by Jack Massa
When they were seated again, more torms came forward and presented gifts—shiny stones, fragments of metal, broken jewelry. Amlina had coins and beads fetched from her trunk to give in return. The feast was prepared by dropping dozens of torn and shredded carcasses into the fire—aklors, wild goats, hares, and voles. This nominal effort at cooking was in honor of the witch and her party, since the torms generally ate their meat raw. When the undercooked fare was brought to them on huge trenchers, the Iruks fell to with hearty appetites. Amlina had no stomach for it, but gratefully sipped spring water from a stone cup. Around her, the torms sat on the ground, tearing the bloody meat with beaks and talons.
As the feasting continued, the winged people celebrated with entertainments. Pairs of hunters flew and clashed in mock combats. A line of percussionists tapped complex rhythms on wooden disks with their beaks. Finally, a chorus sang what appeared to be a ballad, their weird, melodious voices blending in circuitous harmonies. When Buroof suggested that courtesy dictated the humans also participate, Wilhaven was pressed into service. He offered a soulful love song, which seemed not to impress the torms, though they chirped and nodded politely at its conclusion. But when he followed with a set of wild tunes, the torms responded with enthusiasm, leaping up and flapping their wings in time, some lifting off to swoop and dance in the air.
Finally, the festivities subsided. The fire burned low and most of the torms flew off to their nesting places. The elders bade Amlina and her friends good night and departed, leaving a few hunters to guard them and tend the fire.
The travelers unpacked their bedding and spread it on the ground. Meghild confessed herself weary from the day’s excitement, and Amlina performed the magic to shrink and enfold the eidolon. She wrapped the queen’s sleeping head in the oilskin and locked it safe away. Then, exhausted, Amlina stretched out and closed her eyes.
But sleep eluded her. Her head still ached, and she found herself staring up at the sky, which glittered in the mountain air with hundreds of stars. Rog drifted near the zenith, and Grizna was a curved blade over the peaks to the West.
Ten days remained till the fateful alignment of the three moons. Now, with the torms’ promise to fly them to the vicinity of Valgool, Amlina thought it most likely they would arrive in time.
But the long journey had taken a toll on her. So had the agonizing burden of bearing the blood magic. Weary and deathly weak as she felt, would she have enough strength to complete the design and forge the Mirror?
Twenty
Music of flutes and strings flowed from the chamber at the end of the mirrored corridor. Zenodia walked stoically, hands folded in sleeves, face expressionless. At the corners of her vision, her reflections marched from mirror to mirror—coming and going like the false images she presented to the world. Zenodia paid them no heed.
Her attention was fixed on settling her spirit, casting out fear. For a priestess of her rank to be invited to Beryl’s salon was uncommon. It portended something—whether good or ill remained to be deciphered.
Passing the last of the mirrored panels, squeezing down a flutter of panic, Zenodia stepped into the ballroom. The chamber was wide, flanked by galleries, illumined by huge chandeliers. At the far wall, a patio disclosed a vista of snow-covered peaks flushed with the colors of sunset—although the actual hour was nearing midnight. Fifty or sixty figures milled about the polished floor, their convivial babble mingling with the stately music. Impossible to tell at a glance how many were human or thrall, how many mere constructs. Certainly the ethereal, blue-skinned musicians were thralls, their lives reduced to occasions such as this, when they were woken from trance to perform. Of course, Beryl’s monstrous lion-headed guards were thralls as well. But among the few ministers and courtiers she recognized, Zenodia spied others: gold automatons who strolled about with serving trays, richly-dressed persons whose visages of fox or parrot were plainly not masks, a human-faced cactus in a pot on wheels—thralls reshaped by Beryl’s whims, or drogs created wholly by her arts?
This is her message, Zenodia thought. All of us are her puppets.
Her gaze found the queen, reclining on a couch of orange silk, smiling as she watched the festivities. Since the rejuvenation rite, Beryl had been vibrant, seemingly enjoying herself—even to the point of resuming these weekly fetes. She wore a simple gown of gold silk. No turban: her clipped brown hair was adorned with a coronet. Her hideous human-faced monkey, the treeman, nestled at her hip, her fingers idly stroking its fur.
Beryl’s eyes met Zenodia’s, and her smile widened. Zenodia bowed her head, marched with measured steps. Reaching the space before the couch, she prostrated herself, forehead touching the cool tiles. The action elicited murmuring and a stray giggle from the courtiers gathered around the queen.
“Ah, Zenodia,” Beryl said kindly. “Those formalities are not practiced here. Rise, my dear young woman.”
The queen crooked a finger. An automaton brought a stool and placed it near her feet. “Sit here,” Beryl said. “I want to talk with you.”
The ivory seat placed Zenodia a foot below the queen’s eye-level. She struggled to hold on to her nerve. The treeman eyed her malevolently.
“I am glad you could join us tonight.” Beryl’s gesture encompassed the ballroom. “What do you think of my little party?”
“Remarkable, of course,” the young priestess ventured. “I do not believe I have seen many of these … people before.”
A quirk of amusement flicked over the queen’s mouth. “No. You wouldn’t have. But then priests and priestesses move in prescribed circles. In fact, I believe you are the only cleric I invited tonight.”
Zenodia stared back calmly. “That did not escape my attention.”
“No,” Beryl mused. “I don’t think much does.”
“I try to stay vigilant, majesty. So that my humble service may be of value.”
“Oh, yes. I hear very good things about your work. Masterful with the accounts, punctual and diligent in ritual observances. All in all, an exemplary assistant treasurer.”
“Thank you, majesty.”
“But what do you do for enjoyment? Any lovers?”
Zenodia drew in a sharp breath. “As a priestess, I must be chaste.”
“Oh, of course,” Beryl said, as if she’d forgotten that essential. “But there are other stimulations: erotic poetry, wine, euphoriants ... ”
Careful, Zenodia warned herself. Be very careful. “I do not indulge in those things. I take satisfaction in studies and my work.”
“Most commendable,” Beryl said flatly, as if losing interest. Beside her, the treeman stirred, walked in a circle following its tail, then settled again against Beryl’s thigh.
The music had stopped. A crossbar was being wheeled to the center of the floor, the crowd parting to make room. When the wheels were locked, a creature flew in and perched on the bar. It had the body of a naked man, the yellow wings and head of a nightingale.
“Perhaps you enjoy opera,” the queen said.
The blue musicians struck up a melody, and the nightingale creature began to sing—an aria lamenting a lover’s death. The voice, high and pure, mingled the notes of a bird’s tweeting with the pain of a human heart. Despite herself, Zenodia felt tears rising in her eyes.
When it ended, Zenodia copied the courtiers’ genteel applause.
“Beautiful, was it not?” Beryl was watching her closely.
“Yes, majesty. Beautiful and very sad.”
“So you do have a heart under that dyed skin,” the queen said. “I am pleased to know it.” She touched a finger to her lips. “I wonder what your master Toulluthan will think, of the fact that I invited you here tonight and not him.”
Another test. Zenodia answered cautiously: “Perhaps he will worry that you are considering deposing him and elevating me in his place.”
“Hmm. Quite possibly. What do you suppose he might do about that?”
Soberly, Zenodia returned the queen’s gaze. “Perhaps he will
turn on me, plot to discredit me in some way. He might even have me poisoned.”
“Doesn’t that worry you, Zenodia?”
“Indeed it does. But as you invited me, majesty, I could hardly refuse. Much better to risk my master’s displeasure than yours.”
“Very wise.” Beryl’s smiled with a hint malice. “But I wouldn’t worry too much. I will have a word with Toulluthan, make sure he understands my high opinion of you. As for his feelings, well, it’s good for my retainers to be reminded that they only serve at my pleasure. No one is irreplaceable, Zenodia. Remember that.”
At this, the treeman stood up, chattering angrily.
“Oh, no, dear Grellabo.” Beryl laughed, petting the bald head. “Of course, you are the exception.”
* O *
A short time later, Beryl abruptly ended the festivities. Rising, she bade the courtiers good night and left the ballroom through a doorway behind the dais. With the treeman scampering behind, she descended a back stairway, crossed the walled courtyard under the stars, passed through the ranks of her lion-headed guards, and entered the Bone Tower.
The Archimage sometimes found it tedious, however necessary, to attend to the many trappings of rulership—council meetings, banquets, temple ceremonies, entertainments. Even the games of manipulation, of pitting courtiers and factions against each other, sometimes palled. True, the scene with Zenodia had been somewhat amusing, poking and prodding the little assistant treasurer to see what weaknesses she might reveal. Otherwise, the evening had been a bore.
Still, Beryl knew the importance of keeping up appearances, of constantly presenting a tireless, indomitable facade. And yet wearisome—especially at times like this, when an unsolved problem nagged for her attention.
How long since she first felt the stirrings of the vast, dark power in the north? Nearly two months. And now fifteen days since she had discovered, among those in the sphere of that magic, a neophyte mage with a wounded soul. For just that many nights, Beryl had probed the wound, seeking to infiltrate the neophyte's perceptions.
True, there had been some progress. Beryl had glimpsed Amlina’s physical form, verifying that it was indeed Amlina who had cast this potent ensorcellment. She and her party were traveling now somewhere in the mountains of northern Nyssan.
But why?
Unanswered questions needled at Beryl as she climbed the curving steps of the tower. She recalled how little effort it had taken to pierce Amlina’s defenses in the past. In Kadavel, she had found and attacked her renegade apprentice with flaming mask and strangling gloves. Of course, they were in the same city then, the physical proximity making it easier to forge a strong link. But it was more than that: Amlina’s mental barriers had grown dense, much harder to pierce. No doubt, this was due to the dark power she had evoked.
That left the neophyte. Beryl had learned that it was one of Amlina’s barbarian allies, the one who had been enthralled by the serd in Kadavel. That accounted for the psychic wound. Beryl’s probing had succeeded in opening the wound, causing the young woman considerable misery and distress. But despite all her concentrated efforts, Beryl had learned nothing more of Amlina's exact location or intentions.
Tonight, Beryl would apply stronger measures.
Reaching the top of the Bone Tower, the Archimage strode across the circular chamber, the treeman still following on her heels. But when Beryl approached a narrow door framed by black iron, Grellabo stopped, his posture tense. When Beryl slid the bolt and pulled open the door, the treeman hissed and skittered away.
The chamber was a circular vault, six paces across. At the center, a stout column of black marble formed a small table. On top stood a pitcher, a goblet, and a single lamp, all fabricated of ruby glass. Beryl lit the lamp with a word and a gesture. Red light flickered on the stone walls, revealing a host of brackets supporting knives, swords, razors, and scalpels of every size and description. Beryl used another gesture to close and bolt the door.
After pouring water into the cup, she stood for a time, mentally raising power. Around her on the walls, the weapons and implements quivered and came to life, rising from their brackets, scalpels and razors first, then knives and swords. They floated into the air and slowly circled, riding the currents of Beryl's thought.
The Archimage watched them, feeling the energy rise and swell. Suddenly, she plucked a razor from the air and used it to carefully slice her finger. She squeezed the small cut, allowing twelve drops of blood to fall into the goblet.
Beryl swirled the cup in her hand, the circling of liquid matching the revolving of sharp steel in the red-lit air. Staring wide-eyed at the bloodied water, she focused once more on the apprentice mage, whose name she had learned, was Glyssa.
Far away in the north, Glyssa was sleeping, her mind at its most vulnerable. When Beryl had fixed the girl in her thoughts and could clearly see the psychic wound, she spoke.
“Glyssa, I call you. My blood is now your blood, my mind now your mind, my will now your will.”
Beryl drank down the contents of the cup. Sensations washed over her—visions, feelings, thoughts. Glyssa was heartsick and afraid. But also formidably tough. This toughness came not from Amlina, but from Glyssa's own heritage—and from her companions. Her warrior band shared a kind of group spirit. Beryl had been aware of it before, had probed and measured its strength.
But now she perceived something else … another figure. Beryl caught a glimpse of black feathers, a beak. Some bird-spirit or elemental …? Beryl tensed and peered harder. Glyssa was instinctively resisting her. Straining, Beryl whispered the chant.
“My blood, your blood. My will, your will.”
In the vault, the blades whirled faster, scraping and clashing in the air. Beryl felt burning pressure, pain behind her eyes. She pushed harder, harder.
“Belach.” A name and an image—a magician, an ally Glyssa trusted. One whose power protected her.
“Ah!” Beryl lurched back, the vision obliterated. Blades clanged and clattered as they struck the stone floor.
Beryl panted, blood dripping from her nostrils. She wiped her upper lip, stared at the red smear on her fingers. So, another mage protected Glyssa. A shaman of her tribe, to judge by the feathered garb. Beryl had his image, and his name.
“Belach.”
A lesser deepshaper would have seen this as yet another obstacle. But Beryl recognized the opportunity: a being that Glyssa trusted in the Deepmind, one whose power could be bound and stolen, one whom Beryl could impersonate—a key to finally learning what she needed to know.
It would take some time to fashion an adequate ensorcellment. Beryl decided to begin at once.
Time, she sensed, was running short.
Twenty-One
Amlina gripped the rim of the basket and stared down at the ruins of Valgool. They had flown across the mountains in a day and camped last night on the edge of the high plateau. Now, in mid-afternoon, the course of their flight had brought the lost city into view. It sprawled beside a dry riverbed, in a web of ancient roads. Square warrens of crumbled walls and fallen roofs surrounded the remains of a citadel, a step pyramid rising at the center. Even from a distance, the witch felt a lingering power, a presence of bleak and restless evil.
The torms lowered the baskets to settle on the ground a mile from the city. There were over thirty of the winged bearers, four for each of the eight baskets that had made the journey. The leader of the party lifted Amlina out of the basket and set her on the ground. He chirped some words, which Buroof translated, biding the witch farewell and affirming that the flock would return in eight days time. By now the other torms had alighted. They lined up, waddled forward and ceremoniously touched a wing to Amlina’s shoulder, peering intently into her eyes. They then marched around, touching each of the party in the same manner, before spreading their wings and lifting off.
The travelers watched in silence as the torms flew away into the pale, cloudless sky. The plain on which they stood was empty and eerily quiet. Eve
n in high summer, the air on the plateau was chill and arid. Amlina repressed a shiver. The Iruks and Wilhaven looked at her expectantly. She glanced down at the book still open in her hands.
“Buroof. We stand within sight of Valgool.”
“That is where the torms agreed to convey you, so why are you telling me so?”
“Because of the evil immanence I feel in this place. The torm elders mentioned it was haunted—by creatures that you called ghost dogs. What manner of beings are they, material or elemental?”
“Material, but with savage elemental energy. They are reanimated corpses, in the Nagaree language called kul shirra. In the age of the Old Empire, many of the warriors sacrificed on the pyramid were brought back to life to serve as soldiers for the priestly caste. Their hearts were torn out and replaced with constructs of light, which endowed them with extreme longevity. Now, whenever warm-blooded beings enter the city, the kul shirra attack and devour them. But surely you have prepared adequate designs to protect your party from these creatures.”
“No,” Amlina answered with a grimace. “You never mentioned such protections would be necessary. Why did you not warn me?”
Buroof signed with exasperation. “Because you never asked. I can’t be expected to warn you of everything. Really, Amlina, of all the mages I have belonged to in the span of 29 centuries, you are undoubtedly the most ineffectual.”
Amlina looked away in disgust, pain throbbing behind her eyes.
“What is the delay?” Karrol demanded. “Why are you standing there talking to the book instead of leading us into the city?”
The witch had conversed with Buroof in Larthangan, not considering that her companions would understand little if any of the discussion.