Richard Byers - Prophet of the Dead

The orc snorted. “And where would that way lead, I wonder, the whipping post, the rack, or the gallows? Maybe all three!”

“Well, there is that. And for what it’s worth, when we’re clear of Thay, you’ll be better than free. I can make you a soldier again. If that’s what you want.”

Orgurth grinned. “In that case, why are we dawdling?”

In fact, they weren’t. But while still trying to look like innocent folk abroad on legitimate business, they were approaching the chapterhouse, a four-story stone structure at the end of a dead-end street, with a certain circumspection. It would have been foolish to approach a structure full of Red Wizards in any other way.

The chapterhouses of Aoth’s youth had served the needs of one or another of the orders of Red Wizardry. The one ahead had been the property to the Order of Conjuration, as the reaching and beckoning hand symbols carved above the arched front entrance attested.

And the summoners, creators, and their brothers would no doubt claim exclusive rights to it still, except that the orders and the specialized studies that supported them had passed into memory when the Spellplague changed the nature of magic itself. Now all Red Wizards held all chapterhouses in common as sanctuaries where they could fraternize with their own kind, collaborate on projects of mutual interest, or secure accommodations free of charge when traveling from one place to another.

Steady magical illumination shined through the translucent horn windows to gleam on snow gray from a fall of ash. Hoping any observer would take them for some Red Wizard’s bodyguards, Aoth and Orgurth tramped across the little yard but veered off from the high bronze door with its stylized representations of flame, cold, wind, and other fundamental forces. No one would think it odd if mere men-at-arms who weren’t presently attending their master used the servants’ entrance around back.

Somebody was likely watching that door to make sure no one came in who wasn’t supposed to. But a person had to move through the darkness along the side of the house to pass from the front to the back, and like the facade, the side had a row of windows in it.

Some of those glowed as well, and muffled snatches of conversation, laughter, and even a mournful song with harp accompaniment leaked through from the other side. Two windows, though, had only gloom and silence behind them.

But unfortunately, as Aoth and Orgurth drew near, intricate designs of scarlet phosphorescence abruptly shined from the light and dark casements alike. The phenomenon looked like threads of fire had started burning inside the horn panes themselves.

Oblivious to the radiant sigils, Orgurth raised a hand to the first of the dark windows. “Don’t touch it!” whispered Aoth. “There’s a glyph.”

Orgurth snatched his hand back, then spit in the snow. “Here’s an idea. How about if you and your truesight don’t wait till the last instant to warn me next time?”

“I spoke up the moment it appeared.”

“If you say so. So what about the glyph? Can you get us past it?”

Aoth grunted. “You’ve already seen this isn’t my specialty. But I recognize the ward. I’ve breached it before. We’ll see what happens.”

He released a bit of the power he’d recently restored to his spear, murmured words of negation, and scratched a sign of his own on the casement Orgurth had nearly touched. The razor-sharp enchanted spearhead marked the horn as easily as a quill writing on parchment, and the red glyph deformed as the lines composing it writhed like spasmodic snakes, then vanished entirely.

“That wiped it away,” he said. “Now I just need a second charm to make the casement unlatch itself.”

Orgurth frowned. “That didn’t work so well on So-Remas’s secret cupboard.”

“True. But your former master’s approach to foiling thieves was to hide and lock up his valuables very well. The mage who enchanted these windows thought it would be more amusing to burn a burglar’s hands off. Now that we’ve eliminated that snare, we could probably just pry the casement open. But why risk the noise?” He whispered a charm, spun his hand in a flourish that ended with a twist like he was turning an invisible key, and the window popped open just a little.

Aoth put his eye to the crack and peered into a dark, unoccupied room containing a stained table with built-in manacles, a cold hearth with a rack of pokers and branding irons next to it, and shelves laden with thumbscrews, flaying knives, choke pears, and similar implements. Faded paintings of Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain, smiled from the walls.

Aoth glanced back at Orgurth. “It looks like you get that trip to the torture chamber after all. But if Lady Luck smiles, only for as long as it takes to cross the room.”

Ever since she was a little girl, Cera had liked staring into a fire and looking for pictures in the flames. Perhaps it reflected her affinity for that greatest of fires, the sun itself.

Even under normal circumstances, the pastime could produce a sort of trance. And when a twinge in her thigh, the result of sitting cross-legged for too long on cold, hard stone, recalled her to her senses, she realized she’d lost all track of how long she’d been watching the halo of blue and yellow flames flickering around Jhesrhi’s body.

That was worrisome-no sane person would want to lose awareness of her surroundings in an environment as dangerous as the deathways-but more worrisome still was the fact that when she grunted and stretched out her leg, Jhesrhi, sitting with her back against an intricately carved marble bier and her brazen staff cradled in her fiery hands, didn’t react in any way.

“Jhesrhi?” Cera asked.

The wizard still didn’t respond, although her corona of flame nearly gave the illusion of movement even as it set shadows dancing.

“Jhesrhi, please, talk to me.”

But the tall woman didn’t speak, and Cera abruptly recalled another childhood memory. When she was eight, she and her friends had stood and watched a merchant’s house burn down. One of the things that had impressed her was the way the blaze devoured it more or less from the inside out, leaving the hollowed-out shell that was the exterior for last.

She wondered if she was looking at a similar process now.

No, surely not! But still, it suddenly felt imperative to rouse Jhesrhi without further delay, and as an alternative to sticking her hand into the other woman’s corona of flame, she poked her in the ribs with the butt of her gilded mace.

Jhesrhi didn’t react.

Truly worried now, Cera pulled the cork from her water bottle and dashed the contents into Jhesrhi’s stern but lovely face. The liquid sizzled and puffed into steam.

Awareness surged back into the mage’s expression. Unfortunately, rage arrived with it and she bared her teeth in a snarl. She raised her staff, and flame roared up from the head of it.

Cera scrambled backward. Alarmed by the sudden motion, the bells in their antlers chiming, stag men scrambled up and then hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

Jhesrhi floated to her feet like a wisp of ash wafting up from a bonfire. She drew breath, perhaps to begin an incantation.

“Don’t!” Cera said. “It’s me!”

Jhesrhi’s golden eyes widened. Then the flame on the end of her staff burned lower, while those cloaking her body went out entirely. The dwindling of the light made the darkness draw in like a fist closing.

“I’m sorry,” Jhesrhi said. “For a moment, I … did you throw water on me? You shouldn’t have. The fire didn’t like it.”

“You were in a daze-for a while, we both were-and I couldn’t wake you. I was worried.”

“Then I don’t blame you, but … never mind.”