by Lyndon Hardy
Alodar hurried over the bulk of the text which dealt with the shielding hand and its variations. Near the end of the roll he found what he wanted, a footnote on transforming the squares so that they became panmagic, summing the same on all diagonals as well as by row and column. Quickly he worked the equations to produce the four non-equivalent variations. The third was the one he sought; the first two elements were the same as the ritual he had started, but the rest were permuted and the central value was nineteen.
Alodar drew a deep breath and plunged into the ritual. He poured a ring of fine powder around the box containing the sphere, lit it in a flash of smoke, and nodded with satisfaction as the globe began to spin. He clapped his hands together thrice, then slammed the lid of the box shut, wincing from the burn to his fingertips. “Another knot next,” he growled and began weaving together four short pieces of colored twine.
The steps followed one another rapidly and Alodar lost track of the time in his concentration to perform each one with precision. He would have no chance to go back and try again if all was not done correctly. Finally he approached the end and beat out the syncopated rhythm that had been third in the standard ritual. He lifted the small flute to his lips and started the slow count to thirty that would signify completion.
Now with only one step remaining, Alodar’s eyes darted to the glass, to see the last of the sand begin its fall to the lower chamber. He filled his lungs to blow before the final particles hit but checked himself with the knowledge that it would do no good. The blast of the pure note must come when it was needed, not before.
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he watched the trickle slow and a hole grow in the smooth surface and begin to widen to the edge of the glass. Five counts to go, and the sand continued its relentless fall.
Only a layer seemingly one gram thick coated the neck of the tube; then, with one coordinated wave, it rolled downward through the opening. Four counts remained—three—two. Alodar grimaced from the expected impact of the explosion to come. Then, as the final grains hit the mound beneath, he blew a piercing note that filled the small chamber with sound.
The echoes faded quickly, and Alodar’s shoulders slumped with relief in the silence. The ritual was perfectly and precisely completed. The power had been released and transformed. It would now last forever. Alodar waited a minute more in the luxury of the quietness; then he thrust the orb into his pack and scrambled up onto the window ledge. Seeing the product of his labor must wait; escape from the warring factions of the Guild had to come first.
In an instant he was clambering down the wall and across the esplanade, dodging between the initiates and acolytes who stood gaping at the pyramid as it roared and shook from the battle inside. Shortly thereafter, beyond the bounds of the Guild, Alodar looked backward through the protective distortion in the morning sunlight. Even through the shimmering, he could see a huge towering plume of flame where the library had once stood.
On the trail northward beyond the village, Alodar turned from the path and paused to catch his breath. He squinted back the way he had come but saw no dustcloud of pursuit. He reached in his pack for the sphere, now quite cold, and brought it to eye level. The opaque darkness was gone; in its place gleamed a sparkling transparency. But unlike the one Duncan had taken, the center of this sphere held a single eye, lidded closed. It was tiny, like the shielding hand, delicately sculptured with fine detail. Small wrinkles wove across the lid and minute spike-like hairs curled in a precise line along the bottom edge.
Alodar blinked in surprise and quickly spun the sphere around, looking for one of the magical symbols he had expected to see. He shook the orb violently, as if to rearrange the contents, but the closed eye did not change.
Duncan had escaped with a hand of protection, and what king would not give a treasure to be safe from any mortal blow? At the very least, Alodar had expected a magical object of equal value. But all he had to show for outwitting the safeguards of the Guild was yet another mystery. He was no nearer his rightful heritage or his true place in life than the day before the gates of Iron Fist slammed shut. In bitter disappointment, he thrust the sphere back into his pack and scowled at the ground.
He rested for a few minutes in silence, and then sat erect and looked up the trail. It would return him to Ambrosia. But what did he have to show the queen to turn her head from the others? A mere bauble that could have been fashioned by a jeweler. The eye did not even provide an imitation of magic. Nothing of what he had read in the library told of magical eyes, either closed or staring full open. Such a logo would be more appropriate to charm of the sorcerer than the impersonal ritual of the magician.
Alodar blinked at what he had just thought. He stopped and withdrew the sphere a second time from his pack. He brought it to eye level and stared, frowning into its interior. Surprised at what impulse directed his actions, he sat unmoving, concentrating on the tiny eye. For several minutes nothing happened; then he felt the weak tendrils of strange shadows rising from the depths of his mind.
His eyes blurred out of focus, and a hazy image formed in his thoughts. As if stroked by a gentle feather, fleeting snatches of a distant scene were pushed into place, and he saw a barren landscape, dominated by a single thrusting crag. Stunted and gnarled shrubs fought a strong wind to retain their meager leaves, and the sun hung low in the sky. Alodar felt himself drawn inside the huge monolith, into a tomblike cavern carved from the solid rock. In the very center was a coffin sealed with a thick glass lid.
The landscape was the same as that in the vision when he passed through the curtain. He gasped as the shock of recognition dissolved the scene, like a stone thrown into a reflecting pond. He looked quickly about and saw only the empty trail and the hills which contained the magicians’ Guild.
Alodar struggled for several minutes more, but the feeling did not return. He lowered the sphere to his side and focused on the horizon. “Sorcery,” he mused, “sorcery. Of the five arts it is the one concerned with expanding the limits of the mind to see in time and space. And what I just experienced can be related to nothing else.”
He savored the sensations of the sphere while they were still fresh and then sprang to his feet. The disappointment of only a few moments before washed away in a wave of new enthusiasm. Well, why not? With only a piece of parchment he had plunged into alchemy; with two hunks of rock, he had braved the magicians’ Guild. Perhaps in sorcery and with the eye, he would finally find what he sought. The quest would go on.
PART FOUR
The Sorcerer
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Illusions of the Court
“HERE, take the bauble back,” Cedric rasped as he tossed the ruby in Alodar’s direction. “You cannot clear your conscience with a bribe, nor will I accept it in lieu of your toil. When we left Dartilac’s more than a season ago, I instructed you to be here in my courtyard the morning after. Instead some thaumaturge appeared nearly a week later with the stone offered as an apology.”
“Periac,” Alodar said as he glanced around the familiar vine-covered walls of Cedric’s field of instruction. Like a warrior being reviewed, he stood before the warmaster while Cedric paced back and forth. “I must seek him out as well when we are finished. Does he still room at the inn where I saw him last?”
“I have not kept a record of your appointments.” Cedric frowned at the interruption. “But for a fact, he is in Ambrosia no longer. Two days ago he saw me again, asking if I had news of you. Then he departed for the north. ‘The milk has soured,’ he said. ‘The people in the capital have become panicked into hoarding their gold, rather than spending it on the likes of my craft.’ Panicked indeed! The city is like a bubble of marsh gas, awaiting a spark. Vendora holds a royal ball tonight to foster the image of nonchalance. And her visit to Arcadia is broadcast to be only a formality of state, but everyone knows she sails tomorrow in desperate search for aid.”
“Tomorrow,” Alodar said. “But why must she go at all? And what of her court? Does sorc
erer Kelric follow her as well?”
“It is as she feared,” Cedric answered. “The kingdoms to the south have ceased their bickering long enough to coalesce their armies into one. This morning they have crossed the border, so the sorcerers say; nothing stands between them and Ambrosia. And no mere ambassador can she send across the sea to plead her cause. King Elsinor remembers all too well how he personally had to beg on bended knee for aid in suppressing a rebellion of his own. He expects the fair lady and no one less to argue for the return of the favor. As for Kelric, I imagine he sails with the rest. The barge is big enough for half her household, although not as seaworthy as many a smaller craft.”
“Then I must seek him quickly,” Alodar said, “before it is too late.”
Cedric stopped and looked up and down Alodar’s rough clothing, wrinkled and duly after his journey from the south. “With your appearance and unpolished manner, you will fare no better than I,” he said. “It is time for a man to be measured by what he can do, but they cling still to the trappings of blind tradition.”
Alodar opened his mouth to reply but Cedric cut him short. “Too old,” he spat. “They said I was too old for command. Why even now, I am worth three of their young sons, wet-eared boys who have been no more than nicked by cold steel.” He crashed his fist into an open palm. “It was not my age, but that I still refuse to play by their rules. What difference does it make if it is Feston or Basil that I would follow, so long as my sword swings swift and true? But since I would not declare, neither side will have me. And so one less arm is raised in Procolon’s cause.”
“Lady Aeriel would know your worth,” Alodar said. “I am sure she puts the true interests of the queen above the favor seeking.”
“I have not dealt with her directly,” Cedric replied. “But if she is a member of the court, then she will be no different.”
“You speak with contempt of those who prejudge by pattern and rote,” Alodar said. “I would not think you would so measure the lady. In any event, if the queen sails tomorrow, and Kelric with her, it is to Aeriel that I will appeal for a berth.”
Cedric did not reply but again looked up and down Alodar’s shabby clothing.
Alodar followed his gaze and then nodded. “I agree that I must know something of the ways of the court. It is why I am here. You taught me well at Dartilac’s. With a little more instruction, I am sure I will pass through the palace hallways like the rest. And if you will not accept the ruby for payment, then all I can offer is the high opinion of the teacher which is generated by the deeds of the well-taught pupil.”
Cedric’s eyes narrowed and he studied Alodar for a long time in silence. “It is true that you do not seek the position of a commander,” he said at last. “Perhaps this lady can get you placed in a lowly group such as Quantos’ marines. Some position that is not significant enough to require commitment to either side.”
Cedric resumed his pacing, twisting his moustache into sharpness and looking over Alodar’s head to the walls beyond. “I had hoped to wait until you were fully trained,” he muttered after a moment, “but the events force it to be now.” He shrugged, slapped his hip with decision, and then motioned to the bench nearby. “Come, Alodar, there is a matter of much importance of which we must speak.”
They sat down facing one another and Cedric placed his hand on Alodar’s shoulder. “I admit to some truth in what they say. On cold mornings my knees are stiff and my eyes no longer follow the tip of the fastest blades. I am still very much the master, but I know that someday I must pass my heritage on to another.”
Cedric stopped and gently rocked Alodar back and forth. “You will never become a great warrior,” he said. “With more training you will grow into someone not to be dismissed lightly. But you are too small and slow to hack your way through a screaming hoard or stand toe to toe with a thick-muscled giant. No matter how hard you try, I do not see you someday beating your chest in triumph on the top of a pile of bloodied foes.”
Alodar’s lips parted but Cedric raised his other hand for silence. “But you have spirit. Despite the meager abilities at your command, you track your goals like a hero from the sagas. And it is that drive that attracted my attention to you; it is that dedication which commands my respect and motivates me to aid you as I can.” Cedric paused and looked deeply into Alodar’s eyes. “I see my own burning youth in your quest, Alodar. Even though my joints grow stiff, through your pursuit I live again.
“And so, if by the random factors I am to remain behind when the fair lady chances across the sea, then I choose to send my spirit with you rather than some other dewy-cheeked warrior, no matter how skillful.” Cedric unstrapped his sword and placed it across Alodar’s knees. “Take this,” he commanded, “but remember when it is drawn, it must defend not one reputation but two.”
Alodar blinked at Cedric’s words and tentatively reached out to touch the hilt in his lap. He looked back into the warmaster’s eyes, saw the intensity of the feelings, and then tightened his grip. “I will wear it in honor,” he said softly.
Cedric was silent for a moment longer, then slapped Alodar on the arm and sprang up from the bench. “Enough of this chatter,” he rasped in his usual manner. “There is little time and much to be done. I will tell you the etiquette of the court, and the ruby will provide what you must wear. Then, if your tongue is quick enough, you can try to convince this lady Aeriel to secure you an appointment with Quantos of the royal marines.”
Alodar wriggled his toes in the soft fur that lined his new calfskin boots. He glanced down at his silken tunic and smiled at the subtle pattern of silver thread which ran through the cloth. Around him mingled the nobles of the court, and nothing marked his raiment from theirs. The tailor had been right, he thought, the small ruby was twice again enough to purchase a wardrobe equal to any here.
Alodar looked around the large room and saw everyone crowded into the periphery. The center was clear, and the sheen on the parquet floor reflected brightly the light of the chandeliers overhead. Decorative columns with flowery capitals and fluted shafts were spaced with precision along all four walls; between them, frescos and tapestries blazed with heroic deeds from the sagas. On the far wall next to ceiling-high double doors, a small ensemble of musicians tuned their instruments, adding to the low drone of conversation. The mood was somber; the room resonated with the gentle hum of smoke-sedated bees, rather than the vigor of a swarming hive that one would expect at a royal ball.
Alodar scanned the assemblage for familiar faces from Iron Fist or Cedric’s sparring yard and, here and there, he thought he recognized some lordling. The entire titled class within a day’s ride of Ambrosia must be here, he thought. It was no wonder that the bribe to the footman to gain entrance had cost as much as the clothes on his back.
The buzzing around him rose slightly, and Alodar looked to the doors that connected the ballroom to the hallway beyond. Without fanfare, a tall, black-headed man entered the room with a military stride, and Alodar recognized him instantly.
“Look, it is lord Feston,” someone to Alodar’s right stage-whispered to her companion. “He can hardly control the agitation that disfigures his already uncomely face.”
“Well enough that he is so discomforted,” a second voice responded. “Perhaps he will then acknowledge the existence of other ladies besides the queen.”
Alodar shut out the conversation and concentrated on Feston as the man moved about the room, acknowledging the greetings thrown his way. A year ago, Alodar would have been cowed. But today he noticed the way Feston moved his right hand to rest on the hilt of his sword, how he exposed his thigh when he gestured upward and away. His left foot was forward; he would swing from the side, rather than overhead. A contest between them tomorrow might have the same end but it certainly would not be decided by a single thrust.
Feston had not completed a half circuit of the room when a footman dressed as richly as anyone present skipped into the crowd, blowing a light tune on a flute. Behind him,
with a dazzling beauty on each arm, came the massive bulk of Basil the apothecary. A gasp rose from the assemblage as he triumphantly advanced through the doorway, covered from head to toe in what appeared to be a robe of woven gold.
“My good company,” he boomed across the hall. “What pleasure it gives me to see all of you so splendidly arrayed for the entertainment of our queen.” As he spoke, he idly flicked his fingers in a rhythmic pattern, causing a random clicking sound to emanate from his palm. A small stone dropped from his grip in a glittering flash, and the ladies scrambled to retrieve it. In an instant, one held it aloft.
“Keep it, my dear,” Basil said. “It is but a small sapphire. Have it set in a ring.”
As he spoke, Alodar saw a flash of red hair as several more of the court crowded into the room.
“My lady Aeriel,” Basil said, whirling about. “I see another fine setting for one of these stones.” With a sudden flick of the wrist, he tossed a second gem in Aeriel’s direction and it fell in a smooth arc down the front of her dress. Her cheeks momentarily flushed and the crowd tittered at her discomfort.
Alodar looked at Aeriel and his pulse quickened. He could not help a small smile of pleasant anticipation as he thought how his quest gave him reason to seek her company again.
Heralds at the door blew two staccato blasts and Alodar jogged his attention back to the entrance. With unrushed dignity, Vendora entered the room in a gown of deepest red. He looked at her cold beauty and exhaled slowly. Vendora took two small steps into the corridor of people that opened for her and then stopped and looked back through the doorway. With a laugh, she motioned forward with her hand, and another figure entered the ballroom. The murmuring increased as Vendora spoke gaily to the assemblage, and Alodar’s jaw dropped in disbelief.
“Lord Feston, apothecary Basil, and my distinguished company,” Vendora said lightly. “As you well know, I have had much difficulty in choosing a consort between my two suitors. Can you imagine the difficulty in my decision, now that I have not two but three.” She laughed again and waved an elaborate flourish. “I present to you,” she said, “the distinguished magician of the Cycloid Guild, Duncan, the all-protecting.”