Pinned by the drysian’s sharp attention, Alec nodded.
“Never seen anything like this, but it stinks of sorcery.” Valerius wrinkled his nose as he examined the faint tracery still visible. “Best to have it off.”
The wizard cupped a hand over the mark for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “I think it would be better to leave it as it is for the time being.”
“The last thing Seregil wants is another scar on his pretty skin,” Valerius glowered. “Especially one as distinctive as this! Besides, who knows what this thing means?”
“That was my first thought,” Nysander concurred, unperturbed by the drysian’s manner. “Nonetheless, I feel it would be best to leave it as it is.”
“Some mystical presentiment, no doubt?” Valerius gave a derisive snort. “Suit yourself, then. But you explain it to him when he makes a fuss.”
Shooing everyone from the room, the healer set to work. Wethis was summoned to assist him, and soon the room was choked with clouds of steam and incense.
Nysander cleared a space at one of the less cluttered work-tables and Thero and Alec joined him.
“Illior’s Hands, that was thirsty work.” He spoke a quick spell and a tall, burlap-wrapped jar appeared on the table before them, a crust of melting snow clinging to the coarse material. Alec reached out a tentative finger to see if it was real.
“Mycenian apple wine is best well chilled.” Nysander smiled, delighted with Alec’s open amazement. “I keep a supply up on Mount Apos.”
The three of them settled down over the mild, icy wine, waiting for the drysian to finish. Poor Wethis scatted in and out on errands for Valerius so often that Nysander finally propped the front door open so they wouldn’t have to keep letting him in.
Valerius emerged from the casting room at last, streamers of vapor trailing from his beard. Dropping unceremoniously onto the bench beside Alec, he unhooked a cup from his belt and helped himself to the wine. Ignoring their expectant looks, he drained the cup at one gulp and let out a deep, satisfied belch.
“I’ve gotten the last of the poison out of his blood. He’ll mend now,” he announced.
“Was it acotair?” Thero inquired.
Valerius saluted him with his cup. “Acotair it was. An uncommon poison, and very effective. I daresay it leached into his skin from the disk, weakening him so that the magic could work more quickly.”
“Or from a distance,” suggested Nysander.
“Possibly. The combination would have killed most men, considering how long he wore the damned thing.”
“Well, you know Seregil and magic,” Nysander sighed. “But you are fortunate not to have handled it any more than you did, Alec.”
“What did you mean, about Seregil and magic?” asked Alec.
“He resists it somehow—”
“You mean he fouls it up!” scoffed Valerius.
The drysian’s derisive tone bothered Alec less than Thero’s discreet smirk; he found he was liking Nysander’s assistant less all the time.
“Whatever the case, it has saved his life,” said Nysander. “And Alec’s as well, judging by his description of Seregil’s behavior. Had he decided to kill you, dear boy, I doubt you could have stopped him.”
Recalling the look on Seregil’s face that night in the barn, Alec knew Nysander spoke the truth.
“He’ll sleep for another day, perhaps two,” said Valerius. “He should stay in bed a week; knowing him, five days will have to do. But no less than that, mind you. Lash him to the bedposts if you have to. I’ll leave some herbs for an infusion. Force as much of it down him as you can, and make him eat. Nothing to drink but water and lots of it. I want him properly purged before we let him go. Thanks for the wine, Nysander.”
Rising to his feet, he swung his satchel over his shoulder. “Strength of the Maker be upon you!”
Alec watched him stride out, then turned to Nysander. “He knows Seregil, doesn’t he? Are they friends?”
Nysander smiled wryly, considering the question. “I cannot recall hearing either of them use the term in relation to one another. Still, I suppose they are, after their own peculiar fashion. But I suspect you will have an opportunity to form your own opinions over the next few days.”
16
DINNER WITH NYSANDER
Exhausted as he was after the ceremony, Alec insisted on helping Wethis carry Seregil down the back stairs of Nysander’s tower to the living quarters. A short, curving hallway led past several closed doors to a comfortable bedchamber near the end of the passage.
The room was simply furnished. Two narrow beds flanked an embrasured window on the far side of the room. Thick, colorful carpets covered the floor, and a cheerful blaze crackled in the fireplace near the door.
They laid the unconscious man in the right-hand bed and Nysander bent over him, taking one of Seregil’s hands between his own.
“He really is going to be all right, isn’t he?” Alec asked, unable to decipher the old wizard’s expression. “The same as he was before, I mean?”
Nysander gave Seregil’s hand a final pat and laid it gently on the sleeping man’s chest. “I believe so. He is strong in ways even he is not completely aware of. But you should sleep now, too. I shall send for you when you are rested and we will talk of anything you like. Look for me in the room across the passage or upstairs if you need me.”
When he’d gone, Alec pulled a chair up beside Seregil’s bed. It pleased him to see how quietly Seregil slept. His drawn face seemed less empty now, and a faint tinge of color had crept into his sunken cheeks.
I’ll just sit here for a few minutes, Alec thought, propping his feet on the edge of the bed.
He was asleep almost at once.
“Alec—”
Alec sat up, glancing around in momentary alarm. He’d been dreaming of the Grampus and it took a moment to remember where he was. Someone had brought in a night lamp and by its soft light he saw Seregil regarding him through half-lidded eyes.
“Rhíminee?” It was scarcely a whisper.
“I told you I’d get you here,” Alec said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing as he pulled the chair closer.
Seregil’s gaze wandered drowsily around the room and Alec saw a flicker of a smile playing about his pale lips. “My old room—”
Alec thought his friend had drifted off to sleep again, but he stirred after a moment and rasped, “Tell me.”
He listened quietly, stirring only to look at Alec’s scarred hand, and again at the mention of Valerius.
“Him!” Seregil croaked. He groped for more words, then shook his head slightly. “Explain later. What do you think of Nysander?”
“I like him. He’s someone you trust right away, like Micum.”
“Always trust him, always,” Seregil whispered, his eyelids fluttering shut again.
When Alec was certain he was soundly asleep this time, he fell into his own bed, only to be awakened a second time by the sound of soft voices. Pushing the quilt back from his face, he saw Valerius and Nysander bending over Seregil across the room. Sunlight slanted across the carpet.
“Good afternoon,” Nysander greeted him. Gone were the embroidered vestments of the night before. His plain robe was frayed at the cuffs and devoid of ornamentation.
“I should have been up before now.” Alec sat up and yawned. “How’s Seregil? He came around for a few minutes last night.”
“Well enough,” Valerius replied as he finished with a fresh dressing. Drawing the blankets back over Seregil, he turned and surprised Alec with an almost friendly grin. “How are those scratches today?”
“A little sore.”
Placing a hand under Alec’s chin, Valerius tilted the boy’s head this way and that. “Nothing serious. See you keep them clean. Nysander told me how you brought Seregil here. You must be as stubborn as he is.”
Still gripping Alec’s chin, he extended his other hand palm down toward the floor. The boy shivered as a pleasant chill ran through him.
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“That should take care of anything ailing you.” Waving a hand at Seregil, Valerius added gruffly, “I expect you to keep an eye on him for me. He’s to stay in that bed until I say otherwise, understand?”
The formidable glint had returned to the drysian’s eye, and Alec gave a quick nod of compliance.
“You must not bully the boy,” Nysander chided as Valerius took his leave. “You know very well he is quite trustworthy, and a good Dalnan besides.”
“Aye, but it’s not a good Dalnan that he’ll be dealing with when Seregil begins to get his pepper back. Good luck to you, lad, and Maker’s blessings.”
“And to you!” Alec called hastily after him.
“You must be famished. I know I am,” said Nysander. “Come, I have along a meal laid for us in my sitting room.”
Alec cast a worried glance toward Seregil.
“Come, you must keep up your own strength if you are to be any help to him,” said Nysander, taking him gently by the arm. “It is just across the corridor. We shall leave both doors open and come back with our wine as soon as we have eaten.”
Wethis was busy setting out the meal on a round table at the center of the room and nodded pleasantly to Alec as they entered.
After the massive clutter of the upper rooms, Alec was surprised at the orderliness of Nysander’s sitting room. The small chamber was furnished for simple comfort; beyond a round dining table, two large chairs faced one another in front of the blazing hearth. Shelves along the walls held neatly arranged collections of scrolls and books interspersed with more arcane objects.
The room’s most notable feature was a narrow band of mural running completely around the otherwise unadorned walls. It was scarcely two feet in width but Alec discovered upon closer inspection that it was comprised of a succession of fantastic beasts and birds rendered in superb detail. Here a tiny dragon hovered on scaly outstretched wings over a still smaller castle, blasting it with a glowing stream of fiery breath; there a centaur raiding party bore maidens away in sinewy arms. Farther along the same wall an horrific sea creature reared up from painted waves, spines bristling from its reptilian face as it crushed a ship in its jaws. Near the first corner a creature with the body of a lioness and the breasts and head of a woman held the limp form of a youth between her taloned paws. Interspersed among these scenes were symbols that gave back a silvery sheen in the light.
Suddenly he heard an amused chuckle behind him.
“My little paintings please you, I see,” the wizard said.
Alec realized with chagrin that he’d been following the mural around the room with complete disregard for his host. Turning, he found Nysander seated at the table. Wethis was nowhere to be found.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude,” he stammered as he hastily took a seat.
“No need for apologies. It has that affect on most who see it for the first time. As a matter of fact, that is part of its function.”
“You mean it’s magical?” In spite of his hunger, Alec found it difficult to draw his eyes from the paintings.
Nysander raised one shaggy eyebrow in amusement. “Forgive me, but it is always refreshing to meet someone as ingenuous as yourself. So many who come here expect revelations of mythic proportions—dragons under the wine table, spirits summoned down the chimney! They have no awe left in them for the little marvels. All their wonder has turned to appetite.
“In answer to your question, however, the mural is indeed magical. Its purpose, aside from dazzling my dinner guests, is to protect my rooms. The symbols you see there are each keyed to react to a different sort of intrusion. You will find them throughout the Orëska House. Perhaps you noticed the ones in the dome upstairs? The entire building is protected by an elaborate pattern of magicks— But I am keeping you from your meal! Let us talk of little things as we eat. After dinner we shall converse in a civilized fashion over the wine.”
Alec began cautiously, recalling the fiery spices of the day before, but each successive dish was more agreeable than the last.
“Seregil told me that wizards come to Rhíminee to be trained,” he ventured at last.
“Wizards, scholars, madmen, they come seeking the knowledge amassed and preserved by the Third Orëska. There is more than magic here, you see. We gather information of all types. Our library is the finest in the Three Lands, and the vaults below contain artifacts which predate the coming of the Hierophants.”
Alec laid aside his knife. “Why is it called the Third Orëska?”
“The first mages who came here from Aurënen were the original Orëska,” Nysander explained. “It was they who first taught that knowledge is as powerful, in its own way, as any magic, and that magic without knowledge is worse than useless; it is dangerous. Later, they established the Second Orëska at Ero when magical powers became apparent among the half-blood children of Aurënfaie and humans. Unfortunately, the fellowship of the Second Orëska was all but annihilated during the Great War. There have never been as many wizards since that time. Another blow befell it when Ero was destroyed. A terrible tragedy, so many of the ancient writings lost! Queen Tamír bequeathed this site to the surviving wizards at the founding of Rhíminee, with the understanding that they would contribute to the defense of Skala. The new alliance established at that time was deemed the Third Orëska. The Cirna Canal was one of the first demonstrations of their good faith.”
“I’ve heard something of that. How many wizards are there now?”
“Only a few hundred in all the Three Lands now, I fear. Fewer and fewer children are being born with the power; the blood of the Aurënfaie masters has grown thin.”
“But don’t the children of wizards inherit their powers?”
Nysander shook his head. “There are no children of wizards. It is perhaps the greatest price we pay for our gifts. Magical abilities demand every bit of creative force we possess. We are repaid richly with powers and long lives, but the force of Illior which gives us the ability to recreate the world around us also burns out the natural procreative forces of the body. The Immortal has never revealed why this must be so, even to the Aurënfaie—But I am lecturing you as if you were a novice! Let us return to your room. Seregil is still deep within himself and shall likely remain so for some time, but I believe it will benefit him to have us nearby.”
Nysander took down two tall goblets from a nearby shelf and handed one to Alec. The boy turned it about in disbelief, never having seen its like. Carved from flawless rock crystal, it was banded around the stem and cup with heavily embellished gold and polished red gems that glowed like wine in the firelight.
“I could just use my cup from supper,” Alec protested, holding it gingerly in both hands.
“Nonsense!” Nysander grabbed up a decanter from the sideboard and headed across to the bedchamber. “I nearly lost my life acquiring them. It would be a waste not to use them.”
They found Seregil still sleeping deeply.
“Let us sit close by him.” Nysander gave Alec another roguish wink. “You shall surrender the chair to me out of deference to my great age. You can sit on the end of his bed. Some part of him knows we are here and it will comfort him.”
Alec settled cross-legged with his back against the footboard. Nysander filled their goblets with red wine and raised his cup at Alec.
“Drink up! This is talking wine and I know you have many more questions. I can see them swarming about like bees behind your eyes.”
Alec took a long sip and felt a comfortable warmth spread through him. “I’d like to know more about that disk. What was it you called it?”
“A telesm. A magical object which has an innate power of its own that can also be used as a focus of power by one who understands its function. The poison it was coated with would aid in this, as Valerius and I discussed last night. Unfortunately, there is little more I can tell you of it.”
“Well, what about that dark creature Seregil kept claiming to see? Was that real?”
The shado
w of a frown flickered across Nysander’s lined face. “I shall need to hear Seregil’s account to be certain. Whatever the case, someone was taking a great deal of trouble and effort to find both you and the disk.”
Alec looked up sharply. “You think they might still be after us?”
“Quite possibly. But you have nothing to fear, dear boy. I have placed the disk beyond their reach. If anyone was following you, I think that they found a cold trail the moment I contained it in that jar, or perhaps even when you pulled it from Seregil’s neck. So long as you remain within the walls of the Orëska, an army could not get to you.”
“But if Mardus is such a powerful wizard—”
“Mardus is no wizard!” Nysander fixed Alec with an appraising look. “What I tell you now must go no further, is that understood? I repeat, he is not a wizard. Mardus is one of the most powerful Plenimaran nobles, also rumored to be a bastard son of the aging Overlord. Whatever the case, he is a ruthless man of cruel and dangerous intelligence, a cunning warrior, and a known assassin. It was most unfortunate for him to have looked upon your faces that night in Wolde; let us hope he never does so again. But I did not bring you here to frighten you more than you have been these last few weeks, so I am going to ply you with more of this excellent wine and turn to less worrisome topics. Did Seregil tell you that he was once apprenticed to me?”
“No, but Micum did, back in Boersby.” Alec watched the play of the firelight in the crimson depths of his cup. For all the days of talking on the Downs and after, Seregil had never once spoken of his own past. “Micum said something about it not working out.”
Nysander smiled at him over the rim of his goblet. “That, dear boy, is a magnificent understatement. No wizard ever had so devoted or disastrous a pupil! But I shall begin at the beginning. Seregil came to Idrilain’s court as a poor and distant relation, exiled from his family, totally alone. At court they tried to make a page of him, but that did not last long—as you may well imagine. Next came a position as a junior scribe, I believe. Again failure. After one or two other such fiascoes, he came to my attention.