Night of Madness loe-7

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  There were half a dozen bloodstones in one of the hundreds of drawers of wizard’s supplies that Lord Faran had collected, and those could be enchanted with the Spell of Sustenance so that whoever carried them would need no food or drink, but even though many of the warlocks who had accompanied Lord Faran on the march to the Palace had not returned, there were far more than half a dozen people in the house. Besides, the bloodstone spell was not healthy if used for too long. A sixnight or two would be no problem, but if the days turned into months...

  It was hard to believe how much his life had changed in just three days. He had been a respected and wealthy wizard, a Guildmaster, with friends and family, and now he was an outlaw, a warlock, worrying about paying for his next meal.

  Manrin shook his head at the thought. He really was too old for this sort of thing.

  After several minutes of conversation Bern insisted on leaving to prepare supper-he had been starting on that when Sheila had fetched him from the kitchens. That left Manrin and Alris alone in the study. Manrin tried to question Alris about her uncle’s plans and what her brother might do, but Alris was hardly brimming over with information or enthusiasm. And after all, why should she be? She wasn’t a warlock, just an ordinary girl, and her uncle had just died, which had to be a blow even though she hadn’t appeared to like him much. She probably just wanted to go home to the Palace, to see her sibs and resume her former life.

  All the same, Manrin kept her there talking until Sheila came upstairs to call them to supper.

  At the meal Alris sat in sullen silence while the warlocks talked about what they should do. She should be taken home to the Palace at the first opportunity, Manrin decided as he pretended to listen to Othisen’s schemes for using warlockry on his father’s farm.

  And Othisen should go home, as well, he thought.

  In fact,all the warlocks probably ought to return to their old homes, Manrin thought-at least, those who had homes. Surely, most people would accept them back. They could claim that Lord Faran had gone mad and led them astray.

  But those who were still in the house did not seem ready to go, and Manrin saw no need to chase them out hastily.

  Some, like Zarek, had no homes to return to.

  And Manrin himself-what good would it do him to go home, to a wizard’s house, when he could no longer function as a proper wizard? What good would it do Ulpen or Sheila to go back to an apprenticeship he or she could never complete?

  No, there were still reasons for some of them to stay.

  The discussion of what they were to do dragged on long after the meal was over, with no signs of ending anytime soon, until finally Manrin yawned widely, picked up a candle, and announced he was going to bed.

  At the top of the first flight of stairs he hesitated; he and Ulpen had shared a room, but he was now the leader in Lord Faran’s place; shouldn’t he take the master’s bed? He walked down the passageway to the north end and through the double doors into the great bedchamber.

  Yes, he thought, as he stood in the doorway and looked wryly at the sculpture and other furnishings, he really ought to spend at least one night here, just so he could someday tell his grandchildren about it. He set the candle on the nearer nightstand and prepared for bed.

  Tired as he was, he had no trouble falling asleep despite the unfamiliar surroundings.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Manrin had no idea how long he had been asleep when the dream began. He knew at once it was a magical dream, and after all he had heard about the Calling that afternoon he was relieved to see that it was wizardly in nature, and not his first warlock’s nightmare.

  He found himself standing in a bare stone room he did not recognize, facing Ithinia of the Isle, senior Guildmaster of Ethshar of the Spices and rumored member of the Inner Circle of the Wizards’ Guild. The clarity of details and Ithinia’s awkward behavior convinced him that this was no ordinary nighttime fantasy, but a sending.

  “The Spell of Invaded Dreams, eh?” he asked when Ithinia seemed to be in no hurry to speak. “The Lesser or the Greater? Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you,” the dream Ithinia said. “This is the Greater Spell of Invaded Dreams, and we can speak freely.”

  That was reassuring. The Greater Spell took significantly more effort; if the Guild had simply wanted to send him a message they would have used the Lesser, which only communicated in one direction, from wizard to dreamer. The Greater Spell, which allowed communication in both directions, indicated that they wanted to talk.

  “I take it that the Guild has something to discuss with me?” Manrin said.

  “Indeed,” Ithinia agreed. “We are aware that you, and the apprentice Ulpen, are now warlocks, as are some fifty-six other wizards of varying experience and power throughout the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars.”

  Manrin’s dream-self blinked in surprise. He had had no idea there were others besides Ulpen and himself. “Fifty-six others?” he said. “Where?”

  “Scattered,” Ithinia told him. “Fourteen are within the walls of Ethshar of the Spices.”

  “In this house?”

  “No, in their own homes. That doesn’t matter. Guildmaster Manrin, I am not here to discuss others; I am here to discussyou.”

  “Ah. And what is it you wish to discuss?”

  “Guildmaster, you know the Guild’s rules. Wizards are not to meddle in other forms of magic.”

  “I didn’t meddle in anything,” Manrin said. “I had it thrust upon me, just like all the others.”

  “Yes, we know. Nonetheless, you are now both a warlock and a wizard, and the Guild does not permit this. There are too many unknowns, too many risks. Warlockry and wizardry interfere with each other in too many ways.” “So what am I to do, then? I can’t stop being a warlock, can I? Have you found a way to reverse whatever it is that did this to me?”

  “No,” Ithinia said. “You can’t stop being a warlock. The change appears to be irreversible. However, the power you now wield does not derive from you, but from an outside source. It would be enough if you were cut off from that source. You would still be a warlock, but you would be completely powerless to use your warlockry.”

  “Can that be done?” Manrin asked, startled.

  “Not while you remain in the World. However, the Guild has access to places outside the World. If you choose, you can be exiled to such a place.”

  Manrin considered that, but only briefly. “I wouldn’t accept exile from Lord Azrad,” he said. “Why should I accept it from you?”

  “You did not swear to obey Lord Azrad. You did swear an oath, when you were accepted as an apprentice, to obey the rules of the Wizards’ Guild.”

  That was undeniably true, but Manrin was not ready to yield. “To leave the world... I assume that these places you describe are magical creations?”

  “Yes.”

  “Small places, then? Not so much as a village?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would be choosing to spend the rest of my life in prison.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think I’ll agree to this?”

  “If you choose to remain a wizard, yes.”

  “Well, how could I not...”

  He stopped, and even in the dream he could feel his face ’turn pale.

  “Oh, no,” he said.

  “You can stop being a wizard,” Ithinia said. She pointed at Manrin’s belt.

  In the dream his dagger, his athame, slid from its sheath and hovered before his eyes, seeming to fill his field of vision. The image of Ithinia seemed to recede into the distance, though he and she were both still in a small stone room.

  “Without the athame you are no longer a wizard,” Ithinia’s voice said, though he could no longer see her speak. “Break it, and we will let you remain alive in the World.” “But part of mysoul is in it!” Manrin protested. “I wouldn’t be whole!”

  “Nevertheless, you must choose,” Ithinia insisted. “Warlock or wizard.”

  “If I ha
d a choice, I’d rather be a wizard,” Manrin said. “But Idon’t have a choice-I’m both!”

  “The Guild cannot permit you to be both and go free,” Ithinia said. “You must break your athame, accept magical exile, or die.”

  Manrin stared miserably at the floating knife. “I’ve lived in the World as a wizard, bound to this dagger, for ninety-eight years,” he said.

  “And you are forbidden to remain a wizard so bound, and living in the World. You swore obedience.”

  His dream-self reached up to touch the dagger; it vibrated as his fingers neared it.

  “If I break it, you’ll let me live and remain free?” he said. “Then the Guild has decided not to exterminate the warlocks?”

  Ithinia hesitated. “If you break it, we will not kill you now,” she said.

  Manrin closed his eyes wearily. “But you might later,” he said. “The Inner Circle has not yet decided on what to do about the warlocks, then?”

  “We have not yet decided,” Ithinia admitted.

  He opened his eyes again, grabbed the athame, and thrust it back in its sheath on his belt.

  “I won’t do it,” he said. “I ask you to reconsider.”

  “Wehave considered this,” Ithinia said. “We have debated it for days, and while we have not yet decided aboutall warlocks, we have decided to enforce the existing rules. All nobles who have become warlocks must renounce their titles or die; all wizards must destroy their athames, or accept eternal exile from the World, or die. We leave the other magicians to their own people, but we know that warlocks cannot summon either gods or demons, so we have no fear of warlock theurgists or demonologists.”

  “I won’t do it,” Manrin said. “I won’t throw away my freedom, nor a century’s experience.”

  “Then we have no choice but to kill you.”

  “You can try,” Manrin said, “but I am the leader of a band of warlocks, and I still retain many of my old protections-not least this athame you want me to destroy! I may not be so easy a target as you think, and you may not be pleased with the results if you antagonize the warlocks. We aren’t as weak as the witches or sorcerers. Remember that Lord Faran took his executioner with him!”

  “We remember,” Ithinia said.

  And then she was gone, and Manrin woke up in Faran’s gigantic bed, staring up into the darkness.

  “Protections,” he mumbled, pushing the bedclothes aside. “I need protec...” Then he felt the hands close around his throat-clawed, inhuman hands. Faint light came from the windows and the crack beneath the doors, but he could see nothing at all; his attacker was invisible.

  “Fendel’s Assassin,” he said. “Good choice. And of course you wouldn’t give me time to prepare; that would be stupid. I should have known.”

  And then the grip tightened, and he could no longer breathe, let alone speak.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Lord Manner awoke on the morning of the eighth day of Summerheat in his own familiar bed, in his own familiar room in the Palace, and spent several minutes lying there, simply enjoying the sensation.

  Then he remembered how he had come here, and that Uncle Faran was dead, and all his joy in being home evaporated.

  It might not evenbe his home much longer. He lived in this apartment because Uncle Faran had been chief advisor to the overlord; now Faran had not merely quit, he had died. Unless Hanner or one of his sisters found a position in the overlord’s service, the overlord would probably order them all out eventually.

  Uncle Faran had died. Hanner had still not fully absorbed that fact. Faran had been turned to stone and shattered. Petrifaction might be reversible sometimes, depending which spell was used, but nobody could reassemble a broken statue and then restore it to life intact. Faran was gone.

  There could be no funeral, no pyre to send Faran’s soul heavenward in the rising smoke; Faran was just gone. His marble remains could be collected, but there was no point in it-whatever was going to become of his soul had already happened. His ghost might still be in the Palace somewhere, might even manage to haunt it; half a dozen other ghosts were already said to be harmlessly resident, though Hanner had never encountered any of them. Faran’s soul might be trapped forever in the stone or might have freed itself somehow when the stone broke open-those were all possible, and Hanner had no idea which had happened.

  He would probablynever know. Necromancy was expensive and unreliable.

  Hanner sat up in bed and sighed. No matter how much he desired it, his life could never again be what it had been before the Night of Madness. Uncle Faran was dead. He could no longer be his uncle’s aide; he would need to make a new career. Uncle Faran was dead.

  Abruptly, Hanner broke down in tears.

  He couldn’t remember a time when Uncle Faran hadn’t been there; even when both his parents were alive and present, Faran had always been around. After Hanner’s father disappeared, Faran helped his sister, Hanner’s mother, with her three children.

  And when their mother died, Faran took them all in and looked after them. He had been all they had left.

  Hanner had loved and respected his uncle. It wasn’t the same sort of love he had felt for his mother or father; Faran hadn’t been anywhere near that close, and he had often overridden their desires in pursuit of his own ideas of what was best. But still, he had always been there, had always made sure Hanner and Nerra and Alris were safe. He had been the center of the family, the core they all revolved around.

  Now that center was gone, leaving Hanner the eldest of the family.

  He sat in his bed crying for several minutes, but at last regained control of himself and wiped his eyes with the bedsheets. When he felt sufficiently recovered he slid out of the bed and got dressed.

  Nerra was slumped on the window seat in the sitting room, looking eastward over the Old City, and Hanner was fairly sure she had been crying, too.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said.

  “I know,” Hanner said.

  Faran was gone-and that meant Hanner, as the eldest, was the head of the family. That meant, he realized, that he was responsible for the care of his sisters.

  Nerra was eighteen, old enough to care for herself, but Alris was not.

  Alris was still at the house on High Street. At least, Hanner certainly hoped she was, since she wasn’t here. He would have to fetch her back to the Palace. If the overlord was still forbidding people entrance...

  Well, if he was, that was foolish. The warlocks had demonstrated beyond question that if they wanted in, Azrad couldn’t keep them out. If those orders were still in effect Hanner would just have to sneak Alris in anyway. He thought he could use his own warlockry to do it, if necessary, as he had at the house.

  He would need to be very, very careful from now on, though, so as not to let anyone know that he was a warlock. Lord Azrad had sentenced the warlocks to exile, and the Wizards’ Guild might well intend to exterminate them; Hanner had no intention of submitting to either fate.

  For one thing, he was head of the family. If he were exiled, how could he look after Alris? There was no reasonshe should be exiled.

  He would definitely need to fetch her home, right after breakfast.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked. Nerra turned up a hand. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Nerra, I know you’re grieving-so am I-but today may turn out to be extremely busy. It’s not impossible that Lord Azrad will have us thrown out of these apartments. I really think you should eat something.”

  Nerra did not say anything in reply, but she got up from the window seat and trudged toward the door. Hanner followed.

  In the kitchens Hanner watched to make sure Nerra actually was eating her portion of bread and salt pork, and wondered whether Uncle Faran had any bloodstones in those drawers on the third floor, and whether Manrin might be willing to enchant them. That would keep Nerra’s strength up while she worked through her grief. In many ways, while Hanner had been the one who worked as Faran’s assistant, it was Nerra who
had been closest of the three of them to Uncle Faran.

  Of course, any dealings with Manrin, a warlock, might be dangerous, Hanner thought; maybe they should go to the Wizards’ Quarter to buy the Spell of Sustenance.

  It would be far more efficient to have it done when collecting Alris, though. Besides, High Street was so much closer.

  And if the overlord did decide to throw them out of the Palace they would probably be living in the house on High Street for a while anyway.

  For now, though, they would eat like anyone else. Hanner looked down at his hand and realized he had not yet eaten his own breakfast. He took a bite of pork and chewed dutifully.

  People wandered in and out of the kitchens as they ate, all going about their business in so familiar a fashion that Hanner’s heart ached to see it. Faran’s death had not disrupted anything here, nor had the warlocks, nor the destruction in the great audience chamber. The only visible change was Hinda’s absence-a sixnight ago she would have been all over the kitchens, running errands for the cooks.

  No one spoke to Hanner and Nerra, though; they finished their meal in silence, brushed crumbs from their clothes, and made their way through the familiar stairways and corridors back to their apartments...

  Where they found Bern, Alris, and two burly guardsmen waiting for them in the corridor.

  “What’s going on?” Hanner asked as he ambled along the passage toward them.

  Alris glanced up at one of the guards who said, “Lady Alris brought this person into the Palace with her, and we didn’t want to leave them unattended.”

  “He might be a warlock who put a spell on her,” the other guard offered.

  “Bern? Bern’s not a warlock,” Hanner said. “He’s my uncle’s housekeeper.”

  “Itold them that!” Alris said angrily.

  “Yes, you did, my lady, but we had to be careful, with all this trouble we’ve had the past few days.”

  The other guard started to speak, then hesitated. “What is it?” Hanner asked him. “My lord,” the soldier said awkwardly, “is it true your uncle is dead? That’s what we heard, but you know how rumors are.”