The Golden Griffin (Book 3) (23 page)

“What happened to them?”

“They mingled with other nations until they disappeared. But rarely, the blood of these people flows true, and if the magic is awakened, he becomes a wizard.” Chantmer shrugged. “Now, sometimes these wizards can be found on either side of the mountains, or south, across the desert. But this is not unexpected. The Tothian Wars scattered the Aristonian survivors across Mithyl.”

“So you see,” Roghan said. “Magic is our heritage. To rule is our birthright. Not taken by us, but a gift from the gods.”

Chantmer looked around the room. The sheer number of apprentices amazed him. And all of them in concentration, their breathing steadied and in harmony with their companions.

“I asked before, and you didn’t answer,” Chantmer said. “How do you train so many?”

“Poorly, that’s how I do it. My time is stretched. That’s one reason why I called you back. I need your help.”

“One reason?” Chantmer asked. “What are the others?”

“I’ve read your writings and guessed that you would agree with my purpose. The misguided Order of the Thorne cast you from their number. Now you shall join me.”

“Hmm.”

“I need your knowledge. We are poor in books and scrolls. The people of the sultanates are not great scholars. I’d hoped you could expand our magical knowledge.”

“What you need are books to copy and read, not merely my wisdom. Although my knowledge is great,” Chantmer added.

“Hence, Balsalom.”

“Ah. Kallia Saffa. The daughter of the khalif. So this is why your sultan extends his reach north. It wasn’t his idea, it was yours.”

“He is an avaricious man,” Roghan said. “It took only a suggestion.”

Before the Tothian Wars, there had been two great libraries in Mithyl. The first was in Veyre where Toth studied, but it burned after Toth’s death, when his fire salamanders savaged the city. The second was in Aristonia—now the wasteland of the Desolation of Toth. The kingdom had suffered annihilation, but a handful of wise men and women had fled west with the bulk of the tomes and scrolls. The surviving volumes had scattered across the land, but the biggest portion had arrived in Balsalom, built upon the ruins of Syrmarria.

There was, however, a greater power than all the other books combined: the five volumes of the Oracular Tomes. At least one of these books survived. Chantmer had held the miraculous work in his hands a few months earlier. But he didn’t know how much Roghan knew of the Tome of Prophesy, and he didn’t want to reveal its existence and location until he was sure he could not retrieve it by his own actions.

Roghan rose to his feet. “The sultan demanded my presence an hour ago. I keep him waiting sometimes. It reminds him that I am not a slave to be summoned at whim. Come with me, friend. I will show you the limit of my own strength.”

#

Sultan Mufashe tried to conceal his anger, but Chantmer could see it in the hard line of his mouth and the tension in his shoulders. “At last, my mages make a belated appearance.”

Half a dozen bodyguards stood around the sultan, and young women lounged on the pillows and rugs surrounding his throne. Most of them had drunk too much wine and taken too many pulls of the hookah. One woman giggled and batted her eyes at the two wizards.

The sultan’s throne chamber was small, with clusters of fluted pillars and arches that lent intimacy to the room. Gold calligraphy laced the walls, together with brightly painted flowers and geometric designs in relief. The pillows on the floor were fine silk with jeweled tassels. The young women dressed in diaphanous silk paijams and wore jewels in their hair, adding to the ornamentation.

The only incongruity was a flat metal disc that lay on the floor in the middle of the room. Its surface was hammered lead or pewter, and it gave off a dull sheen.

Chantmer stood near the doorway. To his annoyance, Faalam had rejoined him the moment he’d left the training room with Roghan, even though the two wizards had departed through a side door that led into the dressing chambers where Roghan had left his robe.

Mufashe waved for the women to leave. When one hesitated over her wine, he picked up a braided whip and lashed her over the shoulders. She let out a cry of protest—the blow hadn’t been hard enough to inflict pain—and followed the others.

“Pigeons have arrived from Balsalom,” Mufashe said when the women were gone. “The Balsalomians have left the city.”

“What are their numbers?” Roghan asked.

The Sultan shook his head. “My son Hassan sent the pigeons, but the princess left at night while the fool boy slept, and he couldn’t gauge the strength of her party. It will be several days before my spies return with specifics.”

“And you want me to use the mirror?” A weariness crept into Roghan’s voice.

The sultan poured wine into a golden flagon and drank, then gestured for Faalam to pour wine for the two wizards. Roghan took a glass, but Chantmer declined. The sultan’s guards took station at the doors.

Mufashe savored the wine for a long moment before he turned his attention back to Roghan. “Yes, my servant. I know the effort will cost you greatly. But I can’t wait for my riders. I must know the truth of the matter.”

Roghan set aside his goblet and approached the flat gray disc. Everyone in the room but the sultan’s guards gathered around while Roghan squatted next to it. Chantmer watched with interest.

The mage rubbed his right hand across the surface. As he did, a tattoo on the back of his hand flared bright red and green. The gray metal shimmered and turned to quicksilver. Roghan removed his hand and waited for the waves to stop rolling across its surface. When the liquid calmed, he chanted in a low voice. Magic raised the hairs on Chantmer’s arms and neck.

Images appeared in the quicksilver. A road of sand passed between two dunes, their ridges held by desert grass. A camel caravan carried blocks of salt. Dust-dry towns appeared along the Spice Road, where men and women irrigated date trees, herded goats, and stacked bundles of myrrh branches. Roghan waved his hand above the quicksilver to move the view along the road. The scenery raced across the surface with the speed of a diving falcon. Even so, it took several minutes to locate the Balsalomians.

They traveled in a caravan of several dozen camels and horses. Most were laden with the khalifa’s supplies, but a few carried men-at-arms. Roghan wiggled his fingers, and the caravan grew in size until individual faces came into focus. One of the men on horseback wore a gray tunic and carried a straight-edged Eriscoban sword. A Knight Temperate. This was an unexpected development.

“Where is the princess?” Mufashe asked. “Which one is Marialla?”

“I’m looking,” Roghan said. “Patience.”

The mage moved his view, but before he did, the knight looked up at the sky, as if he felt their gaze. Chantmer’s stomach clenched in sudden recognition. It was Daniel, the ruler of the Free Kingdoms. Or rather, the former ruler. He had stepped aside in favor of his brother, Whelan, who had fashioned himself as a warrior king.

Chantmer had once guided Daniel, as a tutor might lead and teach a child. But the former king’s mind had been poisoned by Markal. He would now count Chantmer as an enemy.

“There she is!” Mufashe said.

There was no question which woman in the caravan was Marialla Saffa. She rode on a litter, its sides opened to catch the late-afternoon sun. Her face was carved like a fine statue, her body well-proportioned. Slaves carried the litter, and several young women walked on either side, holding bowls of dates and figs.

“She’s beautiful,” Roghan said. “I can see why you wish to marry her.”

“She looks old,” Mufashe said.

“She’s twenty-nine,” Chantmer said. “Hardly old.”

The sultan lowered himself to the ground next to the quicksilver pool. “I had forgotten how poorly women age. I should have looked at some of my wives to remind myself. Their faces weather like a hitching post in the desert. After twenty-five their dugs sag like empty wineskins.”

Roghan spoke in a quiet, soothing voice. “Oh Sultan, light of my life. Will you not marry this woman?”

The sultan waved his hand dismissively. “No, I have no interest in another pampered princess.”

“You must feign interest, then,” the mage said.

“I’ll find a wife from the retinue. Perhaps several. Some of Marialla’s slave girls show promise.” He turned to Roghan. “Let’s take a look at the guards, shall we?”

Roghan waved his hand again, and the view shifted. Marialla had no more than fifteen armed men with her. Enough to prove troublesome, but not so many that they could defend the princess should the sultan wish to overwhelm with force. But Daniel’s presence was still concerning. What other surprises did the party bring?

“There!” Mufashe said. He leaned over the pool of quicksilver, his eyes alive with interest. “Who is that?”

A young girl rode on a camel. She watched her surroundings with an eager eye. A falcon sat on her wrist. Chantmer knew the girl well.

Oh, Daniel. If I’d known you came to Marrabat, I’d have warned you not to bring the girl.

“I have no idea,” Roghan said. “But she’s only a child, my sultan.”

“She’s old enough. And look at how she holds that falcon! She’s got the right mixture of girlish abandon and sweetness, I can tell.” He licked his lips. “A challenge—I like that.”

“Her name is Sofiana,” Chantmer said. “A wild child, not a young woman at all, yet. Twelve years old, I believe. Perhaps thirteen, but no more.”

The sultan turned a sharp glance in his direction. “You know her then?”

“Yes, I know her. She is the daughter of King Daniel of the Citadel. Or rather, of Whelan of the Knights Temperate.”

“Ah, Whelan’s bastard child. Yes, I have heard of her.” The eager gleam burned even more fiercely.

Roghan’s mouth turned downward. He gave Chantmer a look.

“They will never give her to you,” Chantmer said.

“Of course they will. Look at them! They’re going to deliver her into my hands.”

“My sultan,” Roghan said. His voice had taken on an air of caution. The quicksilver faded until it became once more a metal disc on the floor. “You risk war. We’re not ready.”

“Then let it be war. They cannot touch us in Marrabat.”

“Sultan,” Chantmer said. Fury rose in his breast. Faalam, the eunuch, put his hand on his scimitar. His posture changed. Chantmer forced calm upon himself. “This is madness. The girl is nothing.”

Mufashe’s mouth hardened, and he rose to his feet. “I tire of this audience. Go, you are all dismissed.” He looked at his guards. “Everyone.”

Everyone did not mean Faalam, apparently, for Sultan Mufashe grabbed the eunuch’s arm as the others turned to go. His eyes regained their gleam, and he had already begun to scheme with Faalam how to get the girl before the others departed the room. The guards left for their quarters, while Roghan turned away and rubbed at his smooth chin.

In spite of his anger at the sultan, Chantmer was pleased to find himself free of the eunuch. “The sultan is a fool.”

“The walls have ears. Follow me to the meditation chamber.”

“No. Alone.”

“Outside, then,” Roghan said.

The two men retreated to the gardens where Chantmer had been meditating earlier. They stopped next to the fountain, where the burbling water would mask their voices.

“The sultan must be stopped,” Chantmer said. “He cannot take the girl.”

“I abhor Mufashe’s appetites as much as anyone. But she is one child—will you free all of the girls of the harem?”

“There are more?”

“Many.”

“Then, yes. I would put an end to such a disgusting habit. But my concern is more practical. That girl was Sofiana of Arvada.”

“I thought you were bluffing.”

“Not at all. She’s the daughter of one king and the niece of another.”

“She didn’t look like a princess.”

“Believe me, she’s no princess and never will be. Nevertheless—”

“I understand. And the knight? Her protector?”

“Her uncle,” Chantmer said. “That’s the former king of Eriscoba.”

“King Daniel? I thought he was dying.”

“Not anymore.”

“So Mufashe risks more than the wrath of Kallia of Balsalom,” Roghan said. “This is not a development to encourage.”

“We must stop him.”

“There is the small problem of the eunuch. Faalam is a loyal slave—he’ll take the girl, daughter of the king or no.”

“Then kill him.”

“I can’t. There are . . . complications. I will be discovered.”

Chantmer allowed himself an inward smile. For all of Roghan’s boasting, the mage apparently had his limitations. He couldn’t handle a simple palace eunuch.

“Then I’ll do it myself.”

“Your magic will be detected,” Roghan said.

“In better times, no, it wouldn’t. But I’m a shadow of my former self. It will have to be other means. Non-magical means.”

“What do you need?”

“Silver bite. Can you get it?”

“That is a rare poison in the sultanates.”

“Silver bite is rare everywhere. And that is why I must use it.”

“How much do you need?”

“One hundred grains.”

“That’s a lot. Expensive.”

“Quite. Can you get it?”

 Roghan looked thoughtful. At last he nodded. “Very well. But be careful. Don’t underestimate the eunuch.”

Chantmer nodded. He didn’t know what had the mage spooked, but it didn’t matter. In Chantmer’s current, weakened condition, it was a prudent reminder. Markal’s slave boy had nearly bested him on the Tothian Way. He would take no enemy for granted, not even a palace eunuch.

Roghan left him alone. Chantmer remained next to the fountain for several moments, flipping through the dusty tome of his memory to call up the use of silver bite. There would be no way to administer the poison directly. Faalam would not be so foolish as to accept a cup of tea from him. But that wouldn’t be necessary.

Chantmer would administer it through his very touch. That meant great personal risk.

“Such concentration,” a voice said over his shoulder. “Such a scheming expression.”

Chantmer turned to see Faalam standing directly behind him. How long had he stood there? The eunuch’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Chantmer felt a strange itching in his head, as if the man had somehow reached in to pluck out his very thoughts. Faalam carried a scimitar. If he drew it, he could cut Chantmer in two. In the wizard’s current condition, he’d be helpless to stop him.