Frank Tuttle - All the Paths of Shadow

“I could make ice or raise a sudden fog or cause empty shoes to dance,” said Meralda.

“Marvelous. We’re saved. Mistress, surely there’s something nasty back there!”

Oh, there’s plenty of nasty, thought Meralda. Kingen’s Bell causes massive internal bleeding in anyone who hears it. Stovall’s Blighted Candle melts the eyes of anyone who gazes into the flame. Both were locked away in sturdy chests, but neither offered much in the way of protection from stealthy Vonat mages.

Meralda reached the end of the shelf row, and sidled around the end of it, ready to begin searching the other side.

She walked into something hidden in a shadow and it fell with a bang and a clatter.

Meralda jumped, careened into the laboratory’s back wall, and bit back a curse word.

“Mistress? You all right back there?”

“I’m fine.” Meralda forced a smile. “Too much clutter.”

There, on the floor, was the twin to the ironwood staff she’d encountered moments before.

Meralda nudged it with the toe of her boot. It scooted with a rasping sound.

Your nerves are getting the better of you, she thought. Then she reached down, snatched the ironwood up, and leaned it carefully against the wall.

“What about Gilbert’s Cloak of Grounding?” asked Mug. “Didn’t half a dozen mages wear that when they were working with unstable wards?”

Meralda nodded. “That they did,” she said. She tried to recall where the cloak had been stored. Wasn’t it wrapped in canvas, in that yellow chest by the south wall?

She made for the far end of the row, where the lights shone bright and there was open space and room to move. The cloak wasn’t a bad idea. Particularly if one enhanced the original spells.

She took half a dozen steps. Just half a dozen steps, and then, though she heard nothing, saw nothing, sensed nothing, Meralda turned and looked back at the wall where she’d leaned the troublesome scrap of ironwood.

The wall was empty.

As was the floor.

“Mistress,” called Mug, his voice filled with rising panic. “Mistress, I think you’d better grab something right now, because we have company.”

A shadow flew over her, and with it came the sound of wings.

“Mistress , run! ”

Meralda ran. Again, the whoosh and dart of shadow. She reached out, caught the first thing she grasped, and threw it toward the sound.

“Missed,” cried Mug. Something metallic landed with a clatter. “Mistress, there are two of them!”

Meralda forced her Sight up and out.

The laboratory was suddenly ablaze with moving, spinning, flashing lights. Thousands of spells shone and moved like noon in a field of wind-blown mirrors.

But above the crowded ranks of magical items about her, two blurs of purest, darkest black sailed and spun and flew.

Meralda’s Sight collapsed, and she sank to her knees, suddenly blind, suddenly exhausted. She reached out again, fumbling with the items on the shelf before her, and gasped as she found Mahop’s Portable Inferno.

I may burn down half the shelves, she thought, but let’s see how quickly these staves ignite.

“That will not be necessary, Mage Ovis.”

The voice was not Mug’s. It was far too loud to be any of Mug’s mimicry, either.

It spoke perfect New Kingdom, with no trace of a Vonat accent.

“Nameless. Faceless. Desist. Return.”

Above came the sound of troubled air, but it faded quickly, and was gone.

Meralda rose. Her hands found the two small indentations that, if covered, would cause the open end of the Inferno to spew gouts of fire reputed to be so hot they melted glass and stone alike.

“My apologies, Mage. They were intent on childish mischief, but I do not believe they meant you harm.”

“Mistress,” hissed Mug. “You are not going to believe this.”

“Oh, but she must,” replied the booming voice, to Mug. “All your fates depend upon her belief. Without it, Tirlin is doomed.”

Meralda held the Inferno in front of her, ready to bring it to life.

“Who are you?” she said, her eyes straining to penetrate the shadows about her.

“I have no name,” replied the voice. “Please. Come forward. I mean you no harm.”

“Mug?”

“No one else is here, mistress,” he replied. “It seems to be speaking from inside Goboy’s mirror.”

“The construct is correct. I am using the glass as a portal. Please approach. We have urgent matters to discuss.”

Meralda warily emerged from between the shelves, the Inferno at the ready.

Mug swiveled half his eyes toward her, keeping the rest fixed on Goboy’s mirror. From her vantage point, Meralda could not see into the glass, so she moved cautiously toward Mug and her desk.

“Those things, whatever they were, flew inside the mirror,” said Mug. “Hit it and vanished inside.”

They couldn’t possibly have done that , thought Meralda. The mirror is just glass . But she nodded and made her way to a spot behind her desk.

Goboy’s mirror showed a scene from inside the Wizard’s Flat. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windows. The two plain ironwood staves stood upright, their ends inside the holes carved into the floor.

Dust motes danced and twirled in the sun.

“Master often referred to me as Tower,” said the voice. “In the interest of ready communication, you may do the same.”

“Pardon me,” said Mug, “But when you say ‘Master,’ are you perhaps referring to Otrinvion the Black?”

“Master had many names,” replied the voice. “That was one of them.”

Mug’s wilt intensified.

Meralda’s mind raced, and her heart began to pound. I’m talking to the Tower, she thought. Otrinvion’s Tower. What am I supposed to say?

The Tower let the silence linger.

“I am… honored by your wish to converse,” said Meralda, after a moment. “I hope my visit earlier today has not caused you any distress.”

“My actions were born of caution, not distress,” replied the Tower. “I feared your brief inspection of my form had caused you injury, so I used the transport word to place you close to your friends. Your sudden displacement caused your ward work to erroneously identify you as an intruder, forcing me to both expedite your departure and disable your ward.”

Meralda exchanged a glance with Mug, whose leaves still drooped in a terrified wilt.

“I thank you for your concern,” said Meralda. She bit her lip, hesitant to say more.

How many mages spent how many lives trying to pry even a single hidden spell out of the Tower? And what would they say, if told the Tower itself were alive?

What would Shingvere ask, if he were here?

“Very well, Tower,” she said. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions of you?”

“It is vital that you do so,” replied the Tower. “Else I would not have revealed myself.”

Mug’s leaves shook. “I knew it,” he said, in a whisper to Meralda. “I knew it. All this meddling with shadows and wards. Something’s wrong. So badly wrong it’s breaking a thousand years of silence and using your mirror to do it.”

“Hush,” said Meralda, with a glare.

“The construct is correct,” said the Tower. “Master forbade me to reveal myself, and I have obeyed. Until now.”

“Why?” asked Meralda. “And why to me?”

“Because Tirlin is doomed,” said the Tower. “Doomed, by Master’s hand. I can no longer stay his wrath. It is my hope that perhaps you can.”

Meralda put down the Inferno. Steady, she said to herself. Perhaps it is merely engaging in melodrama.

“Doomed, in what way?”

“See this.”

The image in the glass rippled, twisted, and became an exterior view of the Tower.