by Barb Hendee
Ghassan faltered at the dark form filling the alley. A wave of fear washed over him—into him—as though northern autumn rain had drenched his clothing. He did not look away from the figure, even as he heard the captain coming up the alley behind him.
The light upon the alley floor was a cold lamp crystal cast there, still glowing brightly. And Ghassan heard a whisper from beyond the tall, black-robed figure.
He would never have recognized those nearly voiceless words, even if he had heard them clearly. But he knew what was happening. All mages found their own utterances, just as their symbols, necessary for their art.
Somewhere down in the alley, Dâgmund was chanting.
Out of all those of Ghassan's order at the guild branch of Calm Seatt, only Dâgmund had shown true aptitude for the deeper skills. Not even Premin Hawes had the boy's instinct for thaumaturgy via spellcraft. This was why Ghassan had chosen the young journeyor to accompany whoever retrieved the folios.
He had tried his best to tutor Dâgmund, sharpening the young man's well-developed skill. But Dâgmund was not a seasoned mage—and thaumaturgy could not create as conjury did. The journeyor was too slow for this moment, even with the speed of a spell.
"Fire… from light!" Dâgmund suddenly shouted.
Flames erupted from the alley floor—from the crystal's brilliance—and raging red light silhouetted the tall black cloak and robe.
Ghassan shielded his face from the glare and heat. He knew what Dâgmund had done.
The journeyor had cast his crystal at the figure's feet and used thaumaturgy to transform and magnify its light into fire. An easy change, since light and flame were of the same element. But Ghassan was still startled by the magnitude of the effect.
Flames licked high around the figure, more so than Ghassan would have expected Dâgmund could call. But not one bit of the night-black fabric even smoldered.
Flickering red-orange tendrils tangled about the writhing cloak, slipping along its curling and rolling surface to splash off like water upon oiled cloth.
"Hold and yield!" Rodian shouted from the alley's entrance.
The last thing Ghassan needed was the captain blundering into his back, and he banished the glimmering patterns held in his sight. They had barely faded when he replaced them with one doubled square framing nested triangles. Fresh glyphs, signs, and sigils ignited in the pattern's spaces as his mental incantation finished. The pattern raced across his sight, centering on the back of the black cowl.
Flecks and chips of brick struck il'Sänke's face as the figure lashed out at the alley wall.
Ghassan lost focus as Dâgmund cried out.
He flinched, growing colder inside as he heard the journeyer's voice cut short.
The fire died instantly.
Ghassan heard a rustle and snap of cloth. His sight adjusted to only the cold lamp crystal's light. He flattened against the alley's wall as the figure turned.
The cloak's wings snaked and twisted up both walls, clutching at the brick surface as if alive. And the creature held the folio in one hand wrapped in shredded strips of black cloth.
Its cowl, that pit of blackness, turned directly on Ghassan.
He instantly released the pattern and symbols, quickly calling others. As they rose in glimmers across his sight, he collapsed them inward around—into—himself, sinking deep into his own mind. Someone shouted, "Sir!" from the alley's open end, and the black-robed figure raised its other hand.
Ghassan threw his will against the ground beneath his feet.
The figure lashed out at him just as Ghassan's body shot upward into the night.
Rodian squinted, trying to make out the dark shape filling the narrow space and blocking out the small light upon the ground. Fear sharpened as he made out layer upon layer of black cloth billowing like a cloak over a dark robe. The cloth lashed the alley walls as if the air were still driven by heat.
And the figure whirled about.
Though it was backlit by the light beyond it, Rodian couldn't make out a face inside the heavy cowl. There was only more darkness in that hollow—but it didn't center on him.
It swung left, and whoever hid within it fixated upon the wall. In its hand was a leather folio.
"Sir!"
At Lúcan's shout of warning, Rodian ducked away as the shadowy thief struck out. Its black hand—or was it covered in cloth? — slammed against the wall.
A sharp crack of splitting brick filled the alley as Rodian twisted away. He heard the chitter of falling fragments beneath the ri Kben crnging in his ears. The black-robed mass swirled away.
As it fled down the alley, the whipping hem of its cloak passed beyond the light that had been behind it. And the alley brightened.
Rodian froze.
A glowing crystal lay on the alley floor, slightly bigger than the end of his thumb, but bright enough to hurt his eyes. When his sight adjusted, he grew chilled.
Three bodies lay in the alley.
The closest was the pudgy girl who'd taken Snowbird's reins on his first visit to the guild. She was curled on her side, and her limbs were twisted against her torso, as if she'd died in convulsions. Her wide eyes stared blankly from an ashen face disfigured by horror.
Just like before—just like Elias and Jeremy.
Beyond her sprawled a taller companion in midnight blue robes lying on his back. But his face was a crushed and bloodied mess. Past his head lay a heavy chunk of the brick wall. And the third and last down the alley was slender and frail.
A young man in gray robes curled up as if he'd tried to hide within himself as he died. He was pale and sallow, and his eyes were open, like the girl's.
"Maker, Toiler, and Dreamer," Rodian whispered.
All of them were lost.
Ghassan lit upon the rooftop as he heard the dark figure's hand crack against the brick wall. He caught only a glimpse of bodies beyond the black thief.
He saw the one in a midnight blue robe.
Ghassan had only an instant of cold regret at the sight of Dâgmund, and then the figure bolted away.
Ghassan leaped over the alley, thrusting with will as much as his legs. The spell still sunk within his mind helped carry him to the next rooftop. He scrambled along the shakes parallel to the alley, and when he reached the eaves overhanging the next street, he looked about.
There was no one below—and then he spotted it.
Like some giant ebony-draped spider, it clambered up the wall of a building fifty yards down the street. When it reached the roof, a street lantern upon a pole exposed its form against clay tiles.
It still held the folio clutched in one hand.
Ghassan cleared his sight once more, calling yet another pattern of glowing lines. These he sank into himself and reached out toward the distant figure with one hand.
He clenched his fingers closed in the air.
The thief spun upon the distant rooftop. Robe and cloak whipped in the night as its arm and hand holding the folio snapped out toward Ghassan's rooftop. The folio hung in the air, still locked in its grip, and it pulled back.
Ghassan's own arm straightened, and his feet slipped along the shakes. He ground in his heels and tried to pull his clenched hand inward.
The figure stumbled. It reached out and clutched the folio with both hands, continuing to pull. Ghassan did the same, both his hands tearing at the air.
A hissing carried from the distant rooftop.
The night air began to swirl around Ghassan. His robe whipped about him. He bent his knees, trying to sink lower, holding his hands clenched as if he physically gripped the folio so far beyond reach.
A sudden rush of wind struck him.
Breath was punched from his lungs, as if a wall of air slammed against his whole body. His feet slipped from the shakes as he fell and landed on his back.
Ghassan barely had enough awareness to flatten and keep from sliding off the edge. He rolled onto his knees, gasping for air, and stared across the city's rooftops in stunned silen
ce.
The thief on the distant rooftop was gone.
Ghassan remained still, too stunned and shaken. Either thaumaturgy or conjuring could have shaped that wind. It was a mage, and a potent one for such quick and strong force.
The folio was gone. Three young sages lay dead. And all before Ghassan could subdue them himself and see those precious translated pages.
Running feet hammered down the alley.
Ghassan dropped low upon the roof. He had to reach guild grounds before word traveled of what happened here. He did not know how he would explain all this to High-Tower or Sykion, let alone that the city guards would tell a differing tale—one that would not include his presence.
He climbed quietly to the roof's peak and rose to his feet. He took one last look southwest for any sign of his adversary. But halfway through his turn, he stopped.
A shadow raced over the rooftops of the next city block, a dark cloak billowing in its flight.
This new figure came from the north, and no sound rose from its footfalls. When it reached the roof's end of a two-story building, it leaped across the street to the lower building across the way. Midflight, it clutched its flapping hood or cowl with one hand as the intersection's street lantern caught it with light.
No, not a cowl or a hood—but a hat with an extremely wide brim.
Ghassan watched the shadow race south, in the direction that the black-robed figure had vanished.
Someone else had been nearby, hunting the thief. But there was no time left to ponder—and he was too worn and drained. Ghassan stepped quietly along the roof's peak, heading for the next side street and any hidden way to flee.
Rodian leaped over the bodies, running along the alley. He shot out its far end and halted amid an empty street. Pools of wide-spaced lamplight stretched away in both directions. He turned about twice, listening for footfalls, but neither heard nor saw anyone.
Nothing on foot could've vanished so quickly.
"Captain!" Garrogh shouted from back down the alley. "One's still alive!"
Rodian backed up, still scanning the empty street, then spun and ran.
Garrogh knelt over the frail young man in a gray robe. Lúcan stood beyond with the other guardsmen, staring at the other bodies in silence. The younger guardsman finally blinked and crouched down.
He hesitated once as he reached for the brilliant crystal, perhaps fearful of being burned. Rodian knew better, for he'd seen such devices at the guild.
"Give it to me," he ordered.
Lúcan picked up the crystal, eyes widening at finding it held no heat. He handed it to Rodian.
"A faint heartbeat," Garrogh said, his ear pressed to the young sage's chest.
Rodian crouched down with the glowing crystal, and he recognized the boy's face. This one had been sitting with Wynn Hygeorht at breakfast the morning of the robbery. His face was as ashen as the girl's, but he was breathing shallowly.
"What about the girl?" Rodian asked.
Garrogh simply shook his head. "And the folio?"
Rodian didn't answer and put two fingers to the young sage's throat, feeling a faint pulse. "He needs a healer."
"No," Garrogh answered. "Take him to the guild. They'll know what to do more than some healer at a city ward. Remember my sister's cough? I took her to the sages."
Rodian almost barked a denial. The last thing he wanted was for the sages to hide away the only witness he had. He reached out and closed the young sage's blank eyes so they wouldn't dry out. A life to save mattered more than anything else.
"What's happened?" someone called.
Rodian raised his head and saw Master Calisus with his pony and cart at the alley's mouth.
"Stay there!" he ordered, and then looked to Garrogh. "I'll take this one to the guild. Make certain no one comes into the alley until it's thoroughly searched for any clues. Lúcan, you and the others find a way to take the other bodies back to the barracks."
The young guardsman didn't move or speak. His eyes shifted to the mangled face of the victim in the dark blue robe.
"Now!" Rodian snapped.
Lúcan jolted into motion and ran down the alley.
"Who would do this, and how?" Garrogh whispered softly.
Rodian found his second staring over one shoulder at the dead girl.
"What did…?" Rodian began, and then faltered.
He doubted his own senses and the memory of what he'd seen.
"What did you see?" he finally asked. "When you came in behind me?"
"A man," Garrogh answered, his brows gathering. "A tall man in a black cloak. Why?"
Rodian quickly hefted the surviving young sage. Holding his charge carefully, he strode down the alley toward the cart. His anger flared as he stepped over the girl's body.
The royal family valued its misguided sages. Now two more were dead, and another might soon follow. But no matter who had done this, High-Tower and Sykion were responsible. They'd refused to acknowledge the danger and sent more of their own out in the night.
This time Rodian would drag the truth from them.
Wynn still waited in the common hall, but too much time had passed. Only a few others were still about, either reading or writing or chatting softly. She fretted over some way to look occupied.
If she just sat doing nothing, and Domin High-Tower or Premin Sykion came by, either would surely comment. They never missed an opportunity to note any odd behavior on her part. But she dared not leave even long enough to fetch a journal or book from her room.
Supper was finished, and still the messengers hadn't returned. What was taking them so long?
Wynn's dilemma ended as a slam from the keep's front doors echoed down the outer passage into the common hall. She lunged off the bench, racing to the main archway to meet Nikolas, Miriam, and Dâgmund.
But instead, Domin il'Sänke appeared, pulling back his cowl.
"Wynn," he said, and his slight smile seemed forced. "You look disappointed to see me."
"Where have you been?" she asked bluntly.
His smile faded. "I ate supper early in the kitchens, perhaps too much. At my age, one needs to walk off such a meal before turning to other matters."
"Sorry," she said, feeling foolish for her urgency. "Nikolas, Miriam, and Dâgmund have not returned. After what happened last night…"
She trailed off as his expression changed again. His left eye twitched, and he licked his lips.
"The folios are not your concern," he said, barely above a whisper.
Wynn clenched her jaw so tightly her teeth ached. Now il'Sänke reminded her the texts were no longer her business—as if she needed to be told that again. And she'd thought he was her only ally in this place.
"Pardon," he muttered, and his gaze suddenly fixed elsewhere in the hall. "It has been a long day, and I have one more thing to K modon attend to."
Wynn turned her head.
Domin High-Tower stood in the narrower side archway, not looking at her but beyond her, perhaps at il'Sänke. He seemed expectant, even in his usually dour state, but his expression suddenly changed.
High-Tower's wide features slackened in some shock.
Wynn saw his chest expand in a deep breath and one exhale. Then he sagged. By the time Wynn looked back to il'Sänke, the elder Suman was stone-faced. She was left wondering what had just passed silently between these two, who had always been plain regarding their irritation with each other.
And a thunderous boom echoed down the main passage beyond the archway.
Wynn heard one of the keep's front doors recoil sharply off a wall. She made for the archway to go see who forced such a hurried entrance.
Il'Sänke raised an arm in her way.
She barely glanced up, finding his gaze turned toward the outer passage, and then Captain Rodian came around the turn.
His face tight with anger, he carried the limp form of Nikolas Columsarn.
Rodian's hard gaze settled on il'Sänke as the first sage of rank in his sight.
Il'Sänke was already reaching out. "Here, Captain, let me take him."
The tall Suman lifted Nikolas from the captain's arms and headed for the nearest table.
"Where are Miriam and Dâgmund?" Wynn asked.
Rodian ignored her, looking about the hall. "Where's High-Tower… and Sykion?"
As il'Sänke carefully laid Nikolas on a table, others in the hall rose from benches and chairs, drawing nearer.
"Here," High-Tower answered.
His gaze locked on Nikolas as he closed on the table's far side. Il'Sänke put a hand on the young sage's chest and leaned down to listen at Nikolas's slack mouth. He glanced up at High-Tower, nodded once, and the dwarven domin breathed a sigh of relief.
Wynn exhaled, not realizing she'd held her breath in that moment. "Where are Miriam and Dâgmund?" she repeated.
Rodian didn't even look at her. He kept his angry eyes on High-Tower.
"Dead," he said sharply, "in an alley near the Feather and Parchment."
All the warmth drained from Wynn's flesh.
Il'Sänke grabbed the sleeve of a female apprentice in brown. "Get Premin Adlam or Master Bitworth… or any elder in the hospice. Quickly, girl!"
Rodian kept his eyes on High-Tower. "And your folio is gone as well," he hissed.
High-Tower finally looked up, but he didn't appear surprised.
Wynn went to the table, pushing aside others in her way. Nikolas's eyes were closed, and his skin was pallid. Strands of hair down the left side of his head were grayed. There was not a mark on him that she could see, and she glanced back at Rodian.
"The others," she whispered, "the same, like Jeremy and Elias?"
He closed on the gathering at the table. "Yes… or one of them."
Wynn hesitated at the answer, looking again at Nikolas's ashen features. If they both died, but only one in this way, then how…?
"Someone is killing for your folios," Rodian snarled at High-Tower. "And you're going to tell me why." Without looking away from High-Tower, he jabbed a finger at Wynn. "What is in those texts she brought back?"
Wynn flinched as too many eyes turned her way among the initiates and apprentices gathered around. High-Tower's iron-pellet irises fixed on the captain.