“Go on then,” she said brusquely, folding her arms. “Sakor guide you safely back.”
Shouldering his traveling bundle, Micum turned to the sphere. “I’m ready.”
A large oval of darkness yawned where the sphere had been. With a final wave, he stepped through. An instant later he found himself standing in Nysander’s casting room. A few feet away the wizard sat on a low stool, looking utterly exhausted. Her brocade robe was dirty and bloodstained, her long silver hair in disarray over her shoulders.
“What’s happened?” Micum asked in alarm. Sinking down on one knee in front of her, he took her hands in his and found them icy cold.
“The Orëska House was attacked last night,” she told him, her voice trembling. “Nysander was hurt terribly, and many others are dead. I’d have brought you in sooner, but I had to rest a bit first. Oh, Micum, it was terrible, so terrible.”
“Then they were right, after all,” he groaned, gathering the old woman in his arms. “It was the Plenimarans?”
“Led by Duke Mardus himself. He had necromancers, and a dyrmagnos.”
“Where’s Seregil? And Alec?”
Magyana shook her head. “Wethis was sent to fetch them. They may be here already. Come, I must be with Nysander.”
Downstairs they met a drysian woman coming out of Nysander’s chamber with a basin and stained clothes.
“How is he?” asked Magyana.
“No worse,” the woman replied gently.
Valerius was applying compresses to Nysander’s chest and side as they entered. He pulled the sheet back over him as Micum approached, but not before he’d seen the terrible burns there. Nysander appeared to be asleep or unconscious, his face white as carved marble. Magyana drew a chair to the head of the bed and placed her hand on Nysander’s brow.
“He’s got a dragon’s own constitution,” Valerius said quietly, stroking his unruly black beard thoughtfully as he gazed down at Nysander. “How he fights! He’ll heal if I can keep the infection from him. Have you seen Seregil yet?”
“No, I only just arrived. But they’re here? They’re all right?”
The drysian laid a hand on his arm and Micum’s heart sank. “Seregil burst in about half an hour ago. He hasn’t spoken to anyone except Nysander, but Alec’s not with him. Wethis says he set fire to the Cockerel. As far as I know, only the baby—”
“Damnation!” Micum spun for the door. “Where is he?”
“The sitting room. If you—”
Micum didn’t wait to hear more. Dashing the short distance down the corridor, he found the door open. Seregil stood leaning against the mantel, dressed in what appeared to be borrowed breeches and shirt. A great drift of maps and scrolls lay spread out around one of the armchairs, as if he’d been sitting there going through them earlier. There was a wine cup on the floor beside it, but as he looked up, Micum knew his friend was far from drunk. His pale face was nearly expressionless, except for his eyes. What Micum saw there sent a black stab of dread through him.
“Did Alec tell you about all this?” Seregil asked, far too calm for Micum’s liking.
“The prophecy? Yes.” Micum approached him slowly, the way he would a maddened horse. “Where is he? What happened at the Cockerel?”
Seregil held up something he’d been holding all along, a dagger with a long lock of blond hair knotted around it.
“Is he—?”
“I don’t know.”
Micum sank into a chair with a stricken groan. “He was in such a lather to get back. He was worried about you, I think, but I should’ve stopped him from going back.”
“Perhaps I can help,” Valerius said from the open doorway. Going to Seregil, he took the dagger and held it to his brow, murmuring a prayer or a spell.
“He’s alive,” he said, handing it back. “That’s all I can tell from this, but he is alive.”
“But for how long, eh?” Thin lines of tension around Seregil’s eyes and mouth showed darkly in the firelight as he took the dagger back, clutching it against his heart. “We know what these bastards are capable of. It was Mardus after all, you know. Nysander saw him during the attack. And I think it’s safe to assume that those were his men who came to the Cockerel, too.”
“They found you.”
Seregil’s lips quirked into a parody of his old grin that sent another chill through Micum. “In a manner of speaking,” he said, his voice nearly toneless now as he stared into the fire. “Alec walked into an ambush. I didn’t show up until it was all over.” His hands were trembling visibly now as he leaned against the mantel.
Giving Micum a compassionate nod, Valerius slipped quietly out.
“They killed— They killed everyone,” Seregil whispered. “In my rooms. Except Luthas. Wethis has him. It’s burning now, the whole place. Everything.”
Micum shook his head as the horror of it sank in. “But Cilla, Thryis?”
“All of them.”
Seregil’s face seemed to crumple in on itself like a parchment thrown on a fire. “I did this, Micum,” he gasped raggedly, clutching his head in both hands. “I brought this down on them, led the bastards to them. They were—”
Micum said nothing, simply put his arms around his friend and held him tight as Seregil shook helplessly with harsh, strangled sobs. In all the time Micum had known him, he’d seldom seen Seregil weep, and never as violently as this. Whatever he’d seen at the inn, whatever had been done there, it had wrenched something from his very soul.
“You couldn’t have known,” he said at last.
“Of course I should have!” Seregil shouted. Jerking away, he stared at Micum with wild, desolate eyes. “All the years they protected me, kept my secrets. Slaughtered! Slaughtered, as if they were animals, Micum! Then the shit-eating carrion scum— They cut off—”
He sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands as another fit of weeping rocked him.
Micum knelt, one hand on Seregil’s shoulder, and listened with mounting horror and outrage as he choked out the details of what he’d found, what had been done to the bodies of those good people.
When he’d finished, Micum gathered him in again, unresisting now, and held him until Seregil had cried himself limp and silent. He remained there, leaning against Micum, for a moment longer, then sat back on his heels and wiped his face on his shirttail. His eyes were red, but he looked calmer now.
Micum’s knees ached from kneeling. Sitting down among the strewn papers, he stretched one leg, then the other. “Tell me more about Alec.”
Seregil held up the black and silver dagger, which he’d been clutching through the whole outburst. “It’s his. They left it for me so I’d be sure to know they had him. From the looks of the room, they killed the others, and then waited for some length of time, hoping we’d show up. I found his sword under a table. He gave them a fight before they brought him down; there was blood on the edge of the blade.” He took a deep breath, fighting for control. “I showed this to Nysander when I got here this morning. I think he knows where they’re headed. He was trying to tell me when he fainted, but I think I may have figured it out.”
Seregil retrieved a map from the scattered pile by the chair. As he spread it on the floor between them, Micum recognized the outline of the Plenimaran peninsula, but the spidery writing that covered it was unintelligible.
“What is that? I can’t read any of it.”
“Nysander’s own writing system,” Seregil explained. “I learned it back in my apprentice days. Before he passed out, Nysander spoke of a temple in Plenimar, saying it was under ‘the pillar of the sky.’ At first I thought it must be a monument of some sort and didn’t have much hope of finding it. But look here.” He pointed to a place on the northwestern coastline just above the isthmus. “See that small cross there? It marks the position of Mount Kythes, only here it’s labeled ‘Yôthgash-horagh.’ ”
Seregil looked up at Micum, the old intensity rekindling. “In the ancient tongue of Plenimar, that means Sky Pillar
Mountain.”
“Under the pillar of the sky.” Micum looked at the map again. “You do realize, of course, that this place is well behind enemy lines now?”
“Yes, but if I understood what Nysander was trying to tell me, it’s imperative that the four of us be there at some specific time. ‘One place, one time,’ he said, and ‘synodical.’ ”
“What’s that?”
Seregil shook his head, frowning. “I don’t know yet, but it’s important.”
“It’s all to do with that damn prophecy of yours, isn’t it?” Micum scowled. “But what in hell did the Plenimarans attack the Orëska for?”
“They were after that wooden coin I stole from Mardus back in Wolde. Nysander had it and at least one other item of interest to them. He’d hidden them down in the lowest of the vaults. That’s where the worst of the wizard battle took place.”
Getting to his feet, Seregil straightened his ill-fitting clothes and headed for the door. “Come on, I want to see if Nysander’s conscious yet. Then I’ll need a look at the damage down below.”
Micum followed, thinking of Mardus, and the fact that he’d taken Alec instead of killing him on the spot. This was tied in with what he’d found up in the Fens, he knew, but it was best not to think of that just now.
Valerius met them outside the bedroom door.
“Well, you’re certainly looking better,” he observed, looking Seregil over with gruff approval. “Red eyes, flushed cheeks. A good cry’s just what you needed. Damn shame about the inn. That baby’s fine, by the way. I’ve sent him to the temple for the time being. I suppose you’ll tell me about the others when you’re ready.”
Seregil nodded. “Can I see Nysander now?”
“Still sleeping. Magyana and Darbia are watching him. They’ll send for us as soon as there’s any change.”
“How soon do you think he’ll wake up?” asked Micum.
“It’s difficult to say. These old wizards are strange creatures; he has his own way of fighting for life.” Valerius cocked an eyebrow in Seregil’s direction. “I gather you haven’t heard about Thero?”
“What about Thero?” Seregil asked sharply.
“He’s gone,” snorted the drysian. “They’ve searched high and low. He’s not among the dead, nor anywhere in the House or the city. My guess is, he’s with whoever it was attacked here last night.”
“That traitorous bastard!” Seregil snarled. “He knew Nysander’s ways, his habits, not to mention something of the Orëska defenses. There’s more than iron grates guarding the sewer channels under this place. He let them in! Bilairy’s Guts, he let them in!”
“We don’t know that,” Micum warned but Seregil wasn’t listening.
“He knew whenever I was around, and where I lived!” White with anger, Seregil slammed a fist against the wall. “Agrai methíri dös prakra, he betrayed all of us. I’ll feed him his own balls when I find him. Lasöt arma kriúnti—!”
Micum took the news more calmly. “If he was in on it, then so was Ylinestra. I suppose she’s gone, too?”
Valerius shook his head. “Her body was in the vaults, among the enemy’s dead.”
Seregil loosed another sizzling volley of Aurënfaie curses. “How many of the Orëska House were killed?”
“Eight wizards, seventeen apprentices, twenty-three guards and servants, last I heard. And there are plenty of others who may not survive their wounds.”
“And the enemy?”
“Twenty-seven dead.”
Seregil gave the drysian a questioning look. “And the others? Wounded, prisoners?”
“Not a one,” Valerius replied darkly. “That dyrmagnos creature saw to that herself. According to those who witnessed the fight, as soon as Mardus and his creature had disappeared from the vaults, and I do mean ‘disappeared’ in a thaumaturgic sense, every one of the surviving Plenimaran swordsmen there and up in the atrium just fell down dead where they stood. I’ve seen the corpses; there’s not a mortal wound on them.”
“I’ll need to see them,” said Seregil.
“I rather suspected you would. They’ve been laid out in the west garden.”
“Good. But first I want to see the vault.”
Tiles and rubble grated beneath their boots as Seregil and Micum crossed the atrium to the museum chamber. Whatever magic had blasted the doors from their hinges had carried through and smashed half the cases in the chamber. The case holding the hands of the necromancer was among these; the hands lay palm up among the splinters and shards like huge brown insects.
There were people everywhere in the vaults now. As they made their way down one level after another they met servants and apprentices carrying up rescued artifacts, and wizards weeping or wandering past in stunned silence.
A doorkeeper at the final door let them through without question. Torches and wizard’s lights lit the maze of brick-paved passageways. By their light Seregil followed the traces of battle: a bloodied dagger abandoned at the turning of a hallway, dark smears and spatters on the pale stone walls, shattered pieces of an ivory rod, a corselet buckle, the charred remains of a wizard’s robe.
Micum nudged a broken sword with his foot, then spread his arms to find that he could nearly touch both walls at once. “Sakor’s Flame, it must have been a slaughter.”
The sound of voices guided them the last of the way to Nysander’s long-hidden cache hole behind an unremarkable expanse of wall halfway down one of the innermost corridors. A blacked hole a few feet above the floor led into darkness. Beside it stood a young assistant wizard Seregil vaguely recognized, together with several servants.
“You’re Nysander’s friend, aren’t you?” she said. “Magyana told me you might come.”
“This is it, then?” he said, peering into the hole.
“Yes, it’s a room of containment, masterfully done. I don’t suppose anyone but Nysander knew it was here all these years.”
“Obviously, someone else guessed,” Seregil retorted humorlessly. “Where did the attack come from?”
The girl colored indignantly as she pointed farther down the corridor. “There’s a breach in the wall at the far end of this passage where a sewer channel runs within a few yards of the wall. As you say, they seemed to know just where to look.”
She and the others retreated, leaving Seregil and Micum to their investigation.
“Thero could have known,” Micum admitted, watching Seregil take out his tool roll and select a lightwand. “He might have guessed. Perhaps Nysander even told him.”
“No. He didn’t.” Stooping, Seregil inspected the jagged opening. “Illior’s Fingers, the stonework is three feet thick here, but there’s no debris. I see something shiny on the far edge, though.”
The opening was large enough for Seregil to wiggle through. Reaching in, he ran his fingertips cautiously over what felt like metallic nodules beading a section of broken stonework. “It feels like— Of course, it’s silver. And something melted it; it ran like wax before it cooled. I’m going in for a look.”
Micum frowned as he peered doubtfully into the dark, cramped space. “Do you think it’s safe? Nysander must have had one hell of a lot of magic protecting whatever he had hidden in there.”
“Any safeguards that existed must surely have been destroyed,” the wizard said, placing his palms against the stone above the hole. “I sense only the residue.”
Holding the lightstone in one hand, Seregil squeezed in headfirst. It was a tight fit. Jagged stone scraped at his hands and belly as he crawled through to the small chamber beyond.
“I’m in,” he called back to the others. “It is a room of sorts, but too small to stand up in.”
“What’s in there?” asked Micum, peering in at him.
“Nothing. It’s empty. But every surface from floor to ceiling is all black, and covered with magical symbols.”
Seregil touched his palm to the wall beside him and recognized the soft, almost velvety texture of the surface at once; rubbing at a small secti
on of it with his sleeve, he uncovered gleaming metal.
“It’s silver, the whole room is sheathed with it.” He was not surprised; taking all the details into consideration, he knew it to be nothing more than a larger version of the silver-lined box Nysander had given him to carry the crystal crown. “And here at the back there’s a shelf running the width of the wall.”
Examining this, he found three areas of bright metal on the shelf, as if whatever had sat there had kept it from tarnishing. The central mark was roughly circular and about the size of his palm. To the left was a smaller but more perfectly round circle. To the right was a large square of silver, not so bright as the other two. Seregil recognized the last two outlines as those of the boxes holding the coin and crown, but what had the central object been? Judging by the relative lack of tarnish, it had been there the longest of the three, proving Alec’s supposition that Nysander had been guarding something long before they had brought him the disk.
Bending over the mark with his light, he touched the outline, tracing it with his finger—
—his vision dissolved into a brief curtain of sizzling sparks, then darkness.
A single clear, attenuated note broke the silence surrounding him and for as long as it lasted he knew nothing else. It pierced him, bathed him, dancing along on the threshold dividing pleasure from pain. Gradually other notes joined the first and they had form, long heavy forms that gradually wrapped together like the strands of a great rope.
And he was one of those strands, twisted tight and drawn along with the rest toward some destination. It was not fear that shot through him now, but an horrific elation.
Other sounds gradually filtered in from beyond the umbilicus, and these were different.
Removed.
Not of the flow.
Countless black-feathered throats raising a deafening collective cry that swelled to a roar of diseased laughter, then faded away as the flow passed on.