The Barrow (22 page)

He set about finding his quarry, and it took him almost thirty nerve-wracking minutes to find the small black-bound copy of
De Malifir Magicis
, and miraculously right next to it, a translated copy in the Middle Tongue with the name
The Book of Curse Magic
. There was no seeming organization to the room, even worse so than in the Blue Room downstairs, though he also conceded that it was more understandable here, as these books were by definition
forbidden
and so it wasn't as though people were supposed to have an easy time finding them. He doubted what he held in his hands was the original
De Malifir Magicis;
Stjepan was better with books as well as languages, but Harvald guessed from the crumbling gold-stamped black bindings and the look of the parchment that it was made perhaps six centuries after Ymaire's time on earth, probably sometime during the Bronze Age. The Middle Tongue translation looked to have been made within the last century. He held them both reverently for a moment, and then slipped them into his satchel.

He stepped back out into the room with the statue, closing the door to the Black Room behind him. He checked to make sure that the enchantments on the door appeared as they did before, and to his relief they did. He raised his amulet to his mouth and doused its light with a quick exhalation through pursed lips, then slowly opened the outer door and stepped out into the hallway, closing it behind him.

He had to fight the urge to run as he walked down the corridor, his first mission there accomplished, his body alive with tension and relief and the sharp desire to be safely downstairs. He allowed himself to pick up the pace as he approached the stairwell down.

Until suddenly one of the doors between him and the stairwell opened, light and voices flooded into the hall, and several men started to step out into his path.

Almost without breaking stride he side-stepped into the nearest closed doorway and froze, dropping back into the shadows, for he knew instantly that there was no way to make it past the opening door to the stairwell, and he couldn't make it back to the door to the Black Rooms in time.
Gods, let the incantation work
, he prayed, clutching his copper amulet with one hand while the other slid to the hilt of his dagger. He paled as he recognized first the voices and then the faces of the men emerging into the corridor: no less than three of the University's Magisters.

“. . . then it is settled. I will lead an expedition to Abenton, and attend upon the Baroness, though my mission may prove wholly fruitless,” sighed the first man as he stepped out into the corridor. Harvald recognized the familiar face of Magister Arathon, who held the Chair of Heraldry; his gold chain of office was very elaborate, and his rich brown gown was adorned with extensive gold thread embroidery. The barrel-chested man wore a black felt skullcap, the mark of a full Magister, but unlike the others his skullcap was embroidered in gold to match his gowns.

“Your disappointment is phenomenally unconvincing,” snorted Odrue following behind him. “You know full well she is the niece of the High King, and though her position is increasingly perilous, she is still one of his favorites.” Odrue was tall, white-haired and white-bearded, hawk-nosed, and a foreigner, the only Palatian to have ever risen to the heights of a full Chair at the University, that of Geography.

“I assure you that the politics involved never crossed my mind,” laughed Arathon.

Magister Clodarius, master librarian and holder of the Chair of Letters, was the last out the door, and he locked the room behind them. “You never think of anything
but
politics, Arathon,” the gray-haired, gray-bearded librarian said wearily. “Indeed, it is the very nature of the Chair that you hold at this University.”

Harvald licked his lips and started to slide his dagger out of its sheath, slowly revealing the Riven Runes etched upon its blade. To contemplate the attempted murder of a single Magister at the University was difficult enough, a horrible crime beyond reckoning; to contemplate killing three of them, swiftly and silently, was to contemplate an epic act worthy of history. Particularly since he had attended lectures of all three, and Arathon had been his patron in the study of Heraldry. Odrue and Clodarius were certainly quite old, even ancient (rumor had it that Odrue was one hundred and forty years old, almost as old as Duke Urech of Palatia and the Lord Mott, whose lives had been extended by magic and the blessings of their foreign gods), and the stocky Arathon was at least fifty, but they all held about them an unnatural air of vigor. Every Magister at the University was a skilled and practiced magician, even if they eschewed the term; with the Incantation of Seeing still effective upon him, Harvald could see they bore about their bodies amulets and talismans of power, wards to protect them from harm and danger, and in the case of Odrue, a bound
Dhuréleal
spirit that was manifesting the spirit form of a gray and white eagle perched upon his shoulders, its great wings stretching up to the high ceiling of the corridor.

Harvald knew well the limitations of magic; he knew that fables and stories of wizards calling down fire from the Heavens and bringing buildings down with a gust of wind were just that, fables and stories from fevered and superstitious imaginations; but might they know a word that once spoken could stop him in his tracks, make him forget who he was? Might they let the
Dhuréleal
spirit loose, or have time to summon something even worse, as the sorceress had done in the temple beneath the hills of the Manon Mole? Three Magisters of the University possessed knowledge far beyond Harvald's limited understanding.

But they've never faced the likes of me
, he thought, licking his lips. In his mind's eye he could see it:
throw a binding hex at the spirit, a frenzied surprise attack so that they don't have time to figure out what's going on, fast dagger work, go for throats and lungs so they can't scream, then drag their bodies into the Black Rooms where they will be safely behind a door that few would dare unlock, even if they had the power to do so, and use their gowns to clean up the blood. This is doable.

And then the
Dhuréleal
turned in his direction, its blank white eyes and sharp beak sweeping the corridor, and fear struck him deep and he pressed as far back into the arched doorway as he could, as though he was trying to become one with the wood of the door behind his back.
I'm a fool and my life is at an end
, he thought.

But the
Dhuréleal
did not see him. It eyed the corridor briefly, and then, seemingly satisfied, turned and looked in the other direction.

“. . . In the meantime, may I suggest we use this reminder of the dangers of the Gray Dream to sharpen our own vigilance here on the campus,” said Clodarius. “Six students in the past semester alone. That's the most in one semester since Alefric actually let the cult operate openly at the University. It's a wonder that we have managed to keep the problem discreet.”

“I see no gain in summoning the Inquisition to prowl amongst us once again,” said Odrue. “It took the University thirty years to remove them the last time. May I suggest that we call the Chairs to secret council and appoint one of the Under-Magisters to root out the cult that has clearly taken root amongst us?”

“And may I suggest we start with the Mottists?” asked Arathon with a touch of glee. He turned, and to Harvald's relief began leading the other two Magisters down the corridor away from him.

“By all means, let us waste our time,” Odrue snorted. “There is no evidence to suggest that the students of the Mottist College are somehow more prone to the Cult of the Gray Dream than any other. The whole point of the college is that they look to the north, to Palatia and the Lord Mott, for their inspiration, not to the south and the Empire. Indeed I cannot help but point out that of the six students fallen into the Gray Dream last semester, none was from either the Mottist College or the College of the Globe.”

“You bait too easily,” Clodarius sighed. “But surely you do not mean to suggest that your former countrymen are impervious to the call of the Gray Dream?”

“Of course not; hidden Dreamers can be found anywhere. But I would certainly be willing to suggest that they have fallen into the cult with far less frequency than the men of the Hemispian cities, or this city, for that matter,” Odrue said, as the trio faded down the corridor. “And we all know that in the Empire itself men fall to the Dream as though it were a plague . . .”

Finally Harvald was alone in the corridor. He let go his breath, and gave a quick prayer; he had been sure the
Dhuréleal
spirit was going to see him, if not one of the Magisters.
Thank the gods the incantation held
, he thought. He waited until his breathing had returned to normal and the corridor was completely quiet, then slipped back out to the stairwell door.

Harvald slipped back into the Blue Room and closed the door behind him. He let go of the incantations that he had been holding and he was shocked at the sweet relief and fatigue that the release washed over him. He hadn't realized how much of his energy and concentration had been bound up in maintaining the spells for so long. He leaned by the door shaking like a leaf until his nerves calmed and he was in control of himself once more.

He moved to the desk and set his satchel down. He guzzled from his water bottle, amazed at how thirsty he was.
Six Gray Dreamers in the last semester, that's a bit of news
, he thought, and then almost laughed out loud at how little he cared. A few weeks before and having a juicy tidbit like that would have been the highlight of his day.
But not now. Not with this.

He opened his satchel and from it placed upon his desk first the freshly liberated
De Malifir Magicis
of Ymaire and its translation, his student copy of Magister Gwyrfyr's
On Ciphers and Cryptograms
, and then the copper scroll tube. He opened the tube and carefully slid the rolled parchment out, and then spread it open upon the desktop. He rummaged about the holding compartments of the desk and pulled out four small iron paperweights, which he placed at the four corners of the parchment to keep it flat and in place, and then stepped back to admire it.

A map to the Barrow of Azharad, if he could translate it.

Stjepan was better qualified to translate the map. They both knew it. Stjepan was the actual cartographer, versed in old maps and map ciphers, familiar with the Éduinan, Golan, and Maelite alphabets and a fluent reader of many of the languages that used them, including Old Éduinan, Emmetic, Athairi, Danian, Aurian, Daedekine, Sekereti, the Eastern Tongue, and Maerberos. Harvald had always been jealous of Stjepan's skills with language and letters; but then it was also true that Stjepan had applied himself more diligently to their study than Harvald, who had often been distracted with other passions during their time as students, and Harvald had had no regrets. Up until now.

Getting Stjepan to wait until they were back in the city had been difficult. But Harvald knew he couldn't let Stjepan translate the map. Not without first lifting the curse on it. And how could he have explained to Stjepan that he knew the map was cursed? He'd only recognized the four ornamental marks at the corners of the map for what they were because he'd known to look for them, been warned that they might be there. Stjepan had always had a nose for when Harvald was hiding something, and though he had managed to keep secrets from him over the years, he was always nervous when that terrible, judgmental gaze of Stjepan's fell upon him. For all sorts of reasons, none of which he ever wanted to discuss with Stjepan.

No, this plan is the best
, Harvald thought.
I shall remove the curse, and either translate the map myself, or failing that, make a faithful copy without the curse enchanted into it that Stjepan can work on
. He stared at the map a long time.

I wish I'd paid more attention in class
, he thought faintly, and then reached for the translation of
The Book of Curse Magic
.