Sennar turned rigid, his glass half raised. “You mean to say … you put your life on the line for me?”
Varen looked the sorcerer in the eye. “Listen to me, Sennar. When I was named count, I was filled with hope for the future. You remind me of the way I was then. I never managed to realize my dreams, but if you can do what you’ve come here to do, it will be a new beginning for me. Otherwise … well, I’ve lived more than enough, and no one will suffer my absence.”
Sennar was at a loss for words. “I … I’m happy you believe in me. But you have an entire region to govern, people whose lives depend on you. I can’t allow you to make this sacrifice.”
“I’m not doing this for you, Councilor. I’m doing it for myself,” the count murmured. Then he took Sennar’s glass and downed it in a gulp.
Sennar entered his room and walked toward the window. The glass city appeared motionless, enveloped in deep blue, a blue that suddenly seemed threatening. What’s going on? Who’s out there?
He sat cross-legged on the ground and thought. One of the first things a sorcerer learns is to sense the presence of other sorcerers. It wasn’t a spell, per say, but more a matter of enhanced perception. In truth, he shouldn’t have been able to sense anything at all, after the seal the aged Deliah had put on him, but there was only one way to interpret this sensation of danger: another sorcerer was somewhere in the vicinity.
He recalled the words Deliah had said to Varen outside his cell: “In a few days, his powers will return.”
Sennar opened his palm. He closed his eyes and recited a spell under his breath. A moment later, a blue flame was hovering above his hand. His lips curled into a satisfied smile. You’re back to normal. Now there’s work to do.
From out of his tunic he extracted a small leather bag. He emptied its contents into the palm of his hand. Ten small silver discs clinked and jangled in the room’s silence. Ondine sighed and turned over in bed. The sorcerer spread the coins out on the ground and slowly, solemnly, began whispering a litany. One after another, the discs started to move, gradually forming a circle. Sennar concentrated on them. Nothing. Could I have been mistaken? He continued reciting the spell until the circle of coins began to spin, faster and faster. There we are. One of the discs rose up into the air. Its surface darkened to black and a flaming, scarlet rune appeared at its center: two incisions in the form of a cross, with one long, vertical line intersecting them.
Sennar suddenly stopped reciting the spell. The disc paled again to silver and fell to the ground, followed by the remaining coins.
There in the dark, the sorcerer sat still, unable to breathe. He held his head in his hands.
The Tyrant. He’d arrived.
Ondine was deep asleep, curled up under the covers like a child. Sennar, his face a ghostly white and dark circles under his eyes, leaned over and shook her shoulder gently.
The girl stretched and batted her eyelids, adjusting to the light of the lantern. When she saw him in the flame’s glow, she snapped awake. “What happened?”
Sennar sat on the edge of the bed. “Ondine, I need you to listen to me carefully.”
“What did the count say?”
“Listen. In a little while they’re going to come and take me to the king. …”
“So he agreed to meet with you!”
Sennar placed his hands on her shoulders. “I want you to stay right here in this room today. Don’t move, not for any reason. Do you understand?”
Ondine looked back at him, frightened. “What’s happening, Sennar?”
He spoke as clearly as possible: “Do what I said and wait for me. Everything will be fine.”
Once they had him in chains, the guards pushed him forward through an enormous crowd of men, women, and children, some who seemed intrigued, others apparently frightened. Sennar looked all around, glancing from face to face in the sea of people, but found nothing suspicious.
He stepped through the palace gate and entered an extremely long corridor bathed in turquoise light. Lined along the walls, far beneath the towering vault of the ceiling, stood two rows of armed spearmen.
Sennar tensed. Sweat glistened on his forehead and his mouth went completely dry. A single drop slid down his skin and splashed onto the elegant carpet, leaving a small dark stain. Stay calm. Concentrate. On the one hand, he needed to convince the king, on the other, to keep the situation around him under control. It wasn’t only his life that was in danger, but the lives of the entire known world.
The hallway opened into an immense, scarlet room. The walls were blood red. Light filtered in through tiny, transparent arches. At the far end of the room was a large, emerald door. The guards fanned outward and Sennar found himself front and center in the main square, where all hearings took place. It was a sort of amphitheater, boundless and brimming with people. A glass runway cut across the entire square, leading finally to a stage at least ten feet off the ground. An elegant staircase covered the distance, climbing higher to a perch above the stage, where, looming over all, sat a blue crystal throne.
At the runway’s mid-point, the guards halted. Sennar could feel his legs caving beneath him. His thoughts muddled. Desperately, he tried sensing a presence among the crowd, but the agitation, the fear, the immensity of the room jumbled his senses. His head was spinning.
The count was not far ahead of him.
“Something’s not right, Varen!” he shouted.
“Quiet!” ordered one of the guards, giving him a shove.
The count hadn’t heard. Turn around! Turn around, Varen!
Sennar tried catching up to him, but the guards blocked his way.
A trumpet blast resounded in the square and a troop of armed guards stepped forward, followed by a hulking, bare-chested man with a black crystal mask covering his face. The muscles in his arms seemed ready to burst through his pale skin. In his fist he gripped an axe. The executioner.
Sennar had grown used to putting his life on the line, but the awareness, now, when the distance between life and death lay within the tenuous confines of his words, rattled his composure.
The sorcerer and the count were led to the base of the stage.
It was then that the king made his entrance. Preceding him was a vast and dazzling company of attendants. There were beautiful women, as slender as stalks of reed, their figures barely hidden beneath light-blue silken slips, and courtiers with pomaded hair, wearing heavy, brocade gowns of a most lively blue. Nereo came last.
Sennar was baffled by what he saw. The high sovereign of the Underworld was an adolescent boy. Wielding a scepter taller than himself, he paced forward majestically, his chin held high, glancing from side to side as if to challenge his onlookers.
At his arrival, a murmur ran like a tremor through the crowd and gave way to raised cries of jubilation and chants of His Majesty’s name: “Nereo! Nereo!”
The count bowed low to the ground and Sennar followed his lead.
With a vague gesture of his hand, the king silenced the audience. “Count Varen …”
Varen stepped forward. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“As a demonstration of my mercy, I offer you one last chance to reconsider your request. Are you certain you’d like to proceed?” he asked in a grave tone.
Varen took a moment to respond and Sennar held his breath. “Yes, my lord,” he said finally, his voice subdued.
“So be it.” Nereo signaled his spokesman, who stood waiting at his side, and the audience was informed of the situation.
“Hear, hear! Today our most splendid sovereign will grant a hearing to One from Above, the councilor Sennar. If our lord is convinced by the motives that have carried the councilor this far, his request will be henceforth carried out. If not, the councilor will be duly decapitated for having violated the law forbidding all foreign inhabitants from entering Zalenia. Likewise, Count Varen of Sakana county will be executed for having endangered His Majesty Nereo.”
The king nodded and his guards allowed Sennar to approach the throne.
/> Nereo, from the height of his perch, did not bother to lower his gaze toward the speaker. “You may speak, man from Above,” he said, with an air of challenge.
Sennar could sense the hostility of his onlookers, but he gathered his courage and spoke: “Your Highness, I am a councilor—”
“Raise your voice. I cannot hear you,” the king interrupted.
Sennar knew he’d have to show this young boy what he was made of. “I am Sennar, member of the Council of Sorcerers. In the Overworld, councilors stand as political authorities, each representing a Land. I come to you from the Land of the Wind, though I speak on behalf of all my people at the Council’s official request. I come with the hope that our world may no longer suffer in isolation. I know well the history of your people, I know of your refuge from the world above, of how you came here to construct a new kingdom, a kingdom free of war. And now I see that you’ve succeeded,” he lied. The king held him in his arrogant gaze. “However, in one regard you were mistaken. Our world was not a hopeless case. Through will and persistence, we too succeeded in finding peace. For many years, we lived in harmony. We, too, dreamed of a future in which the word war no longer existed. And that dream would have come true, had not, once again, someone interrupted our progress with violence. Fifty years ago, a man, a sorcerer, began his conquest of our world, adding one Land after another to his territories, and he now stands as the uncontested ruler of five of our eight Lands.” A hush fell over the crowd, everyone hanging on the sorcerer’s words. “No one has ever seen him. All memory of his name has been lost. Yet through his actions, he has earned the title of Tyrant. His intentions, too, remain unclear, though he continues in his struggle against the Free Lands. He’s created a monstrous race of creatures, the Fammin, to kill and spread terror.”
The king let out a snide, ironic laugh. “Of course. Another war,” he said, clearly amused. His attendants approved with irritating chuckles.
Sennar shook his head. “Not by our own will, Sire.”
“If one does not want war, one avoids it.” said Nereo, with a satisfied grin.
“Ours is the war of a single man against the freedom of the entire Overworld. It is an invasion, an invasion by a man who wishes to—” Sennar broke off abruptly, filled with a creeping unease. “He pulled a surprise attack, Your Majesty,” he went on. “He’s massacred rulers, sent his troops against unarmed citizens. He wanted this war and now he has it. The Tyrant exterminated an entire people. The half-elves. Do you remember them? In a single night, he slaughtered more than half of them, only to hunt down every remaining survivor, killing women, children, warriors, young and old.” The smile faded from Nereo’s lips and a strange silence took hold of the audience. Sennar struggled to remember just how Nihal had described those massacres to him—he wanted to bring them to life again, those terrifying images that haunted her memory, to assail the king with the full horror of the Overworld’s suffering. “Nothing remains of them, hardly even a memory. Only a few know that they once walked among us. And yet, they too shared your dream. They too wanted peace. They were your brothers.”
The silence thickened. Sennar’s words had hit the mark.
“Why even trouble us with this story?” Nereo asked, irritated.
The foreboding sensation persisted. Little by little, the sorcerer sought to loosen his chains.
“I was sent by the Council to request reinforcements. Our troops are at the end of their strength. We’re on the verge of crumbling. The Overworld will become one immense desert, populated by the Tyrant’s slaves. And don’t believe that Zalenia is free of the Tyrant’s wrath. Once he’s done conquering our world, he’ll turn his attention to yours.”
Sennar’s perception of the disturbance intensified. Whoever he was, he was there among the crowd.
Nereo’s demeanor seemed to change. He looked on more attentively, less eager to mock. Sennar’s mention of the half-elves appeared to have made an impression. “I’m disgusted by the horrifying acts of this man, even if they don’t quite surprise me, worthy as they are of your people’s legacy of warring. But we are a long way from the surface here. The rift between our worlds is ancient and deep-seated. Why should this concern us?”
Doubt tinged the king’s haughty tone. Despite his cold and disdainful manner, Sennar could tell he was anything but a fool, that he loved his land wholeheartedly. It was time, Sennar decided, to deal the final blow. “The war may very well have reached you already, Your Majesty,” he said, enunciating clearly, “without you even noticing. The Tyrant may well be plotting against you as we speak, his plans on the verge of completion.”
Cold sweat beaded on Sennar’s forehead. He engaged his senses with every ounce of concentration. He’s here. I can feel it. He’s preparing for an attack. Sennar’s eyes roved intently over the crowd.
Nereo fidgeted on his throne. “If there’s even the slightest possibility that what you say is true, I have no choice but to take it into consideration. We will arrange a private hearing. …”
It was then that the vivid sensation of danger pierced through Sennar like the blade of a sword. He turned and saw him, on the lowest set of bleachers, a man cloaked in black who rose to his feet and extended a hand toward the king. There was no time to think. Sennar leaped forward and began uttering a defense spell. The attack was aimed directly at the king, but Sennar did not err. A stream of green light died when it crashed into the pale silver force field.
For a moment, time stood still. The crowd, the king, the guards, Varen, Sennar himself, lying on the ground—all were hushed, frozen. Sennar felt a terrible pain in his leg. He’d been hit. He tried to stand as another beam of light crashed into the barrier. Before collapsing again, Sennar saw the Tyrant’s agent making his escape, disappearing among the petrified members of the audience. Hysterical cries rose from the bleachers as people began to flee, pushed aside by the guards as they chased their prey.
Sennar stood and took off running. With every footfall, a shock of pain coursed up his leg and stole his breath, but he refused to stop. The dark sorcerer bolted forward, his cloak flying behind him, making quick work of one guard after another as they tried to stop him.
Sennar was limping by now, risking collapse with every step, but still he kept fast on the dark sorcerer’s heels. He could see the wretch in front of him, encircled in a strange, crimson-colored dome. Sennar had never encountered such a force field, but he decided to try his luck anyway. He judged the distance between himself and his enemy—just right. He extended his hand and shouted a spell at the top of his lungs.
The barrier shattered into hundreds of crimson shards and the man fell to the pavement.
Sennar grabbed one of the fallen guard’s swords from the ground and approached the man, dragging his wounded leg along behind him. An immobilization enchantment was an amateur spell. It wouldn’t last long on a true sorcerer. He’d need to strip him of his powers as quickly as possible. But when he finally reached his enemy and pulled back his hood, Sennar reeled with dizziness.
“If you don’t die, you meet again, isn’t that so, Councilor?”
Lying at his feet was a boy no more than twenty years old, with a tuft of jet-black hair that fell over his forehead and two green, derisive eyes.
Sennar had met him in Makrat, while completing his training to become a councilor with Flogisto. They’d even spoken once or twice. Rodhan was his name. A promising young sorcerer from the Land of the Sun. One of the enemy.
“Good job, Sennar,” Rodhan sneered. “Who would have thought? The Tyrant wouldn’t have bet half a dinar on a runt like you, and now look how you’ve proved yourself. And compliments on that little speech of yours. You’re quite a talker. I just hope you know that neither you nor anyone else will ever stop My Lord.”
Sennar was panting and his leg continued to throb. “You did your training with Flogisto, my teacher. … Why?”
“Because the Tyrant is a great man. Because you all are nothing but ants to him.” The boy turned toward
the mute crowd that stood watching them. “And the same goes for all of you! Now the Tyrant knows exactly where you are. Never forget it!”
The enchantment was wearing off. Soon Rodhan would be capable of striking back. As Sennar gripped the sword’s handle, he felt a pang of regret.
Rodhan noticed his hesitation. “I suggest you kill me now, or I’ll be the one doing the killing,” he whispered with an extravagant smile, so strange and out of place.
Sennar tightened his grip, still hesitant. He’d never killed before. Then he heard feet shuffling behind him and a whistling above his head.
A moment later, Rodhan was staked to the ground, a lance through his chest, a senseless grin frozen on his lips.
Sennar spun around.
A soldier stood over him. “War is war,” he said grimly.
15
The Man in the Shadows
The traps had served their purpose. There was no trace of the thieves. Nevertheless, Nihal and Laio kept a sharp lookout, and decided to alter their course for the remainder of the journey, taking a longer route.
Gradually, their fear began to subside and Laio recounted his days as a prisoner to Nihal.
“They didn’t treat me all that bad. They kept me tied up, but most of the time they just ignored me. Whatever they were eating, I ate the same. No, being there wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was thinking you were dead, Nihal,” he said, looking her in the eye.
“Don’t worry, it was hard for me, too, thinking about what they might do to you,” Nihal said, unabashed by her honesty.
Those few days she had spent in waiting, terrified of what might happen to Laio, had shown Nihal just how much she needed him. Ido was her teacher, but now with Sennar so far off, Laio was the one true friend she had.
The constant babble of rushing creeks was a reminder to Nihal and Laio that they had crossed into the Land of Water.
When they arrived within view of Laodamea, the capital city, they were four days behind schedule. Before them stretched the city in its full splendor. The sight of it shook Nihal, awakening painful memories. Here, she had sparred with Fen. Here she had fallen in love.