Howling Delve

by Jaleigh Johnson

  The lights in the sphere flared, drawn to its center. Suddenly, a sound like shattering glass echoed in the room, and the lights went out. Gray mist tendrils flowed from the gaps in the iron bands, curling up sinuously to touch Varan’s beard.

  The wizard’s hands shook, as if the sphere had suddenly doubled in weight. It dragged the old man’s arms down, and the mist swirled and dissipated. The sphere hit the cavern floor with a thud that Meisha felt through her knees.

  Distaste flickered in the wizard’s eye. He pushed the sphere aside and tore the drawing from the wall.

  “Broken.”

  Meisha’s head snapped up at the sound of the wizard’s voice. “Varan?”

  “Hello, little firebird,” he replied, but his gaze never left the drawing. Carefully, he tore it into strips of glowing green, flicking each aside like magical confetti.

  Relief flooded Meisha at the sound of the old nickname. “Master. What happened to you, to your eye?”

  Varan seemed not to hear her. “I broke another one.” He selected a brittle piece of meat from the plate and tore off a bite.

  “What do you mean, you ‘broke’ it?” Meisha asked.

  “Broken,” Varan repeated. “Some of them work, some break. And yet they cling to me, just like you did, firebird. Cling to me, wanting to be fixed. I suppose I’ll fix them all, eventually.”

  “Varan,” Meisha said, choking back her revulsion at the white, squirming maggots crawling in the hair around the wizard’s lips, “where is Jonal? And Prieces—the other apprentices? Why didn’t they aid you?”

  “Oh, they’re here,” Varan said. He patted the small sack he wore tied around his neck. He reached inside and drew out three rings. He dropped them into her cupped hand one at a time. They were identical to the ring Meisha wore, but for the bloodstains.

  “Dead?” Meisha couldn’t believe it. Three apprentices, and even Jonal, the lowliest among them, bore powerful elemental magic, defenses known only to themselves and Varan. “How?”

  But Varan had gone back to his drawing. Meisha picked up the sphere, but whatever magic it had held appeared spent.

  What happened to the wizard? Her attacker’s words drifted back.

  “Talal, what …”

  But Talal was no longer in the room. Meisha turned back and found Varan staring at her as if he’d only just discovered she was in the room.

  “Firebird, it is good to see you,” he said. He lifted a hand to touch her shoulder. The gesture of affection was so familiar it made Meisha’s chest constrict.

  “Master, how did this happen?” she asked, cupping the melted side of his face gently in her hand.

  “This?” Varan twirled a finger in the empty socket. “I believe he took it—or I had to give it away—hard to remember. Bad things are here,” he said. Then he shifted the finger, tapping his temple. “But here …” He grinned at her. “Gods are at work.”

  “Oh, Master—”

  “I’m glad you’ve returned, little one. Yes, you can help me fix them—the broken ones.” He touched his hand to the wall next to where the drawing had been. His fingers passed through the rock as if it were water, until he’d sunk to the elbow in stone. When he pulled his hand out, he held a second sphere, smaller than the first and copper-hued.

  “What is broken, Varan? Where are those coming from?” Meisha asked. She lifted the pouch away from his neck, slipping the rings back inside. “What happened to the apprentices?”

  “I told you, they’re here. Don’t fret.” His hand closed tightly over hers. With the other, he stroked her hair.

  “But what—”

  “I told you.” Ancient muscles flexed with astonishing strength, slamming her head into the unforgiving stone wall. “Don’t fret.”

  Meisha went down in a burst of red pain and horror. Blindly, she lurched to her back as her teacher towered over her, a terrible, crumbling column of rage and power.

  “You should leave now, firebird,” he said, his face dark. He murmured something inaudible, and the chamber sparked to life with newly kindled magic. “Leave me alone.”

  Gasping, cradling her head, Meisha opened her mouth in time to taste fire. The chamber darkened and blurred as if she’d been cast into a deep pool. She could no longer see Varan.

  Trembling, Meisha raised herself to her knees and crawled to where she thought the doorway must be. Somewhere along the way the fire went out, but she could smell the smoke of things still burning: rotted meat, clothing, and hair—her own, of course. She slid onto her face and rolled jerkily to put the fires out.

  Hands caught her armpits, and Meisha felt herself being dragged out of the room into cooler air. She heard the door grind shut, and Talal’s terrified face filled her vision.

  “He t-tried to kill me.” Meisha coughed on the smoke from her own burnt clothing.

  Talal nodded grimly. “The ball. You touched one of his toys. Shirva Tarlarin did the same thing. There wasn’t enough of her left to show her husband. You should be dead,” he said, half-accusingly.

  Meisha shuddered. Her skin was unburned but red and raw, as if she’d stumbled through a bramble bush. “I’m protected—somewhat—against magical fire,” she said, lifting a hand to touch her head. “I wish I could say the same for blunt trauma.” She looked up at Talal imploringly. “What happened to him? How did—”

  “We don’t know,” Talal said. “He was like that when we found him, but worse—starved nearly to death, and sick. We brought him out of it, but his head’s gone.…” Talal still gazed at her suspiciously. “You believe me now? That thing isn’t your teacher anymore, Lady.”

  “Then what is he?” Meisha snapped. “What has he become?”

  Talal had a quick answer to that. “He’s our doom.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Keczulla, Amn

  3 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  But of course the family stands happy to extend whatever assistance young Lord Morel may require, provided he understands the weight of the favors his father has already accrued.”

  “Your point is clearly taken, Lady.” Kall bowed to the coldly smiling Lady Rothres and continued his trek across the ballroom.

  Absently, he scanned the second floor balcony for Cesira. She was nowhere in sight, but that was hardly a surprise. With its open view of the main ballroom, the second floor was a popular spot, and thus quite crowded.

  Kall left the echoing chatter of the ballroom and crossed the dark garden to the tower stairs. The double-arched windows of his father’s former offices stood exactly as they had in Esmeltaran, though the current occupant of the tower hardly cared what view he had.

  Syrek Dantane stood bent over a table, examining a book that was easily the length of his arm. The wizard had to shuffle a step left and right to read the text.

  “I’d love to see the bookshelf that came out of,” Kall said by way of greeting.

  The wizard did not immediately answer. When he did, he lifted only his eyes from the tome. They were as clear and as blue as Kall’s, with a matching sheen of barely concealed hostility.

  “I’m sure it would astound you. One actually has to read books on a regular basis to appreciate that knowledge comes in many forms.”

  Kall ignored the insult. “Surely you can agree inscribing a tome that’s impossible to lift borders on the absurd?”

  “Whatever you say, Lord Morel. In fact, I was just about to gather my absurd bits of lore and be gone from your house.”

  Kall leaned against the doorframe. “I don’t recall asking you to leave. Could be my mind is slipping. We Morels are famous for our scattered wits, you know.”

  “As it happens, I do,” Dantane said. “No, you haven’t asked me to leave, but judging from the fact that you’ve avoided my requests for an audience since you came here, I’m assuming my eviction cannot be far off.”

  Kall shrugged. “You may be right. Earlier today, I was going to throw you out without a conversation, but I changed my mind.
”

  “What brought about that bit of charity?”

  “I have questions about my father.”

  Dantane gathered his robes about him, perching on the edge of the table. “Ask.”

  “When did you come to him?”

  “Deepwinter. I was traveling through the city and ran into a bit of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Dantane looked irritated. “The kind that comes when ignorance is allowed too free a rein.”

  Kall smirked. “Amnians are quite vocal about their wizard-hatred, aren’t they?” he said.

  “Your father was able to intervene on my behalf, although why he took the trouble—”

  “Is the mystery I’m most concerned with,” Kall interrupted. “My father hated magic more actively than most.”

  “So he took great pains to explain to me. Yet, he claimed a greater need drove him to hire me. He suspected someone close was using magic against him. He wished me to find the source.”

  Now Kall listened intently. “Did you?”

  Dantane pushed away from the table. He strode to a locked cupboard in the corner and murmured something. A door creaked open, and Dantane reached inside, withdrawing an object that was unfamiliar to Kall: an ornate silver brooch set with a square, thumb-sized amethyst. “I removed this from your father’s person, though its magic was already drained to nothing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Exactly what it appears, but your father’s blood is on the pin. That blood bore traces of a subtle mind-altering magic. I’ve seen similar pieces before. The spells make a person extremely susceptible to suggestion, but only from those they trust—friends or family. For instance, if the lady of the house doesn’t approve of the way her husband is using the family finances, instead of throwing a fuss, she can use this to influence him in new directions.”

  “But the lord would be unaffected in business dealings with enemies and rivals?” Kall asked.

  “Precisely. Tailored to fit any Amnian merchant, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed.” So that was it, Kall thought. Magic had tainted his father’s blood. “How did my father discover the spells affecting him?”

  “He may have noticed when one or both elements of the enchantment began to break down,” Dantane said, “the spells … and his own mind.”

  Kall nodded. It made sense. Over time, the enchantment had slowly destroyed his father’s sanity. He’d seen it that night in the garden. “When my father hired you, was he …”

  “Lucid?” Dantane smiled sardonically. “He had stretches, long enough to keep his business scraping by. I could prolong some of them, with magic. Do you have any other inquiries, Lord Morel?” he asked impatiently, “or may I go?”

  Kall considered the man. He knew what Cesira would say if she were here. Dantane was young, tidy with his speech and possessions, but with an unkempt air about his person. His dark hair was too long and shaggy, his eyes perpetually jumpy and fatigued. And he was hungry, Kall thought. He’d watched the wizard poring over his books. The man was too eager for magic to have come willingly to a land so bereft of it. Kall had no doubt there was more to his reason for being here, but whether it had anything to do with the Morel family was what he needed to know.

  He knew what Cesira would say. Cesira would send Dantane away without hesitation.

  “I want you to watch the party,” Kall said, surprising them both.

  Dantane raised an eyebrow. “Watch it for what?”

  Kall had no idea. “I have no mercenaries, no guards employed to see to the security of the house. You can act in that capacity.”

  Dantane hesitated. “Lord Morel, you claim a powerful druid as your companion—”

  “Yes, but she’s fairly intractable …”

  “—so I fail to see what added benefit I can be.”

  “You’re saying you don’t want to continue to receive the impressive mound of coin my father paid?”

  “I’ve seen your guest list, Lord Morel. It more resembles a creditor account. How long will you be able to retain my services once this evening’s festivities are concluded?”

  Kall had no notion of that either. “Start with the party. We’ll go from there.” On the heels of one problem settled, another occurred to Kall. He took out his mother’s pouch, held the strings, then tossed the pouch to Dantane.

  The wizard caught it, a puzzled frown crossing his face. “What’s this?”

  “A task for after the party,” Kall said. “Search its contents for any dangerous magic.” He still didn’t completely trust Meisha.

  “And if I find some?” Dantane asked.

  Kall paused at the top of the stairs. “Destroy it.”

  Later, Kall sat at his father’s desk, his arms folded behind his head as he listened to the muffled sounds of the party going on outside the study. He was still sitting when the door opened, and Lord Marstil Greve stepped inside.

  Lord Greve was a handsome man just entering middle years, but his muscles had begun to soften. He wore a jeweled knife at his belt, inset with two gems—one a ruby in a nest of gold, the other a glimmering emerald.

  “Lord Morel? I believe we had an appointment,” said Marstil.

  “My apologies, Lord Greve,” Kall said, coming around the desk to offer his hand. “My mind was consumed by other thoughts—old memories.”

  The merchant nodded. “Understandable. It must be strange to come home after so long an absence. My sympathies on your father’s death, he was—”

  “Suicide,” Kall corrected.

  Marstil blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My father took his own life,” Kall repeated pleasantly. “In this study, as a matter of fact.”

  Marstil appeared extremely uncomfortable. “I hope you don’t mind my speaking with you privately, Lord Morel … and speaking plainly,” he added, watching Kall’s face.

  “Not at all.”

  “Being newly arrived in Keczulla, I’m sure you’re unaware that among the merchants of the city, my family is growing in prominence, though we do not have the history associated with the Tanisloves, the Bladesmiles … or the Morels.” Marstil paused, waiting for Kall to comment. When he was met by bland silence, he continued, “Yet, I have been given to understand that the house of Morel has suffered from …” he paused again, and Kall almost smiled. Marstil was searching for a delicate way to say that Morel was a coin toss away from destitution.

  Kall saved him the trouble. “Morel would be foolish to ignore an offer of alliance, should it be extended,” he said, and Marstil immediately relaxed. “Since we’re speaking plainly, I confess my circumstances are such that I’m finding it difficult to pay the daily expenses of a house of Morel’s stature, even so far as to be unable to pay the servants’ wages or—” he stopped, as if afraid he’d said too much.

  “How unfortunate.” Marstil’s eyes gleamed. He knew he would have the upper hand in their negotiations. “The outcome of this meeting will greatly affect us both, then.”

  “Oh, I’m certain of it,” Kall said. He poured a pair of drinks from a decanter on his desk. He handed one to Marstil. “Of course, it hasn’t been terribly difficult to get by, considering my circumstances. Few servants remained at Morel house, even during my father’s time. They were all slaughtered by assassins, you see.”

  The glass stopped halfway to the merchant’s mouth. Amber liquid sloshed on his fingers.

  “Oh, excuse me, my lord,” said Kall. “I filled the glass too full. Allow me to fetch you a towel.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Marstil murmured.

  Kall opened a drawer in the desk. He tossed a black cloth to Marstil. The merchant caught it absently, and was wiping his fingers before he realized what he held. He unrolled the silk hood and let it fall between his hands, revealing two crudely cut eyeholes.

  “It’s not the original, I realize,” said Kall. “But it matches my memories closely. What do you think, Lord Greve?”

  Marstil dropped the
mask and spun toward Kall in one lightning movement. His arm came around, taking the decanter off the desk. Kall dodged, and glass shattered against the wall. Marstil went for the knife at his belt, but Kall locked a hand around his wrist.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” he asked, his pleasant tone unchanged. “That I wouldn’t know you as soon as I saw your blade? You’re a fool, Marstil, a dead fool.”

  Marstil struggled, but he’d spent too many years away from hard fighting, and Kall was no longer a stripling boy. He held the man without breaking a sweat.

  Kall eased the knife from Marstil’s sheath and laid it against the merchant’s throat, starting at the ear.

  “Shall I give you the same death you gave her?” Kall asked. He waited for the man to answer, to plead, but saw only fear and confusion in Marstil’s eyes. The bastard didn’t even remember the ones he’d killed. “Gertie never saw her death coming, but you will. I’ll savor that time, and the pain, until I’m ready to let you go, unless you tell me where Balram is.”

  “I-I have no idea.” Marstil’s eyes flicked to the mask and back to Kall’s face. There was no lie in them, only terror. “Kortrun and I parted company long ago, when I set out to build my business. Please … listen,” he said. “I h-have not been Balram’s man … in years,” he stammered, swallowing against the steel at his throat. “I am a merchant now. I’ve made a family.”

  “A family,” Kall echoed. “Oh, dear. That’s the death card, is it? Now I’m required to have mercy.” He leaned in close to the man’s face. “Tell me, Marstil, do your wife and children know how their father earned his fortune? Do they realize the manse they sleep in at night was paid for with Morel blood? If I tell them that, after I’ve killed you, do you think they’ll forgive me? I like to believe they will.” Kall pressed down, and Marstil shrieked. “What else have you got to offer me, Marstil? Please, don’t mention your family to me again.”

  “All that I have!” The merchant trembled as a drop of blood ran down the knife’s blade into his field of vision. “Whatever you want!”