Frank Tuttle - All the Paths of Shadow

“It tends toward hyperbole,” she said. “Otrinvion was a monster, and if the kings of old could have brought the Tower down it would have been rubble a hundred times over.”

Donchen nodded, his eyes still on the Tower. “That, I think, would have been a shame.”

More footsteps sounded on the stair, and Meralda heard Shingvere’s voice, raised in laughter. Donchen turned back to face her.

“Your Eryan friend tells us the Tower is haunted. He suggested I ask you for the details.”

“My Eryan friend,” said Meralda, struggling to keep her smile, “also tends toward hyperbole. The Tower is no more haunted than this platform. But there are those who see ghosts in every patch of shadow.” She cast a nod toward the stair. “Eryans, you will find, are particularly susceptible.”

Donchen nodded. “In my country, it is assumed that any structure larger and older than last year’s bird nest is infested with the most bewildering variety of phantoms,” he said. “A regrettable superstition, but one to which people cling.” He gazed again upon the Tower, and lifted his hands as he spoke. “We should have to invent whole new classes of specters, were we to find such a tower in the midst of our land.”

Shingvere stepped onto the platform just as Donchen spoke. “Morning, Thaumaturge,” he said. “I see you’ve met our friends.”

Meralda nodded, and Shingvere stepped aside, and another Hang sidled past him.

“May I present Loman?” said Chezin. “Wielder of the Word, Bearer of the Staff.”

“The approximate equivalent of your own title,” whispered Donchen, to Meralda. “He makes magic for the king, at least when the court isn’t badgering him with trivia.”

The platform, built for a king and four guards, not a thaumaturge, a work bench, three Hang, and a Shingvere, was suddenly crowded. Loman shuffled his way past Shingvere and Donchen to stand before Meralda, who marveled when she saw Que-long motion Chezin back and squeeze himself in the corner between the rail and Meralda’s table so the aging Hang wizard had room to walk.

Of all the Hang, only the wizard Loman showed signs of age in his walk. He was stooped and slow, shuffling one foot forward at a time, his face turned toward the floor planks, his knuckles white upon his staff, so tight was his grip. His hair was shoulder-length, grey like dirty snow. His downturned face was wrinkled, though Meralda could see little of it aside from bushy white eyebrows and the tip of his blunt nose.

He wore a loose white robe, black pants underneath, and his shoes were plain black slippers. Phendelit slippers, Meralda realized.

Fromarch’s Phendelit slippers, in fact. I gave those to him First Snow, two years ago.

Now I know where the mages have been.

Loman halted, and looked up. His face was ancient, all wrinkles and sagging skin. His eyes, though, were brown, bright, and clear.

He spoke. “Greetings, Mage.” His voice was as thin and frail as his frame.

Meralda bowed. “Greetings, Wielder and Bearer.” She saw Donchen nod approval at the edge of her vision. “You honor me with your presence.”

The old man smiled. “It is good that we are met, Mage of Tirlin. Perhaps one day we will stand side by side and cast our magics together.”

He bowed again. And then, before Meralda could speak, he lifted both arms, hands open and even with his shoulders, spoke a short phrase in Hang, and brought his hands together with a single loud clap.

Then he turned, and shuffled back toward the stair.

Meralda made a hasty bow.

Donchen stepped to her side. “He just said hello, in an official sense,” said Donchen softly.

Meralda nodded. “I’ll ask later what he said,” she whispered.

Donchen nodded, clasped his hands behind him, and fell silent. Meralda noted the Hang, even Que-long, stood still and watched Loman go.

Meralda watched as well, though she did exchange a brief look with Mug’s red eyes, which Mug held in the upright line that signaled bemusement or mild surprise.

Shingvere, waiting upon the stair, nodded to Meralda, took Loman’s hand in his, and helped him down the first tread.

The Big Bell pealed out, striking eleven times from the palace, faint above the traffic and the crowds. Meralda felt her stomach tighten, partly from hunger, partly from realization of just how much of the day was gone, and how much remained to be done.

Chezin nodded, as if she had spoken aloud. “The mage has much work to do,” he said. “We should leave her to it.”

Que-long nodded. “Goodbye,” he said, to Mug. Mug bowed, sweeping all is leaves and eyes down and forward. “I hope we meet again, Mighty Dragon,” said Mug, his voice still high and cheery.

Chezin frowned, but Que-long clapped and beamed. “This is a wondrous land,” he said, and Meralda smiled despite herself.

“Thank you,” she said, only barely remembering to turn and address Chezin. “We are glad you think so, and glad you came.”

Que-long made a small bow, and turned, and departed.

Chezin came close behind, halting long enough before Meralda to repeat Que-long’s bow before following his dragon down the stair.

Donchen watched them go. “Goodbye, Mage,” he said. He bowed, and turned to go, and then turned back toward Meralda again. “Will you join me at my table, tomorrow night? I believe we are to join your court for a ‘feast of traditional Alon cuisine, with sherberts’.” Donchen hesitated, and his features took on the appearance of sudden concern. “These ‘sherberts,’” he said. “They would not be the finely-chopped snout of an oxen, would they?”

Meralda laughed. “Sherbert is a frozen dessert,” she said. “Ice and milk and…sugar, I suppose,” she said. “Not a scrap of ox snout.”

Donchen lifted his hand to his forehead in mock relief. “Thank heavens,” he said. “One must be careful, so far from home.”

And then he turned and glided down the stair.

Mug bunched his leaves. Meralda glared, and he fell silent.

“Tervis,” shouted Meralda.

After a few moments, Tervis came thump-thumping up the stair.

“Yes, ma’am?” he asked.

“Send word to the Watch and the Builder’s Guild foreman,” she said. “I’m going to test the spell during lunch. It is a harmless spell. They may see a darkening in the air about the Tower, nothing more. Tell them there is no cause for alarm.”

“No cause, yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” said Meralda. Tervis turned and sped down the treads.

“Can you be ready by lunch?” asked Mug. “That’s only an hour away, you know.”

Meralda watched as the Hang and their entourage made for the Tower. Shingvere, from his post at the right of Loman’s wheelchair, gestured and pointed toward the Tower, while Fromarch waved his hands and shook his head in angry negation.

Meralda looked away, and picked up her wand. “Begin,” she said. “Refract.”

Her wand buzzed and grew cold in her hand.

Meralda sagged, put both hands on the workbench, and leaned over it while the Big Bell clanged out noon.

“You all right, mistress?” asked Mug.

“I’m fine.” Meralda looked up. In her second sight, Mug was ablaze, lit within by tongues of fire.

Tervis clambered up the stair. “I warned the watchmen and the guilds,” he said. “Is it time?”

Meralda straightened. “It is time.”

“Good luck, ma’am,” said Tervis. “Yell out, if you need us.” He turned, and hurried down the stair.

Meralda turned her sight upon the Tower. “Well,” she said. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“Aside from refusing to attempt the thing, no, you’ve made all the necessary preparations,” said Mug. He pushed eyes closer to Meralda.