Darkening Skies (The Hadrumal Crisis) (24 page)

‘We mustn’t try any such thing until we’re certain we will succeed,’ Rafrid said firmly. ‘Evidently this new scrying doesn’t impinge upon his own magic so we must not do anything to prompt him to foil us with more as yet unknown magecraft.’

‘First we must master this new working,’ Planir pointed out, rising unhurriedly to his feet.

Troanna had already laid her calloused fingers over Nolyen’s. ‘Let your spell flow through my affinity.’

Jilseth saw Nolyen’s eyes widen. He smiled and she barely felt a tremor in the scrying as he drew his pale hands out from beneath Troanna’s. The Flood Mistress settled herself in the chair as Nolyen slid sideways to stand beside Kalion.

Planir walked around Rafrid and laid his long-fingered hands on top of Jilseth’s. The great diamond of his ring of office glittered green with reflected magelight.

She felt the warmth of his fire magic spread through her own magecraft, blending seamlessly with his innate dominion over rare earths, ores and minerals to claim mastery over the molten bitumen.

‘Excuse me, Cloud Master.’ Withdrawing, Jilseth discovered how very awkward it was to swap seats like this.

Kalion flexed impatient fingers, the ruby on his own ring kindling. ‘Shall we strengthen the working with a nexus, Archmage?’

‘We are only testing the principle here.’ Planir contemplated the emerald glow, thoughtful. ‘The Mandarkin magefolk, like the Solurans, know little or nothing of quintessential magic but there’s no assurance that this wizard wouldn’t somehow feel such greater strength. It’s not as though we’re any great distance away. Let’s fry the fish we’ve caught rather than use it to bait a hook and risk losing any chance of dinner.’

The intensity of his expression was at odds with such homely wisdom.

‘I agree,’ Rafrid said promptly.

Troanna was silently concentrating on the bowl. The emerald of the scrying flickered as a mist of magelight rose from the water. It shone bright with rainbow hues shifting on the very edge of sight. The mist cleared and the floating vision slowly began to drift along the anchorage towards the tree-fringed shore.

Now they saw the corsair ships abandoned by their terrified crews. A handful out in deeper water had dragged their anchors, presumably caught in the swell prompted by the Mandarkin raising that ensorcelled wave. Two galleys pressed close together, their oars tangled. Another was noticeably listing at the prow. Several triremes rode ominously low amid floating oars and spars.

‘Their bilges are awash,’ Troanna explained, though no one had asked.

‘Can the vessels be salvaged?’ Rafrid asked.

‘Most likely,’ Troanna replied after a moment’s reflection. ‘If someone goes aboard to pump the season’s rains out of their bilges, and whatever’s sloshed in through the oar ports.’

‘That’s hardly our concern,’ Kalion said, dismissive.

‘That depends on how much goodwill we might wish to secure from the Archipelagans,’ Planir observed.

Jilseth saw the other three wizards look at him, surprised. The Archmage glanced up from the scrying.

‘Goodwill is as readily traded in the Archipelago as foodstuffs, cloth and cooking pots, and worth far more than any mainland coin which they value only for the sake of its metal. How much stronger will our bargaining hand be, if we can offer those who’ve been trapped here a seaworthy means of escape.’ He grimaced nevertheless. ‘Always assuming that they’re willing to risk taking passage in a vessel touched by wizardry.’

‘They’re at liberty to refuse and stay there till they starve,’ Troanna said coldly.

‘Perhaps we should consider devising the necessary omens to persuade them,’ Rafrid mused.

Kalion was far more interested in the scrying than in any Archipelagan’s fate. ‘That trireme was mage-burned.’

Troanna sent the scrying to examine a blackened hulk half submerged in the shallows.

The other warships had fared better, especially those already beached when this calamity struck. As the scrying spell circled each one, Jilseth could see rope ladders dangling on either side of their upcurved stern posts, in contrast to the fixed wooden steps which the galleys favoured.

Kalion folded his arms, his expression grudging. ‘This Mandarkin has considerable skills with fire, for all that his affinity is with the air.’

‘One of his affinities,’ Troanna corrected him. ‘The magecraft underpinning that wave shows equal talent with water magic.’

A double affinity. Jilseth exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Nolyen. Such a thing was so rare in Hadrumal that the rawest apprentice damp with sea spray became the Archmage’s personal pupil the moment they set foot on the dockside.

‘He can only work with one element at a time,’ Rafrid observed, ‘for the most part and certainly for any significant spell crafting. I see nothing to indicate he has anything beyond the most basic understanding of quadrate magic.’

Kalion nodded. ‘Much like the Solurans.’

‘I don’t believe we’ve seen enough of his wizardry to draw any firm conclusions.’ As Planir spoke, the green magelight in the water shifted to a more yellowish hue. ‘Let us not forget,’ he added, ‘that whatever their deficiencies in quadrate or quintessential magic, Soluran mages are very well versed in the aggressive wizardry which Hadrumal has long forsworn.’

‘Indeed.’ Troanna’s face hardened.

The scrying left the beach to search along the shore. Moving inland from the debris strewn beach, the spell circled each of the abandoned pavilions. Through open doors and windows they saw furniture shoved askew or knocked clean over as the corsairs fled in utter panic.

Jilseth’s hands began to tingle. It felt as though she had slept with one arm pinned beneath her and woken to the rush of returning sensation. But there was no such numb heaviness in her fingers. Quite the opposite. She could feel every bone, every sinew, the blood in her veins and the skin enveloping all.

‘Archmage?’ Kalion frowned.

Jilseth saw the amber hue of earth magic dulling the emerald magelight more and more. She could also feel Planir’s long fingers laid over her own, just as he had done when he and Troanna had taken control of the magic. That was ridiculous. She was standing an arm’s length away and she could see his hands resting lightly on the silver bowl’s rim.

‘Is that the Mandarkin?’ Troanna snapped. ‘Has he sensed our spell?’

The water in the bowl was seething like a pot come to the boil. Ripples of every hue of magelight skidded across the roiling surface.

Jilseth looked down at her hands. They glowed as though she had laid her palm over a lantern’s glass. But such light would be red like the flesh that eclipsed it. This was the unmistakable amber radiance of earth magic.

‘No, it’s—’ Planir broke off with a hiss of surprise.

Troanna had sent the scrying creeping, circumspect around the pavilions. Now the spell sped inside, diligently quartering every room.

Evidence of looting was plain for all to see; locked cupboards broken open, floor tiles pried up, scrolls and gold-embossed books swept from a shelf in search of... what?

The scudding visions left Jilseth nauseous. Her heart was racing with this urgency of the search, her palms burning with cold fire. Searing white light rose from her clawed hands. A burst of radiance darted across the room and enveloped the scrying bowl.

Now her affinity had control of the scrying though Jilseth had no hope of restraining her magic. Her wizard senses searched out every shard of shattered ceramic strewn across the floors, every stolen pewter bowl or silver spoon, every bronze pot, every splintered casket with twisted lock and hinges.

Now only one pavilion remained unsearched, on the south side of the anchorage, overlooking the open water where the headland narrowed. The building was veiled in azure light.

‘No.’ Planir spoke with soft, incontestable authority and the great diamond in his ring of office glowed.

The silver bowl rang like a bell, heedless of the water within to dampen such a note. The scrying veered away from the sapphire-warded pavilion.

‘Who is that?’ Rafrid’s finger jabbed at the spell.

Unerring the spell shot forward until a slightly built young man filled the vision. He was walking back from one of the other deserted dwellings.

The youth dropped to his knees, the jar he’d been carrying spilling across the ground. He clapped his sword hand to his opposite arm with a scream of silent agony twisting his already distorted face. A fingerwidth above his elbow, white light flared, bright as burning quicklime.

The light died as the youth ripped at his tunic’s tattered sleeve. The cloth yielded, rotted by sweat and seawater, though it hadn’t so much as been scorched by that fierce light.

‘Who is he?’ Kalion was outraged.

‘What is that?’ Planir leaned forward, his grey eyes intense.

The youth wore a gilded arm ring ornamented with rough-hewn rock crystal. Amber magelight glowed in the heart of each translucent gem.

‘He’s not mageborn.’ Rafrid shook his head in absolute denial.

‘That trinket,’ said Kalion with profound disgust, ‘is ensorcelled.’

The youth was breaking his fingernails in his haste to unclasp the arm ring. He threw the gaudy trifle away. The scrying sped after it, only halting as the arm ring came to rest.

Jilseth could feel the spells resonating within the ornament. She couldn’t begin to explain though how the strongest, most arcane warding spun from the volatile element of air had been confined within metal and gemstones in defiance of elemental antipathy.

Not yet, she couldn’t. If her affinity could get a little closer. She took an involuntary step towards the table.

‘That’s enough of that.’ Planir’s ring blazed and Troanna’s emerald magelight reclaimed the scrying.

The magic luring Jilseth towards the table shattered. Her hands ached as though they’d been slammed in a door.

‘Archmage,’ Rafrid warned.

‘I see him.’ As Troanna answered, the scrying retreated so far and so fast that the figures on the distant island looked like pieces on a game board.

A second man had come running out of the warded pavilion. Scorning the stone steps, he stepped in the empty air at the edge of the terrace and floated down to the ground as gently as a feather.

The youth was still on his knees. He flinched away from the newcomer like a dog expecting a whipping.

The Mandarkin didn’t touch him, though his gestures spoke eloquently of a violent scolding. The menace was palpable, even at this distance, even with the man so ridiculously and gaudily dressed.

Rafrid scowled. ‘If we could only hear—’

‘No,’ Planir said sharply. ‘A clairaudience spell would brush against his air affinity.’

The Mandarkin’s hand stilled. He stood, expectant.

The youth rose to his feet, tangled head hanging and bony shoulders hunched. He went to retrieve the arm ring, every step unwilling.

The Mandarkin watched him clasp it back around his arm, nodding with satisfaction before returning to the pavilion he had veiled with glittering azure magic.

The youth trailed after him, climbing the steps to sit on the terrace, hugging his knees. Though his face was hidden from view, the shivering rats-tails of his unkempt hair showed the distress wracking him.

‘A mainlander, enslaved.’ Troanna remarked, dispassionate. ‘See how pale his skin is, where the sun hasn’t touched it? And his hair hasn’t seen shears in a year or more.’

‘Some mother’s son.’ Planir withdrew his hands from the sides of the silver bowl. The image trembled as the emerald magelight dulled.

Troanna removed her hands and the floating reflection faded to nothingness, leaving only the ungainly blob of the bitumen in the water.

Jilseth couldn’t sense any of its properties, mundane or magical. Her affinity was as dulled as it had been when she’d first woken to discover that she hadn’t died at the hands of the corsairs ransacking Halferan.

She blinked away tears. Could she leave the room before any of these wizards noticed her distress? But taking a step would surely draw all their eyes. At the moment they were still looking intently at the empty bowl.

‘Do you suppose he knew,’ Rafrid wondered, ‘that there were ensorcelled artefacts to be found there?’

‘How could he?’ Kalion disputed. ‘The wretched things hardly announce their presence, even to a mage, unless they’re close enough to touch.’

‘As far as we in Hadrumal know,’ countered Rafrid. ‘Who knows how far Mandarkin magic might reach?’

‘The Solurans have always had a taste for crafting the tiresome things.’ Troanna’s lips thinned. ‘The rot may well have spread further north.’

‘We have no reason to think this Mandarkin’s arrival on the island is anything but chance,’ Planir asserted. ‘Captain Corrain wasn’t seeking him out, any more than the Mandarkin went looking for him. Their meeting was pure happenstance just as the Mandarkin discovering these artefacts was a random roll of the runes.’

‘But now he’s wondering what other such treasures he might find in Caladhria.’ Rafrid looked at the Archmage. ‘And he’s scried out those pendants which you gave Lady Zurenne and Lady Ilysh and he believes there are more to be had.’