Wedding Bells, Magic Spells (26 page)

Sarad Nukpana’s regenerated body was entombed in the citadel’s highest tower in a crystal coffin woven with spells to keep it from being opened from the outside—or the inside.

Justinius and Mychael hadn’t wanted to take any chances.

One of the spells inside the coffin had been to preserve his corpse. The mortician who had prepared the body and worked the spell had called it “perpetual repose.”

I called it creepy as hell.

When it had been done, I had gone to see him. Sarad Nukpana was still perfect, still darkly beautiful. He had a shadow of a smile on his face, as if he knew something we didn’t, something that was about to bite us all in our collective ass.

I had no doubt that he did.

And now I knew what that was, or at least some of it. Regardless of what happened, his Khrynsani had a backup plan, a plan that would ensure they survived—and their enemies did not.

The stairs to the tower crypt could be revealed by a spell that only Mychael and Justinius knew. The circular room had one door, no windows, and had been lit bright as day.

That had been my request.

Goblins didn’t like bright light. I did. And for some irrational reason, I had also liked knowing that Sarad Nukpana wasn’t lying in the dark. Bad things happened in dark places. Sarad Nukpana had most definitely been a bad thing.

I’d wanted the body destroyed and the ashes scattered to the winds in the far reaches of all Seven Kingdoms. But we’d kept it. King Chigaru’s late brother, Sathrik, had sent Justinius a letter stating that unless Sarad Nukpana’s body was returned undamaged to Regor within the month, he would declare war against the Guardians, the Conclave, and the Isle of Mid, and come and get the body himself. Mychael and Justinius had no intention of returning Nukpana’s body, but it never hurt to have an ace in the hole just in case. Hence the mortician’s creepy reposing spell.

Sathrik was dead, Chigaru was king, and the Khrynsani had been overthrown.

Now Sandrina Ghalfari had come to claim her son.

*

Mychael was waiting for us at the gates of the citadel.

With our bond, he’d sensed something had happened and that I was coming back to the citadel as fast as our horses could get through Mid’s streets.

I quickly dismounted and tossed my reins to a waiting groom. “It’s Sandrina.”

“I know,” Mychael said. “Tarsilia and Imala determined the drug was—”

“No, I mean she’s here. In the citadel. The tower.”

“It’s sealed.”

“If she hasn’t gotten in, she’s tried. She’s got a shapeshifter working with her.”

Mychael spat a curse and started shouting orders. Within minutes the two of us, Vegard, and at least a dozen armed Guardians were running through the citadel to the north tower. When we got to what looked like a solid wall, Mychael murmured a brief incantation, exposing a door.

“The seal spell was still in place,” he told me.

“That’s good, but I still want to check.”

He incanted a few more words and the door opened. “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.”

I’d insisted checking the tower; Mychael insisted on going up the stairs first. Vegard and I were relegated to the middle of the pack.

I had no problem with that. I didn’t need to get there first; I just needed to see that Sarad Nukpana’s body was still there. I had no idea how Sandrina would have gained access to the tower or, if she had gotten in, how she could have gotten her son’s body out. I only knew what my gut was telling me, insistently—that we were going to find something in the room at the top of the tower that we did not want to see.

Mychael and the Guardians in front of us reached the top, checked the door for any signs of entry or trap, and with Mychael on one side of the door and a Guardian on the other, Mychael reached out, opened the tower door, and cautiously leaned around to look inside.

He stood there for a moment, not moving. After what seemed an eternity to me, he went inside. More Guardians followed, and I ran the rest of the way up, Vegard at my heels.

Sarad Nukpana was still in his coffin.

I slowly walked to where Mychael stood next to it, looking down.

I stepped up next to him and sharply inhaled.

A thin layer of dust coated the crystal coffin. The only disturbance in the dust was where two thin trails of water had fallen on the coffin’s lid and had run down the side.

Tears.

Next to the tears was a note. It was unsigned. It didn’t need a signature. We knew who it was from. There were two short sentences.

You destroyed my world. I will destroy yours.

“We need to get a look through that Timurus rift,” Mychael said. “Now.”

It looked like my bachelorette party would have to wait.

Cuinn Aviniel and his colleagues had been working feverishly
since we’d left his lab, determining the best and safest way to briefly open a rift to Timurus. Eamaliel was working with them. During his centuries on the run, he had apparently become quite adept with rifts. When you had a father who was close to a thousand years old, you didn’t find out something new about him every day—it was more like every minute. He’d opened a rift before in exactly the place we needed to see—the Table of Iron overlooking the city of Astava. He hadn’t lived as long as he had without being cautious. He told me that when he’d needed to travel, he’d always opened a small rift—much like a window—and looked before he leapt.

That was what we’d be doing—the looking part, not the leaping.

As to my plans for this evening, as much as I wanted a night out with my friends, Sandrina’s threat of an impending invasion knocked my plans right off the table. While going out and drinking too much was exactly what I wanted to do, staying stone cold sober was what was needed. Not to mention, there was no way Mychael was letting me out of his sight with Sandrina Ghalfari and her master shapeshifter possibly still on the island. Under normal circumstances, I would have argued with him about being overprotective. Right now, I completely agreed with him.

Mychael stayed awake and alert all night, or at least he was that way every time I woke up from my fitful dozing on the couch in his office. Since speed was now of the essence, we’d dispensed with Guardian messengers and were using telepaths. A Guardian telepath was in Cuinn’s lab, relaying regular updates to Ben, who’d taken up residence with his scrying bowl in Mychael’s outer office.

Knowledge of what was happening on Timurus was only half of what we needed. If there was an army poised to invade, what could we do to stop them?

Tam, Imala, Justinius, Garadin, and Tarsilia were among those working on that.

It had been seven hundred years since the unknown invader had wiped out the population of Timurus. That didn’t mean that the Khrynsani’s new allies were the same invader. That army had invaded Timurus, killed the population, then taken what they wanted and left. Why would they come back to an uninhabited world?

However, when it came to a possible off-world invasion with our worst enemies acting as tour guides, chances weren’t something we were willing to take.

Justinius had made a recommendation concerning who should be in Cuinn’s lab when the rift was opened. While none of us really liked what he wanted to do, we had agreed that it was necessary.

The ambassador from each kingdom needed to be there.

If there was an invading army massing on the other side, a representative from each kingdom needed to see the proof with their own eyes.

Proof we were really hoping wouldn’t be there.

*

Just before dawn, Cuinn sent word via Ben that they were
ready to open a window onto Timurus.

Justinius had personally made the rounds of the embassies last night to inform them of the possible situation. Some had taken it better than others. He’d told them a Guardian messenger would be sent when the rift was ready to be opened. Even with their usual Guardian escorts, the old man wasn’t holding his breath that most of the ambassadors would get here on time.

We were in Cuinn’s lab. Considering that I was about to look through a rift to another world and possibly see an invading army, I was appallingly groggy even though I had eaten and consumed enough coffee to float one of Uncle Ryn’s ships. Maybe after the events of the past few months, it simply took more for my survival instinct to kick in, like a threat of immediate death. Either that or I was getting too old for this crap. Then I glanced over at my nearly-a-millennium-old father who, after being awake and working all night, was plenty perky.

Tarsilia and Garadin were there as the two newest members of the Seat of Twelve.

Isibel arrived next, followed by the Myloran, Caesolian, Majafan, and Brenirian ambassadors. Tam was standing in for Dakarai Enric. As Chigaru’s chancellor and temporary heir, Tam needed to be here.

I knew Mychael didn’t want Isibel anywhere near here.

Eamaliel was talking to the ambassadors. All of them had arrived except for Aeron Corantine of Nebia. No surprise. He was on his way, so we were waiting for him. In the meantime, the group was close enough for me to listen in.

“Our rift won’t be stable enough for travel,” my father said, trying to reassure the nervous Caesolian ambassador. “From either direction.”

“But could someone try to come through?” the Caesolian asked.

“That would be ill-advised.”

“But they could still try.”

My father put a comforting hand on the ambassador’s shoulder. “Professor Aviniel and I would slam the door in their faces.”

“Where would that put them?”

Eamaliel chortled. “Somewhere that’s not here.”

“If anyone is close to our rift when it opens,” Mychael quietly asked Cuinn, “will they be able to see through it?”

“Possibly. It largely depends on the angle at which they’re standing. If they’re directly in front of the rift, then yes, they will be able to see through to this room.”

“It’s an unavoidable risk, son,” Justinius told Mychael. “And one we have to take.”

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise, sir. Merely determining what defenses we need to have in place should it happen.”

Justinius glanced back at his four regular Guardian bodyguards, then around at me, Mychael, Vegard, Tam, and my father. He grinned. “I think we have adequate firepower. No need to make the place any more crowded than it needs to be.”

I turned away from the door. “Speaking of unneeded,” I muttered.

Aeron Corantine had arrived, looking distinctly unhappy. Another dozen Guardians were stationed outside of Cuinn’s lab, ensuring that only the ambassador of each kingdom was allowed inside. I glanced beyond the door. Yep, the Nebian ambassador had brought an entourage. I’d already pegged the Nebian as the type that couldn’t feel important unless he was surrounded by people who were paid to treat him that way.

Tarsilia had said the drug used to taint the delegates’ ink was the kind that needed to be in near continuous contact with the victim’s skin to remain effective. It’d been over twelve hours since we’d discovered the drugged ink and Justinius had dismissed the delegates for the day. Fortunately, no one had discovered that they had been drugged, and according to Tarsilia, twelve hours was enough time for the ink’s effects to fade enough that the delegate would be back to normal, which in Aeron Corantine’s case wasn’t a noticeable improvement.

The Nebian ambassador apparently had a problem with something this morning and was making a beeline for Justinius. Two of the old man’s bodyguards put their large selves in the ambassador’s path, effectively stopping his beeline.

“I demand to see the archmagus,” he said from behind the armored wall of Guardians.

One of the men turned to Justinius with a raised eyebrow. With a resigned sigh, the old man waved his hand, telling his guard to let the obnoxious twit through.

Justinius intercepted him before he reached us. I was grateful. I’d barely slept and was in no mood for Aeron Corantine. One side of Tam’s upper lip twitched in a snarl, exposing a fang. I already knew Tam was not a morning person.

“Disappointed Justinius got to him first?” I asked.

“Some people are not worth the effort. Ambassador Corantine is one such individual. I was merely expressing my distaste at his presence.”

“You really don’t like him.”

“And you do?”

An answer using words wouldn’t suffice. I went with a snort.

“Precisely,” Tam said. “The Nebian king would be better served by appointing another representative. A good ambassador shouldn’t tempt other kingdoms to cut diplomatic ties.”

Justinius raised his voice to address everyone in the room, but his eyes were on the ambassadors. “Once the rift is open, whoever is on the other side may be able to see and hear us, so no movement or talking.”

The Caesolian ambassador blanched.

The old man might want to include no screaming.

“Or noise of any kind,” Justinius added. “It’s imperative that we remain quiet and still. Do you understand?”

The ambassadors nodded or verbally affirmed that they got the message, including Aeron Corantine.

The old man didn’t bother with the Guardians or the rest of us. We’d had ample experience seeing, hearing, and experiencing things that’d turn your hair white.

My father moved into position on one side of where the rift would open. Cuinn stood ready on the other. Earlier, Mychael and Cuinn had positioned a spy gem to record everything for later analysis.

There were no words, no incantations, only the perfectly controlled manifestation of magic between the two powerful elf mages.

The rift opened, and I gazed in wonder on another world. I wanted a better vantage point, but I didn’t dare move.

It appeared to be just before sundown on Timurus. Eamaliel and Cuinn had perfectly positioned the rift, giving us a clear view from the Table of Iron down to the snow-covered valley and the ruins of Astava.

A view filled with things we did not want to see.