“Ylinestra of Erind?” Wethis shot him an unreadable look. “Everyone knows who she is, sir. Come this way, her chambers are in the visitors’ wing.”
“She’s not an Orëska wizard?”
“No, sir, a young sorceress up from the south to study.” They walked on a moment in silence, then Wethis stole another sidelong glance at Alec. “You’re the one who came in with Lord Seregil, aren’t you, sir?”
“Yes,” he replied, thinking Lord Seregil? “And you don’t have to call me sir. My name’s Alec.”
Continuing down through the warren of stairways and passages, they came out on a gallery overlooking the atrium. From here, Alec saw that the mosaic on the floor below depicted an immense, scarlet dragon crowned with a silver crescent. Its leathery wings were outstretched in flight; beyond its coiling body, as if seen from a distance, lay what Alec took to be the harbor and walled city of Rhíminee itself.
“That must be the dragon of Illior,” he observed, leaning over the rail for a better look.
“The very one.”
Stopping at the last door on the gallery, Wethis knocked and stepped back to make way for Alec.
A woman opened the door, her welcoming smile one a man could happily die for. It vanished as soon as she saw the two of them, however. Suddenly Alec couldn’t have spoken a word if his life depended on it.
Ylinestra was stunningly beautiful. Framed in a mass of raven hair, her face was at once delicate and sensual. Her eyes were the deep, velvety purple of a summer iris. The loose-flowing garment she wore was made of embroidered silk so sheer it did little more than tint the voluptuous body it draped.
Alec, who had never seen a naked woman before, stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to think. Wethis stood to one side in respectful silence.
“Yes?” Ylinestra demanded imperiously, folding her arms beneath her breasts.
“I’ve come from Nysander,” Alec said, finding his voice at last. He wanted desperately to keep his eyes on hers, but the onslaught of her gaze was too much. Knowing that he’d be lost if he looked lower than her shoulders, he finally settled on her chin and blurted out his message. “He—he said to tell you that he’ll be late.”
“Did he say when he would come?” she demanded, her tone ominous.
“No,” Alec replied, resisting the strong urge to fall back a pace.
“Thank you,” she snapped and slammed the door in his face. A series of loud crashes from behind it quickly followed as Alec and Wethis beat a hasty retreat.
“If I’d known what your message was, I’d have warned you about her temper,” Wethis apologized. “She and Nysander are lovers, you see. I think she must have been expecting him in person.”
“His lover!”
“The latest one, anyway,” Wethis answered with obvious admiration. “Nysander’s one of the few Orëska wizards who doesn’t hold with celibacy. Far from it, in fact. Still, I’m not certain even he is a match for Ylinestra, if you know what I mean.” Lowering his voice, he added with a knowing wink, “But I’ll warrant she’s worth the trouble!”
Reaching the atrium, Wethis led Alec into a long gallery lined with statuary of every size and description.
“This is just the anteroom of the baths,” he explained, seeing Alec’s look of wonder. “The really unusual things are in the museum across the way. Lord Seregil could show you around there; he knows the place better than some of the wizards.”
Steamy air enveloped them as Wethis swung back a large door and ushered him into an immense vaulted chamber. Having always associated washing with chilly streams and draffy bathhouses, Alec wasn’t prepared for the opulence that now lay before him.
At the center of the huge chamber lay a broad octagonal pool lined with red and gold tiles. Marble griffins with gilded wings stood at four opposing corners and spewed arching streams of water into it. The tinkling plash of falling water echoed pleasantly around the chamber.
The walls of the room were decorated with frescoes depicting water nymphs and undersea scenes. Beneath these, set into the floor in the same manner as the pool, were individual tubs. Attended by servants, a number of other bathers were already making use of these. Alec could feel the warmth of the heated floor through the soles of his boots.
A carved bench, clothes rack, and the largest looking glass he’d ever seen were arranged around the tub prepared for him. Nearby a servant stood ready with a basket, and another was approaching with a tray of food. The scented water in the tub did look inviting, but Alec felt acutely uncomfortable undressing under so many eyes. Noting his hesitation, Wethis shooed the servants off and turned away himself while Alec slipped hastily into the water.
“Looks like Nysander wants you to eat,” Wethis observed pushing the tray of food over to him.
In spite of his resolution to hurry, the aromas wafting up from the various bowls stirred Alec’s empty belly. Taking up a spoon, he hastily wolfed down a few mouthfuls until a fiery red sauce brought him to an abrupt, choking halt.
Grinning, Wethis handed him a goblet of cool water. “You’d better slow down. Skalan food can take you by surprise if you’re not used to it.”
“I guess so!” Alec croaked, holding out his cup for more water. Taking a last piece of bread, he pushed the rest away. “You want any of this?”
“No,” Wethis declined with a bemused smile. “I’ll take it away.”
Alec ducked his head under, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. When he came up again he found a young bath servant preparing to assist him. Grabbing the sponge out of the startled servant’s hands, Alec sent him off with a dark look.
Making cursory use of the soap, he clambered out to find that his soiled clothing had been removed. Clean linen, a loose shirt, soft leather breeches, and a fine scarlet surcoat were laid out on the rack. A broad belt of embossed leather hung over the shoulder of the coat.
“Where’s my bow?” he demanded in some alarm as Wethis returned. “Where are my sword and purse?”
“Your purse is here.” Wethis handed it to him. “Weapons are not allowed in the Orëska House. They’ll be kept safe for you until you leave.”
The bath attendant drifted hesitantly back as Alec finished dressing, offering him a tray of oils and combs. Alec was about to wave the boy away again when he caught sight of himself in the glass. For the first time in his life, he saw his entire image at once and scarcely recognized the finely dressed figure he saw reflected there. His hair stuck out in damp disarray. Feeling a little awkward, he accepted a comb and took a moment to smooth it back.
Returning to the wizards tower, Alec found that Seregil had been washed and laid naked on the larger table in the side room. His thin, pale body looked frailer than ever against the dark wood. Angry lines of infection bloomed across his breast like a vile, livid flower.
Nysander was standing on a chair, drawing a blue chalk circle on the ceiling overhead. A corresponding circle had already been drawn on the floor around the table. He’d changed clothes during Alec’s absence; the voluminous robe he wore was of the finest blue wool, the breast and sleeves richly patterned with gold embroidery. A wide belt decorated with enameled plaques and silk tassels accentuated the spareness of his frame, making him seem taller than ever. An embroidered velvet skullcap balanced precariously on the back of his head.
“Ah, back so soon? I trust you found yourself well served?” Nysander stepped lightly down from the chair and looked Alec over. Pocketing the chalk, he wiped his hands absently on the skirt of his robe, leaving dusty smudges across the front of it. “Skalan dress suits you, dear boy, although your hair seems to have retained the wild fashion of the north.”
He waved a deprecating hand at his own garb. “No doubt you find my appearance more wizardly now? Thero is of a similar opinion, and I find it easiest to humor him. I would be every bit as effective in my ragged old coat, or stark naked for that matter, but he does insist—”
Thero came in just then and Nysander gave Alec a wink that put him
very much in mind of Micum Cavish.
Alec was directed to stand at the head of the table. Looking down, he studied Seregil’s empty face as Thero quietly arranged the final items for the ceremony. The materials were much the same, with the addition of a slender ivory wand and knife. When he’d finished, he took up his position at Seregil’s feet.
Nysander stood beside the table, hands clasped before him. After a moment of silence he looked at Alec. “We shall begin, now. You may find the ceremony disturbing, but remember that we are doing this to save Seregil’s life and make him whole again. Once the process has begun, you must not speak or cross out of the circle. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Alec replied, shifting uneasily.
Nysander went to work with the ink and brush, and over the next hour covered Seregil’s hands, brow, and breast with an intricate web of interconnected symbols. A particularly dense band outlined the area around the strange wound.
After another invocation, he proceeded with a spargefaction similar to the one he’d performed on Alec. As before, the beaded droplets retained their bright glow against Seregil’s skin and by the time Nysander had finished, his body was encased in a gleaming mantle of them.
Nysander took up a birch switch and Alec winced as the wizard brought it down hard enough to raise thin welts across Seregil’s skin. At the final blow of the switch, the droplets lost their light, then disappeared.
Chanting in a clear, strong voice, Nysander broke the switch over his knee. Foul brown smoke rose in thick twin columns from the splintered ends, swirling around the confines of the magic circle like a whirlwind in a barrel. It had a fearsome stink and Alec and Thero choked, half blinded, in the midst of it.
Unaffected, Nysander purified the ivory wand in flame and water and drew a glowing sign in the air above Seregil. The sigil writhed in a quick succession of patterns and disappeared with a loud pop, taking the smoke with it.
Motioning for Alec’s attention, Nysander raised one hand and made a brief gesture. It took the boy a moment to realize that he was using Seregil’s silent hand language.
Hold him.
Thero joined Nysander in a fast, rhythmic chant as they scattered water over Seregil with pine branches. The droplets danced and sizzled across his bare skin like water on a hot griddle, then disappeared. Points of reddish light winked into existence where they had been. Alec thought at first that they were drops of blood, but they quickly swelled to fingertip size, taking on an uncanny, spiderlike shape. They moved like spiders, too, and Alec felt a keen revulsion as the glowing things skittered over Seregil’s helpless body, across his mouth, his eyelids and lips.
Around the wound they swarmed out in such numbers that Alec stepped back, instinctively raising his hand in a warding sign. Before he could complete it, however, Nysander’s hand closed over his. With a stern gesture, the wizard firmly indicated that Alec should not repeat the gesture.
By the time they’d finished, Seregil was scarcely visible beneath a seething mass of the spidery things. His breathing had grown harsh in his throat and he stirred restlessly, rolling his head from side to side. Signing for Thero and Alec to hold him down, Nysander raised the ivory wand over Seregil’s chest and traced another intricate series of patterns on the air. When he was satisfied with the design, he drew a final circle around it. A swirling breeze sprang up above them.
Seregil’s breathing quickened to short, painful panting as the glowing things were pulled off his body and drawn up into a small, tightly twisting column. When the last of them had been lifted away, Nysander and Thero cried out in unison, their voices booming in the confines of the tiny room. The very air reverberated in a manner transcending the mere power of a human voice. The swirling cloud of red lights winked out; and blackened husks fell from the air crackled underfoot like tiny shards of glass.
They carefully cleared the remains from Seregil’s body and the surface of the table, then began again from the beginning.
Seregil grew increasingly restless as they continued. Within an hour he was physically resisting their efforts; by the fourth cycle of spargings Alec and Thero had to use all their strength to hold him down. During the worst of his throes, Seregil clawed at his own chest, shouting unintelligibly. Nysander paused to listen, then shook his head.
Another hour and they were all to the point of exhaustion. Alec’s face and neck were scored with the marks of Seregil’s nails. Thero had a bruise darkening over his left eye and his nose was bleeding from a sudden kick. The black cinders lay almost three inches deep on the floor and broken branches were piled around Nysander’s ankles.
At last the wound opened, draining thick, bloody pus. They were soon all smeared with it as Seregil continued to arch and struggle. When Nysander paused to sponge the area clean, they saw that the mark of the disk had reappeared. Alec could make out some of the enigmatic pattern and the mark of the square hole at its center.
Late-afternoon light was shining down through the tower dome by the time they completed the last of the purifications. A few of the red lights sprang up under the sprinkling of the pine tip, and finally none at all. Seregil grew quiet again, his breathing a soft, steady moan. Using the ivory knife, Nysander gently pricked the skin where the pulse throbbed at the base of Seregil’s throat. A drop of bright blood welled up, nothing more.
Reaching overhead with the wand, he broke the blue chalk circle on the ceiling, then bent and scratched across the one on the floor. Straightening wearily, he kneaded at the back of his neck with one hand.
“He is cleansed.”
“Will he get well now?” Alec asked uncertainly, seeing little improvement.
Nysander stroked Seregil’s damp hair back from his forehead with a fond smile. “Yes. He would not have survived the ritual, otherwise.”
“You mean he could have died from this?” Alec gasped, grasping the edge of the table to steady himself.
Nysander clasped him by the shoulders, looking earnestly into his face. “He would certainly have died otherwise, and perhaps gone on to something far worse after death. I did not tell you that before because I did not want you distracted by such concerns.”
“Shall I send for Valerius now?” asked Thero.
“Please do. I believe you will find him in the atrium.”
“Who’s Valerius?” asked Alec.
“A drysian. Seregil is damaged in body as well as in spirit. That will require special healing.”
This, at least, was something Alec understood. He set to work clearing away the remains of the ceremony. Gingerly picking up a few of the blacked stars, he found them as brittle as the dead spiders they resembled.
“What are they?” he asked, dropping them in disgust.
“A corporeal manifestation of the evil that came into him through the disk,” Nysander replied, sifting a handful through his fingers. “It is very difficult to affect anything of insubstantial nature. By means of the procedure you just witnessed, I was able to draw the evil from Seregil’s body bit by bit, binding it to a small amount of matter to lend it a tangible form. I could then act upon it by magic to dissipate it. These ashes are simply the residue of the temporary physical form I imposed upon it.”
“Is it difficult?”
“More draining than difficult. But you must be exhausted, wrestling with our poor friend here for so long. How do you suppose an old fellow of nearly three centuries must feel?”
Alec blinked. “Micum said you were the oldest of the wizards, but I never—”
“I am hardly the oldest of all, my boy, merely the eldest in residence at the Orëska,” Nysander corrected. “I know of several others half again as old as myself. As wizards go, I am in my prime. Please do not go making an antiquity out of me just yet!”
Alec began a stammered apology, certain he’d given offense, but Nysander chuckled and reached to ruffle his hair. “If Micum spoke of me, he must have told you not to fear me. Speak your mind honestly, and I shall like you the better for it.”
&nbs
p; “I’m still getting used to all this,” Alec admitted.
“I am not surprised. Once Seregil is settled, you and I shall have a nice, comfortable chat.”
Alec went back to his task in silence, wondering what he would have to say to a wizard, even one as friendly as Nysander. He was soon startled out of his reverie, however, by the sound of someone entering the front room.
“What’s the brat gotten himself into this time?” a brusque voice bellowed.
The owner of the voice, a wild-looking man in rough clothing, strode into the room, bringing with him the smells of fresh air, wood smoke, and wild growing things freshly gathered. Thero trailed in the newcomer’s wake, his thin mouth pursed into a vaguely disapproving line.
“Valerius, old friend!” Nysander greeted the man warmly. “How fortunate to find you in Rhíminee today. I have dispelled the magic, but he still requires considerable healing.”
Tossing a battered satchel onto the table, the drysian scowled down at Seregil. Valerius’ unkempt black hair stood out in violent disorder beneath the cracked brim of his disreputable felt hat. His beard bristled belligerently, and the rich black thatch that covered the backs of his hands and forearms and curled forth from the unlaced neck of his tunic gave him a bearish look. His clothes, like those of most drysians, were plain and stained with hard travel. His heavy silver pendant and smooth-worn staff, together with the pouches of every size and description hanging from the belt girding his ample middle, marked him as a drysian. Deep lines bracketing his mouth warned of a formidable nature.
“I believe it was curse magic of some sort,” Nysander informed him.
“I can see that,” Valerius muttered, brown eyes glittering as he ran his hands over Seregil’s body.
“What’s this?” he asked, tapping a finger under the open wound.
“The imprint of a wooden disk Seregil wore next to his skin for several days. I do not know whether the mark is the result of magic, or happened when this boy inadvertently pulled the thing off. Alec, you did say you noticed a reddening of the skin there a few days before the final incident?”