He seized the Queen’s right wrist and inverted the box, placing the gold-mesh opening upon the back of her hand. “Let the shareek decide your fate according to the ancient law of Raktum as I count to three. One …”
There was silence.
“Two …”
The pupils of Ganondri’s eyes were so wide in her livid face that the emerald irises were obliterated by black. She made no attempt to struggle.
“Three.”
Ganondri uttered a hideous, inhuman cry, like that of a beast consigned living to the flames. As Ledavardis withdrew the golden box those watching saw that the back of her hand had two tiny pricks upon it. Immediately, the skin around the wounds turned purple, then black. The contusion spread into her fingers, up her wrist. She began to quake, to crumple. As she sank to the floor, the folds of her silken gown and cloak falling around her, her eyes rolled slowly up into her head and the creased lids quivered and closed. Her uninjured hand took on the same blackish, bruised appearance as the stung member, and the hideous discoloration crept up her neck and finally suffused her entire face. But by then Queen Regent Ganondri breathed no more.
Strangled exclamations came from several of the palace guardsmen. King Ledavardis replaced the lid of the golden box tightly and put the shareek into his belt-wallet. He nodded to Portolanus.
“Men of Raktum,” the sorcerer intoned, “I release the magical bonds holding fast your bodies.”
The captain and his twenty men groaned and staggered and stretched.
“Remember what you have seen!” Ledavardis said. “Now, Captain, have a litter brought, and notify the late Queen’s women to prepare her body. There will be a very modest funeral—and an even more modest coronation.”
“Yes, Great King.” He and his men filed out.
Ledavardis looked upon the dreadful thing that had been his grandmother for a few moments more, then lifted his clumsy head to gaze speculatively at the transformed sorcerer.
“You have shifted your own erstwhile ugly shape to one more pleasing to the eye, Portolanus. Dare I hope that you might change my miserable body also?”
“This is my natural form,” the sorcerer said. “The other was an illusion, worn to dupe my enemies into underestimating me. I regret to say that my knowledge of the magical arts is not yet advanced enough to restore you, Great King. But you are sturdy and strong enough, and if you wish, I can clothe you with an illusion of manly beauty.”
Ledavardis made a dismissive gesture. “No. I will wear no mask. My people will continue to accept me as I am.”
“And will you honor the original pact made between Tuzamen and Raktum?” the sorcerer asked softly. “Ganondri attempted to repudiate that alliance, which I made in good faith. I offer it again to you: All the nations of the Peninsula and the Southern Seas shall be yours to rule, if only you allow me primacy in matters relating to magic.”
“Including Queen Anigel’s talisman?”
“Yes. And, in time, the talisman of the Archimage Haramis as well. In return, I swear by the Dark Powers I serve never to harm you through magic, but rather to aid and abet you in all of your ambitions that I deem legitimate.”
“But you will be supreme,” the boy-King said in a level tone.
“Yes. But only I and these three loyal Voices of mine shall know it. It is a small price to pay. My concerns are with matters as remote from royal governance and commerce as the Three Moons are remote from the surface of the world. I will be to you a guide and a benefactor—not an oppressor.”
Ledavardis nodded. “Very well. I accept your pact.”
The sorcerer drew and held up the Three-Lobed Burning Eye. “And by this talisman let it be sealed … I give you leave to touch it, only once, to confirm your oath.”
Perspiration dotted the young King’s coarse brow. But he stretched forth his hand and laid it briefly upon the cold, dark lobes.
“There! I have done it.” He smiled with relief. “I suppose that if I should betray you, the talisman would smite me dead.”
The handsome sorcerer laughed. “Let me put it this way: There would be no need for the shareek! But let us busy ourselves with more pleasant matters now. Where do you suppose Ganondri might have hidden your late father’s crown? You will want to wear it at your first official meeting with a fellow reigning sovereign.”
“And who might that sovereign be?” Ledavardis inquired.
“Anigel of Laboruwenda,” the sorcerer replied. “If I whistle up my magical winds, we can blow her tardy flotilla into the roads of Frangine within three days. You may condescend to welcome her, and give her her husband back in exchange for her talisman … Then you and I shall make ready to take their country away from them.”
20
The first one to disembark from the Laboruwendian flagship was Shiki the Dorok, bearing the blue, gold, and red banner of the Two Thrones. Queen Anigel marched after him down the carpeted gangplank, heedless of the gently falling snow that was transforming the Raktumian capital of Frangine into a scene of exotic beauty. She was dressed in the royal robes she had worn at the Zinoran coronation and had the magnificent State Crown of Ruwenda upon her golden hair. Owanon the Lord Marshal and Penapat the Lord Chamberlain followed her closely, together with a noble bodyguard wearing full armor and holding great two-handed swords before their faces. Lampiar the Lord Chancellor and Lady Ellinis the Domestic Minister came then, clad entirely in black. All of the other nobles and knights who had accompanied the Queen on her ill-fated journey to the Zinoran coronation marched in a gloomy procession behind, wearing sable plumes in their helmets and black cloaks.
The day itself was memorably mournful in aspect, with leaden clouds and an icy breeze keen as a knife that blew in off the heaving waters of the harbor and made the snowflakes dance. The seasons were truly topsy-turvy, but none of the citizens of Frangine seemed to care. They crowded every alley and byway, ogling the somber procession in silence.
King Ledavardis and his courtiers waited at a cobblestoned square just uphill from the docks. Anigel had refused to come to Frangine Palace. What must be done would be done under the open sky.
A canopied dais had been set up for the youthful King’s throne. He waited, entirely surrounded by a bodyguard of grinning pirate-knights with drawn swords, and warriors having bristling spears or halberds held at the ready. Ledavardis wore warm and sumptuous robes and a crown inset with hundreds of large diamonds. At the head of his sceptre was the so-called Heart of Zoto, a diamond the size of a man’s closed fist, which had been stolen from the Royal House of Labornok five hundreds agone.
The Master of Tuzamen, clad in a white fur-lined cloak with a hood drawn far forward so that his face was entirely shadowed, stood at the monarch’s right hand; Admiral Jorot, now wearing the sash and emblem of the Prime Minister, was at his left. The square was mobbed with scruffy Raktumian citizens and hung about with gaudy banners that snapped in the wind. No one uttered a sound while the Laboruwendians ascended the steep and slippery street and arrayed themselves in front of the dais.
A flourish of trumpets played as Shiki stood aside with the flag and Queen Anigel approached the throne. Ledavardis arose and nodded to her courteously and she inclined her head to him.
“I have come to ransom my husband and child,” she said simply.
“Your talisman!” the hooded sorcerer demanded.
She did not deign to look at him, but kept her eyes upon the pale face of Ledavardis, which was sweat-bedewed despite the icy wind. “The ransom will be produced and duly handed to you, Royal Brother, when I see my loved ones safe here with me.”
“Certainly.”
The King made a curt gesture and the throng of armed men at the right-hand side of the dais parted. Anigel could not help but utter a piteous cry as she beheld an elaborate painted and gilded cage. The Captain of the Palace Guard unlocked it and bowed respectfully as Antar walked out of it, followed by little Tolivar. Both were splendidly attired and draped in magnificent cloaks of golden wo
rram fur, with gleaming manacles and chains of solid platinum imprisoning their gloved wrists.
Antar’s face wore an expression of resigned sorrow. Tolo scowled. Father and son were escorted by the Captain to the foot of the throne, and a platinum key was turned over to Ledavardis.
He proffered it to Anigel. “Madam, you may release the prisoners.”
“The talisman!” barked the sorcerer.
Ledavardis seemed not to hear. Since Anigel only stood staring at her husband, a look of mingled defiance and grief upon her face, the young King himself unlocked first Antar’s manacles, then those of the boy. “Go. You are free.”
The King of Laboruwenda lifted his wife’s bare, waxen hand and kissed it tenderly, then went to stand beside his old friend the Lord Marshal.
Anigel took up a gold-brocaded reticule that hung at her waist and opened it. She removed the slender, silvery coronet called the Three-Headed Monster and held it out in a trembling hand. Before Ledavardis could touch it, the sorcerer took three long steps forward.
“Ledo! Beware! She may have commanded it to kill you!”
Anigel shook her head wearily. “It would not harm him.”
The little Black Voice popped out from behind the throne carrying the star-box. Smirking, he placed the thing at Anigel’s feet and opened it. The sorcerer said: “Madam, place the talisman inside.”
Anigel knelt in the trampled snow and did so. There was a dazzling flash of light, whereupon the young King flinched while his guards cried out and brandished their weapons, and the ragtag rabble of Raktumian citizens screeched and howled and uttered many a vile oath. Anigel only stepped back, now seeming to be indifferent.
“Have no fear!” The wizard quickly reached into the box and made finger play. A moment later he arose, threw back his hood, placed the talismanic coronet upon his own brow, and drew the Three-Lobed Burning Eye from his belt. He was beardless now and his long white hair streamed in the wind. His face was weathered by hardship but very handsome. Crowned with Anigel’s talisman and holding Kadiya’s high amid the falling snow, he let his aura of power enfold him. At that, the Queen finally recognized him as the old antagonist who had so nearly vanquished her and her two sisters in their youth.
“Orogastus!” she cried. “So it is you. Oh, you base scoundrel—may the Lords of the Air requite you as you deserve for having stolen the two talismans!”
He smiled condescendingly at the stricken Queen. The coronet now had a many-rayed star at its front, where the trillium-amber of its former owner had once been inset.
“Stolen? Nay, you do me an injustice, Madam. The one talisman is mine by right of finding and salvage, the other freely given in ransom, according to the laws of great Raktum. And in the latter case, you have been amply recompensed. Open your hand! It is not only your husband and King that has been returned to you.”
Anigel stared wordlessly at the glowing amulet resting in her palm. A tiny scarlet flower shone in the amber’s heart.
“Tell your sister Haramis that I will be expecting her,” Orogastus said, still smiling. “And now, it would be best if you and your party set sail for Derorguila. This snowstorm will shortly turn into a northwesterly blizzard that will blow you handily home … Come, Tolo.”
He turned on his heel. Little Prince Tolivar, who had stood by with a glum face, now brightened. “May I, Master? You will let me stay with you?”
“If you wish to,” said the sorcerer, looking over his shoulder.
“I do!”
“Tolo, no!” the Queen exclaimed.
“Would you like to carry the star-box for me?” Orogastus asked the boy. He ignored the sudden look of dismay on the face of the Black Voice.
“Oh, yes!” The little Prince snatched the box from the glowering acolyte and held it up like a trophy for all the crowd to see.
“Tolo!” Anigel was openly weeping now. “You may not go with that terrible man! How can you think of such a thing? Come to me, my poor boy!”
Prince Tolivar, standing at the side of the tall sorcerer, only stared silently at her through the thickening fall of snowflakes.
“The child may do as he wishes,” King Ledavardis declared. “It is his choice to make.”
“Antar!” the Queen cried helplessly. “Speak to your son!”
“I have.” The Laboruwendian King’s face was without hope. He took one of his wife’s arms as she realized the truth and began to wilt, and Owanon took the other. “Come, my dear. There is nothing more we can do now.”
Queen Anigel said no other word as they led her back to the ship, dazed and with tears pouring from her eyes, followed by all their grieving company.
Inside of half an hour the lines were cast off, and the free galleymen of Laboruwenda dug in their oars and began to row the four ships toward the open sea and home.
21
A pattern of prismatic light-rays filled the mind of Haramis like an auroral tapestry. It seemed that she had been commanding those beams of radiance for day after day, willing them to form concrete images as the Archimage of the Sea prompted her. She ordered a tiny crystalline castle and it appeared—then seemed to become solid and real before her eyes. She banished it, then commanded the light-rays to form a saddled steed. A fronial materialized there before her, a creature sparkling with rainbow facets. It turned to warm flesh and seemed to regard her in comic puzzlement, tossing its antlers, until she dismissed it into the void from whence it had come. Thing after thing Haramis created—and place after place as well, for when properly enjoined, the Three-Winged Circle was itself a magical viaduct that could transport its owner anywhere in the blink of an eye. But Iriane permitted her student to travel only to drab, uninhabited parts of the world that she herself designated. These were difficult lessons Haramis was learning, and she must not be distracted by the sight of people or even by familiar places.
At the beginning of this part of her training, the sparkling things she “created” and the places she willed to visit were often called up ineptly, and the crystal visions would not translate into reality. But with Iriane’s guidance Haramis learned at last to control the creative power most of the time. Now she was doing very well: if only she could avoid the pitfalls of overconfidence, she might yet master this talisman of hers!
“You are far from mastering it,” Iriane’s voice remarked tartly. “But you are no longer the virtual ignoramus who first presented herself at my iceberg!… Take care lest you become arrogant or foolhardy, and you may yet fulfill your duty with honor.”
“I pray so,” said Haramis, with as much humility as she could muster.
The wondrous palette of malleable colored light began to dull and dwindle to darkness. Haramis found herself back in the meditation chamber on her knees, which sore pained her. The Archimage of the Sea arose from the stool she had sat upon, stretched, and yawned.
“Ah, how weary I am, child—and starving. Come, let us go to supper. I have a fine sucbri stew for us tonight, fresh from the Greenmire of your native land, and fogberry tarts that you will also find familiar and delicious.”
Haramis climbed haltingly to her feet, arranging her white Archimage’s cloak about her. “I fear I will not be able to eat much. I am too tired. All I can think of is sleep! If only you were not such a hard tutor and would let me stay longer abed—”
“You may sleep as long as you like tonight. Your instruction is at an end.”
Haramis gave an exclamation of misgiving. “But I have not truly learned to command high magic.”
Iriane waved a dismissive hand and led her pupil into one of the aquarium-corridors. “The three tennights of your sojourn are over. There is now nothing more I can teach you. You already command far more magic than I have ever known, with and without your talisman. The rest will come to you in time.”
“But how can that be?…”
“Believe it.” Iriane’s round, kindly face with its faintly blue pallor had a sweet, enigmatic smile. The two women walked down the glowing, transparent
hallway and came into the comfortable dimness of the room with the living marine mural.
“Since the time of the Vanished Ones,” Iriane continued, “no other Archimage save you has ever possessed a part of the Sceptre of Power, or known so much about its use. The Vanished Ones were afraid of it, but you cannot afford to be. You have a vast responsibility now, to wield your magical power in a way that will restore the lost balance of the world, and to ensure that the other two parts of the Sceptre are not used in the service of evil.”
Haramis tried to conceal her profound uneasiness. She seated herself at the dining table while Iriane went to fetch the food, which was prepared in some mysterious fashion that Haramis had never thought to question. When the Archimage of the Sea returned with the savory dishes, Haramis only picked at them.
“It is not only that I am tired,” she said, when Iriane admonished her. “I am also filled with a terrible sense of foreboding … May I have your permission to bespeak my sisters?”
“You do not require my permission for anything anymore, Archimage of the Land.” Iriane spoke solemnly. “But I will answer the one question that gnaws at your heart: Yes, the talisman called the Three-Headed Monster has been given in ransom for King Antar. It is now in the possession of the sorcerer Orogastus, and he has bonded it to himself.”
“Dear God—I feared as much! Why did you not tell me what was happening? I might have stopped her!”
Iriane was serene as she nibbled at a berry tart. “You would not have stopped her. And interrupting you at a critical point in your magical training would have disrupted your concentration beyond repair, just when you were finally getting the hang of it.”
Haramis was on her feet, flushed with agitation. “If Orogastus has two talismans and I only have the one, will he not have the advantage over me?”