War of Power (The Trouble with Magic Book 3) (39 page)

Secure in their soft leather pouch, the pair of tiny Mirikani artefacts, and a half dozen gold-mounted geffendrogger tusks nestled against Karryl’s breastbone. Fingers under his collar, Karryl eased the cord which held them. No longer within its heavy leather tube, but concealed beneath a glamour of matching fabric, the scroll rested deep in the pocket of his robe. Unbidden, a bright image flickered across his memory. A frown creasing his brow, the Mage Prime turned and headed for his study.

Symon’s voice cut across his thoughts. “Are you nearly ready?”

Calling back over his shoulder, Karryl briefly raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Give me a few more minutes. There’s something I have to look for.”

Having just spent over an hour with King Vailin, and not wanting to delay any further, the little magician’s voice carried a hint of petulance. “Do you have to do it now? Is it something you need?”

Karryl’s reply was muffled by a half-closed door. “It may well be.”

He knew exactly where to find the precious object. Its unique design and as yet undisclosed purpose had, during the last few years, provided him with many hours of deep contemplation. Sliding open a small concealed drawer in his desk, he reached into the back, his fingers closing over a small soft leather pouch. Quickly he pulled it open and shook out the intricately worked silver ball pendant into the palm of his hand. He slipped the silver rope chain round his neck, feeling the pendant settle beside the pouch containing the tiny Mirikani objects and the tusks. As he secured the concealed drawer, he felt a strong suspicion that the amethyst-eyed goddess D’ta had given him a little mental nudge.

He found Symon, arms folded, gazing thoughtfully out at the rose garden. Eyebrows raised, he looked quizzically at Karryl. “That was quick. Did you find whatever it was?”

Karryl nodded. “I did. Do you remember that silver ball pendant Detelia gave me for my seventeenth birthday?”

Smiling at the recollection, Symon tilted his head to one side. “I do indeed. So, you think the time has come when it may be needed?”

Karryl’s dark eyes glinted in the summer sunlight flooding the room. “Almost certainly, and I think
you
know what’s hidden inside it and what it’s for.”

With a whimsical little smile, Symon held out his arm. “I have one or two ideas, but unfortunately I was never made privy to the truth of it. That, it seems, is for
you
to discover. Now, if you’ll prepare, we’ll be off. When we get to where we’re going perhaps things will become clearer.”

His hand firmly on Symon’s arm, the Mage-Prime visualised the room in the empty house in Vedra where Miqhal, then disguised as Areel, had taken him and Magnor before the sickening experience at the Black Temple, and the recovery of the medallion.

The room was exactly as they had left it, what seemed to Karryl a lifetime ago. He hurried over to the alcove, took down a black robe from one of the hooks and held it up.

He grimaced as he looked hard at Symon. “I doubt whether they made these in your size. I don’t suppose you can transform?”

Symon shrugged and shook his head. “No need. Let’s get ourselves into these robes, and then you can take us both to wherever you think we can contact Miqhal.”

Karryl stared at the little magician. “You’ll stand out like a beacon!”

Returning the Mage-Prime’s stare, Symon pointed an accusing finger. “You’re not thinking. How many times have you cast a glamour? I can be anything you want me to be.”

Managing to look a little sheepish, Karryl snapped his fingers. “Of course! You’re right, I wasn’t thinking. I was more concerned with contacting Miqhal and hopefully finding Magnor with him.”

Symon gave a short gusting laugh. “Sometimes I wonder whether the gods made the right choice when they picked you!”

Before the discomfited Karryl could respond, Symon waved a dismissive hand. “I think it’s more likely it’ll be Dhoum we find, not Magnor, but we’ll see. Anyway, no need for the glamour right now. Wait until it becomes necessary. Have you decided where we’re going?”

Tying the woven black cord round the waist of his robe, Karryl nodded. “There are two places I have in mind. It all depends on whether you want to risk being out in the open.”

Symon thought for a moment. “I hope you realise that wherever we go, Ghian will more than likely detect our presence, if he hasn’t already.”

The young Mage-Prime’s dark eyes glinted. “Then our first priority is to locate Miqhal or Magnor. So for now, we don’t go anywhere. We can attempt a mind-call from here. It’s not ideal, as we’re surrounded by huge stone buildings, but I’ve yelled through a mountain before now, so hopefully it shouldn’t be much of a problem.”

Symon rubbed at his eyes. “Then if you don’t mind, I’m going to have a little nap while you’re doing that. There’s no point in us both trying, and I’m feeling rather tired.”

A frown of concern creased Karryl’s brow as he watched his mentor settle himself on the chest at the side of the room and lean his back against the wall. After watching him for a while, Karryl heard a soft snoring. Sitting cross-legged on the patterned Vedran rug he cleared his head of all other thoughts and prepared to send out a mind-call.

* * *

Ghian paced the floor of his room, impatient for word that the intruders had been captured. He had not felt the sweet rippling frisson of Talmion magic which would have heralded their arrival. Although he had spent long hours praying for it, he had never been granted the ability to detect Talmion. Two of his clergy had come to his room in a state of extreme agitation, shortly after the latest sacrificial rite had been completed.

Bowing low, the black-robed priest spoke first. ‘‘Great Lord, we have sensed the use of alien magic within the city.’’

Ghian glared at each of them in turn. ‘‘Both of you have sensed this?’’

The blue-robed priestess also bowed. ‘‘We have, Lord Ghian.’’

She dared to give him a self-satisfied smirk. Her reward was a sharp slap to the side of her face. She gasped and staggered from the blow, tears of pain and humiliation starting in her eyes. Ghian was unmoved. His chagrin was deep, his gratitude non-existent, his pride and vanity all-consuming. Being bested by a mere priestess was something he would not tolerate.

Fists clenched, he hissed through bared teeth. ‘‘So, they come at last.’’ Pacing the room, he spat out his orders. ‘‘There will be two of them; this so-called Mage-Prime and his assistant. Have them captured, bound and separated. No doubt they are combining their powers.’’ He made no effort to disguise his contempt. ‘‘Have the ‘Mage-Prime’ taken to a sealed chamber. The other one may await my pleasure in a locked cell.’’

The priest and priestess bowed and turned to leave. Ghian snarled after them. ‘‘They are not to be killed.’’

The door closed and the Grelfine Lord gloated. ‘‘Soon their knowledge and powers will be taken from them, then all will be mine.’’

* * *

The two magicians were given little opportunity to take any kind of evasive action. The taint of Vedric magic sullied the air as three black-robed priests materialised in the room. At the same time a half dozen heavily armoured temple guards crashed through the ancient wooden door. The two magicians were quickly surrounded. One of the guards dragged Symon from his seat on the chest and roughly pushed him to his knees. Karryl lunged forward only to find his arms locked behind his back as he too was forced to kneel. One of the priests moved to stand in front of him.

A cruel smirk twisted the priest’s thin lips as he looked down at his captive. “The Lord Ghian has been awaiting your arrival. Personally, I was expecting something a little more spectacular.”

Slowly turning his head, he looked across at Symon, studying him intently. He then turned and looked down at Karryl. “For a Mage-Prime, if there is such a thing, your master certainly seems unimpressive, but appearances count for nothing. Therefore, you will be kept apart for the time being.”

At a nod from the priest, Karryl was hauled to his feet and pushed towards the door, but not before he was able to exchange a meaningful glance with Symon. The little magician had also been pulled upright, and stood meekly with his hands folded in front, the point of a guard’s wickedly barbed spear making a small depression in the skin of his throat. Seconds later, Karryl found himself being bundled outside. Flanked by a pair of grim-faced, heavily armed guards, Karryl was hurried through Vedra’s cracked and gloomy streets. Once, he stumbled, prompting thumps and ferocious, guttural growls from his captors. When he occasionally looked about, commands were barked at him, which he took to mean ‘‘Face front!” Despite his apparent confusion, Karryl knew exactly where in the city he was. Curbing any reaction or emotion, he allowed himself to be marched straight past the place in the wall where Miqhal, then known to him as Areel, had opened the secret entrance to the temple.

Prodding him left into a narrow side alley, the guards hurried him towards a high, black iron-studded and bolt-furnished door. There they stopped, their yellow-irised eyes fixed on their captive, alert for any sudden move. Remaining perfectly still, Karryl kept his gaze fixed firmly on the door. He wondered how long it would be before Ghian discovered his mistake. There would almost certainly be repercussions when he did. What form they would take Karryl could only begin to imagine.

Accustomed as he was by now to riding the lame horse of uncertainty, the thought that Magnor may not have caught his mind-call filled him with considerable misgivings. There had been neither sight nor sound of Miqhal for days, and the astral conjunction was only hours away. Other uncertainties added themselves to the mix. How much magic could these guards detect, and would they think of searching them at some point? Of one thing Karryl
was
certain; he needed a calming spell. Deciding to risk it, he closed his eyes just as the sound of heavy bolts being drawn grated on his ears. Their barbed spear-heads uncomfortably close to his neck, the guards motioned him forward. The door had opened just wide enough for Karryl to slip through, aided by a heavy-handed push on his back. Stumbling into complete darkness, he felt the massive door slam thunderously behind him, followed by the sound of the outside bolts being rammed home. He heard nothing more, and could see nothing. Standing perfectly still and quiet, he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. Still he saw nothing, no darker bulk within dark, no vestige of light. He took a pace backwards, twisted his body round and reached out behind him. His fingers came into contact with rough timber and heavy iron studs. He turned to his right and began to feel his way along the cold granite wall, his searching fingers detecting close tight joints between massive blocks. The deep silence amplified the shuffling of his feet as he made his way along, soon realising the wall was following a curve. Changing his pace to a steady side-step, only a few more minutes had elapsed before he found himself back at the door. He knew then, he was in a small circular room; a cell.

Throwing caution aside, he attempted to draw in power. There was no response. The cell seemed to be acting as some kind of barrier. He felt he had enough for a dark-sight spell, but he didn’t really need to see. His prison was all too clear in his mind’s eye. Leaning against the wall, he folded his arms, closed his eyes, and gave his mind free rein. A memory jabbed at his brain, jolting him back from near sleep. Catching the fleeting image, his agile mind held it fast and quickly built onto it piece by piece. In seconds he had the answer to why he was unable to draw power. He didn’t need to. All the power he needed was within him. The entities who dwelt in the dimension beyond the ocean mist had seen to that.

He opened his eyes, shifted to dark-sight and quickly surveyed his cell. An iron-hooped wooden bucket stood against one wall. The centre of the stone-flagged floor was occupied by a three-legged wooden stool and a large earthenware jug. Karryl picked up the stool and the jug and took them to the edge of the cell. Sitting on the stool he sniffed at the contents of the jug. It seemed to be water. He put the jug on the floor without drinking. The presence of the bucket told him he would probably be here for some time. The weight now off his feet, he leaned against the wall and began to think. He knew his options were at best limited, and in all probability he would only get one chance whichever he chose. Although his use of the dark-sight spell had not provoked any outside reaction, he resisted the temptation to try anything further. Resigning himself to the possibility that his incarceration would not be a short one, he stripped off the black Vedran robe. After folding it several times to make a cushion, he placed it on the floor and settled himself on it. More comfortable than on the hard wooden stool, he leaned against the wall again and closed his eyes.

* * *

As Karryl was being pushed out into the street, a guard had grabbed Symon’s wrists and tied them tightly together behind his back. He then gripped his upper arms while another guard fixed a thick blindfold over the little magician’s eyes. A gag was shoved into his mouth and tied in place. The guard released his hold. Symon heard the sound of receding footsteps and a door opening and closing. He stood unmoving, the leather thongs round his wrists cutting cruelly into his skin. The coarse binding over his mouth stank of stale food and body odour. Drawing in deep breaths through his nose and exhaling slowly, he fought the nausea which threatened to overwhelm him. A latch clattered and Symon turned his head towards the sound, a welcome draught wafting briefly round his feet as the door opened and closed again. Soft footfalls drew nearer and a firm hand grasped his shoulder. Seconds later his nostrils caught the harsh metallic taint of Vedric magic. His head suddenly felt hollow, the hand released its grip and the Vedric taint quickly dissipated. All was quiet. It remained so for many minutes, and Symon wondered rather incongruously whether he was dead. If so, he was not impressed. He had no desire to spend eternity standing up, unable to see, hardly able to breathe and with bindings cutting painfully into his wrists.