Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

The Archmage scanned the Academy courtyard with the multiple, prismatic vision of the gems that had replaced his eyes. The pearl-white buildings, that had once been so pristine and spotless, were now mottled with dark patches of moss and slimy mold. The glass and iron lacework structure of the plant room had melted and buckled in the heat of the exploding weather-dome, and coarse weeds had sprung up between the cracks in the courtyard’s flags. The windows of the Great Hall and the Mages’ Tower were cracked and smeared with grime, and tiles had slipped from the library roof, leaving gaping holes that exposed the priceless works within to all the depredations of dirt and damp.

Miathan shuddered. “I never meant it to turn out like this,” he whispered. Then his expression hardened. He had sacrificed so much for the sake of power that now he must keep it, whatever the cost. Nonetheless, he was unable to bear the sight of the desolate, memory-haunted courtyard a moment longer. Pulling the hood of his cloak about his face as if to hide the sight, he stood abruptly and headed for the sanctuary of his garden.

From her window in the Mages’ Tower, Eliseth watched the stooped figure hobble across the courtyard like the old man that he was, and smiled. Miathan’s grip on the reins of power was weakening at last. Soon—very soon now—it would be her turn, and it was time to put some of her plans into action. As soon as Miathan had vanished into his garden, she turned back into her chambers and took up her scrying crystal. This new, diminished Miathan, the Weather-Mage could deal with. Aurian had done most of her work for her already. First and foremost, however, Eliseth wanted to know what her true enemy was up to.

The Weather-Mage paused in the center of the room, balancing the glittering crystal on her palm, her brows creased in thought. Scrying was not among her natural skills, and it would therefore require a great amount of concentration and effort on her part if she was to succeed in spying on Aurian without the other Mage—not to mention that meddling Anvar—detecting her presence. Also, there was the matter of her own safety. Miathan had already lost his eyes when Aurian had struck back at him through a scrying crystal, and the Weather-Mage had taken that lesson to heart. “I need more power,” Eliseth muttered to herself. “Sufficient power to find and reach Aurian in the first place—and sufficient power to protect myself when I do. “Her lips stretched back in a feral smile. “How very fortunate that there is just such a source of magical energy right here in the Mages’ Tower.” Striding briskly, she left her lair and headed upstairs, toward Vannor’s chambers.

This is hopeless,” Yanis grumbled. “At this rate, I don’t think we’re ever going to find Vannor.” He took a sip of his ale and spluttered as he swallowed. “Gods, this stuff tastes like it came out of a privy!”

“It probably did. There are so many shortages in this city now, nothing would surprise me,” Tarnal replied uneasily, hoping to deflect the leader of the Nightrunners from his original complaint to the lesser one. Though he was accustomed by now to his companion’s grumbling, he’d become increasingly worried of late by Yanis’s frequent comments about the hopelessness of the task they had set themselves. He doubted that the Nightrunner leader knew the extent of his devotion to Zanna, but as far as Tarnal was concerned, there was no possibility of his going home before he had found her.

The fair-haired young smuggler sighed, and looked with disgust around the taproom of the Invisible Unicorn. It was not a place that encouraged optimism, he admitted to himself, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the filthy, verminous straw on the floor and grimacing at the sight of the once-white walls that were now stained with smears of soot, grease, and rusty spatters that looked suspiciously like dried blood. “When Parric stayed with us in Wyvernesse, he said that this was his favorite tavern,” he commented. “It’s a good thing he can’t see it now.”

“Hush, you fool!” Yanis peered around suspiciously, but only a handful of the other drinkers seemed to be within earshot. “Don’t go mentioning names like that! This place is full of bloody mercenaries in the pay of you-know-who, and you go shouting your mouth off…”

Tarnal felt his face burning red with embarrassment. “Well, you were the one who wanted to come here in the first place. I told you it was an idiotic idea. And you started it, too, mentioning Va—”

“Will you be quiet?”

“But you did…”

“Yes, all right, I was careless. I’m sorry,” Yanis said hastily.

Tarnal noticed several heads turning in their direction, and he shivered. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Whatever you think, Yanis, it was a stupid idea to come to this particular tavern.”

The two Nightrunners slunk through the dark streets, heading toward the north of the city. They followed a roundabout route among the back alleys, scrambling over yard walls and fences and cutting through abandoned buildings until they were quite certain they had not been followed. At last the streets around them turned from the labyrinthine clusters of crumbling buildings made of ancient, soot-stained stone, to neat rows of newer houses faced in limewash and brick.

“These streets all look the bloody same to me,” Yanis groaned, but the younger lad, at least, had memorized what few landmarks there were and was sure of his route.

“This way.” Tarnal took a sharp turning to his right, heading toward the city’s northern gates, and then cut through a smaller alley to his left. Another sharp turn brought them to the neatly scrubbed doorstep of Hebba’s house.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Yanis marveled, shaking his head. As Tarnal pushed open the wooden door, he bit back a short reply. He only thanked the gods that the young leader of the smugglers was more at home on the sea than in a city—otherwise, the Nightrunners would have been in desperate straits indeed. At least Yanis had the idea of coming to Hebba for sanctuary, Tarnal reminded himself, anxious to give credit where it was due. Had it not been for her, who knows how we’d have managed!

When the two young men had come to Nexis, it had taken several days of discreet inquiries to find Vannor’s old cook. They had started with a surreptitious midnight visit to the servants’ quarters of the merchant’s former mansion, and had been horrified to discover that it was now occupied by the corrupt and money-grabbing Guildsman Pendral, who, so the gossip went, was in the Archmage’s pocket and was already styling himself head of the Merchants’ Guild. Most of Vannor’s former servants had already left, but the gardener’s lad remembered Hebba, and thought that one of the young kitchen maids—a good friend of his, he assured them with a lewd wink—might know of her whereabouts. The girl was serving in a tavern now, and would be there tomorrow, and if she didn’t know, she was sure to know of someone who would… From person to person the trail had led, until they had finally discovered the former cook living in the northern part of the city, in the house of her sister, who had been slaughtered along with her husband and children on the Night of the Wraiths.

Hebba remembered Yanis as the nephew of Vannor’s housekeeper, Dulsina, but fortunately for her nervous disposition, she had no idea of their connection with the legendary smugglers. When they told her that they had come in search of her beloved Zanna, she had been more than ready to give them sanctuary, and besides, she was afraid of living alone now in these violent times, and pathetically desperate to have someone to take care of again. She had welcomed the two young men with open arms, and though she had little, she shared it without reservation.