“But I will do nothing to harm Belleger, or our people, or our king. If they judge me forsworn, I will endure the outcome. I do not call it dishonorable to lie to such men.”
Elgart studied the terrain to the north. “Then I am yours, Highness,” he said grimly. “Among the dunes, I questioned your loathing for sorcery—or for sorcerers. Now I share it. Do what has to be done. I will stand with you.”
Prince Bifalt nodded again. He had expected nothing less from a Bellegerin guardsman. Still, Elgart’s support vindicated him. It made him stronger.
Klamath would reach King Abbator: Prince Bifalt did not doubt that. The sorcerers would ensure it. And the King would not act against Amika. He would believe Belleger was safe, at least temporarily. He would put his faith in his eldest son, as he had done from the start.
If the Prince could grasp the game the Magisters played, with the lives of ungifted men for counters— If he could avoid the pitfalls of a false move—
He was a man who met challenge with challenge. That was how he knew himself. He did not flinch now.
When his weapons were restored to him—when he felt the comforting weight of his rifle and ammunition satchel on his shoulders, his saber on his hip, his dagger at his belt—he tried to mount the horse Elgart had brought for him. With his comrade’s help, he succeeded. Angry and eager, he rode away from the stone track at Elgart’s side to face the men who wanted to harm his homeland: the culmination of his search.
He would have said that the dunes were impassable for horses. Certainly, he could not have crossed them on foot, weakened as he was. But when Elgart had led him around a loose slope, they came to a path concealed between the mounded sands. There the surface had been packed hard, and the mounts had sure footing. The winds curling and carving among the dunes should have covered the path with drifts of sand, yet it remained as unobstructed as the caravan track. Although the desert defended the library against any chance discovery, the sorcerers made sure that they could be reached easily by their chosen visitors or minions.
And as the path twisted among the dunes, it also ascended. Through every northward gap, the Prince saw that he was drawing closer to the mountains. They reared higher by surprising increments, as if they were reaching out for him.
He drank water sparingly while he rode. He ate cautious rations of food. His heat-pummeled body recovered a small measure of vitality.
His comrade guided him in silence. At intervals, Elgart consulted his map, although the trail looked plain enough to the Prince. Prodded by a question, the rifleman explained, “Other paths, Highness. If we need to flee, a choice of ways might confuse pursuit. Several are marked.” He muttered a curse. “But they do not go west. And this map ends at the caravan track.” Harshly, he concluded, “We will never escape if we cannot survive the desert.”
Prince Bifalt gritted his teeth. “Then,” he answered, “that is your task. Mine is Marrow’s book.” And sorcerers. “Yours is a better map.”
“I understand, Highness.”
The ire in Elgart’s tone satisfied the King’s son.
The way seemed long to Prince Bifalt; but two or three hours by the sun brought the riders to a wide, windswept plateau at the foot of the mountain where the Repository of the sorcerers had been formed.
The open space was extensive, more than large enough to accommodate Set Ungabwey’s long caravan—and perhaps another of the same size as well. Still, it was dwarfed by the high castle cut from the native stone of the mountain. Above the massive wooden gates—the only apparent entrance—were ramparts which could have held a hundred defenders comfortably, although the Prince saw none. And over them loured the huge bulk of the castle or keep that housed the sorcerers and their library.
Instinctively, Prince Bifalt reined his horse to a halt and stared.
The Repository was all of white stone, so white it hurt his eyes in the afternoon sunlight. From the plateau to the ramparts, it was seamless and smooth, clearly carved rather than built. The Decimate of earthquake in the hands of a powerful Magister might not have shaken it: no form of siege known to the Prince would threaten it. Above the ramparts, however, it presented a different aspect. Squinting against the glare, he was able to distinguish sections or levels like prodigious wheels laid flat one atop the next, all white, all perfectly curved—and each set slightly off center from the one below it. To his eye, this staggering looked irregular, unpredictable. It did not lean toward the mountain supporting it. Nor did it tilt away. But the size of the sections or slabs remained constant. The result resembled a stack of coins piled unevenly by a child with clumsy fingers—if the child had been many times a giant, and each coin were as thick as four big men, each standing on the shoulders of the next. The effect was both careless and majestic.
Gaping, Prince Bifalt was only able to ask, “What—?”
Yet Elgart understood him. “I do not know, Highness.” His frustration was plain. “While I was kept here, I did not go as high as the ramparts. I wanted to explore. To search— If I accomplished nothing else, I wanted to find someone who would tell me how long I had been there, or where you were, or what they wanted from me. Hells, I would have been glad to see Suti al-Suri. Or one of those drummers.
“But I was discouraged.” He snarled the word. “Not forbidden, exactly. The servants were too polite to deny me outright. But their refusal was plain. And I did not trust my safety enough to defy them. I learned nothing useful. Not even where they stable their horses.”
“Books, perhaps,” mused the Prince, staring up at the stacked levels. He was thinking, Thousands of them. Many thousands. He might have to search for the rest of his life. “Can all of them house books? All of them?”
Elgart gave him a look of horror mixed with awe. “There cannot,” he protested, “be enough books in the world to fill that keep.”
Prince Bifalt might have said, If there are, this library is another desert. A wasteland of words instead of sand. We will be as lost as we were days ago. But he did not speak.
While his thoughts sucked him dry, like exposure to the sun, horns sounded across the plateau. Mournful as a funeral proclamation, sackbuts tuned to a minor chord cried out at the distant dunes. And when the call faded, the Repository’s heavy gates began to open.
Soundless and somehow fatal, like doors in a dream, the gates eased outward. They parted only far enough to let two men pass between them. Then they stopped.
“Now, Highness,” breathed Elgart. With one hand, he gripped his rifle, but did not unsling it from his shoulder.
Prince Bifalt wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his saber. Without realizing it, he held his breath.
Still in their saddles, the Bellegerins watched the two men emerge from the gates. Holding hands, the two approached the Prince and the guardsman.
One was plump and placid, of medium height, with an untended chaos of hair on his head and a fleshy smile above his beardless chin. The crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and the lines of his smile, gave him a look of habitual pleasure. In contrast, his companion was a glowering hunchback, dark of visage, bitter of mien. He had the shoulders of a blacksmith and the gnarled arms of an oak. Apparently seething with unrequited rage, he half dragged his milder comrade forward, resisting the plump man’s impulse to amble.
Both of them wore the slate-grey robes of sorcerers.
“Magister Avail,” whispered Elgart quickly. “The fat one. I do not know the other.”
With an effort, Prince Bifalt released his saber. Nodding to his comrade, he swung unsteadily down from his mount.
Visibly reluctant, Elgart let go his rifle, dismounted, and came to stand beside the Prince.
At a distance of five paces, the castle’s emissaries stopped. “Prince,” said the smiling man in an easy rumble. “I am Magister Avail. My friend is Magister Rummage. Welcome to our library, our Last Repository. We are glad that you h
ave come.”
Magister Rummage did not look glad. Neither sorcerer bowed.
Once again, Prince Bifalt wondered, The last? But he did not pause to think about it. The theurgists demanded his attention.
Because they did not honor him, he merely nodded. “You know who I am,” he replied curtly. “You summoned me. I am here to find out why.”
Nothing in Magister Avail’s face suggested that he had heard the Prince. However, the hunchback shifted his grip on his companion’s hand. Scowling murderously, Magister Rummage tapped Magister Avail’s palm with his fingers.
“Ah.” Magister Avail’s sigh indicated understanding. His smile broadened. “Discourtesy is as welcome as respect. It tells me that you do not fear us. I am pleased.
“For my sins, I am stone deaf. I would not hear a cannon if it fired at my side.”
“That explains it,” breathed Elgart.
“For that reason,” continued the pudgy sorcerer, “and because he is infinitely kind, Magister Rummage aids me.” He glanced at their joined hands. “Alas, he is entirely mute. He cannot utter a sound. When he wishes to be understood—which is seldom, I confess—I speak for him.”
Unwilling to show surprise or doubt, Prince Bifalt replied to the hunchback, “Then, Magister Rummage, please assure Magister Avail I do not fear you. I am only impatient. I want to know why I am here.”
Magister Rummage grinned like a man who liked the taste of blood and was eager to sample the Prince’s. His fingers wrote quickly.
When the message was complete, Magister Avail laughed: a sound as amiable as his smile. “Like my companion, Prince,” he said, “you are hasty. You are here for several reasons, all of which will be made clear. Clarity, however, is an effortful task, and you are sadly worn. You have lost valued companions and been betrayed, and your strength is gone. We will not trouble you with our reasons, or your own, until you are recovered.” He beamed beatifically. “For the present, impatience and disrespect will not serve you, though both are welcome. Your ire is love by another name.”
This rejoinder silenced Prince Bifalt. His ire was love? The idea was insane. These sorcerers had shown an impossible knowledge of far-off events and deeds. Their powers were immeasurable. But if they believed any secret chamber in him held love for them, they did not know him. They did not understand him at all.
That thought lifted his heart. Their ignorance gave him an advantage he had not expected.
At the same time, he could not deny that he was exhausted.
Briefly, Magister Avail waited for Prince Bifalt to speak—or for Magister Rummage to tap his hand. Then he continued with unruffled pleasantness, “Will you accept our hospitality, Prince? You will find it less oblique than Set Ungabwey’s. He is honest, in his way, but his loyalty is to us, not to strangers met by seeming happenstance. You will not be drugged or otherwise mistreated while you reside among us.”
This explanation of the caravan master’s deeds answered one of Prince Bifalt’s many questions. It did not content him, but it was enough in his worn condition. “We will accept,” he responded. “You have some use for me. You will not harm us until you have given me a chance to serve you.
“But we will keep our weapons.”
For some reason, the hunchback did not relay this assertion. But the smiling sorcerer did not question his companion. Instead, he gestured toward the gates. “Accompany us, Prince. You and your staunch comrade will not regret our welcome”—he chuckled again—“unless you choose to do so.”
Together, he and Magister Rummage turned away, still holding hands.
Prince Bifalt and Elgart exchanged a glance. The guardsman’s scowl echoed what was in the Prince’s heart, but the King’s son did what he could to make his features a mask. Leading their mounts, they followed their hosts.
The gates closed behind the Bellegerins as they entered, sealing them away from the world they knew. The desert was suddenly as unattainable as Belleger. But they were not left in darkness. At once, ranks of large cressets around the walls sprang alight; and the Prince saw that the Magisters had led him into a cavernous hall. It had a polished stone floor, an arched ceiling made dim by distance, many doors of varying heights, widths, and decorations, and several broad stairways leading upward; but it was empty of furnishings—and almost empty of people. The space was large enough to serve as a mustering place for an army. At need, it could have sheltered Set Ungabwey’s whole caravan. Only the size and number of the cressets made the full extent of the hall visible. And only their brightness softened Prince Bifalt’s impression that he had entered a place more dangerous than grenades or lightnings: as dangerous as the powers which had kept him alive while he was many leagues away.
Several servants awaited the arrival of the Magisters and their guests. With a twinge of surprise, the Prince saw that they were all garbed and groomed like the men whom Tchwee and Suti al-Suri had called monks. Men and women alike, they wore dun cassocks cinched with white ropes, and their hair was trimmed and shaved into tonsures, leaving the crowns of their heads bare. The Cult of the Many, the interpreter had named them. Many what? Gods, as Alleman Dancer had implied? Hells? Sorcerers? Books? Prince Bifalt had no idea.
Their heads lowered, their eyes downcast, two monks came to relieve the travelers of their horses. The mounts were led away toward a set of wide doors. When the doors opened, the Prince smelled the thick odors of stables: ripe droppings, urine, and beast-sweat mingled with the subtler scents of leather, water, and grain.
Prince Bifalt and his comrade paused to watch where their horses were taken. The theurgists did not. Tugging his slower companion, Magister Rummage drew Magister Avail deeper into the hall. When the Prince felt sure that he would recognize the entrance to the stables again, he and Elgart went after their hosts.
They moved directly toward a stair at the far end of the hall. Halfway there, however, the sight of a figure descending another stairway halted the sorcerers. Turning, they faced the woman. When she reached the foot of the stair, they both bowed, Magister Rummage more deeply than Magister Avail.
She was small: Prince Bifalt could have rested his chin on her head, her loose hair. Her modest white cloak covered her from neck to ankle, and her hands clasping each other were wrapped in its wide sleeves. He caught his breath as he recognized Amandis, described by Tchwee as a “most holy devotee of Spirit”—and also an assassin.
She must have joined Set Ungabwey’s caravan for the purpose of visiting the Repository. Therefore, Flamora, the killer’s “partner or antagonist,” a most holy devotee of Flesh, was probably here as well.
But Prince Bifalt was not given time to wonder how many of the caravan’s other travelers had ended their journeys in the keep. Walking with fluid grace, Amandis approached. Ignoring the bows of the Magisters, she faced the Bellegerins. Without preamble, she announced in a low voice harshly accented, “Elgart. You will come with me.”
Like Flamora, she knew Belleger’s tongue.
The Prince and his scarred comrade froze. While Elgart stared at the woman, Prince Bifalt said stiffly, “Lady, I do not know how to address you. You are not a priestess, yet you are ‘most holy.’ I mean no disrespect if I neglect an appropriate courtesy.
“Elgart is my guardsman. He stays with me.”
Amandis flicked a glance at him, then returned her attention to the lean veteran. Her tone did not change. “It was not a request.”
The Prince looked to the theurgists for support, but found none. Magister Avail’s smile remained bland, oblivious. Magister Rummage grinned like a wolfhound.
Studying Amandis with fire in his eyes, Prince Bifalt answered, “He is not yours to command. Nor am I.”
The devotee of Spirit continued to regard Elgart. She remained as still as stone. “My skills suffice to kill you both where you stand.” Her voice held a touch of amusement. “Is that command enough? Must I demonstrat
e?”
She did not appear to move, yet now she stood at Elgart’s side. One slim hand pointed a dagger at the guardsman’s throat. The other gripped Elgart’s arm to keep him still.
“Highness!” gasped Elgart.
Hells! As fast as he could, Prince Bifalt snatched his rifle from his shoulder.
But before he drew back the bolt, the dagger disappeared into the assassin’s sleeve. With her hands open, showing their emptiness, Amandis withdrew a step.
“A demonstration,” she told the Prince, still amused, “nothing more. You did much the same for Suti al-Suri. Your purpose then may also have been much the same. No harm will come to your companion. It is forbidden here.”
Holding the Prince’s glare, she added, “I require him. That is command enough for him, and for you.”
Prince Bifalt’s pulse beat in his throat. It leapt like flame.
At the edge of his vision, he saw Magister Rummage tapping on Magister Avail’s hand.
At once, the portly sorcerer cleared his throat. “I assure you, Prince,” he rumbled. “Any devotee of Spirit is bound by her word. He will not be harmed. And your reasons for coming here do not depend on his attendance. Also, he has reasons of his own, which do not depend on your authority or presence.”
The Prince wanted to roar. He wanted to throw the bolt of his rifle and open fire. The Magisters knew why Amandis wanted Elgart: that was obvious. Her secrets were hidden only from him and his comrade.
While Prince Bifalt controlled himself, however, Elgart said sharply, “Highness, be wary. We are guests. Do not offend them. There is too much we do not understand.” He drew a deep breath, held it, then added in a burst, “I will go with her. I may get what we need.”
A better map.