The Curse of the Mistwraith (36 page)

Warned by Dakar’s groaned shout, Sethvir sensed the disaster. As though he was not enmeshed in rapport with Asandir, the whole untamed force of the third lane whipped to submission between, he severed the power transfer. Snapped out of range of all pain, the Mad Prophet slammed back in his chair. His composure dissolved into ugly, racking sobs that were the best he could manage for breathing.

‘Ath,’ he gasped, half-unhinged. ‘I feel like every hangover I ever earned has joined force in triplicate to plague me.’

Swept by giddy hysteria, Dakar jammed a fist in his mouth to stop his babbling tongue. His vision had gone patchy and his ears boomed to a surf-roll of sound. Somewhere in the echoing, hollow void where thought seemed to flurry and vanish, he re-encountered the current channelled in from the Master of Shadow, reduced now to an ember, but pitched with the same, rock-steady vibration that had marked its presence from the start. Merciless in his need, Dakar seized upon that glimmer. He tapped Arithon’s source to anchor failing senses and recover the strength to look up.

‘Luhaine’s ward!’ he cried out, pierced by a raw blade of fear.

A stark silhouette against the blue-white glare of laneforces, and the pallid grey light beyond the casement, Asandir caught his shivering shoulders. The sorcerer’s fingers were not steady; but the grip they delivered bruised bone. ‘Bide still, Dakar, it’s all right.’

The supporting hands fell away and the Mad Prophet slumped forward, his cheek cradled on crossed forearms. Beside him, a haggard Traithe had done likewise. Through ears muddied with bell-tones of ringing sound, Dakar heard Sethvir’s voice assure that before the defences failed, the meth-snakes had been reduced to manageable numbers. Kharadmon might track down and eradicate the survivors with a fair chance of success.

Verrain’s collapse had been due to exhaustion and overextension. Luhaine would tend him and keep watch at Mirthlvain until the Guardian spellbinder’s recovery.

Like a shell sucked clean of meat, Dakar allowed himself to be ushered to his feet. He was aware of jostling and of movement, as the sorcerers bore him up along with the limp form of Arithon s’Ffalenn. Perversely vindicated, that at least such damnably arrogant self-discipline had just limits. Dakar inclined toward a rich laugh; except the crushing intensity of his headache permitted only breathless speech. ‘The prodigy overreached himself. Bothersome meddling mind of his will have no choice but to sleep off the reaction now.’

‘Indeed,’ Sethvir responded in remarkable pique. ‘Our Teir’s’Ffalenn won’t escape his bed for at least the next few days.’

The sorcerer said something more in the lilting cadence of the old tongue, but the words escaped comprehension. Poised at the head of the stairs, Dakar swayed precariously. His knees let go all at once. As a falling rush of darkness claimed him, he fuzzily concluded that drunken binges befuddled a body less than overindulgence of magecraft any day. Most urgently, he needed to remember to clarify that point with Asandir.

Strands

Eventide saw the Fellowship sorcerers, Asandir, Sethvir and Traithe gathered once more in Althain Tower’s upper chamber. The blaze of the brazier lent crispness to profiles already hardened by the demands of the times. Conversation stayed light as they waited upon their colleagues Kharadmon and Luhaine, both of whom as discorporate spirits were able to cross the continent from Meth Isle at whim. Certain topics were avoided; as unflinchingly as any Fellowship sorcerer still physically embodied had weathered the setbacks engendered by Desh-thiere and Davien’s rebellion, none cared to count how many places would stand empty tonight. In better years, at other summons, the ebony table had seated the full Fellowship of Seven, five high kings and a representative from the three Paravian races: apprentice spellbinders had not been required to shoulder responsibilities beyond their training to fill, and mist had not smothered the land to the harm of the fruitful earth.

Sethvir sought his usual solace, scrounging in his cupboards for tea, when Traithe’s raven raised wings and flapped, disturbed by a draft that spilled through the east casement. The sudden inrush of wind carried a distinctive scent of grasslands spiked with frost.

Poised with his hands full of crockery, Sethvir addressed what seemed vacant air. ‘Kharadmon? You’re not too spent to project an image? The Mad Prophet, I think, would be appreciative.’

As the eddy swirled to stillness, the tower chamber rang with deep laughter. ‘Where is Dakar?’ said a voice in resonant Paravian that issued from a point inside the shutter.

A shadow coalesced in the spot, resolving into the slender form of a sorcerer in sable and green. A cloak lined in orange silk spilled from elegantly-set shoulders; the face inside the hood was an elfin arrangement of angles, accented by a spade-shaped beard, a glib smile and a hooked nose. The apparition raised tapered hands and pushed the cloth back, smoothing black-and-white streaked hair. Freed from shadow, the eyes were pale green and direct as a cat’s. The visual projection of the discorporate mage Kharadmon skimmed a glance over the assembled company, and in thoroughly changed inflections repeated, ‘Where is Dakar?’

‘On his way.’ Asandir gave a boyish grin. ‘Though I fear a bit the worse for drink. Sethvir had cider in his cupboard and our prophet drank it dry to blunt the aches of exhaustion.’

Kharadmon’s smile widened to show foxy, even teeth, and features that had no substance in reality flashed a look of pure devilry.

Two storeys below Althain’s topmost chamber, the Mad Prophet roused from dreamless stupor with a start that cracked his knee into Sethvir’s chess table. Ivory and ebony counters cascaded to the floor, the clatter of their upset entangled with Dakar’s peevish oath.

‘Dharkaron’s Chariot!’ He catapulted from the armchair that had supported his untimely nap, slammed into the table again and slipped and skated across rolling pawns through several unbalanced steps. A spectacular trip landed him belly-down across a footstool and a racked set of fire tongs.

‘Blessed Ath,’ Dakar wheezed on the breath bashed out of his lungs. ‘I’m
coming!
’

Moments later, the sorcerers upstairs were disrupted by the solid thud of a body against the ironbound door to their chamber. The latch rattled sharply but did not unfasten; after an interval of fumbling and swear words, Dakar burst in from the stairwell, his face beet-red under a tangled nest of hair.

‘I came as fast as I could.’ The Mad Prophet licked a bruised knuckle, tugged at his rumpled tunic and glowered at Asandir. ‘Your gift of a nightmare was bad enough without setting stay-spells on the latch.’

Sethvir clutched his tea mugs, innocuously intrigued, while the sorcerer so addressed sat back in his seat, his smile gone and one silvered brow tipped upward. ‘How thoughtlessly quick you are with accusations.’

Dakar yanked out a chair and dumped himself in a miffed heap. ‘Only Kharadmon would have—’ Suspicion congested his round features.

‘Greetings, Mad One,’ said the discorporate sorcerer.

Dakar shot straight, wildly searching, but his gaze surveyed the room repeatedly without enlightenment. As the other sorcerers gave way to amusement, his injury flattened to disgust.

He announced scathingly to no one, ‘If you’re going to bait me, ghost, you might be sporting and show me a visible target.’

The spirit returned unbridled laughter and Dakar’s eyes found focus at last as the illusion that marked the sorcerer’s presence became revealed to him. ‘You’re beyond your depth, anyway, my prophet.’ Kharadmon pulled out a chair, carelessly sliding the seat through his thigh and a fold of green cloak. Since tormenting Dakar was a favourite diversion, he might have added more, but Sethvir broke in to ask after Luhaine.

Kharadmon’s eyes became veiled. ‘On his way this moment.’ Blandly, he added, ‘I always best him at travel, argument and cards.’

As if whipped to instability by his words, the torches in the sconces by the doorway streamed and flickered, and though no breeze had arisen to partner the disturbance, one blinked out.

‘I protest that statement,’ a bass voice said in reproof. A second discorporate materialized alongside the table, this one wizened and bald, a beard as broad as a waterfall fanned across his chest. His corpulent form was robed in blue-grey. Apple-round cheeks were capped by brows peaked in prim inquiry, and eyes sharp and black as an irascible scholar’s trained upon the elegantly seated image of Kharadmon. More than usually petulant, the newcomer announced, ‘Your claim is unfounded, unjust and entirely unforgiven. We shall contest it later.’

‘Luhaine,’ Sethvir interrupted, ‘Could we dispense with tired rivalries and get started?’

The second of the disembodied sorcerers transferred his vexation to the Warden of Althain. ‘You asked to determine the impact of Desh-thiere’s Bane upon Athera. Might I know what’s gone amiss?’

Belatedly, Sethvir recalled his clutch of crockery; he deposited the lot with a sigh on the last bit of uncluttered shelf, while Asandir leaned forward, his robe lit indigo by the brazier. In careful phrases, and as much for Dakar’s sake, he described the backgrounds and personal attributes of the princes from Dascen Elur whose shared talents comprised the heart of the West Gate Prophecy. His words were received in grim quiet, even Luhaine moved to silence as he summed up.

‘The powers the half-brothers command are unquestionably direct, and evenly split. The risks are self-evident. Lysaer and Arithon are opposites in character and upbringing. Both inherit the gifts of two royal lines, which makes an uneasy legacy. Should their past heritage of feud become renewed, the consequences could be ruinous. Since Dakar has been troubled by precognizance to that effect, it seems wise to cast strands and seek a clear course for the future.’

Luhaine’s image blinked out and reappeared, seated with fingers laced on the tabletop across from Kharadmon. His assent followed, instantaneous and emphatic since elemental mastery of any sort was potentially limitless. Set at odds, Lysaer and Arithon between them could wreak havoc on a scale not seen since Davien the Betrayer roused the five kingdoms to rebellion.

Quiet as shadow, Traithe arose from his chair.

‘Cupboard underneath the Lanshire histories, third shelf,’ Sethvir murmured distractedly. He dissipated the spark of lane-force that burned in the brazier. Asandir removed the bronze tripod, while Kharadmon extinguished the other sconce. Unhindered by total darkness, Traithe found the place designated and retrieved a square of black velvet, which he shook out and spread across the table.

Luhaine’s brow creased as the cloth passed unimpeded through his elbow. ‘Has Dakar mastered the effects of tienelle yet?’

The Mad Prophet rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘I’d feel better after a draught of deadly nightshade.’ Then, on a plaintive note to Asandir, ‘Is seersweed truly necessary? Last night was awful enough. Today I don’t feel in the least like volunteering to ruin my health all over again.’

The rare, high-altitude herb he wished to avoid at all costs. Valued for its mind-expanding properties, tienelle’s narcotic was also a poison that caused cramps, headache and a sudden onset of dehydration that could end in coma and death. Spellbinders were schooled to transmute its toxicity, for need occasionally arose for them to perceive complexities beyond their training to encompass.

Asandir measured his apprentice with a calm that disallowed pity. ‘Had you not dropped a sword, once, to disrupt your native gift of prescience, you would not be required to attend this session.’

Dakar slammed his palms on the tabletop, his frustration damped to an unsatisfying thump by the heavy velvet covering. ‘Ath, you won’t forget a detail, not even once in a century.’

‘Under the north windowseat, in the coffer,’ Sethvir interjected in apparently idle afterthought.

The Mad Prophet was not fooled. If Asandir’s memory forgave nothing, Sethvir knew the precise location of every unwanted item in Ath’s creation. Since Traithe would not trouble to fetch and carry for an apprentice, and Kharadmon’s whetted interest promised mischief, Dakar heaved to his feet. Too lazy, or too obstinate to engage the self-discipline for mage-sight, he noisily smacked shins and knuckles in the dark and searched out the herb stores for himself. He clumped back to his chair clutching a stone pipe and a carved wooden canister, and busied himself with a martyred sigh. Most pointedly, he ignored the Fellowship sorcerers as they prepared for a ritual undertaken only at direst need.

Power gathered in the hands of Asandir. Above the dark velvet he spun a rod of energy, a glimmer like a line of veiled starlight. To this, he added a second, then a third, each for the triad of mysteries that embodied Prime Power and underlay all Athera’s teeming life. Next he added twoscore lesser lengths, to which Sethvir assigned Names in a Paravian ritual that summoned the essence of the ruler, place, or power and stamped its quickened current on the spell. The strands assumed identity and altered, each according to assigned nature. The governor’s council in Etarra manifested as hurtfully bright, a hedge of scintillant angles; the trio for the Paravian races interwove to the evocative beauty of lacework before fading to a near subliminal glimmer; the spark that captured the collective spirit of the clansfolk in their exile scribed an enduring sweep of arc. To cities, human consciousness and natural forces were added individuals; and after these, plants, animals and natural elements, until a geometric lattice glimmered above the velvet backdrop, an entire world’s interlinked complexity recorded in precise proportion and line.

The visionary mind of a Fellowship sorcerer could interpret such at a glance. Where other methods of precognizance might sound only broadscale highlights, the strands were superlatively sensitive. Each would react as its nature dictated, mapping even minute shifts of balance with pinpoint accuracy. The futures that might spring from alternate sets of events could be assessed instantaneously, even the least nuance made plain. To read the analogue set down into pattern without laborious mathematical analysis, Dakar packed his pipe with the notched, silver-grey leaves of tienelle. The scent of the herb permeated the room, sharp, bitter and edged as a winter wind.