by Lyndon Hardy
Duncan bit his lip and lowered his eyes. "Please do not take offense, my sage," he said, "but in truth I did approach him with the same offer. 'I need no help from outside the council,' he snapped. 'A change of one vote and it will be over.' "
The acolyte paused, but when Beliac did not immediately reply, he rushed on. "But my method of learning is a superficiality. I am at ease with your leanings as well as any other. When I have the robe of black, such things will little matter."
"I see you have studied more than just the magician's craft, Duncan," Beliac said. "And I am much concerned about the issues of which you speak. The occurrence two weeks ago will be pivotal in the next council meeting. Lectonil will make sure of it. He will demand the ritual of presence be performed immediately. And since I am opposed to such waste on principle, I will resist him this time as well. But he will paint a dark picture of the threat to the Guild, the danger of so many uninitiated roaming at freedom within the palace grounds. Though he knows full well how safely we are protected, it will cause one or two of the more neutral to pause and consider it."
Beliac stopped and touched his fingers to his lips. "He has kept to his chambers since the incident," he muttered. "I would not doubt that somehow he put a neophyte up to the whole thing."
He was silent for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. "Long ago, I visited his quarters. Topmost in the towers and the largest besides. Thick woven rugs, the newest sheets, and the freshest fruits in his bowl. And why should he have the lightest load of instruction and be the one to call our council to order? I am more the magician and it is only the accident of birth that he is older. If there is to be order in the Guild, then the trappings of senior master should belong to me. But enough of such discourse. I will ponder what you have said. It is not a decision given easily in a single evening."
"As you wish, my sage," Duncan said with sudden hope in his voice. "I ask only that you consider my petition with care."
Alodar watched the two men depart, Duncan skipping rapidly toward the hall of acolytes and Beliac, chin on chest, pacing slowly past to the magicians' quarters beyond.
Alodar looked down from the third story window onto the swatch of grass in front of the hall of administration. He smiled as he detected the bits of eggshell scattered about in the turf. On the carpet spread in the middle of his array Lectonil sat with his back erect, facing another magician in the same formal pose. Behind each, arms akimbo, stood four acolytes in a row. Looping around to enclose them all was a complete circle of initiates of both Guilds. To the side, objects of their craft peeked from a disarray of crates.
"Then it is concluded, Trodicar," Lectonil said. "The gong of shattering resonance and the well-tempered djinn bottles for the boots of varied prints and the amulet of blinding light. But the everlasting candles we will save for another time."
"Oh, very well," Lectonil's counterpart replied, starting to rise. "By what means are the rituals to be exchanged?"
"By the usual method of the wax-sealed book, two copies, freshly illuminated."
"When we dealt with Beliac, he gave us three," Trodicar said. "Two for the masters' immediate use and another for the library."
"No wonder his research drains our treasury so," Lectonil growled. "Half of his gold must be consumed by extravagance. But I assumed you would request no less and am prepared to deal as generously as he. Mark you, an additional copy to replace one lost to the hazards of the trail will not be forthcoming."
"It is fair enough." Trodicar nodded and the conference suddenly broke into an informal activity of exchange and packing. In a few minutes, the group split into two and moved in opposite directions. Lectonil and his followers passed from Alodar's view into the hall entrance below. Shortly thereafter, Trodicar's retinue strung out into a single line that wove across the sward and then through the curtain of distortion. The last initiate passed into the dimness, pulling at the donkey with their provisions. High on the backpack Alodar saw the corners of the recently bartered books protruding through the topmost flap.
His eyes widened with excitement. Books of magic moving away from the protective devices of the Guild!
He looked out to the shimmering view. It was well that he had taken every excuse to visit the town. He had been guided through the curtain enough times that he should be able to make the transit alone.
Alodar waited a few minutes more until everyone was out of sight and then quickly sprinted down the stairs. He raced outside the hall, across the swatch of grass, and into the haze. Rocks, shrubs, and the pathway ahead distorted in dizzying shapes that flickered from one glance to the next. Trunks waved back and forth, leaves expanded to giant size and contracted to pinheads, while rocks oscillated like soft gelatins. In a dozen steps, he was completely surrounded by the distortions, unable to tell by sight from whence he had come or the direction of the true pathway ahead. He glanced behind to see the towers of the hall of administration seemingly sway in the breeze, soaring to the sky and then drooping like a waxen model left in the hot sun.
Closing his eyes and concentrating, Alodar paced off a dozen more steps and then turned abruptly to his right. After several minutes of dead reckoning, aided only by minimal clues from the texture underfoot, his boot sounded against a large flat stone. The edge of the chasm, if the talk among the neophytes was accurate, was a deep cut wrapping around the Guild within the interior of the curtain. With his eyes still closed, he gingerly pushed one foot forward and felt the narrow beam which must span the gap. Arms outstretched for balance, he stepped off the six steps and felt with relief the firm contact with the stone on the other side.
He opened his eyes and saw the diffuse light grow dimmer still, as if the sun had suddenly sunk towards the horizon. The scrubby chaparral shriveled away to isolated clumps of gnarled and bare branches, and a single needle-like spire wavered above a rolling landscape, Alodar blinked, trying to remember if he had seen such a scene when he was guided before, but the image shimmered away.
He stepped forward six steps and then turned to his left. After a score more paces, he spun back to the right and continued down the slope. Twigs and small branches pulled at his robe, but when he peeked in the direction of the tugs, the grotesque shapes only added to the confusion. He stumbled over the small stones which littered the way and finally banged his toes against the sharp point of a flat rock directly in his path.
He mentally ran through the sequence from the beginning to make sure of the correct path and then started down the branch to the left. After several more minutes of concentration he broke through to the still air of the outside world.
Alodar sighed with relief at his accomplishment but had no time to stop and savor it. He ran to the edge of the trail and looked over the side. The pathway switched back several times below him. On the second bend he saw the guildsmen pulling their beasts of burden. Downhill, the trail cut back in a wide arc that nearly circumscribed the hill before reversing direction.
Without waiting further, Alodar lifted a fist-sized rock and hurled it down at the donkey lumbering along. The first shot missed the target and the trail completely. The second was a lucky hit directly on the animal's haunch, The donkey reared upright, wrenching the rein from his handler. Another hit on the lower neck was enough to terrify the beast into bolting down the trail with the magician and his acolytes racing behind.
Alodar quickly turned and began to scramble through the bush to the other side of the hill. His feet slipped on small rubble. Several times he had to grasp at a nearby shrub to keep his balance. Pulling and tugging his way, he pursued a rough arc through the chaparral while the magicians zigzagged on the looping path below. Several minutes passed in a frenzy of exertion, and then Alodar stopped and looked down the slope. If he hurried now, he could meet the beast on the long switchback and have a chance at the books before the pursuers could come around.
He took a deep breath and charged down the hillside, hitting the rough ground on a dead run. He leaped over the small barriers that lay
in his way and zigged and zagged down the incline. His legs seemed to acquire a will of their own, hurling one foot in front of the other and dragging his upper body behind. He caromed forward with only enough control to twist and dodge the larger shrubs and rocks that swept by in a blur. Struggling for balance, he flailed his arms wildly in the air, more than once almost carried away by the avalanche of small stones he started with his pounding tread.
In a final burst of speed, he jarred onto the pathway, feet skittering across the ground towards the edge of the cliff. As he ran forward, the donkey rounded the curve and galloped directly ahead down the trail. Alodar slowed and stepped to one side, reaching out to grasp the pack lashings as the beast ran by.
Stabbing pain shot through his arms as he was stretched by the contact, but he gripped the harness firmly and was swept from his feet and dragged along. Trusting his grip to his left hand, he released his right and fumbled for the books peeking out of the top of the pack. With a savage motion, he wrenched one free and tumbled to the ground, rolling off the trail and cascading down the edge of the cliff.
Brush and rock slowed his descent, whacking at his limbs and ribs as he spun. In a dizzying moment, he lay still at the bottom of a little ravine, groggy and with blood trickling from a battered nose, but still clutching the magic book of the Guild. Up on the trail he heard the excited cries of the initiates as they ran past, calling for the animal to stop.
Alodar lay still, not so much to ensure that the magicians were gone as to let his body rest from the beating it had taken.
A long time later as dusk began to fall, he slowly sat up, wincing from the soreness in his back and legs. With a hand trembling from the effort, he cautiously broke the seal on the small clasp which bound the book shut. He breathed deeply and cracked the volume open to the middle.
The pages fell flat with a sudden puff of black smoke. As Alodar fanned the haze aside, he saw that the parchment contained not writings on magic but blankness from top to bottom. He quickly cut to another page and the opening was accompanied by the same explosion and absence of content. He spent the next hour trying to part the leaves in various ways, slowly, from the top, with eyes closed, behind his back, but always with the same result. When he was done the book was empty, ready and fresh for the first word to be written in it
Alodar tossed the useless volume aside in disgust and began to climb slowly back up the cliffside. "Safeguarded still," he muttered. "I have yet to find the way."
"This way, Alodar," Hypeton called as he wove his way through the clutter of low benches and tables in the dark and musty room. Alodar followed, barely able to keep sight of the swirling brown of the robe in front as he avoided the outstretched arms and legs in his way.
He saw their target at last, a small round table in the far corner, already occupied by two figures huddled over the light of a single feeble candle.
"Ah, my night vision deceives me not," Hypeton said with satisfaction as he sat down. "The best bench in the house, I wager."
Alodar sat down in the one spot remaining and squinted into the gloom at the two others, white-robed but hooded as he.
"But we are much too formal," Hypeton continued, throwing back his cowl and reaching up to do the same to the figure at his left. The hood fell in a cascade of golden curls shining brightly in the light of the candle. "And yes, I was right, it is you, Cynthia, and your companion must be Camphonel, is it not?"
"Enough of your light manner, Hypeton," the bare headed girl responded in a throaty voice. "It is barely tolerable back at the Guild. I care not to have it pursue me when we take leave to visit the village."
"Ah, Cynthia, as gruff as always," Hypeton said. "How is it that your heart does not mirror the perfection of your skin? It would be most wondrous if it were so."
"Which new one do you bring with you tonight, Hypeton?" Cynthia asked, ignoring the question. "Did the last one finally tire of the same parade of taverns and houses, week after week?"
"I am Alodar, the neophyte," Alodar said. "Are you also of the Cycloid Guild?"
"Indeed I am," Cynthia answered. "Perhaps you have already seen me in the course of your sojourn there."
Alodar squinted at the face across the table with eyes not yet accustomed to the darkness. The chin was square with a harsh line that contrasted sharply with the softness of the cascading curls. The nose and lips were a trifle too large for the thin, oblong face but the eyes were alive, returning with confidence Alodar's measured look. Men who did not know her would judge her plain, he thought, but those who did would feel a strong allure. Recognition sprang to him as he traced down the outline of her figure now hidden by the robe.
"Indeed, the ritual of the ring," Cynthia said simply. "But I see that the folds of your cloak hide something interesting as well. Here, let me see your hands."
She extended her arms across the table and Alodar placed his hands in hers.
"Your hands are scarred," she said. "What manner of labor do you perform for the Guild?"
"The same as always given to the newest of the neophytes," Alodar answered. "The marks are there because I have practiced at arms."
"Not only practiced, I see," Cynthia said, running her hands along Alodar's forearm, fingertips gently rippling over the token from some of Cedric's instruction. She looked deeply into Alodar's eyes.
"You must tell me sometime of the adventures that gave you these," she said. "A tale of arms would be a most welcome change from those of magic, which is our steady diet."
Alodar opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, enjoying the pleasure of her contact. He tried to picture Vendora and compare her beauty, but the image was faded as if seen through the magician's curtain. He struggled to remember her as she looked in the dungeon of Iron Fist when they first met or later in the keep just as the walls finally fell. The queen was a stunning beauty, but how exactly her face was different from Cynthia's he could not tell. He sighed at the blankness and almost instinctively began to withdraw his arm.
Cynthia turned her hand over and playfully stroked the back against his. To his surprise, he felt a small nodule of hardness in the middle of the smooth skin.
"It appears the work of the initiate is also not only of the mind," he said.
"That is the mark of all who advance beyond the level of the neophyte," Cynthia replied. "When they stoked the branding iron with the small disk into the furnace on the day of my initiation ritual, I fainted dead away. When I awoke, my hand was bandaged and I was cloaked in the robe of white, free to roam the hall of the initiates. Several weeks later, only the little circle of scar tissue remained."
"And what true significance does it have?" Alodar asked.
"Who can tell?" Cynthia said. "So much of the initiation ritual is merely tradition from years gone by. I have no call to be reminded of it in my instruction since."
Before the conversation could continue, the murmuring of the crowd began to rise in anticipation and Alodar turned to view the small stage at the other end of the room. The curtain behind parted and a minstrel walked forward. He strummed a chord on his strings and waited for silence before beginning.
"The lava ran hot, fierce and glowing.
The fumes alone scurried the lesser men back,
But to the queen he had pledged the gems
So into the tunnels stomped mighty Rendrac.
"Knee deep in liquid fire he struggled
To the very heart of the smoking mountain;
In a sparkling pool of rich treasure
He stuffed his pack from the cascading fountain."
Alodar blinked in amazement as the ballad droned on. It was all there in traditional saga form. The brave hero setting out alone against overwhelming odds. By his mighty prowess he secured a treasure for his queen but, alas, perished in the deed. A hundred years from now more verses and embellishments would be added so that the true event could not be fathomed by the wisest from the telling.
The crowd showed its approval at the conclusion and then bu
zzed with the gossip the ballad had evoked.
"They say that his mentor truly reaps the benefits of his great labor." Camphonel spoke for the first time. "He rode into Ambrosia in magnificent style, tossing small gems like pebbles into the crowd. To the queen he presented a necklace of huge stones, with an emerald nearly fist size for the pendant. Vendora postponed her betrothal to some other outland lordling, and now Basil is in her company everywhere. But she craftily does not choose him over the other. Instead, she delights in their daily struggle for her favor."
Not one suitor but two! Alodar looked down at his brown robe and sighed softly. He shook his head and focused his attention on the conversation still bouncing around him.
"A lack of definition on the politics to the north!" Hypeton swore. "Their ways degenerate further with each passing year. Thanks be to the permutations that keep the Guild out of such pettiness."
"Your ear is as sensitive as your tongue, Hypeton," Cynthia said. "The Guild deals with struggles of power as much as any principality. Why the entire esplanade is talking of nothing else. The next council meeting is an extraordinary one called by Lectonil. It will be the real test between his faction and that of Beliac."
"And how do you see the outcome?" Alodar asked.
"The talk is mainly fueled by rumor, with no substance one way or the other," Cynthia replied, "but I think that Beliac feels the pressure of time to be against his ideas. He seeks to get votes by other means than those of cold logic. Else why would he beseech me to show certain favors to one of the less committed masters? Why, I wager that if a means of persuasion were presented to him, he might even traffic a neophyte."
"Of course," Alodar said. He quickly slid from the bench and headed through the night back to the tower of the neophytes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Unfettered Dragon
ALODAR pushed aside the twig and peered out at the acolyte standing at rigid attention in the hot sun. He reached down to the small wax figure at his side and deftly drew the lips apart in a ghoulish grin. Duncan's features responded in kind, although his cheeks trembled from the strain of trying to break the grip which held him.