Timanris stiffened, her beautiful face a closed mask. “Did you come because of me or because of what they are saying about you here in Dsôn?” she asked with a quavering voice.
“I have no idea what people are saying!” he insisted. “I’ve just seen the statue Polòtain has put up. Is that what you mean?”
The älf-woman lowered her head, a strand of hair falling across her features. “You have no idea what it has been like for me while you’ve been away,” she muttered resentfully. “Everybody’s talking about us, even if they won’t say anything to my face. They say you had Robonor murdered.” She stared at him intently, her eyes narrowing. “Do you remember my asking you whether you had anything to do with the accident?”
Sinthoras nodded quickly. “Yes, and I told you that I had nothing—”
“I know. You vowed you were innocent. But how can Polòtain be telling anyone with an ear to listen that he has a witness statement incriminating you?” She brushed his hands away. “I’m giving you the opportunity here and now to renew the oath you swore or to confess to having lied, Sinthoras.”
He felt weak and hurt. The quiet realization crept into the rational side of his brain that it was love that had dragged him into this mess. “I swear by my life, by the Inextinguishables, by my ancestors and by anything else you like: I had nothing to do with Robonor’s death!”
“And that you never ordered anyone to injure him, or ever expressed it as a request?”
“I swear it, Timanris.”
At that she stepped into his arms and embraced him wordlessly.
However, his reaction was different from usual: it was not the warm response he usually felt when she touched him.
Sinthoras stroked her slender neck. “What else is wrong? I can see there is something else . . .”
Timanris took him by the hand and led him to her chambers. Two slave girls were sent to bring tea. Sinthoras and Timanris sat down at the window, looking at the splendor of Dsôn.
He would have liked to kiss her, but did not have the courage to do so. As long as there was a shadow over their meeting he did not feel secure enough in their relationship. He took her hand and waited to hear what she had to say.
Timanris looked at him questioningly. Hidden behind the consternation and doubt in her eyes, he recognized the tenderness she still obviously felt for him, but he realized he was on the point of losing her completely.
“I fell down the stairs, I am told,” she began. “I must have grabbed hold of a spear from the wall . . . I ended up very badly injured. The healers were hard-pressed to keep me in the sphere of unendingness.” She waited until the slaves had served the tea. “I had memory problems. I could remember nothing about the accident, or about the period immediately preceding it.”
Sinthoras was on glowing coals. What is she trying to tell me? “I am so grateful to the gods of infamy that—”
Timanris raised her left hand slightly. “I have not finished. Everyone thought it was an accident, and so did I—until Raleeha ran away. She had left a letter for me, saying she had acted on your instructions!”
His heart stood still. “No!” he gasped. “You . . . how can you believe . . . ?” He did not know what to say. “You are everything to me! I never—”
“She wrote that you had promised to apprentice her to the best artists in the land if she did it,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “She said you had told her you no longer loved me and wanted to enter into another arrangement. A relationship that could further your career and help you in politics.” Timanris shut her eyes and reached for her marble bowl of tea. “I would not believe the words of a slave girl, Sinthoras . . .” Her voice broke. “But together with the rumors here in Dsôn, and then with Polòtain’s accusation, well, it nearly . . .” She fell silent, but opened her eyes and regarded him.
Sinthoras felt his mouth go dry. There was a metallic taste on his tongue as if he had swallowed blood. He had to take a mouthful of tea before answering. “I took Raleeha’s eyesight because she was careless. She must have wanted revenge for that,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, hoping that Timanris would comprehend. “It was her that brought me the false news of your death! She had forged your handwriting—”
“Raleeha was blind! How could she forge my writing?”
“By the gods of infamy, I have no idea! Maybe she had help. Maybe from my enemies, from Polòtain and his friends, to weaken my position.” Sinthoras cupped her face in his hands. “Can’t you understand? She wanted me to stay in Tark Draan! My grief at your death would have kept me away from Dsôn forever. She wanted to destroy me, far from home, so that she could go about ruining my reputation at home.” Sinthoras thought this was an appropriate explanation. That’s it! That makes sense! “They gave you Raleeha’s letter so you would lose faith in me and never try to find me.” He stroked her fragrant hair. “They want to tear us apart. They want to rob me of the love and support of the one I carry deep in my soul.”
“Their plan so nearly worked,” whispered Timanris, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Forgive me for doubting you. I should have listened to my heart, because it always took your side.” She pulled him to her. “I swear I shall never doubt you again.”
Relief flooded through him and his fears were suddenly as nothing. Warmth spread, invading every last corner of his body. Overjoyed, he pressed her to him. “We shall win. We shall defeat Polòtain with his own weapons!”
“Yes, we will,” She gave him a long and passionate kiss on the lips. “We’ll start tomorrow morning. But this night belongs to you and me.”
Sinthoras surrendered to her caresses.
But as he did so, a voice inside whispered that he was a deceitful fraud.
CHAPTER V
The first elf blood, spilled by Morana.
Without doubt, an exceptional achievement.
But more great achievements were yet to come, even if the Heroes did not know it, as they covered mile after mile in the far lands of Tark Draan.
Back in their homeland, thought so very secure, these warriors would soon be sorely missed.
And there was no way to order their swift return to Dsôn to give succor to the älfar folk by their presence.
I cannot say whether a warrior such as Virssagòn, unbeaten in battle, or such as the nimble Horgàta, would have stood a chance against the horror that strode through Dsôn’s alleyways, streets and elegant squares.
One thing was certain: the Heroes were missing.
Excerpt from the epic poem The Heroes of Tark Draan
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Tark Draan (Girdlegard), far to the southwest of the Gray Mountains,
4371st division of unendingness (5199th solar cycle)
early autumn.
A rain-laden wind was whistling through the gaps around the shutters, making the nervous apprentices doubly anxious. But nobody did anything; the student magi remained at their desks, scribbling away by candlelight, their young faces tense.
Jujulo the Jolly sighed, wondering if he was the only one who could hear the wind howling outside. He got up from his comfortable armchair on the dais.
Twenty of his best students were puzzling over the tasks he had set them. Any who failed the test would be making their way home tomorrow and would revert to being the offspring of some noble lord, or a merchant’s son, or a farm boy, or a young laborer—with one thing in common: they would have missed the unique chance of one day taking up a position as magus.
Jujulo the Jolly was well named—he was never moody or bad-tempered, and did not like it when others brought their foul moods into his school and home: an old, stately building on a hilltop surrounded by a town called Duckingham. His multi-colored kaftan and curly-toed shoes also complemented his personality and completed the eccentric picture he projected; anyone would be forgiven for thinking him a fairground attendant or a court jester. He was already over eighty sun-cycles old, but looked much younger, so that anyone meet
ing him for the first time might have said he was fifty.
Jujulo walked over to the windows and fastened them shut. A magus must never get distracted, otherwise he can’t concentrate, and if he can’t concentrate, his spells won’t work.
He stood with his back to the exam room listening to the quill pens scratching away, satisfied that they were all concentrating hard. Yes, they are writing as quickly as they can. They are good boys.
Jujulo returned to his chair and made himself comfortable, sipping his tea and nibbling the odd biscuit the cook had baked for him: nice and spicy, just the way he liked them. I wonder if they will do better than the girls?
The magus taught the girls and boys separately. He always found that a male apprentice would learn better with other boys, and a female apprentice did better if instructed in a group of girls—there were fewer distractions.
He could still hear the wind howling. A north wind, of course.
His thoughts strayed to the Gray Mountains: those majestic peaks that were home to the fifthlings. The dwarves knew their way about the mountains like nobody else. He had twice taken up their invitation to visit and had admired the stone friezes in the halls, their forges and workshops, ingenious irrigation systems, and of course, the fortifications at the Stone Gateway.
However polite the dwarves had been, he could not avoid the feeling that they did not have a very high opinion of humans, or magi for that matter—dwarves did not hold with magic. However, if that was the case, they thought even less of elves. But for some reason the dwarf king liked him and a real friendship was developing through their correspondence.
Jujulo used to think that the dwarves were a little slow, but he had soon realized that this was due to their native stubbornness: they were quite prepared to listen to others’ views, but they would always stick to their own opinion, and this somewhat hampered discussion. Now, something else was worrying him: he had been waiting for a response from the dwarf king since the summer, when Jujolo had invited him to visit the magic realm of Jujulonia, together with his retinue; he had expected to hear back immediately.
But there had been no answer.
And the messenger he had sent was missing: his famula Famenia. She was the best student in her cohort and it was not just the invitation she had been entrusted with. Jujulo had instructed her to entertain the dwarves with some indoor magic to whet their appetites.
The magus sipped his tea noisily. I wonder what’s afoot in the dwarf realm? Had the fifthlings perhaps forced their king to abdicate? Was there a dispute between the various clans? Or were the odd creatures fed up with his magicking? Or perhaps an accident had occurred—a flood maybe, or some gas seeping into their mines and tunnels?
He spotted one of the young students trying to copy from his neighbor. “Watch it, Törden! This is your last warning, boys. If anyone else tries to cheat, you are out on your ear!”
Törden went red and doodled on his paper.
Jujulo had to stop himself from breaking into a grin. As if I would not have tried the same trick. He thought back to when he had studied under the magus Erinitor the Unrestrained. His master had thrown an inkpot straight at his head upon seeing him attempt to cheat. He still had the dark blue mark where the bottle had broken the skin. The fact I tried to cheat didn’t stop me being chosen as Erinitor’s successor though, did it?
He had finished his mug of tea and the pot was empty. He took another biscuit and made a swift gesture with his right hand.
A shimmering teacup appeared and shot off through the closed door: a simple message spell to get the cook to bring what he wanted. Easy as pie.
The famuli, he noted, were not letting themselves be distracted. He supposed his little tricks were perfectly normal to them now; they had all been at the school for so long.
Voices were heard out in the corridor and the door burst open. Jujulo recognized the soaking wet figure on the threshold as Quartan, the cooper. He was bleeding badly from a cut on the top of his arm. “Master Jujulo!” he called with horror in his voice. “Come quickly! You must—It’s the elves! They are attacking us!”
The apprentices all looked up and started whispering to each other, regardless of Jujulo’s reproving glance.
The elves? The magus got up out of his chair. “That can’t be true! We’re so far away from the nearest elf realm . . . why would they attack us?” He looked at Quartan. “Are you sure?”
“I saw it with my own eyes!” The cooper gripped his injured shoulder. “One came out of the shadows as if he had been spat out of the dark. He stormed into the middle of our guilds meeting in the council chamber. I’m the only one to escape, because I—” He sobbed. “Master, please! Do something!”
“Indeed I shall!” Jujulo rushed past the wounded man and stormed out of the hall.
“Magus, what about the examination?” Törden called after him.
“You have all passed. Stay where you are, all of you,” he instructed as he hurried out, grabbing his raincoat from its hook.
Quartan soon caught up with him. “I can’t let you face them alone, master.”
“It won’t be elves, my friend. That’s for certain.”
“But the ears are all pointed and they—”
“I’m sure that’s what you saw. It’ll be a gang of robbers disguised as elves,” Jujulo said as he ran. “They want to frighten you so that nobody puts up any defense.” There can’t be any other explanation. There’s nothing here in Duckingham the people of light could possibly want.
The dwarf king’s warning came to mind; he had always insisted the elves were treacherous. “Beware of the elves! Trust them and you’ll live to regret it.” Jujulo could almost hear his friend’s growly voice. “They only act in their own interest—they think they are so much better than everyone else. It’s us dwarves that protect Girdlegard. Yes, we even offer the pointy-ears our protection, although they deceive us. The long’uns forget so quickly who they owe their prosperity to, calling us mountain maggots, nothing but treasure-hoarders, bad-tempered little blacksmiths only good to trade with. But if we didn’t keep the Stone Gateway safe, the whole of Girdlegard would be awash with evil.”
The words resounded in Jujulo’s head as they came to the first houses, but the town looked peaceful enough. There was no sign of any invasion.
It’s so quiet. Jujulo slowed down and gathered his thoughts in order to be ready with a spell if it should prove necessary. The ground at his feet was charged with a magic force, so he was not worried about confronting an enemy. There wasn’t much that could go wrong.
“What is wrong? Where are the guards?”
He heard footsteps receding.
Jujulo turned to Quartan and saw that the man was making himself scarce. “What is happening?”
“Forgive me, master. He made me do it! Otherwise . . . Forgive me!” the cooper stammered, before he turned and ran.
“Who? Otherwise what?” Jujulo shouted after him while preparing a defense spell. He had been lured into a trap—the elves had not attacked at all. But who could be after me?
He heard a dark laugh from the shadows.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he was filled with fear that grabbed at his heart with a cold hand; it started to beat frenetically and his chest was suffused with pain. What is happening to our town?
“You have all that power and yet you dress like a fool,” an eerie voice mocked in a half whisper. “You could rule over the whole of Tark Draan! Take a look at yourself. Aren’t you ashamed to be seen like that?”
Jujulo turned around full circle but could not see anyone. “Who are you?”
“The moment you catch sight of me you will be dead,” murmured the cruel voice. “Pray to your gods that you never see me.”
The magus intoned a swift incantation. A glowing sphere the size of a closed fist appeared on the palm of his hand. It flew into the dark corners to cast its light.
“So, you think you can find me?” he heard the unknown stranger s
ay. “Look what I can do with your pretty little light!”
Skinny fingers of darkness emerged and moved toward the glowing sphere like smoke, swallowing up every scrap of light.
Is this some rival magus? Jujulo felt that his light-spell was still working, but that the inky blackness had enveloped it, holding it captive. Does he want to seize my enchanted land? I had no idea. Or . . . could it be a student with a grudge against me? “What do you want from me?”
A figure stepped silently out of the darkness; the blackness was reluctant to let it go.
Jujulo saw a tall warrior in a metal breastplate with leg greaves and forearm guards in the same material. His clothing was dark, as was his hair, which was held back with a band. Thin black chains encircled his upper arms and a line of long polished rivets ran from the cuirass back over the shoulders. The handles of two swords were visible behind him; his pointed ears were immediately obvious.
So it is an elf, after all. Jujulo’s hands were trembling and he tried desperately to remember a suitable attack spell, but nothing would come. Fear was numbing his mind.
The elf stood still and spread his arms, displaying black gauntlets on his hands. “I wish you good evening, Magus Jujulo. As you see, I have not drawn my weapon. I am here to lay claim, in the name of the elves, to your realm. We understand magic, unlike you barbarians. You have abused the forces of enchantment for far too long. It is time to surrender to those who deserve them!”
Jujulo could not believe what he was hearing. And the elf’s dialect was atrocious. In all his long life he had only ever met one elf who had come from the Golden Plain and his speech had been most refined and elegant. This one doesn’t sound like a sophisticated elf at all. It’s as if he has learned the language of humans from someone with no breeding or education.