King Zalathorm was something of a surprise. Despite all his training in the ways of wizards, Matteo wouldn’t have picked the man out of a crowd as someone of power and importance. The king was no more than average height, with thick hair and a full beard of a soft brown hue. His gaze was mild, his speech soft and almost diffident. To all appearances, he was a man in his fifth decade of life. Yet Matteo knew this was impossible, for Zalathorm had held the throne for more than sixty years. No one knew for certain how old the wizard was, but all agreed that he was one of the most powerful wizards in a nation full of magic.
“Tell me what you see,” Procopio demanded in a soft voice.
Matteo tore his gaze from the king and looked about the room. “The woman in the yellow gown, the one standing by the harpist, is a priestess of Azuth. She must be quite powerful, for several wizards of high rank are laughing and drinking with her.”
“True enough. Azuth’s clergy is not highly esteemed, and the wizards would not bother with her unless her rank was high. What else?”
“The tall, auburn woman is Rhodea Firehair. She seldom leaves the city of Aluarim, for she is kept busy supervising the mint and commanding the soldiers that protect and transport the new coin. Her presence here indicates one of two things: Either a battle is on the horizon, or King Zalathorm has called council. She is never known to miss either. The presence of all seventeen members of the Council of Elders indicates that the king has issued a summons. The fact that the wizard Rhodea is garbed in silk rather than battle leather indicates that the council deals with matters of peace.”
Procopio nodded but looked mildly impatient. So far Matteo’s comments had required little special knowledge or discernment. “Continue.”
The young man scanned the room. “Those three men speaking to Basel Indoulur are laden with magical devices. Do you notice how the thin one flaunts the rings on his hand, much as a man unaccustomed to wealth might display his coins? None of the three are particularly powerful wizards, but they wish to appear so. You would do well to learn why.”
The diviner lifted one snowy eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“The ornaments they wear on their hands and about their necks are of Moonshae gold,” Matteo explained. “Nowhere else is that particular shade of pale rose-gold mined. If these men were capable of crafting magical items themselves, they would do so. Nor are they overburdened with coin. Had they the means to buy the best, they would purchase Halruaan magic.”
Procopio smiled and nodded in approval. “That goes without saying, but it’s pleasant to hear nonetheless. Go on.”
“The question is, how did they acquire these items, and for what purpose? It is said that the Llewyrr elves gave such gifts to the High Queen of the Moonshaes when she succeeded her father, King Kendrick, along with the prophecy that her line will continue for as long as the elven magic endures. This was no doubt meant as an elf blessing, but there are factions in that kingdom that might see opportunity in these gifts and this pronouncement.”
Procopio studied his counselor with interest. “I begin to see your reasoning. Where else could such magic be studied and counteracted but in Halruaa? If the artifacts are what you think they are, their reappearance in the hands of the Moonshae queen’s rivals, their magic depleted, might prove a rallying point to mount a serious challenge to the throne.”
“Therein lies the problem. Halruaa can have no part in such games. Our magic is too widely feared. If the ruse were discovered, it wouldn’t matter to the world if the Halruaan wizard who altered the artifacts knew nothing of their intended use. The Moonshae Islands have powerful allies. Most certainly there would be harsh reprisals.”
Procopio nodded thoughtfully. He looked at Matteo with genuine regret. “You have counseled me well. I will seek a private audience with Zalathorm, and we will get to the heart of this. You, however, must present yourself to the queen’s court.”
He gave Matteo a small parchment card etched with sapphire ink. “Give this to the seneschal. He will endeavor to get you an introduction.”
The wizard hesitated, then clapped Matteo on the shoulder. “May Mystra smile upon you.”
Matteo heard the dismissal in the words and nodded his response. With a sigh, he turned toward the corridor that separated Zalathorm from his queen.
As he walked, the sound of music and conversation faded slowly away. The tap of his footsteps echoed along the marble floor, and the corridor became increasingly chill. Paradoxically, bursts of steam jetted out into the hall at intervals of increasing frequency.
He carefully came closer to investigate. A sudden, sharp hiss drew his gaze to his left, and immediate he reached for his daggers. Crouched in an alcove, looking like a giant, ice-white cat ready to spring, was a white dragon.
The beast was still a juvenile, judging from its size, but deadly just the same. The dragon’s maw was wide and curved upward in a wicked smile, parted slightly to reveal rows of lethal ivory fangs. Two horns curled back off the beast’s forehead, and a third, shorter one in the center jutted forward, swirled like a long, slender seashell. It looked very like a unicorn’s horn, but for the barbed tip and the taint of long-dried blood. The dragon’s talons were equally stained, and each was nearly as long as Matteo’s hand. Its ice blue eyes regarded Matteo steadily and glittered like malevolent jewels.
A moment passed before Matteo realized his mistake. In his surprise, he looked directly into the dragon’s eyes. And in looking, he felt nothing—none of the fear that turned bones to water and made strong men forget their resolve. This had nothing to do with his resistance to magic, but with the dragon itself. It was no true beast, but an elaborate clockwork device.
Matteo held back until the thing emitted two more puffs of cold steam, then leaned in closer for a look. Sure enough, the scales were bits of electrum, hammered smooth and thin and cunningly fitted together. He could glimpse the gears inside the creature’s mouth and the large block of ice within its body. Periodically a small vial tipped, pouring a few drops of some unknown mixture onto the ice, which immediately sizzled and sent forth a cloud of cooling vapor. The dragon was an elaborate cooling device, nothing more. Even the apparent blood on its horn and claws was nothing more than a bit of rust.
Even so, Matteo proceeded with caution down the hall, his hands near the hilts of his daggers and his eyes keenly aware of the alcoves that lined the corridor. Such a device could easily lure a visitor into a sense of security. Three false dragons could leave one complacent and trusting, and thus easy prey for a fourth, real dragon. After all, the surest way to hide a tree was to plant a forest around it.
But Matteo got to the end of the long corridor without incident. He presented Procopio’s card to the soldier at the door. The man examined it and then fixed a wry smile on the young jordain.
“I say, you’re the least likely of the bunch. I could see at a glance why the rest of them got sent up here. Damned if I wouldn’t have exiled them myself! What the nine hells did you do—bugger the lord mayor?”
Matteo sighed. “Figuratively speaking, I suppose you could say that. Procopio Septus, the lord mayor, is my patron. I became embroiled in dispute with the patron of Lady Xavierlyn.”
The soldier raised one hand. “Say no more. We speak of those who would be king. Along with a dozen others, of course, but Procopio and Xavierlyn are the biggest roosters in the ring. Not that it’s my place to talk of such things.”
It certainly wasn’t, but Matteo could almost understand the man’s desire for conversation of any sort. He had seen no other soul since he’d left Zalathorm’s court, and he didn’t hear any evidence of human occupation behind the great door. A series of faint clicks and taps and whirs emanated from behind the thick wood, but no sound that could be considered remotely human.
“I have been instructed to present myself to the queen,” Matteo said, determined to get on with things.
The seneschal shrugged and pulled a small silver rod from his sleeve. He touched this to the mas
sive lock, which promptly began to fade. The door turned translucent as well, thinning and finally disappearing with a soft pop. A few paces behind it stood another door, which dissolved in much the same manner.
“Magical wards,” the guard explained. “Keeps things from getting out. Can’t be too careful, with the king just down the hall and all.”
It seemed odd that the queen’s guard should be concerned about protecting the king rather than tending his own charge. But Matteo nodded politely and waited until the third and final door swung open, this time on hinges of solid iron. He stepped inside, aware that the man was hastily barring the heavy door behind him.
The scene before him was like nothing he had ever seen or imagined. Long tables lined the room in precise rows. Here and there stood movable walls covered with large sheets of parchment. Upon them were written incomprehensible patterns of lines and runes. At second glance, Matteo recognized them as sketches for some new sort of clockwork device.
These were everywhere. A climbing vine, too vividly green to be a living thing, was studded with purple flowers that budded and bloomed and closed, over and over again. Several tiny birds darted among them, “feeding” upon the blossoms. The soft whir of their wings was faintly metallic; incredibly, these were not true hummingbirds but flying toys. A metallic tiger, its markings a lifelike pattern rendered in gold and onyx, prowled about the queen’s throne, keeping guard over its mistress.
Queen Beatrix was not at her throne. She stood quietly to one side, studying one of the drawings. So still was she that for a moment, Matteo mistook her for one of her own clockwork devices. When she turned and regarded him with cold brown eyes, he wasn’t entirely certain that he had been wrong.
Once she might have been a beautiful woman. Her form was small and slim, and her still features were finely molded and without blemish. But her face was utterly white, painted to resemble fine porcelain. Her mouth was a prim crimson curve and her eyes deeply framed with skillfully applied kohl. She wore a wig of mingled white and silver, elaborately curled and studded with pearls and electrum netting. Her white gown was stiff, formal, and encrusted with silver embroidery. The effect was beautiful, but cold and not quite human. Matteo wouldn’t have sworn whether she was woman, goddess, machine, or some combination of all three.
“You may come forward,” she said in a flat but unmistakably human voice.
Matteo dipped into a bow and gave his name and that of his patron. “Lord Procopio sends his respects.”
“And has the wit not to deliver them himself,” Beatrix said, without inflection of anger or humor. She turned away and gestured toward the drawing. “So, jordain. If you would be my counselor, come and tell me what you see.”
He came over and studied the complex pattern of sweeping lines and curves. “In form, it looks a bit like an elephant, Your Majesty.”
“Will it move? Walk? Attack?”
“I am no artificer, but I think not.” He pointed to a series of connected gears. “These do not seem of sufficient size to provide much power.”
“The gears provide a small amount of motive force, which is greatly enlarged by the life-force planted within,” Beatrix said. “A true elephant is a rare thing and difficult to bring over the Muaraghal Wall,” she said, naming the mountain range that divided Halruaa from the lands to the east. “We have tried and failed thrice.”
Matteo tried not to show the horror this news evoked. Elephants were rare and wondrous creatures. Though they didn’t have speech or work magic, some sages thought them to be at least as intelligent as dolphins. “You will place the life-force of an elephant within this device?”
“No. A donkey perhaps, or a Durparian merchant,” the queen said in the same even, emotionless tone. “They are much the same.”
From another person’s lips, this might have been a dark jest. Matteo realized that Beatrix was speaking simple truth as she saw it.
“Who builds these?” he asked, with a sweep of his hand that indicated the entire collection of strange contraptions.
“I send for artisans and wizards as I require their services. There are none here now,” she added unnecessarily.
The queen didn’t seem bothered by her isolation, but it seemed unnatural to Matteo. “There is music and feasting in the halls of the king,” he said. “Will you allow me to escort you there?”
She considered this and placed a small white hand at her waist. “I should eat,” she said, as if calculating how long it had been since she had bothered to think of such things.
He nodded and walked over to tap at the massive door. The guard let them out, and together they walked down the long corridor. Each of the clockwork dragons bowed as the queen walked past, dipping its metal head until its rusty horns rasped against the floor.
Their appearance in Zalathorm’s hall created quite a stir. For a moment conversation stilled altogether, which in mannered Halruaa was as obvious as a smokepowder blast might be in any other court. The king quickly excused himself from his courtiers and came forward, his hands outstretched and his ageless eyes alight with youth and hope.
“Beatrix, my dear, this is a most unexpected pleasure.”
The queen responded with a single remote nod, but she put her hands into his. Matteo fell back as they spoke for a few moments, Beatrix answering in cool, measured phrases.
After a few moments she excused herself and lifted a hand to summon one of the servants who carried trays of goblets and fruit around the room. The king sighed and turned to Matteo.
“Walk with me,” he said abruptly.
The young man fell into step. They left the main council hall and entered an antechamber, which in turn led to a hanging garden. The king didn’t stop or speak until they reached the rail and the city was spread out before them, twinkling with magical lights.
“The queen was not always like this, you know,” Zalathorm said abruptly, his eyes fixed on the city below. “When she came to the city fifteen years ago, she was a marvel. So beautiful, and so full of light!”
Matteo nodded. Over the long years, Zalathorm had had several queens. Beatrix was the latest. She had been much admired in the early years of her reign for her intelligence and courage. The daughter of reclusive wizards who lived in a remote mountain village, she was the sole survivor of an attack by Crinti raiders. She didn’t speak of her early years beyond that fact, but she had been tested and shown to be a generalist mage of middling ability. But as the years passed, she took more interest in clockwork than in magic and seemed to prefer the company of mechanical creatures to that of her human subjects.
Worse yet, she had not provided Zalathorm with an heir. There were many in Halruaa who thought it past time for the king to put Beatrix aside and find a more suitable queen. Though it seemed likely that the king would outlive most of his subjects, the issue of succession was of no small importance. If Zalathorm didn’t have an heir, ambitious wizards would vie for his throne. Halruaans knew their history and remembered the devastation that such a contest could cause.
“You persuaded Beatrix to come tonight,” the king said. “For this I am grateful.”
“It was no great matter. She is no clockwork device, and she needs food and music and company as much as any other.”
Zalathorm’s smile was tight and wry. “A fact that she seldom remembers. It has been some time since the queen appeared in court. You have done well. I am delighted to see that she will be well cared for.”
Matteo nodded, hearing his fate in the king’s words. He wasn’t happy about it, but he saw no way to evade what was apparently his fate and his duty. Still, there was something he had to know.
“What happened?”
The king didn’t need to ask what he meant “Magic,” he said shortly. “It is a great boon, the noblest of arts. But its effects can be as deadly to the spellcaster as the most potent poison. No one knows what spells Beatrix cast against the Crinti, or how she survived the raid. She doesn’t recall anything about it; moreover, she has lo
st memory of all that happened to her before she came to Halarahh. No diviner could learn the queen’s story. It took the most powerful of inquisitors to pull even this much memory from her. But something shattered within Beatrix, something that no magic can repair. In fact, she turns away from magic more and more with each day that passes.”
Zalathorm passed one hand across his face as if to erase the pain written there. “And Halruaa being what it is, that means she shuns the land and all who live within it. Where she has gone, no one may truly follow. I will speak plainly to you and admit what many of my subjects whisper. The queen, the woman whom you must serve, is no longer sane.”
Matteo listened with great sympathy, chilled by the king’s obvious grief and by the enormity of damage that magic had wrought. He knew the queen’s scant history, as did most of Halruaa, but for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps more could be learned. If he was to serve Beatrix, he would need to know all he could.
“The inquisitor who learned of the queen’s past … do you recall his name?”
“It was a woman,” the king said without much interest. “Or more strictly speaking, an elf woman. No, I do not recall her name.”
A chill swept through Matteo like the passing of a vengeful ghost. There was only one elf in all Halruaa who had risen to the rank of inquisitrix: Kiva the magehound.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Zephyr stood at the rail of his patron’s skyship, watching the small dark cloud that brooded over Lake Halruaa. The wind whipped the sparse white strands of his hair about his shoulders and sent a cruel chill through his bones. But he dared not go belowdecks until he was certain of his course. The gales that came off the lake were strong and dangerous. He wouldn’t take any more risks with the skyship than he needed to.
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