Thinking back on her research and an unfinished scroll on her desk, she remembered something. "Wait a moment-you had me studying any other possible methods of survival Netherese archwizards might have used to see if there are others out there. In Camarlenn of Hunabar's Musings on Magic Past, he spoke of a theory that the sharn fought the phaerimm because they were transformed Netherese." "That is what that source says, yes." Khelben said, with a nod. "Pray, continue." "I can't. I tried to find sources he referenced, but our students' library and those of five sages in the city didn't have any of the relevant writings. I did find out that Malek Aldhanek-the mage-historian Camarlenn studied-was the court wizard of the first Laeral, the ruler of Illuskan and the first Witch-Queen of the North. He died-oh, Horned Lady, no!" Tsarra interrupted herself as she heard and felt her ears fill with the roaring that heralded one of Danthra's visions. Tsarra fought against it, but the vision proved too strong. She dropped to the floor just as she lost consciousness. Again, she smelled things before the vision took hold: dust, mildew, the tang of new leather, and the smell of unwashed men in close-quarters.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
2 Ches, the Year of the Laughing Swan (816 DR)
"Jhaurn, where is Lord Bladestroll right now?" Malek thundered at his aide as the wizard exited the tower's secret stairwell into the inner room of his sanctum. Jhaurn had been dozing by the fire, and his master's entrance startled him right from his chair. "Um, sorry, milord. Who were you looking for?" Jhaurn tried to compose himself and straighten his jerkin as he stood, not meeting the angry glare coming from Lord Aldhanek. Malek glowered at Jhaurn. "Lord Rutyk Bladestroll.
Baron of the Easting Marches. Tall man with a strange creature on his face he calls a beard." Jhaurn snorted then said, "I believe Lord Bladestroll is with our Lady Witch-Queen for a morning repast before departing to the Duke Zelhund's estates to the south. He should be with her now, as she hardly sleeps in, much like yourself, milord." A small bell on the fireplace mantel chimed three times. "Go through the passage, Jhaurn, and fetch Arms-Master Phommor and as many guards as can be mustered to the audience chamber. Tell him a coup is in progress and to protect Laeral," Malek said, smoothing his long black hair back after shrugging off his filthy cloak. "But Master, what about-?" "Go, boy, with one last lesson. Trusted advisors must also be slain when attempting to kill queens, but queens are always more important. We shall meet at the Griffon Throne. Now go!" Jhaurn hesitated only one last heartbeat and filled the archway to their chamber with sticky webs before he turned and opened the secret bookshelf door. "For a moment's more preparation time, Master." With that, he darted into the darkness, and Malek closed the door behind him. No noise from the outer room betrayed the assassins' presence, but Malek knew magic he did not share with any, even his queen.
Numerous spells lay within the tile floors of both chambers. He left the door less protected to avoid suspicion. Above the archway's keystone hung a mirror. It showed Malek the shape of the outer room and four intruders marked as glowing dots on its surface-a pair flanking each side of the doorway. A small flame jetted into the center of the webs and consumed them quickly. Malek concentrated and uttered some incantations. The first sounds of battle were the assassins' yelps of surprise as the stone wall and floor reached out to grab at them and hold them fast. Malek smiled and thought, Finally getting some use from my guardian enchantments. He stepped through the archway, clapping to activate the magical shields his rings provided.
As expected, a sword clattered harmlessly off his defenses. He entered the larger front room, finding three black-garbed men held fast by large stone tentacles, though only two of them had their arms pinned.
"Have the Black Blades fallen so far as to not expect magical defenses in a wizard's chambers? Now, tell me who hired you, or I'll ask the wall to squeeze." From behind him came a sound of rustling fabric.
Malek whirled around into a crouch, lightning scattering off his fingertips. The magical bolts crackled around him, striking and destroying the three darts coming from behind him. He faced his fourth attacker, and Malek smiled grimly. "I should have known it would be you, Varret." "Southern scum of an outlander, you slight me even now?
No wonder I chose to slay you instead of that hussy upstairs. I will have you address me properly before you die." The less-than-honorable Lord Varret Tryshaln, Count of the Xornmoor Riding, glared and grimaced at him, his pale skin flushed red enough to match his unkempt and thinning hair. Dressed down from his usual foppish manner, Varret wore a brown robe and cloak with a hood. He gestured and hooked his thumbs together, sending an arc of flame directly at Malek. The flames illuminated the edges of his magical shields, and the fire agate on Malek's left ring began to glow ominously. While the flames licked dangerously close, Malek gestured with his left hand, and the flames leaped into the ring. "Now, Lord Tryshaln, I've given you all the respect you've earned, but imagined slight is no impetus for treason.
Put down your arms. Her Majesty's mercy is far warmer than mine, I pray, and I have no wish to fight your family over your death." "The only deaths today shall be yours and the Witch-Queen's, Tethyrian!"
Varret's face contorted with fury as he barked out an incantation that Malek had not encountered before. His curiosity slowed his counterspell, and he threw himself to one side to avoid the fiery dragon's jaws that lunged from Varret's cupped hands. The fire construct bit Malek's lower torso and legs, and he screamed as the fire burned him. His clothes caught on fire, though the leathers fared far better than his linen shirt. Despite the pain, Malek managed to thrust his left fist into the fire construct and scream, "Alakedarth!"
The fires pulled into the ring's gem, leaving only a shimmer in the air as the magic dissipated. "I'll add that ring to my wardrobe as Stornanter's new Court Wizard, Aldhanek," Varret promised as he moved closer and loomed over the prone Malek, his hands moving in intricate circles and his mouth muttering a new incantation. Still too pained to stand up, Malek grabbed the edge of the rug and yanked hard, tripping up Varret and ending his spell. "My turn, fool." Malek whispered, and he cast quickly. One of his simplest and newer spells, the magic touched the Weave of magic and the weave of Varret's clothing. The robes, cloak, and hood writhed and constricted on the wizard's body, making it hard for him to move or cast. Malek used the moments the spell bought him to pull the carpet the rest of the way from under Varret. As he rose, he kicked the mage in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and stopping his counterspell against the weaveweird.
Just as Malek suspected, Varret planned defenses only against magic, leaving himself open to more mundane attacks. Malek snapped out the small carpet with one hand, and the square Calishite rug remained level and floating on the air two feet above the floor. His other hand worked another spell over Lord Tryshaln. Malek didn't seem to notice Varret finally gaining against his seemingly possessed clothes. Malek and Varret completed their spells one atop the other. A translucent sea-green dome appeared over Varret just as he unleashed a fireball, which, to his misfortune, remained inside the dome. Malek looked at the charred and damaged noble and his three accomplices still pinned to the walls and shook his head. He turned his back on all of them, hopped atop his small floating carpet, and with a few gestures and the pop of imploding air, he teleported away. Malek reappeared in the audience chamber of Port Llast's Griffon Palace to a scene of utter chaos. He had safely teleported into the upper dome of the chamber unnoticed above the archers' perches. Blades clashed with blades, and spells flared in every corner. Malek immediately identified the main traitors-the Lords Elsmyth, Rushfire, Argentouch, and Bladestroll-and their retinues of guards and mercenaries. More than a dozen royal guards and almost as many traitors lay dead and bleeding on the stone floor. The Griffon Throne of the Witch-Queen was dark with blood, and Laeral, Witch-Queen of the North, lay sprawled alongside it, her short silver curls matted with blood. Barons Bladestroll and Rushfire bent over Laeral, stripping her of protective or life-sustaining magical items. Malek spun some magic around himself, suddenly adding three identical images of himself. The four Maleks swooped down into the fray, keeping a tight formation, though each Malek seemed to do things slightly differently, standing, kneeling, or sitting on the carpet as he flew. One Malek strafed the main knot of attackers with arcane bolts, and another dispelled the wall of flame that blocked the entry.