by Ed Greenwood
Seated some distance away, a third mage also drew back his hood, revealing the more forbidding features of Phalagh, who was known to collect coins and the severed heads of those who dared to cross him. His usual suspicious frown sat heavily under his highdomed forehead, and his huddled pose gave him the look of an irritated perched vulture.
“So, Huldaerus,” the baron said almost jovially, “I bid you begin the converse—if not with your own plans and thoughts, then with a point we can dispute and debate.”
Huldaerus inclined his head in a nod of acquiescence, and said, “Think, all: we could bring great mages back from the grave to fight for us!”
“Oh?” the deep-voiced warrior shot back. “And control them how? And when we’re done, and all Darsar lies at our feet, who will rule—them, or us? How do you kill something that’s already dusty bones, eh? Magic? Well, who’ll be the masters of that—them, or us?”
“Well,” a masked mage responded, “we can use the Stone to keep ourselves alive no matter what the Silvertree mages hurl at us!”
“Oh? Alive as their slaves forever? And what’s to keep them from just taking the Stone from us—your spells?”
The masked mage stiffened in evident anger, but the baron lifted a warning hand to forestall any reply.
One of the procurers asked then, “Are the whereabouts of any of the other Dwaerindim known for certain? I would know more of these magics awakened only when two or more of the Stones are used together.”
“To your first question: no, so far as I know and any will admit,” Huldaerus answered. “To your second: legends and wild tales and dusty records all wrestle with the truth as to just what powers can be unleashed, but ’tis fairly certain that the Stones work together only when placed in particular patterns and, moreover, when specific incantations are uttered.”
“What powers, mage?” a gravel-voiced armaragor asked. “Or are these more of your secrets that all nonwizards who learn must be slain out of hand?”
Huldaerus smiled thinly. “As I said,” he replied, “there is much disagreement over these powers. Best known among them, for instance—told of in all nursemaids’ tales—are the summonings. Use all four Stones one way, and you awaken, free, and call forth the Sleeping King!”
There were snorts and wordless sneers of derision, but the mage merely smiled and added, “Use them another way, and you call up instead his age-old foe, the Serpent in the Shadows.”
“Empty bards’ babble,” one warrior sneered. “You waste our time, wizard!”
The cowled figure standing behind the baron raised both of its wands to draw attention—most effectively—and hissed in reply, “Not ssso. I have studied the Ssserpent all my life and have mastered the spells to control its sssavagery, to make it ssslay only those I choose. The Ssserpent is very real; at least three cities lie forgotten and overgrown today because their folk thought it empty legend, or sssomething they might easily master. It devoured them all—and it gleans sssomething from every mind it eats. Bring me the Ssserpent, and I ssshall win all Darsssar with it!”
A wizard who was still masked tapped the table before him with a wand of his own, and demanded, “I hear talk of serving the Serpent, if I hear aright—and I want to see who speaks such words!”
There was a stir of agreement—a stir that died to tense silence as the figure at the baron’s elbow set down its wands, reached up slowly, and drew back its hood.
The face that had been hidden in the cowl belonged to no man, but was green and scaled and slit-eyed, with the fangs and darting forked tongue of a snake. “I have the pleasssure to be a priest of the Serpent.”
Another masked mage sneered, “Oh? There are no gods but the Three!”
The serpent head turned to regard him and seemed to smile. “I agree, sssir. Oh, yesss. By serving the Ssserpent, I ssserve the Dark One. One of his tentacles gave me these scales and biting fangs and eternity to use them in. Can any of you say the same?”
In the fearful silence that followed, an eye whose presence would have surprised the baron and his three mages very much drew back thoughtfully behind a tapestry and watched that assembly of conspirators no more.
* * *
“Well, we’ve traded clever words,” Sarasper growled, looking slowly around at the three adventurers, “and we know your need … and my price. You run from a known peril, and fear a known foe. I offer you a dream to follow, in years to come. A dream that shows us a road out of the death and tyranny that now rules what was once Aglirta, wherein outlaws, tyrants, and monsters outnumber farmers, and even honest folk outnumber those who are happy and bereft of fear.”
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Perhaps you care nothing for a brighter future or the land that birthed you. Perhaps you care only for the next meal and a way clear of all this. If so, know that I can show you other ways out of this House—or devour you one by one, if you offer me violence. I should do so anyway, to keep my secret safe … but I’ve little heart for that when there’s a chance to follow the Forefather’s will.”
He shrugged, lifted his hands, and let them fall. “The choice remains to you. I cannot make it for you.”
The healer let silence stretch; Craer was the first to speak, looking quickly to the armaragor. “Hawk? I dragged you into this.…”
The armaragor shrugged. “My will is to stand with you, little man, whatever road you choose. I think this man follows crazed dreams—but we all have to follow something or drift to our graves having done nothing. Stay or go; you decide.”
Craer shook his head and said heavily, “I like none of our choices.” Reluctantly, far more slowly than he’d sought out the gaze of his friend, he turned to look into the eyes of Embra Silvertree.
She looked back at them all and then at the floor, saying nothing.
“Speak,” the armaragor rumbled, finally.
His bidding caused her head to snap up and her eyes to flash with anger. She held his gaze wordlessly for some time before she said softly, “I find in myself no stomach for seeking revenge on my father and naught else. I know not if I dare ever use magic again or what has befallen me, with the bindings broken.”
Her lips twisted, as if to utter a warrior’s curse, but when she spoke again it was to say almost calmly, “You dared to aid me, men of Blackgult. I think we should—must—all dare to aid this lonely man. I could not rest easy if we walked away and left him here alone, and I think we dare not fight him … nor would I take any pride in doing so, even if by some grace of the gods we defeated him. We cannot treat everyone we meet as a foe to be fought.”
Sarasper abruptly turned his back. It was not until they saw the droplets on the stones in front of him that they realized he was weeping.
Embarrassed, Hawkril said heartily, “Well, if we’re agreed, then we must be a band of adventurers, we four—and we’ll have to choose a name, before bards hang something ridiculous on us. Anyone feel clever?”
“Always,” Craer and Embra said in dry unison—and then, slowly, snorted in reluctant mirth. They glanced at each other, and snorts became chuckles … chuckles that grew slowly into laughter—roars of laughter, from four throats that rang around the room.
Four trapped and desperate folk …
“We must be,” Sarasper the healer announced almost shyly, “until that cleverness smites us all with something better: the Band of Four.”
“Let us be so,” Craer nodded, sounding a trifle reluctant. It was his turn for lips to twist on the edge of a curse, before he said mockingly, “Embra, start working on the ballad!”
“You’ll be sorry,” the woman at his elbow purred in a voice that held equal parts mirth and warning, “and that’s Lady Embra to you.”
The three men all made sounds of mockery, but when she reached out her hand, their own hands stretched forth—slowly and reluctantly but without roughness or clever gestures—to clasp hers in a common grasp.
Four pairs of eyes met, sharing a little fear. No one cheered … but no one hastened
to draw their hand back, either.
5
Spells and Secrets
Hawkril watched the healer’s hands touch his ribs and realized he’d been holding his breath until he could do so no longer. He let it out in a long, shuddering sigh, just as the icy and yet somehow warm tingling began to wash out from his ribs, spreading slowly.…
“Ohhh,” he moaned, at the sheer pleasure of feeling all pain swept away. “Sargh, but it’s good to be free of that!”
The armaragor breathed deeply, truly free of hurting, and after a moment looked down at the graying head bent over him and asked, “So why is it that mages hurl lightnings and bring castles crashing down and walk away all nonchalant … and healers die if they heal too much?”
“Healing comes from within. The Three grant the gift to a rare few,” Sarasper growled, without looking up. His hands were trembling slightly. “Wizards take power from other enchantments to do their work.”
“Oh? So who cast the first enchantment that a wizard drew on?”
“Ah,” said Craer from where he sat against the wall, “now that question is one that sets priests at each other’s throats, in proper earnest! They all claim it was their own of the Three … and there are even wizards who revere this or that elder mage for giving his life to fashion an enchantment that all other wizards could draw on.”
He turned his head to look along the wall at the Lady of Jewels and asked a question that was almost a challenge. “Do your books say anything different?”
Embra gave him a bitter smile that faded quickly from her face. “So many different things that I can believe none of them.” She let her head fall back against the wall she was leaning on, and sighed.
Craer’s eyes narrowed. “When did you start to feel worn out?”
She shrugged. “Not long ago.”
Her eyes closed. The procurer watched her for a moment and then stirred himself to reach the healer. Touching Sarasper’s shoulder, he pointed at the sorceress.
The healer looked at Embra’s face and nodded slowly. “I’m almost done here. The organs within were well torn, beyond the power of your potion, but this warrior is a right bear.”
He glanced up at Hawkril and said gruffly, “Now just lie still, for once, until I’m done with the lady. The longer you lie quiet, the swifter the healing finds every last little ache.”
Sarasper did not wait for a reply but rose and crossed the chamber with the stiffness and unsteadiness of one who has seen many years—but also with the haste of a warrior scrambling about in a battle. He came to a clumsy collision with the wall beside the sorceress, grunted in pain, and laid the backs of his fingers against Embra’s cheek.
She opened her eyes for just a moment, then leaned her weight against his hand, seeming to fall into full slumber. Sarasper frowned.
“There are spells upon her,” he told the other men. “Her own—or some dark work of the Silvertree mages, I wonder?”
“All my magic is gone,” Embra murmured, against his hand. “These two broke the bindings set by my father’s command, earlier this night. I know nothing of what these spells may be.”
“Your father never ordered spells laid on you to keep you young, or … change your beauty?”
A faint smile touched Embra’s lips. “No,” she told the healer, her eyes still closed. “All you see is mine own.”
“They’re the work of Silvertree’s pet mages, no doubt,” Hawkril growled.
“Then I’ll break them,” Sarasper said.
“You can do that?” the armaragor asked, rolling up onto one elbow to get a better look. He was in time to see Embra’s body jump under the healer’s hands, like a horse kicked awake, and begin to shudder uncontrollably. She arched her back, her eyes opened to show only whites, and then closed again as she sagged, suddenly as limp as an empty cloak.
The armaragor could hear the chatter of her teeth as Sarasper put his arms around her and snarled, “Of course. Anyone can break a spell … if they know how. Unless the spell is on them.” There was sweat on the old healer’s face, now, and his skin was growing dark.
“You mean,” Hawkril asked slowly, “that anyone who learns enough can be a wizard?”
“Almost,” the healer snapped, as the shuddering sorceress in his arms shook him along the wall. Veins stood out on his flushed forehead as he wrestled with her. “It requires more patience than most folk have, an iron will to hold to a purpose—and a certain ruthlessness. That’s why most mages act so grand or mysterious or sinister. They want others to think only special folk can become wizards so that few will pester them to become their apprentices.”
The healer’s growl broke off in a grunt of pain as Embra’s thrashings bumped one of his elbows solidly against the stone floor, and he gasped out some curses and rolled away from her.
She twisted, like a dog scratching its back on a mat, and then fell still, leaving him the only one shuddering. Hawkril watched him hug himself in pain, like many a wounded warrior huddled around a campfire after a battle … but he was not clutching his bruised elbow.
“Sarasper?” he asked. “Are you—?”
The healer lifted a sweat-drenched face, looking as exhausted and gray as one of those wounded warriors Hawkril was remembering, and snarled, “Fine. Never been better. Must get up and frolic!”
He coughed, then, doubling over uncontrollably, and the two men of Blackgult exchanged uncomfortable glances as the healer retched and spat and groaned. When at last his shoulders ceased to shake and his breath lost its rasp and rattle—it seemed a very long time—Sarasper looked up, glared at them both, and growled, “Neither of you have the slightest idea how healers work, do you?”
He did not wait for them to silently and grimly shake their heads but instead turned to Embra. Looking searchingly into her still face, Sarasper seemed to see something reassuring. He rolled her into a more restful position, gently tugged her tunic back into place where her convulsions had almost laid bare one shapely shoulder, and then sighed heavily and looked away.
“It seems harder than when she worked spells,” Hawkril said reluctantly. After a silent moment or two he added the query, “Could I cast spells like a wizard?” His voice was at once hesitant and eager.
Sarasper looked up at him, his hands on Embra’s shoulders. “Someday, perhaps, if the need was great enough. But you’ll have to lose something first.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. Your good sense. To be a wizard of any power, it helps a lot if you’re crazed.”
Hawkril made a disgusted sound and growled sarcastically, “Thanks. I’ll try to remember that.”
Under the healer’s hands, they heard Embra make a weak sound. It was a chuckle.
In the chamber in Castle Silvertree that all of the baron’s pet mages were growing rather weary of, Ingryl Ambelter and Klamantle Beirldoun stiffened, exchanged glances, and shook their heads. Then they turned in unison to face the table where Faerod Silvertree sat, wine glass in hand, staring into its depths … doubtless on the verge of dozing. For that matter, Markoun had retired to his chambers; no matter what exacting private researches he’d claimed to be pursuing, by now he was assuredly snoring.
“Lord Baron,” Klamantle said tentatively, and then cleared his throat and halted in confusion. His employer had responded not a whit. The baron’s eyes were still seeing nothing, somewhere in the ruby depths of the wine, and he sat unmoving.
Ingryl strode forward and said firmly, “My Lord, we have, just now, both felt the shielding spell on the Lady Embra shatter and fade away. This leaves us not knowing her location or condition, henceforth.”
With no change of expression, Faerod Silvertree told his glass almost delicately, “Graul the Horned Lady! Graul and rend her and all who stand in my way!”
He looked up, as suddenly as a falcon, and his glare was like a sword of fire.
“You will hunt down and capture my daughter right away, with no more gentle spells nor leisure for her,” he snarled. “Use any magi
c that won’t slay her or maim or disfigure her irrevocably … level Silvertree House if you have to.”
* * *
“I feel better, yes,” Embra told them quietly. “But I also feel … empty. As if something within me is gone, or torn away.” She shrugged. “I just don’t know. Perhaps Hawkril had better learn to be a mighty mage after all.”
Craer winced. “I don’t think we’ve years enough to spare for that. We’ve probably tarried here too long already; I can’t believe the baron will just sit and brood over the loss of his daughter when he knows where we fled.”
“If they want to come in through that door chamber,” Hawkril growled, “it’ll take a lot of digging.”
“Not if the right spells are used,” Sarasper told him sharply. “Every stone could be lifted and hurled in here at us like a missile, breaking joints until we’re helpless, if the wizards are skilled enough.” He turned back to the Lady of Jewels, the snap of anger back in his voice. “Just who works magic for your father?”
“Ingryl Ambelter, once apprentice to Gadaster Mulkyn, and the most dangerous; Klamantle Beirldoun—a quiet, cold man of whom I know almost nothing; and a young, ambitious man from somewhere outside the Vale, who fancies himself handsome: Markoun Yarynd. His eyes are hot on me, that one. Cruel, calculating men, all.”
“Gadaster I remember,” the healer said slowly, “and hearing of his death. The apprentice Ambelter I may have laid eyes on, once or twice, but in truth, they’re all unknown to me. Capable and ruthless cold-hearts, I assume. What plots has your father set them to?”
Embra shrugged. “Finding ways to rule all Aglirta, of course. Slaughtering any folk of Blackgult and wizards they may find, along the way. They were trying to fashion me into a ‘Living Castle.’ I’m not sure if you know the term, but it’s—”