Jezine was uncertain how to take these words. She said, “Thank you, Mistress.” She watched Mistress Ileera’s face to gauge the reaction. There was none, at least none visible. That chilled Jezine’s blood.
“There is great power in you, great potential,” the Mistress continued. Jezine realized her Mistress had crossed the space between them, though she had not seen Ileera move. The wizardess loomed over her now, raising one lace-gloved hand to caress Jezine’s cheek.
“My greatest ambition is to serve you and accept your instruction, Mistress.” Jezine struggled to speak through her tightened throat. It took all her self-control not to shiver at Mistress Ileera’s touch.
“You shall do both,” Ileera said with a cold glimmer in her eyes. Why had Jezine never noticed how icy were those blue orbs? The Mistress smiled, and that smile was darkness. “Accept this final instruction, on how you may serve me best.”
Then Mistress Ileera began to intone an incantation. The words seemed to crawl out of her mouth like spiders that jumped to the air. They hung there, not fading but somehow solid. The invisible curtain of words fell over Jezine like a shroud and she felt something pulling within her. Invisible hooks caught their barbs in her very soul and tugged. Feeling a rending tear in the fabric of her being, Jezine distantly heard herself cry out in agony.
Chapter 19
In the morning, after a hearty breakfast of pheasant eggs and salted ham and hotcakes with syrup and a steaming bowl of porridge, Mithris made his way happily to Mistress Ileera’s private study on the highest floor of the tower. He could not remember the last time he had eaten so well, or well at all, and a full stomach did wonders for his disposition.
For the first time since the day Master Deinre was attacked, Mithris did not feel lost and alone against the world.
“Come in, lad. Come in.” Mistress Ileera rose from behind her desk, beckoning him to come in and shut the door. Mithris did as she bade, and crossed the room whistling in appreciation at the thick and dusty tomes stacked high on her desk and piled up beside it on the floor.
“I had my apprentices gather every volume that even mentions the foundation crystals,” explained the wizardess, turning a brilliant smile on Mithris. He drew up short, completely stunned by that charming smile. He had thought she was beautiful; she was radiant, an angel from another plane of existence.
Mistress Ileera looked fifty years younger than when he had seen her last. The transformation was subtle—wizards tended to age gracefully except for a ten-year “age-spurt” around their fourth or fifth century—but it was undeniable. Mithris could not help himself, and gasped aloud.
If she noticed his reaction to her appearance, Mistress Ileera did not show it. “Did you bring your crystal?”
Mithris reached one hand into a pocket of the clean, comfortable robes she had given him. His fingers closed around the crystal. It still did not speak to him. It had fallen curiously silent last night, and not spoken to him since he revealed its ability to do so to Ileera. The crystal must still be upset about that. Mithris paused, looking at the wizardess with a faint trace of suspicion.
“Oh,” she said, smiling almost flirtatiously. “I have to show you mine before you’ll show me yours, is that it?”
It was such an unexpected thing for her to say, Mithris was lost for words. But Ileera just laughed—tinkling and sweet—and turned to her desk. Sliding open a drawer, she withdrew a large, irregularly shaped hunk of smooth, glass-like stone.
It had no flat surfaces, no planar facets and sharp angles. It curved and bulged. It looked like an enormous dollop of water flung in the air and frozen in a single instant as it fell. Blue-green light swirled dimly within the smooth stone, ripples and tides that further enforced the foundation crystal’s watery appearance.
Staring into the crystal in Ileera’s hand, Mithris pulled his own from his robe. “I thought they would look the same,” he said slowly and flatly, fascinated by her crystal and still stunned by her appearance and strange manner.
“Perhaps they do, in another place,” said Ileera, placing her stone down near the edge of her book-laden desk. She handled it delicately and released her hold on it with obvious reluctance. Then she turned to Mithris, leaning slightly against the desk to strike a curiously provocative pose. She raised her hand, running it back through her luxuriant blonde tresses.
“Shall we?” she asked in a low, humid voice.
“What?” Mithris swallowed, looking up at her in surprise.
“Shall we begin?” she asked again.
“Uhm…yes. Of course. Yes.” Mithris shook himself, and moved to sit down. As he settled himself, Ileera pivoted around the corner of the desk. She was between him and the desk. She leaned over the top of the desk to reach for one of the books stacked on the other side. Mithris felt his face grow hot, and turned his eyes hurriedly away from the backside of her robes.
What was she doing?
She turned around, resting against the desk and crossing her legs at the ankle beneath her robes. She held the book in her hands just beneath her breasts. She fixed Mithris with large, blue eyes and bit her lip in apparent thought. It was quite warm in this room.
“It’s stifling, isn’t it?” she asked, tapping her lip with one finger. Mithris started. Could she read his thoughts? “It often is, this time of day. I should never have placed my study above the kitchens. But no matter. Sometimes a change of scenery aids the concentration. There is an inn nearby. The landlord reserves a private room for me at all times. Why don’t we take the crystals and our books to the inn, where we can…do our research over a pitcher of wine?”
Mithris swallowed again. Where did these lumps in his throat keep coming from? She was right, though, it was too hot in here to think. Though he doubted wine was a good idea, given how fuzzy his head was already. Must be that breakfast; he’d eaten too much, made himself drowsy. Only, he didn’t feel tired. Not at all.
“If you think it best,” he said agreeably.
“Oh,” said Mistress Ileera. She leaned forward from the waist, bringing her face close to his. She held his gaze with her own, one eyebrow arched and a lazy half-smile on her coral lips. “I certainly do.”
Mithris certainly wished his foundation crystal would start speaking to him again. It had implied that it knew more of women than Mithris. Such would not be difficult to achieve, the lad had to admit. Right now, looking into Mistress Ileera’s sultry eyes, he would have taken any advice he could get.
But the crystal remained uncharacteristically silent.
Chapter 20
The moment they reached the inn, Ileera’s demeanor underwent a sharp reversal. Gone was the seductive smokiness she had projected before she ushered him through the stout wooden door into the private room at the back of the inn.
It was a small room, but well appointed. A table large enough for six dominated the center of the room, but a blazing fire lit the hearth in one wall and there were four comfortable-looking chairs arranged nearby. Thick rugs lay on the floor. A chilled pitcher of wine sat on the much smaller table in the middle of the fireside chairs, and there were three burly men sitting there.
Mithris drew up short in surprise, but Ileera propelled him forward from behind and shut the door behind them. Mithris spun around on her. The effect she’d been having on him had vanished along with her flirtatious act, and now Mithris was sure she’d bewitched him with a spell.
“You tricked me!” he accused her. She regarded him expressionlessly. Strong hands took him by the arms from behind. Mithris found himself held tight, pulled further into the room. They spun him about until he faced the third man, still seated.
The heavy-set, shaven headed man rose ponderously and took a step closer. He examined Mithris with a contemptuous sneer.
“This is the one you’re looking for, is he not, Yuric?” asked Ileera from by the door.
“Oh, it’s him all right,” answered Yuric. “Deinre’s apprentice, right enough. Eaganar will be pleased to see
this one.”
Eaganar? That was the same name Ileera had used last night. But she had said…
“Eaganar’s the wizard who killed Master Deinre!” Mithris exclaimed.
Yuric chuckled, and Mithris heard Ileera laugh as well. “None too bright, is he?” opined the mercenary captain.
“Still dangerous though,” growled one of the men holding Mithris by the arms.
“That he is, Palinar,” said Yuric, nodding sagely. “Mistress Ileera, if you please?”
“One thing first,” said the wizardess coldly. “He carries a large, glowing crystal in the small, square pocket at his waist. It is mine.”
Yuric eyed the sorceress over Mithris’ shoulder for a long, suspicious moment. Then, the big man shrugged. Keeping his eyes locked on Mithris’ own, the mercenary leaned forward and reached a thick-fingered hand down to retrieve the foundation crystal.
“No!” sputtered Mithris, struggling helplessly against the firm grip of his captors. His squirming did no good. Yuric straightened, bouncing the crystal in his hand. Then he tossed it across the room to Ileera. As soon as she caught the foundation crystal, it disappeared into her robes and Mistress Ileera uttered a brief incantation.
Mithris felt something settle over him like a blanket that constricted itself about his skin, wrapping him tightly. He could guess what the cantrip was. He opened his mouth to protest anyway, but no sound emerged no matter how he strained.
“You, on the other hand,” said Mistress Ileera in a cooing voice, and Mithris knew she was speaking to his foundation crystal. “I release my binding on you. You may speak now.”
So that was why it had been curiously silent all night. Mithris did not know if the crystal spoke to her now that she had released it. As the burly men carried him unceremoniously from the room, he knew only that he was doomed.
She had taken his voice. He could not cast.
***
Mithris lay disconsolately on the floor of the broken down fort’s stony dungeon. His ribs ached from the bruising he’d taken slung over Yuric’s saddle for the long ride from Avington. He shivered with cold. His face burned where the tears had frozen to his cheeks.
There was no light in his cell. There was no furniture. Nothing but the flat stone floor and the solid stone walls and some empty space between them all that was barely large enough for him to stretch out. He had been here a day, maybe longer. It was hard to tell.
In the lightless pit of a dungeon, Mithris saw Mistress Ileera’s sneering face shimmering before his eyes. He heard her cruel laughter. And he remembered the look of disappointment that had sometimes shown in Master Deinre’s eyes.
He’d made a real mess of it, hadn’t he?
I do hope you’re not planning to lie there wallowing forever.
The familiar voice whispered faintly as if from far away. Startled, Mithris rose up and banged his skull against the low stone ceiling. He collapsed again, rubbing at his bruised head and scowling. That was the crystal! But how?
Mithris tried to speak, but Ileera’s spell still silenced him. He ground his teeth in frustration.
I’m guessing from your lack of an answer and mounting sense of humiliated rage that Mistress Ileera placed a similar spell on you as the one which prevented me speaking to you.
Mithris nodded his head bleakly in the dark.
That’s got to be making things difficult, then.
Mithris opened his eyes, scowling at the useless statement. He wished the crystal would just help him for once.
No, said the crystal; No, I don’t think so.
Mithris sat puzzled in the dark. What was that supposed to mean?
Sorry, I was speaking to Depths. You can’t hear him, I take it.
Mithris would not have known how to answer even if he were able to speak. He had a thousand different questions to ask. None of them meant anything if he couldn’t get out of this cell. Ileera had sold him out. These mercenaries were going to turn him over to Eaganar, the wizard who’d killed Deinre. Mithris knew what would happen to him next.
He concentrated. He might not be able to speak—and how could the crystal even hear him, leagues away in Ileera’s tower? But the crystal seemed to be able to read the direction of his thoughts, if not always their exact content. If the crystal could speak in his mind, could he not do the same? Straining, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, Mithris focused on the words he wished to send.
HOW DO I GET OUT?
No, I don’t know either. The voice of the crystal was muffled slightly. Resuming its more normal tone, it continued: We’re working on it, Mithris.
Great. Mithris groaned. At least, he would have if his voice hadn’t been ensorcelled.
The crystal did not speak again for several minutes. Mithris caught the sound of voices outside his cell. He couldn’t make out the words; two feet of solid stone blocked them out. The only break in that wall was the equally thick iron door. Not that Mithris could see either of these things. Perhaps the loss of his vision and his voice were balanced somehow, allowing him to hear with greater acuity.
He did not think he would normally have overheard the men, but he could hear them now. The words weren’t clear, but the tone of the voices and the occasional breaks of raucous laughter told him what he needed to know.
Mithris threw himself against the door. He gritted his teeth in pain as the door barely moved.
What are you doing? The crystal voice was alarmed.
Mithris reached out with his hands, feeling along the wall until he felt the shape of the door again. He took two steps back—as far as he could go—with his arms extended, fingers stretching for the door as if to make sure it stayed in place.
With all his might, Mithris hurled himself at the solid slab of steel.
Chapter 21
The guards hauled him out of the cell after the third time he hit the door. They had heard the dull thuds. There was nothing in his cell for him to hit things with except himself, and they knew Eaganar wanted him alive. One of them, clad in a leather kilt and loose white shirt, threw open the door. The second man, who was wearing the same full armor as the others but had discarded his cloak, seized Mithris by the arms and ripped him out of the cell.
Mithris staggered forward, tripping over his own feet and slamming down hard on the stone floor. Dazed, he rolled over once and lay still.
“Here now,” shouted the armored guard angrily. “What’s this noise, boy? You tryin’ to hurt yourself?”
“If a powerful wizard wanted my hide, I’d probably do the same,” said the one out of uniform, laughing. Even on the floor, and several paces from the man’s mouth, Mithris caught the foul smell of sour ale on the man’s breath. The strong smell overwhelmed Mithris’ weak constitution. He rolled back to his stomach just in time, vomiting painfully on the floor.
“Yeck!” shouted the armored guard, jumping back in disgusted alarm. The other one laughed so hard he fell over backwards and landed on his backside. As Mithris clutched his belly, the men doubled over with laughter. Mithris shuddered, not seeing anything remotely amusing about the situation.
Well, maybe one thing. The drunken mercenary who thought this was all such a laugh was between Mithris and escape. The other one was behind him. Mithris leaped to his feet and ran. He bolted past the laughing man, who was curled up on himself on the floor and didn’t even notice.
“He’s running!” shouted the other one, so surprised he didn’t react otherwise. Then he shook himself and ran after the fleeing apprentice.
Mithris shot down the dungeon corridor, a dank and dimly-lit tunnel of stone. It was narrow and curving, and as it twisted he soon left the pursuing guard behind. Armor was heavy and cumbersome. But Mithris had a disadvantage of his own. His body was battered and weak, and he’d not eaten since breakfast before going to Ileera. He could not keep up his pace for much longer.
Why did it always come to this, he wondered.
He came to a stairway branching off and up into one of the walls. The s
naking corridor continued past it. Mithris deliberated for a moment and ran past the stair. When the tunnel curved again, he slowed his mad dash and stood panting, leaning against his bent legs.
Pressing himself against one wall, Mithris crept back a few steps and listened. He heard the shouting guard easily. The clanking of his armor echoed down the hall. The mercenary, spewing curses, turned and hurried up the stairs. Mithris had given him the slip—for now.
Turning, Mithris ran in the opposite direction. He hoped this corridor wasn’t just another row of cells and a dead end. He was in luck. Within a couple of minutes, he had reached a solid wooden door set in a solid wall. A thick smell hung in the air, and Mithris caught scent of it dozens of paces away. He’d slept in the rear yard of enough inns these last months to know the stench of a scullery.
He also knew nobody ever built a scullery without its own exit. Level with the dungeons, it must be beneath the kitchens—but it would have its own way out. Mithris was only a room away from freedom.
Mithris opened the door cautiously, poking his head through a crack first. There was no one in the room. He slipped through and pulled the door closed behind him. Gagging, he pulled one sleeve of his robe tight across the lower half of his face and advanced through the scullery.
Halfway down the wall to his left was an arched doorway. Stairs led up behind it. On the opposite wall stood an identical doorway. Mithris stopped in the middle of the room, staring back and forth between the two doors. One of those stairways led outside. The other, no doubt, opened up on the kitchens.
From what he had seen of his captors, big men all, Mithris doubted the kitchen of this fort was ever deserted. If he chose the wrong stair, he’d almost certainly be back in his cell a few minutes later.
He thought back to the other set of steps he had passed between here and the dungeon. It had gone up to the right. His path from there to here had wound and curled but he didn’t think it had doubled completely back. The door to his left should face near enough the opposite direction. He went that way.
EverMage - The Complete Series: A Fantasy Novel Page 8