A Mirror Against All Mishap
Page 21
“What do you want of me?”
“Knowledge of the Nagaree.”
In the ghost’s time, two nations had vied for supremacy in Nysan—Tallyba on the southern coast, and the Nagaree Empire in the highlands. The Nagaree were known as mighty wizards, and mages such as Lozari had been constantly occupied learning and countering their ensorcellments.
“What of them?”
“I must know about one of their designs—the Mirror Against All Mishap.”
The face lowered in puzzlement. But then the eyes grew wide “Yes, I remember. You seek to create the Mirror? It will not be easy.”
“No. I must learn how to counter its magic.”
Now the eyes narrowed in malice. “So, you have an enemy who wields the Mirror? Then you are surely doomed.”
Beryl gave the wand a violent turn, making the ghost cry out. “Tell me what magic can destroy the Mirror.”
Lozari’s shade writhed and yowled. “There is none! By its nature it reflects all power cast against it.”
“Don’t take me for a fool! Your mages must have discovered something, or Tallyba itself would have fallen.” Deliberately, she screwed the air with the wand.
“Stop, stop!” the ghost screamed. “I will tell you.”
“Well, then ….”
“I spoke truth. The Mirror casts back all power. What was found in the end to defeat it was the absence of power.”
“Elaborate.”
“Very well … How do you render a mirror useless? By removing all light, so there is nothing to reflect. Our mages discovered they could cast a void into the minds of those who carried the Mirror talismans. The void drained all magical energies from their vicinity. They perceived unnatural darkness and wandered in confusion until the Mirror expired.”
“Remarkable. I knew the Mirror must have a limited span. How is that determined?”
“Ah … They learned that it lasts exactly as many days as the initial ensorcellments preliminary to its casting.”
Beryl smiled. “That is good. Very good.” She gave the wand a final twist, and the ghost gasped in agony. “Should I have occasion to summon you again, dead priestess, you will remember this pain and know to treat me with better courtesy.”
Winding her way back through the levels of the necropolis, the Archimage contemplated what she had learned. The Mirror had a limited lifespan. Beryl believed she could estimate the time period based on when she had first sensed the magical disturbance in the far north—and suspected it was Amlina’s doing. More importantly, the Mirror’s protection was vulnerable to the absence of power, a withdrawal of energies. Beryl could use that knowledge to set a trap for Amlina and her followers.
No—several traps. Beryl would not underestimate Amlina again.
* O *
The torms arrived on the eighth day as promised and carried Amlina and her companions away from Valgool. They spent one night feasting at the torms’ high place of ritual, where the witch expressed her gratitude with more gifts of coins and silver chain. But despite prolonged and vociferous invitations from the winged people, she insisted her party could not stay longer. Next morning, torm hunters flew them once more into the sky.
Three days later, they were set down in the hills behind Blaal’s Landing. Izgoy and his people were amazed to find the travelers strolling back into the village. The headman had never expected them to return. Fortunately, erring on the side of caution, he had kept his promise to leave the Phoenix Queen unmolested and to care for the windbringers. After a joyful reunion with Kizier, the travelers purchased new provisions, loaded the boat, and set off that same afternoon. In just five more days they arrived in Borgova.
It was the first day of the second month of Second Summer. Of the expected lifespan of the Mirror, 47 days remained.
Despite Amlina’s best efforts to enchant or bribe the master boatwrights of the town, none would agree to refurbish the Phoenix Queen and make it sea-worthy in less than three days. In the end, scowling, Amlina agreed to a contract with the same Master Bruel who had converted the boat for the river.
As they unloaded their gear, the witch reflected on how drained and weary her friends looked. After the long and arduous journey, three days for rest and comfort was perhaps a worthwhile delay. So Amlina opened the bag of gold coins Queen Meghild had left her. After reserving rooms in the best inn in town, she visited a clothier shop and had the entire party measured for new garments. While a cohort of tailors cut and stitched, the travelers passed the afternoon in the bath house, soaking in warm and scented water.
That evening, they feasted in a private alcove off the main dining room of the inn. The Iruks were dressed in new tunics and trousers of light linen, Amlina in a gown of yellow silk. The party dined on baked lamb and fish, roasted vegetables, apples, fresh bread, and plenty of dark ale.
Gazing around the table in the lamplight, the witch gauged the mood of her companions. The Iruks were joyful and contented, relishing the comforts and luxuries of the town with simple, unabashed delight. More, she sensed how they reveled in their mutual connection, the mysterious klarn-soul. For all the time Amlina had spent in their company, she still could not fully fathom the klarn, how it allowed them to share the deepest elements of themselves.
Seated next to her, Draven reached under the table and took her hand. She smiled at him. Of course, the love she felt for Draven was also a spiritual connection, a joining similar perhaps to the klarn. Amlina treasured the thought that someday, she and Draven would have the chance to explore that love.
Wilhaven sat at the far end of the table. Of all the group, he alone was subdued. Since Meghild’s death he had been in mourning, solemn and morose, though he had fulfilled the duties of sailor and physician with his usual aplomb. Today he had purchased new harp strings, and now he threaded them, tightened pegs, and frowned as he tested the notes.
“Will you sing for us?” Glyssa asked him.
Glyssa. Amlina pondered again the remarkable heart of the Iruk woman, her gentle caring for everyone, her gift for smoothing relationships and binding the group together.
“Not tonight,” Wilhaven answered. “My mood is not musical.”
“Oh, but you should!” Eben declared. “Last time you had the whole room clapping and stamping.”
The bard glumly shook his head. “Not tonight. Your pardon.”
Eben shrugged and reached for his tankard.
Amlina glanced over to find Glyssa’s eyes fixed on her. “And how is your mood tonight, Amlina?”
The witch responded with a brittle laugh. Glyssa too was observing the ebb and flow of feelings in the group, and had turned the tables on her.
“Grateful,” the witch said, squeezing Draven’s hand. “To be blessed with such company.”
Glyssa tilted her head, eyes searching. “And yet, still troubled?”
The witch considered. “Perhaps … I know this delay is good, that all of us need the rest. Yet I worry about the time remaining—how many days the voyage will take, how long our protection will last.”
“Well, we Iruks have a saying,” Lonn grunted. “You can’t spear tomorrow’s yulugg today.”
Amlina joined their laughter. “Sound advice, to be sure.”
“Is there something else?” Glyssa pressed her.
Amlina hesitated. Her witch’s training taught her not to dwell on worries counter to her intentions, and never to speak of them without good reason. Thoughts and speech had power and could actualize undesired outcomes. Yet, she had come to feel such a bond of trust with these friends, and to know the relief of sharing her fears. Besides, they had a right to know.
“I am wondering about Beryl. I am sure she knows we have forged the Mirror. By now she likely knows what it means and is seeking to devise countermeasures. I have no idea what they might be, but not knowing, waiting for her to strike—this makes me uneasy.”
“Nah! That’s just another yulugg to kill tomorrow,” Karrol said, reaching for the pitcher.
* O *
In the month since Zenodia had attended the Archimage’s salon, Beryl had shown no sign of special interest in her. Zenodia had kept her head down, focused on her duties and on watching the current of events in the temple and the court—alert for any sign, any hint of an opportunity that might help her achieve her sworn purpose, the overthrow of the tyrant. Now she wondered if Beryl knew of her secret enmity, if a lifetime of practice at hiding her true self had been insufficient after all, if today Beryl meant to put her to death.
They passed under a tall, pointed archway and into a corridor that receded into the distance. Without breaking stride, Beryl waved a finger over her shoulder. The gesture caused iron doors to roll from within the portal and clang shut. Toulluthan’s bald head swung around at the noise, and Zenodia glimpsed rigid apprehension on his face.
“Do not be alarmed,” Beryl called as she moved down the hallway. “I have just a few matters to address with you both.”
The obese temple treasurer had to hasten to keep up with her. Zenodia walked deliberately behind, arms folded in her sleeves. The walls were formed of panels that gleamed like pearls. Rumor said that each panel was a door only Beryl could open, and that beyond lay vaults containing piles of gold, silver, and jewels—all the vast treasures the usurper had stolen.
Crossing beneath another arch, they walked into a courtyard paved with granite. The massive Bone Tower loomed ahead; Zenodia had never seen it so close. With a twinge of dread, she allowed her glance to slide up the rugged surface. The mortar joining the stones was said to contain the crushed bones of rivals Beryl had slain in her ascent to power. Twelve sentries were stationed at the tower gate, thralls with the bodies of muscular soldiers and the heads of lions. Armed with halberds and scimitars, they stood frozen and stared with blank eyes.
Reaching the gate, Beryl turned. “Zenodia, come with me. Toulluthan, you wait here.”
The treasurer stiffened, his shocked eyes raking over the lion-headed men. “Wait here, majesty?”
“Yes.”
Zenodia sensed the delight Beryl experienced at the man’s terror. With a mute glance at Toulluthan, she followed the Archimage into the tower. They crossed a cavernous chamber. A stairway on the wall spiraled upward. But Beryl led her to the center of the floor, beneath a round aperture in the distant ceiling. The queen turned to Zenodia, holding a black glass bead between forefinger and thumb.
“This little trinket is the easiest way to ascend. You will need to hold my hand. Do you understand?”
“Yes, majesty.”
Staring into her eyes, Beryl spoke a few words in a foreign tongue and dashed the bead on the floor. Silver light exploded. Trembling, Zenodia grasped the queen’s offered hand. With a jerk she was pulled off her feet. Together, she and Beryl rose into the air, twisting on a spiral of light.
Zenodia was awed by the sensation of flying, but even more by the touch of Beryl’s icy hands and the terrible gleam in her eyes. They rose through the floor above, drifted sideways, and settled on their feet. Gulping, Zenodia looked around at the upper chamber, the Archimage’s lair.
The monkey-like treeman scampered across the floor, jabbering with excitement, and jumped into Beryl’s arms. “Hello, Grellabo.” Beryl cooed and stroked the familiar’s bald head. The treeman looked at Zenodia and hissed through yellow teeth.
Cradling the treeman, Beryl tilted her head for the priestess to follow. The chamber was crowded with shelves and tables strewn with books and magical apparatus. Openings in the curved wall led to other rooms and shadowy alcoves. Lamps burned in colored globes, and thrall servants stood stiff and unmoving.
Beryl led the way onto a parapet. From here, Zenodia could see the whole of Tallyba, all the way down to the harbor.
“An impressive view, don’t you think?”
“Yes, majesty.”
Beryl smiled. “But of course you are wondering why I brought you here. In fact, I have a little experiment. Wait here.”
Beryl pivoted and went back inside. Zenodia gripped the balustrade, a painful dread writhing in her belly. The pavement of the courtyard stretched some 200 feet below. Would Beryl cast her down—or, more likely, force her to jump?
When the Archimage returned, she was clad in a wide-sleeved cloak of silver and black. “You might recognize this garment,” she said. “It is the Cloak of the Two Winds, one of the most powerful artifacts in the world—if not the most powerful. In addition to the purposes it was made for, it can be used as a source of raw energy. Now, my experiment today does not require nearly so much energy. But this is a test for proving the design. Later castings will need to be potent indeed.”
Zenodia stared, holding her head low.
Beryl nodded, thin-lipped. “You wonder why I should tell you all this. The fact is, I have decided to replace Toulluthan. Oh, he is able enough, but his constant wheedling and carping in the council wearies me. You, on the other hand, seem capable of performing your duties with a diffidence I find refreshing. As of today, Zenodia, I am appointing you treasurer of the temple.”
Zenodia replied with a constricted throat. “Thank you, majesty.”
“Well deserved. I have had my eye on you for some time. So that brings us back to Toulluthan. Since he has outlived his usefulness, I will allow him to assist in my experiment. And I want you to witness. I am sure you will find it a valuable lesson.”
Beryl stepped to the edge of the parapet and raised her arms, the wide sleeves of the magic cloak hanging down. She uttered a string of phrases, again in the foreign tongue—which Zenodia took to be Larthangan. Beryl pointed a finger toward the base of the tower and whispered the name, “Toulluthan.” Then she extended her arms, palms pointed at the ground. Light rippled along the threaded designs of the cloak. Beryl whispered again: “Kill him.”
From far below, Zenodia heard Toulluthan scream. Next moment, he stumbled into her line of sight, fleeing away from the tower. Two of the lion thralls marched after him, curved swords held high. The terrified priest lumbered and howled. But rather than run for the open portal in the far wall, he blundered around the courtyard in a confused course, changing and reversing direction, as though unable to find an escape route. The lion-headed guards followed in relentless, unhurried pursuit.
Beryl leaned over the parapet, her face a mask of vicious excitement. “His brain is befuddled, you see? He cannot find his way.”
Zenodia could hardly bear to watch, yet could not tear her eyes away. At last the exhausted priest fell sprawling on the pavement. He was just able to rise to his knees before the thralls closed on him. He lifted his hands in supplication to the tower, screaming for mercy.
Zenodia turned her face away. The screams rose to a frenzy, then died off amid the wet noises of blades chopping flesh and bone. When she forced herself to look again, the thralls were marching away, the butchered remains of Toulluthan lying in a widening pool of blood. Breathing hard, Beryl faced her, flushed and triumphant. Zenodia dropped to her knees and pressed her head to the floor.
“Congratulations on your promotion,” Beryl said. “I know you will serve me well. And I am sure you will remember today’s lesson and take it to heart.”
Zenodia dared not lift her head. “Yes, majesty. I will remember.”
Twenty-Five
“Mind is all. When sensation is eliminated and thoughts are stilled, the personal mind merges with the Deepmind, the Formless One, in which all forms and forces originate, and to which they return ... ”
Amlina read aloud from the Canon, translating so Glyssa could underst
and. They sat in the witch’s cabin on the Phoenix Queen, eight days out from Borgova. Glass lamps burned on the floor between them, arranged in a star pattern with a spinner at the center. The salt air held a tinge of incense smoke.
“Yes, that much I understand,” Glyssa said. “But how does that help me move the spinner?’
The spinner was a thing of brass, with fan-like blades set on a spindle. Normally, a small candle or lamp was set below the blades, the heated air rising to turn the device. As an elementary step in her training, Glyssa was attempting to turn the spinner with her mind.
“All forces emerge from the Deepmind,” Amlina explained. “To the degree that you can merge your mind with the Deepmind, you can influence or control the energies that it continually pours forth.”
“I suppose that is reasonable,” Glyssa said. “But it does not feel like it can be true. We Iruks are taught to move things with our muscles, not our minds.”
Amlina let out a sigh. “It is a difficult lesson for a novice.”
But it was more than that. The entire Larthangan mentality was alien to Glyssa. Even translating the Canon to Low Tathian was a challenge, bound to alter some of its meaning. And to Glyssa, Tathian was itself a foreign language, a foreign way of thinking. As Buroof had once pointed out, training the Iruk required translating Larthangan knowledge and modes of thought for a totally different culture.
“But you are talented, Glyssa. You have shown me that again and again. Do you remember when you helped me call the North Wind?”
“Well, yes,” Glyssa replied. “But that was different. I was mostly following your lead. And we chanted, and I envisioned the cold fire ... ”
“Indeed, that was an example of a formulation—what the Tathians might call a spell. That art requires creating a mental construct; imbuing it with power through singing, gesture, and visualizing; and then releasing it all at once. This exercise with the spinner is a lesson in the more basic art, called quon-xing or pure shaping. It requires the immediate, direct focusing of thought to create effects in the world.”