It was not for himself that the wizard conjured the light-his spell of true-seeing guaranteed that he didn’t require any such mundane accessory as illumination to see-but he wanted Facet to observe what he was doing. And there was another, two others in point of fact, whose attention he also desired. He smiled privately, speculating about Facet’s reaction when she learned of the other pair of living creatures secreted in that deep cavern.
Languidly, he rose from his pallet, aware of Facet’s wide eyes watching him as he reached for his robe, slipping the dark silk over his scrawny, scarred frame. As always when his nakedness was displayed, he scrutinized her face, watching for any hint of revulsion or disgust. If she had displayed such a reaction, he would have killed her. But as always she looked at him with an affection verging on adoration.
“Get up. Get dressed,” he ordered curtly, turning his back and walking toward his marble worktable. He heard the rustling of her movements and, even with his back to her, admired the lush curves of her flesh until her own black robe once again slid around her body.
By then, Willim had arrived at the bell jar containing the two blue sparks. Both of those glimmering flickers had paled at his approach. They retreated, cowered actually, to the far side of the jar. He reached out a hand, caressed the glass, and the blue little lights swirled around in obvious agitation as Facet came up to stand behind him.
“I have never told you about these little sparks, have I?” Willim asked casually.
“No, Master,” Facet replied, her eyes downcast. They both remembered the time she had asked about them. Right after his victory over King Stonespringer, Willim had returned to his laboratory and set up the jar in the middle of his worktable. Facet had been curious then, but her innocent question had resulted in a whipping that had left her bloody and sobbing on the rack. Naturally, she had never brought the topic up again.
“They are more than tiny blue fireflies, you know,” the wizard said, relishing every word of the revelation to come. His dry lips crackled into a grotesque grin as he stroked the jar with both hands, pressing on the glass as though he could squeeze it into diamond with the force of his touch. The two blue flickers, Facet saw, had shrunk to the base of the jar and quivered, barely visible, in the center of the flat plate.
“I … I had wondered,” she replied, realizing that he was waiting for an answer. “But I would never presume to guess. Indeed, they do seem like living things.”
“You are wise, my pretty one,” the Theiwar mage declared with an affection-and menace-that sent a shiver down Facet’s spine. “But now the time has come for me to disclose their true nature.”
“Please, Master. Tell me what you will.”
The wizard pointed his finger at one of the blue sparks and flicked his hand to the side. The first of the blue lights flew in reaction to his gesture, like a bug that had been swatted away. That spark struck the side of the bell jar and sank, barely flickering, back to the bottom.
Then, in a gesture that was almost too fast to see, Willim lifted up the jar and snatched out the second, still vibrant spark, with a snakelike strike of his hand. Just as quickly, the jar was replaced on its resting spot, and the wizard held out his free hand with the fist clenched and his scarred face creased by a triumphant sneer.
He spoke a word of wrenching magic so powerful that Facet’s black hair stood on end and she involuntarily recoiled, flinching away. When she looked back, there was a very old woman, a stooped and withered dwarf maid, standing in front of the black wizard. She wore a tattered shawl, and her skin was creased with wrinkles; her frail shoulders were quivering underneath the rude garment. With a gasp, she wrapped her skinny arms around herself and dropped to the floor at Willim the Black’s feet.
“Oh, Master!” she cried in a voice as ancient and brittle as her skin. “Please forgive me! I shall never betray you again!”
“I know that, you pathetic crone,” Willim declared coldly. “For if you do, it will be the last act of your worthless life.”
Facet watched, fascinated. It had taken her only a moment to realize that she hated, really hated, the old crone. She didn’t understand the feeling or where it had come from, but the emotion was so real that she could physically taste it, like a bitter bile that rose in her gorge.
But she could only stare, eyes wide, lips parted, as the wizard stalked in a circle around the cowering, frail figure. When he was on the far side of her, he raised his face, a cruel smile twisting his scarred features.
“Facet, this is Sadie Guilder. At one time she worked for me, was one of my agents in the city of Norbardin. But she and her husband betrayed me. So I punished them.”
The younger female turned to look at the lone blue spark in the bell jar. It had recovered from Willim’s blow and was drifting aimlessly, weakly, in small circles within the magical prison. Facet didn’t need to study or reflect very long before she understood that the remaining spark was the treacherous husband Willim referred to.
Sadie, too, was looking at the jar, her eyes wide with horror. “Peat!” she croaked, extending one clawlike hand for an instant before again cowering downward.
“Peat is alive … for now,” Willim declared haughtily. “And he will remain that way, with my sufferance-and your cooperation.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” asked Sadie. Facet couldn’t help but notice that her voice, while not confident, was guarded and cautiously optimistic, no longer terrified.
“I released you because I need you. I need the assistance of true wizards. There are tasks that are beyond the ability of an apprentice, even one with as many talents as Facet here.”
It was all the young dwarf maid could do to keep from moaning out loud. Her master’s words cut her like a knife, deeply, almost fatally. Facet felt her knees grow weak, and she wanted to throw herself on the floor, to plead the case of her own worthiness, to convince the wizard that he needed no one besides herself at his side.
But that reaction would be tantamount to suicide, she understood. So she held her tongue and watched in dismay as Willim extended a hand to Sadie. When the crone took it, he pulled her, roughly but not viciously, to her feet.
“Come,” he said, indicating the other end of his worktable. She shuffled after him as he guided her. “I must discuss a problem with you.”
Facet stared after them, forgotten, forlorn … and increasingly furious.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Brandon heard someone shouting the command, like a drumbeat of sound that somehow rose over the cacophony before him. It was several seconds before he realized that he was the one barking out the word, over and over.
He shook his head and realized that he was sitting on the ground, on a spur of rock with the wall of the cliff as a backrest behind him. Something was in his hands, and when he looked down he saw that it was the haft of the Bluestone Axe. He clutched the weapon as if it were a lifeline, feeling the cool comfort of its eternal strength.
Slowly his vision cleared further. He saw, nearby, a length of steel pipe, a shaft that seemed vaguely familiar. It was broken and bent, but had obviously been carefully crafted.
It was the haft of the Tricolor Hammer! But when he looked at the end of the pole, where the stone head of the weapon had been, he saw only a splintered terminus where the handle, considerably shorter than it had been a few seconds earlier, ended in a broken, jagged cut.
“It’s gone!” he cried despairingly, lifting the handle and groping for the end as if his hands might find what his eyes could not see. “And Bardic-where is he?”
“He’s gone too,” came another sad voice. It was Gretchan, he realized, as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He blinked and saw that she was smiling at him, though her eyes swam with tears. “He was consumed by the smash of the hammer,” she explained softly. “He gave his life to achieve our goal and smash the gate.”