “Years ago, before Akhlaur began his rise to power, three young wizards, friends from boyhood, created a powerful artifact This artifact was a symbol of their friendship. It joined them, lending the strength of all to each. This they did in response to dangerous times, for all three were active in Halruaa’s defense. In youthful arrogance they called themselves the Heart of Halruaa. The artifact would protect them and their descendants, creating a legacy of guardianship.”
Matteo jolted as he recalled a conversation with Zalathorm in which the king had hinted of powerful magic protecting the “Heart of Halruaa.”
Andris noted this response. “What is it?”
“Not long ago, Tzigone and I were attacked by thugs and taken to an icehouse. Between us, we dispatched most of the men. The dead and wounded simply faded away. King Zalathorm told me that when the Heart of Halruaa is concerned, either the threat or the threatened are removed from danger. A similar thing happened when clockwork monsters went amok in the queen’s workshop.”
The ghostly jordain’s eyes went wide. Matteo lifted an inquiring brow, but Andris shook his head.
“Never mind—a fleeting and unformed thought, not worth speaking. I suspect you came here to ask me to help you retrace Kiva’s steps, to determine what role she played in the queen’s downfall.”
“That is true.”
“I’ll help you. In exchange, you must help me destroy the Cabal.”
A burst of startled laughter escaped Matteo. “As if the two impossible tasks currently before me were not sufficient! Andris, I don’t even know what the Cabal is!”
“I just told you.”
Matteo sobered. “The artifact? The Heart of Halruaa?”
“Well, it’s good to know that palace life hasn’t made your wits less nimble,” Andris said dryly.
“That does make a certain macabre sense,” the jordain mused. “Yet all my life I’ve heard tales of a secret group of wizards who supported and controlled the Halruaan government in mysterious ways. You’re saying there’s no truth to these tales?”
Andris’s faint smile held a world of bitterness. “Sometimes truth can be found only in layers of irony.”
“If that’s not a jordaini proverb, it should be,” Matteo retorted. “How do you know these things?”
“I read Akhlaur’s grimoire,” he reminded Matteo. “I know why the artifact was created, and I know what it became. It must be destroyed.”
Matteo regarded his friend for a long moment. “Once, I would have taken any course of action on your word alone. Forgive me, but those days have passed.”
The ghostly jordain nodded. “Fair enough. You saw how the laraken drained the life force—the magical essence—of all the elves it encountered.”
Matteo averted his eyes from Andris’s translucent form. “Yes.”
“Where did that magic go?”
He blinked, then frowned. “I assumed the laraken consumed it, as we do food.”
Andris shook his head. “The laraken was only a conduit The stolen life-forces are contained in the heart of an ancient, magic-storing gem.”
“You’re sure of this?” Matteo pressed.
“I saw a similar gem in the Khaerbaal Swamp. I brought it to Kiva. She shattered it I saw the elven spirits, captive for centuries, released. Never have I seen such joy! Whenever following Kiva weighed heavily on me, I thought of that moment and my part in it”
Matteo nodded, understanding at last what had motivated his friend.
“Will you help me?” Andris pressed.
Still he hesitated. “You wish to destroy an artifact that supports King Zalathorm’s reign.”
“Why not? Wasn’t it you who told me that no good can come of alliance with evil? You also spoke of conflict between a jordaini’s three masters: truth, Halruaa, and the wizard-lords. It is time for the truth to be told, and you may have to choose between your patron and the good of Halruaa.”
Perhaps this, Matteo mused, was what Zalathorm had intended. Perhaps this Cabal was the mysterious “what” that held Beatrix under e
nchantment.
“I will consider,” he agreed. “In exchange, give me your word that you will not escape. Swear this upon your elven honor.”
Something bleak and cold thawed in Andris’s eyes. “I didn’t think you understood what that meant to me.”
“I don’t, entirely, but I’m learning the importance of heritage.”
He extended his hand, and they clasped wrists like comrades never parted. “You won’t come to regret this,” Andris vowed.
“No need. I regret it already,” his friend retorted, only half in jest.
The corridor ended in a locked gate. Matteo raised his voice to hail the guards. A small battalion promptly clattered up. Matteo singled out the man wearing a commander’s insignia.
“You will release this man,” he stated.
The guard bristled. “On what authority?”
Matteo merely lifted one brow, an imperious gesture that prompted Andris to swallow a smirk. The guard dipped his head in a nervous bow. “I do not presume to argue with the king’s counselor, but this man just tried to escape!”
“I obtained his word that he will not escape from me. Did you?”
The guard opened his mouth, then closed it in a thin-lipped grimace. “No,” he said after a moment.
Matteo nodded pointedly at the door. The guards set about unchaining the locks and removing the magical wards.
“You do that very well,” Andris murmured as they strode down the corridor. A hint of his old twinkle had returned to his translucent hazel eyes, and shades of their former camaraderie added an amused edge to his voice.
Matteo sent him a sidelong glance. “My skills seem to be improving. I never thought the day would come when I could outsmart Andris. And with a trestle table! It is said that a man is equal to the weapon that fells him.”
The ghostly jordain snorted. “Go ahead. Enjoy the moment”
“I intend to! At this rate, I will soon be able to best you in battle.”
Andris’s smile returned in full. “As a wise man recently observed, keep repeating that thought. If words truly have power, they might eventually turn into reality.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The aroma of strange herbs filled the air, and the soft music of reed flutes and long-necked stringed instruments followed Matteo down the corridor of the greenmage’s domain, a wing of the palace where the palace servants and courtiers sought healing.
Matteo paused at an open door and gazed for a long time at the big man who lay, propped up with pillows, in a narrow bed. Themo, Matteo’s jordaini friend and classmate, was finally awake after a long and unnaturally deep slumber. His eyes were open and focused, and he gazed out the window with a reflective air.
Matteo tapped on the doorframe. “The king’s counselor, come to call,” Themo said without looking over.
A smile pulled at the corners of the jordain’s lips. “How did you know?”
“You’re the only one who knocks. The greenmages burst in at all hours like rampaging orcs.”
“At least you haven’t lacked for company.” Matteo came in and set his gift, a small bottle of golden haerlu wine, on the bedside table.
Themo seized the bottle and pulled out the cork with his teeth, then took a long pull. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“You were speaking of orcs and their manners?” Matteo teased in a dry tone.
The big jordain shrugged. “I’d better hammer while the forge burns and the iron is hot. You know how the jordaini masters can be about wine.”
Matteo sat down in the room’s only chair. “You seem resigned to returning to the Jordaini College.”
“Have I any choice?”
The question was rhetorical, but Matteo answered it anyway. “Follow your heart, and become a warrior rather than a counselor.”
Surprise widened Themo’s eyes. “This is possible?”
“It is uncommon, but not entirely unknown. A dispensation from Zalathorm would free you from your vows.” Matteo looked keenly at the somber-faced man. “I thought you would be pleased by this prospect”
Themo threw aside the covers and paced over to the window. He propped his hands on the sill as if he could not bear, unsupported, the weight he carried. “I’m not sure I’m meant to be a warrior.”
“That’s a strange sentiment from the best fighter to come out of the Jordaini College this decade.”
The jordain let out a short burst of humorless laughter. “Truth, Halruaa, and the wizard-lords,” he reminded Matteo. “You might be doing well for yourself in the last two categories, but seems to me you’re falling a bit short in truth-telling. How many times have you pinned me? How many times has Andris gotten his blade against my throat? I’m the biggest among us, sure, but the best?”
“You have something Andris and I lack. You fight with passion, even joy.”
He turned away. “So do the drow.”
Matteo blinked in surprise, but then he saw the sense of it. “The dark fairies saw your love of battle, and turned it against you. That’s what overcame you, and what causes you to doubt yourself still. They twisted it, Themo.”
“Not by much,” the big man responded. “During that battle, I relived every mistake I’ve ever made, and every dark secret I have. That wasn’t all—it was like I was responsible, personally, for every wrongdoing in Halruaa’s past”
Fear, bitter and burning, rose in Matteo’s throat like bile. If Themo suffered so in a short battle with the dark fairies, how was Tzigone faring in the Unseelie Court? Until now Matteo had been able to temper his concern with memories of her quixotic sense of honor. Tzigone was no paladin, but she had courage and a good heart.
Yet if Themo could be tormented by knowledge of history, how much more torture could be extracted from Tzigone’s gift of reverse divination? She could relive the past, bringing it back as vividly as a storytelling illusionist.
“Sorry, Matteo. Those who step in rothe piles shouldn’t wipe their feet on their friends’ carpets.”
Matteo looked up sharply, startled by this odd and unfamiliar proverb. “Pardon?”
“I didn’t mean to pile my troubles onto your shoulders,” Themo rephrased, misunderstanding Matteo’s sudden, somber turn.
He shrugged. “No magic, no penalty,” he said, speaking a phrase they’d often used as lads. These chance-spoken words triggered an inspiration. As boys, they’d fought like a litter of puppies. Some of Matteo’s fondest memories were the moments he and Andris and Themo and their jordaini brothers had spent pummeling each other into the dust.
“Palace life will be the ruin of me,” he complained, patting his flat stomach. “Too much wine, not enough exercise. I’d be grateful for a practice match.”
He noted the tentative interest dawning in his friend’s eyes. “It would infuriate the greenmages, which would no doubt raise your spirits,” he added.
“There’s that,” Themo agreed with a fleeting smile. The big jordain reached for his tunic. He pulled it over his head and buckled on his weapons belt. “Better go out through the window,” he commented, glancing toward the open door.
Matteo followed him, climbing over the low windowsill into a courtyard garden. He glanced around the “battlefield.” Low, soft, green moss grew underfoot, sprinkled with tiny, yellow flowers. A fountain played into a shallow fishpond in the center of the courtyard. The trees that shaded the garden had been trimmed so that the lower limbs were well out of reach.
He drew his sword and raised it to his forehead in salute. Themo mirrored the gesture, then fell back into guard position.
Matteo made a short, lunging feint. The big jordain wasn’t fooled. He shifted onto his back foot and came back quickly with an answering attack. There was no weight behind it, though, and Matteo easily parried. The first, tentative exchange finished, they broke apart and circled.
“You are less familiar with a sword than with the jordaini daggers,” Matteo commented. “Shall we change weapons?”
Themo grinned. “Feel fr
ee. I don’t mind the extra reach.”
As if to demonstrate, he brought his sword up in a high arc, swishing above Matteo’s head. This left his chest unprotected, but Matteo was not tempted to attack. Despite his size, Themo was cat-quick, and coming within his longer reach would be foolhardy.
Instead Matteo ducked and spun, moving in the direction of Themo’s swing. Rather than parry, he struck his opponent’s blade, speeding it on its sweeping path and putting Themo slightly off balance.
The big jordain recovered quickly and brought his elbow back hard. Matteo leaned away from the blow so that it just grazed his tunic, then danced nimbly aside.
Themo came on with a series of jabbing attacks, which Matteo met in quick, ringing dialogue. They moved together, skirting the edge of the fishpond.
Matteo noted the glint in his friend’s eyes and reviewed his memory of the courtyard’s layout. The fountain was but two paces behind him. For a moment Matteo was tempted to allow his opponent to back him into the water. He quickly discarded this notion. Even if the ruse was lost on Themo—and that wasn’t likely—Matteo had always thought deliberately losing a match was a lie told with weapons rather than words.
He shifted to his right and spun away. Three quick steps brought him up behind Themo. He swept his blade in, level to the ground and turned so the flat of it would smack the big jordain on his backside.
Themo took the taunting blow, then with a speed astonishing for his size he whirled and seized a handful of Matteo’s tunic. He threw himself back, dragging the smaller jordain with him.
They went down together with a resounding splash. Matteo pulled away and got his feet beneath him—and promptly tripped over one of the pots that held water lilies.
The big jordain planted a hand on Matteo’s chest and shoved. Down he went again. When he came up, sputtering, Themo was already out of the pond, grinning like a gargoyle.
“A wise fighter uses the terrain,” his friend reminded Matteo.
The smaller man waded toward his opponent “I didn’t expect you to take the fight into the water.”
The Wizardwar Page 7