The White Mists of Power (14 page)

The numbness spread through Adric’s arms. Had Rogren left him there to die? Adric couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember what it was like to be anyone but Adric, the boy with calluses on his fingers.

Hands slid under his arms and someone untied his wrists.

“Slowly. Let him down slowly.”

The voice belonged to Cassie, the healer. Her touch was cool. Perhaps the fire in his back would melt her. He licked his lips to warn her, but speech did not come. The hands eased him down to the ground and he set his cheek in the soft dirt. Up close, the dirt separated into a thousand tiny pieces, and with each breath he arranged those pieces in a new pattern.

“Rogren tore him up good, and he isn’t very strong.”

“Hush, Milo. Give me some of that ointment.”

An ant crawled through the dirt. Adric held his breath. The tiny creature climbed over a mound, its feelers waving. Then ice formed on his shoulder and he couldn’t stop himself; he gasped and expelled air. The mound crumbled, burying the ant.

“At least he’s still alive. Maybe we should notify the king before Rogren kills him.”

“Adric must make his own choices, Milo.”

The ice spread down his back and quenched the fire. The flattened mound stirred. The ant’s feelers appeared, then its body, marching across the dirt.

The hands lifted him and he swayed. The ice had stolen his back, but the throbbing in his wrists and cheek told him that he still lived. The sunlight turned into darkness, and a thick mattress replaced the dirt. He closed his eyes. Here he could be safe, away from the post and the snapping air.

Chapter 11

Milord:

I have found the bard. He rests in Coventon, the port off Lafa’s lands. A magician and two young boys travel with him. One of the boys is deadly with a knife.

The bard has commissioned a local musician for a lute. While he waits for the instrument, he trains the boys in the art of sword fighting. The bard is proficient. I would not like to face him one-on-one.

His plans are obscure. I have spoken with both lads, and they assure me that the bard heads for the palace. They say he would like to be the king’s bard. I don’t know if the bard will make it. Lord Lafa has placed a price on his head. Lafa has offered three hundred gold pieces to the man who kills him. Anyone who captures him will get only one hundred gold pieces. Lafa knows that he dare not kill the bard inside the city, but once the bard steps outside the city walls, he will probably die.

The bard does not know of the bounty, or if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. Unless you order otherwise, I shall let the bounty hunters kill him. I will step in only if the hunters fail.

I await your reply.

Yours,

Corvo

i

Nica climbed down the spiral stairs from the apartments into the guild shop. The faint odor of the previous night’s incense hung in the air. A fire burned in the hearth, illuminating the dark room. The crystals hanging around the door were still, waiting. Pieces of whistle-wood glowed from the shelves.

Xell sat in the chair beneath the shop’s only window. He held a cup of tea to his chest as if to protect himself from the morning chill. Thin traces of sunlight played upon his bald head, accented the creases near his eyes.

“The shop is preparing itself for a visitor.”

Nica wound the rest of the way down the stairs. So that was the stillness she felt. She glanced at Xell, wondering if the daily plans would change because a visitor was going to arrive.

“First the luck web,” he said, “and then we will see.”

The way he touched her thoughts used to unnerve her. Now she accepted it as part of the morning ritual. She sat on a cushion near the hearth. The fire was warm against her back. She concentrated on the feeling, crossed her arms before her face, held her breath, and clenched her fists. Then she chanted softly. The web wrapped itself around her like a lover. She felt warmer, stronger, completed.

Then an unfamiliar vibration whispered in her web. She opened her eyes, cemented the strength gathering, and then, at Xell’s nod, reversed it. The layers of the web eased, slipped away, and she was Nica once more.

“This is a guild shop,” Xell said.

“I know.” A small man dressed in a squire’s shirt and trousers stood at the door. The crystals around him glowed purple. Eighth level. Low for an adult magician. Nica had passed the eighth level after her first month of training. “I am a guild member.”

He held out his hand. Xell rose and took it, examining the tattoo on the man’s palm. Nica stood up and saw that the tattoo confirmed what the crystals had already told her.

Xell let go of the man’s hand. “Where are you from?”

The man stepped forward. A combination of hearth light and sunlight touched his face, making his features look haggard. His hair was dark and thick, and his green eyes were young. Yet Nica guessed him to be at least in his mid-thirties. “I’m from Dakin’s lands. I’m Seymour, son of Dysik the Great.”

Nica clasped her hand over her wrist to keep herself from shaking. She wished she still had her luck web. Seymour, son of Dysik, magician to Lord Dakin, had met the hounds earlier in the year. A traveler had told her before she went into seclusion.

Xell nodded and extended a hand toward the table near the stairs. “I worked with Dysik at the palace. Such a talent wasted when the Council of Lords banished him to Dakin’s lands.”

Seymour’s head snapped back and the haggard look disappeared. He seemed shocked, but Xell’s words also seemed to cheer him. Nica knew then that Seymour hadn’t known of the banishment. “He served Lord Dakin faithfully for forty years, “Seymour said.

“And does no longer?”

“He’s dead.”

The words hung in the little shop. The purple glow eased out of the crystals, replaced by a slightly pink color that Nica had never seen before. She directed Xell’s attention to it and he frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t get much news from the north.”

He stared at the pink crystals as if he didn’t understand them. Seymour looked at the whistle-wood, but did not touch it. Nica waited near the hearth for Xell to invite her into the conversation.

“You do not serve Lord Dakin,” Xell said, his gaze still on the crystals. He turned to Seymour. Nica recognized the expression. Xell was into digging Seymour, examining him, trying to read his aura, his glow.

“Lord Dakin expected me to be the wizard my father was without taking into account my inexperience.” Seymour lowered his head, but not before Nica saw the heightened color in his cheeks.

“And your lack of aptitude.” Xell’s words were soft. He had not taken his eyes off Seymour.

Seymour straightened. “My eighth-level tattoo makes me ineligible for this guild shop?”

Xell shook his head. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Your mother was an herb witch, wasn’t she? That too is a noble profession.” Xell pulled back a chair. It scraped against the wooden floor. “Sit, Seymour. Take some tea with us.”

Seymour looked at the chair, then at Xell, as if measuring him. Finally he walked over and sat down. Xell sat across from him. “Nica,” he said, “heat some water for tea.”

Nica dipped some water from their bucket and put it into the pot over the fire. Then she grabbed a handful of bitter-smelling torec tea leaves and sprinkled them at the bottom of the teapot.

“How can we help you?” Xell asked.

“I came to trade spells,” Seymour said. “I need an offensive and defensive spell that covers four people.”

The water boiled and Nica removed the pot from the hearth. She wished she could see Xell’s expression. An eighth-level magician could barely handle parlor tricks.

“What spells can you trade?” Xell asked.

“My father’s scent illusion.”

Nica poured the water into the teapot and brought it over to the table. She took three mugs from the shelf behind her and set them in place. Then she sat next to Xell.

“Your father’s scent illusion was original. He guarded it like a child. You must have a great need or you wouldn’t trade such a spell.”

Seymour ignored Xell’s implied question. “I can already make fire. But I need something else.”

“What mission are you on, my friend?” Xell asked.

This time Seymour could not ignore the question. He looked down at his hands. Nica saw them shake. “I–I’m traveling to the palace.”

“For whom?”

He glanced up, looking trapped. He sighed and shook his head a little. “I met up with a bard a few weeks ago. Saved him from Lord Dakin’s hounds. We’re traveling together.”

Nica forced herself to take a deep breath. Byron was in Coventon. If only she could see him, thank him, show him how far she had come from the barefoot herb witch he had helped.

A finger touched her mind. Xell wasn’t watching her, but she could feel him in her head, feeling her thoughts about Byron. She moved back physically, but the touch remained, cool and a little angry. She didn’t care. Byron had saved her life. According to the wisdom of the Old Ones, she and Byron were bound until he owed her his.

Nica picked up the teapot and poured to keep herself from staring at Xell. She hadn’t realized that Xell knew Byron. And that Xell couldn’t read him seemed even more surprising. Xell was Enos-trained. He could touch any mind he wanted.

She handed Xell his cup, then handed Seymour his. Finally she poured her own. A bitter licorice smell rose from the liquid. All three magicians put their hands over their cups and rubbed the steam into their tattoos. The Old Wisdom said that torec tea increased the power of any spell cast out of love.

“I don’t know him either.” Seymour had turned his hand palm up. His tattoo glowed with the same pinkish color as the crystals had. “We’ve traveled together for weeks and I still don’t understand him.”

“He learned to close his mind somewhere.”

Nica took her hand off her cup and clenched her fist, letting the steam soak into her palm. The Enos taught magicians to close their minds to protect the less experienced from learning powerful spells. But Byron was not a magician. He didn’t carry a magician’s blues and purples in his aura, although his aura was strange. It carried the rich reds of the bard, and beneath those lay the white mists of power. She had glimpsed the white on the day he helped her escape from Lord Dakin’s retainers.

Xell had also removed his hand from his cup. He sipped his tea, then set the cup down. “You and Byron are equals. You don’t have to be following him.”

Seymour shook his head. “We’re not equals.”

“He has a white aura,” Nica said.

Xell glanced at her. She was part of the conversation now whether he wanted her in it or not. “I have never seen it,” he said. “His aura is red.”

“It was white when he helped me.”

“That explains it, then.” Xell took another sip of his tea. He appeared calm, but his stiff movements told Nica that he was annoyed. “Anyone can have a white aura in moments of crisis, for that is when the most power is used.”

Nica shook her head slightly, not daring to contradict her tutor before a guest. She had met Byron when she was still the village herb witch. A child had been trampled by one of the retainer’s stallions. She and Byron had found the boy at the same time. While she treated the child, Byron soothed him. From then on, both she and the child carried a strong loyalty to Byron. Rury had it too. And so, it seemed, did Seymour.

Her hands grew cold, even around the warm cup. Rury was dead, then. She had known it, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. The dream, the hounds, the blood–she had known since then.

Nica stood. She took the teapot and poured the tea into a bucked they kept near the back door. Her hands were shaking. Xell didn’t have to tell Seymour that. She would have, given time. Xell did not give her enough room to grow on her own.

She leaned her head on the rough wall. She could feel the men looking at her. She didn’t care. Rury was dead. Her brother, with his flashing eyes and striking voice. She had always known his ideals would kill him, yet she had never thought she would have to experience his death.