Magic Zero (24 page)

Verlis growled low in his chest, the furnace raging and fire spitting from his eyes and flickering in his nostrils. “You offer your aid, son of Argus Cade. Upon my honor, I can do no less than return your kindness.

“We go to SkyHaven.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

L
eander awoke with the whistling of the dead in his ears. He inhaled sharply, cold and afraid in a way he had not been since childhood. When he opened his eyes, he expected to find darkness, a dungeon of some sort. Instead he squinted against bright sunlight and raised a surprisingly unbound hand to shield his eyes. It took several moments for his vision to adjust, and when at last he could look around his prison, he was amazed.

The chamber was vast, the ceiling vaulted, and the walls were a single enormous mosaic depicting a scene of ancient combat between Wizards and Dragons in days of old. The Wizards had devilishly cruel features, eyes wild and giddy with violence, faces spattered with the blood of Dragons, who either lay flayed open before them, quivering in fear, or weeping as they cradled their dracunae, their soft, fleshy babies.

It was terrible to behold.

The sunlight that illuminated the chamber entered through a broad, round window in the ceiling. The glass shimmered with the enchantments that had been placed on it to keep him from escaping. The whistling cry of the wraiths continued but, still disoriented, it took Leander several seconds to notice streaks of dark mist in the room, and then one of the wraiths began to draw closer to him.

The feel of their leech mouths draining him was fresh in his memory, and he shuddered and scrambled away from the wraith. Still weak, he nevertheless forced himself to stand, lumbering to his feet and facing off against the gray-mist form that abruptly coalesced, its face becoming recognizable. He knew the woman, a mage of the Drayaidi guild, one of the first to disappear. Her name was Seline Merro, and in another age she had been a pretty but intense blond-haired girl who had sat in the front row as Leander’s student at the University of Saint Germain.

“Seline,” he whispered.

Massssster Maddoxxx.

The voice rustled like fallen leaves through the room, more in his head than his ears, but what there was of a mouth on the wraith did not move. It cut him deeply to see her face, to remember her as a girl, her bright, attentive eyes turned upward toward him. Seline Merro was dead, her magic stolen from her, body destroyed, likely incinerated, and all that remained was this tainted, poisoned sliver of her soul, enslaved to the horrid Nicodemus.

Yet she knew him. She could still think.

“You are not completely in his thrall, then?” Leander asked, hope and fear doing combat in his heart. Perhaps she was strong enough to thwart Nicodemus.

Wrong,
the wraith voice whispered.
You mussst run, Massssster Maddox. You musssst run.

A shadow of despair blackened his spirit and dashed his hopes. Though she had mustered enough of her self to warn him, she could not help him. “Thank you, Seline,” he said. “But I have not the power to run very far.”

As he stared at her misty form, trying to see the elegant features of the woman she had been, the gray streaks in the air began to darken. At precisely midday, the sun had streamed straight down into the room, but as the afternoon progressed, the sunlight came in through the ceiling at a different angle, and shadows formed, making the mosaic of the dragon massacre on the walls even more disturbing.

The whistling of the wraiths grew louder, higher, and they became agitated. Their darkness took on greater weight and solidity, and other faces became recognizable. Hissing, the shadow creatures, these poisoned souls of dead mages, began to close in around him again. Where they had clamped their mouths upon him before, he still felt cold and numb, and Leander glanced quickly around, desperate to find some way to defend himself.

He did not hear the door open. Had not, in fact, seen any door at all. Yet when his panic was at its limit, words like claws tore the air.

“Vile things, aren’t they?”

The shade of Seline Merro hissed and fluttered away from him, disappearing into the shadows. Leander spun toward the sound of that voice. Nicodemus stood just inside an open door that had not been there moments before, flanked by a quartet of mages. These were not novices or acolytes, but deadly magicians. Not quite so adept as Leander, but he doubted he would ever have a chance to match his magic against theirs.

Nicodemus wore robes of deepest scarlet, scarred with black piping. The wisps of the old man’s hair and his long, silver mustache blew in an unseen wind. His grin was twisted, a scowl of disgust and superiority.

The angle of the sunlight in that chamber continued to shift, the shadows deepened, and the mournful wraiths began to move even closer to Leander, caressing him with their misty forms. The professor gritted his teeth and steeled himself against the despair that threatened to claim him. He refused to look at their faces any longer, choosing instead to glare only at the Grandmaster’s pink eyes.

“Nicodemus. You will be discovered soon enough. I have been investigating their disappearances for months on behalf of the Parliament. When I do not make a report, they will assign others.”

A prickle of magical power tingled in the palms of Leander’s hands, but he did not dare attack, not with the Grandmaster and his lackeys and the wraiths all surrounding him.

Nicodemus raised an eyebrow and reached up to stroke his
mustache. “They will assign others, will they? Ah, well, I am certain you are correct. But it will be quite some time before they have gathered enough evidence to move against me, and by that time, Professor Maddox, I am afraid there will no longer be a Parliament of Mages. Or, rather, the Parliament will have a new master.”

Leander stared, unable to catch his breath as the enormity of Nicodemus’s ambitions became clear. “You . . . you cannot be serious.”

The Grandmaster ignored him. With a rustle of cloth he brushed back his robes and strode toward Leander. The wraiths flowed from his path and yet deeper shadows, impossible patches of night, gathered around the archmage as he stepped in close and reached out a single long finger and wound it in Leander’s beard, tugging it, forcing the larger man to meet his gaze.

“All that remains of the mages you sought are these filthy soul fragments,” Nicodemus said, his voice a dry rasp. “Your fate is upon you, Professor Maddox, but it does not have to be
their
fate. You may still save yourself this particular damnation if you will cooperate with my efforts to retrieve the boy. Timothy Cade belongs to me now. He is my plaything, my boy, or he is dead. Save his life. Save your soul. Aid me in bringing him back to SkyHaven.”

With each word that spilled from the Grandmaster’s lips, Leander found himself growing colder. Yet it was not the chill of fear in him, but of resolve. The wraiths still caressed him, and he still recalled the bone-numbing touch of their hungry
mouths, but the memory of his mentor, Argus Cade, and his vow to watch over Timothy, were far more persuasive.

“Trade one damnation for another?” Leander asked, nostrils flaring with contempt. “I rather think not. Instead, Nicodemus, why don’t you tell me who it was you were speaking with when I entered your quarters this morning?”

The always pale Nicodemus blanched even whiter and lowered his cadaverous face so that his pink eyes were shadowed by his brow. A low serpentine hiss slid from his lips, and he twitched several times. With excruciating slowness he turned his head toward the mages who had entered with him.

“Go to the boy’s workshop. You’ll find that metal man hiding there amongst his things. Bring it to me. The freak built himself a toy. I think I’ll see what sort of fun can be had with it.”

Leander stiffened as two of the mages left the room. He wondered what Nicodemus intended to do with Sheridan and whether or not a mechanical man was capable of feeling pain. He thought that Nicodemus intended to discover the answer to that very question.

Reluctantly Leander glanced around him. Though a circle of early afternoon sunlight still burned at the apex of the chamber, the room had darkened even further. The wraiths were all staring hungrily at him, their eyes bottomless, as though they were not eyes at all, but wells filled with night-black tar. All of their faces seemed to have somehow melted, their personalities absorbed within the sinister control of their master. Even if Seline Merro had been able to help him, he
would not have known anymore which one of them she was.

Nowhere to run.

The Grandmaster ran his tongue over his dry lips and a grin spread across his now skeletal features. He reached out to touch Leander’s face, and the leonine mage flinched at the caress of those long, tapered fingers. Sharp nails sliced his cheek, and Leander hissed in pain as blood began to flow.

Then the Grandmaster put one hand upon Leander’s chest, and the mage went rigid. Nicodemus’s palm and fingers seared Leander’s skin even through his robe and tunic. He felt a surge, a flow from his chest, as though he had been torn open, but there was no wound where Nicodemus had placed his hand. No visible wound. The Grandmaster was not draining his blood.

He was drinking Leander’s magic.

*  *  *

Steam escaped slowly from the release valve on Sheridan’s head. He held it back as best he could, determined not to give himself away. It made the tiniest shushing noise, almost as if the steam itself was urging him to remain silent. In the midst of stacks of crates Timothy had yet to unpack, and behind a table laden with tools and mechanical parts, Sheridan stared at the door to the workshop and waited.

The moment he saw movement at the door, he remembered that his eyes were still illuminated, and with a simple thought, he shut them down. His visual lights faded to black, but the golden afternoon light still streamed in through the window from which Timothy had escaped just before dawn.
It had been a very long day. Twice he had avoided discovery.

The metal man doubted he would be so fortunate a third time.

A female mage in emerald green breeches and tunic entered the workshop and paused just inside. She glanced around once, then raised her right hand. Ghostfire blossomed on the skin of her palm and Sheridan froze, the hiss of his steam growing a bit louder.

Ghostfire. Spirit flame. This mage had it at her disposal, at her personal service. This was a sort of magic that Leander had told them was banned by the Parliament. It was dark magic, Master Maddox had said.

Sheridan felt the pressure building in his chest, the steam boiling for release. From his hiding place he watched a second mage enter, this one a tall man in a robe of that same emerald green. His skin was deeply browned and shone in the sunlight like precious metal, and there were ritual symbols carved in his cheeks. The mere sight of him frightened Sheridan, for he could only begin to imagine what such a man might do if he managed to capture Timothy.

Something unfamiliar was born in the mechanical man then, a feeling that stained his circuits and slowed his gears. From the moment when Sheridan had gained awareness—much to his creator’s surprise—his mind had been on a journey of evolution. Everything was new, but he quickly learned language and the use of crude tools, then graduated to far more sophisticated functions. Yet those were outward changes. There were others. On Patience he had known only
the kindness of the boy who had made him, and the quiet happiness of their friendship. But since he had entered this new world with Timothy, Sheridan had learned to feel a great many other emotions. Anxiety. Fear.

And now fury.

The mages continued to search the room, both of them holding their hands out in front of them, each finger like a wand, tiny sparks spraying from the tip. All of the trepidation was gone from Sheridan now. As he waited, frozen in place, the female mage swiveled her head around and focused on the crates he hid among. Her eyes narrowed. She had sensed something there but was not confident yet that it was her prey. Without alerting her companion, she moved toward the worktable with its array of tools, sparks arcing from her fingers. She moved with caution, but her focus seemed to be more on the tools than on the crates behind the table.

Sheridan felt a strange calm come over him. He waited as she reached the table, passed her hands over it and allowed the tiny tendrils of lightning to caress each tool. As the mechanical man watched, some of those tendrils began to reach toward him. To the mage, the top of his head might look like just another tool, a bucket, perhaps.

She paused, then glanced at the crates, her eyes drawn almost immediately to Sheridan. The mage widened her eyes, and her hands began to reach toward him, sparks jumping at him as she bent over the table.

All along he had been boiling inside. Now he released all the pressure that had built within him. A blast of steam
erupted from the valve on the side of his head, the hot, moist air searing her face. The mage cried out and clapped her hands over her eyes. Sheridan’s eye-lights popped on, and with one powerful, metal arm, he pushed the mage backward.