If he could not, who eke? There were the liches, yes, but liches were chancy things. They served, really, only themselves, and were like the wine of Elversult-they did not travel well. There were other, lesser mages among the ranks of the followers, yes, but he dared not let such a one prevail against an important foe. His own standing in the ranks of the Purple might be threatened.
He was not loved, he knew. The others-who for the most part hated and feared magic that they could not control in their hands, magic not trapped in items they could wield and understand, or that which did not come from a god who laid down strict rules for its use-would not be slow to replace him if other, more controllable mages were at hand. Of course, they would discover that they had merely exchanged one dangerous blade with another-but by then it would be too late for Malark the Mighty. What would it be? Poison? A knife while he slept? Or a magical duel? No, the last was too risky, unless he were drugged or the duel was set against him by allowing his opponent items of power or protective art arranged beforehand; otherwise, Malark might win. The Purple would run red then, indeed.
There were ten non-mages in the Purple: the renegade priest of Tales, Salvarad, the most personally dangerous of them all; their warrior lord and leader, Naergoth; seven warrior-merchants, vicious clods, all; and the soft-spoken, slimy little master thief, Zilvreen. They’d be watching Malark Himbruel to see if he put a foot wrong in this affair. They’d all be watching. Malark thought silent curses upon the head of this mysterious girl and resolved to find someone who’d seen what she’d actually done in the fray. He had to know what the secret of all this power was!
Malark let none of this show on his hawkish face as he watched the men-at-arms scrabbling about in the rocks. “Enough, Arkuel,” he called. “You and Suld, come with me. All others are to find all treasure, remains of the great Rauglothgor, and any other recently dead creatures who may be found where the lair was, and bear them to Over-sember?’ Then he turned his back upon them all and began the casting of a Tulrun’s tracer spell.
The girl who destroyed this place, Malark ordered firmly, and on a hunch he stood in the trail that led down the northern end of the rocky spur where the ruined keep had been. At once the air about him began to glow, and the radiance burst northward down the trail and into the trees below. \\fell enough. “Arkuel, Suld!” he commanded, and led his horse down the trail without looking back.
Looking back is a thing that one of the Purple cannot usually afford to do.
The Seat of Rane stood as empty as ever. The wan-faced High Imperceptor looked up to it in awe, as he always did, in case one day the Black Lord himself should indeed be sitting there. The head of the church of Bane sighed and took his own seat. He rang the little gong beside his throne with the Black Mace of Bane, wielding the great weapon with a delicacy that bespoke strength and skill surprising in one so thin and wan-looking. An upperpriest hurried in and knelt before the throne.
“Up, Kuldus,” the High Imperceptor said. “The reports should be in by now. Tell me.”
The priest nodded. “There is no report from Laelar yet, Dread Lord, or any who went with him,” he began, “but Eilius has just come from Zhentil Keep, and he says that Manshoon has been absent from the city since the meeting he dismissed, the meeting already reported to you! The other lords seek him, and that rebel Fzoul has been trying to contact Manxam and the other beholders. The Zhentarim are plotting and whispering like Calishites all this past day.” The High Imperceptor’s smile lit up his face as if a lamp had been lit within it. He rose from his seat. “Call in all the upperpriests!” he ordered. “If Laelar reports with the girl, well and good. If he reports and has not taken her, have him forget all and return here at once. To Hell with this maid and her spellfire, while we have a chance at Zhentil Keep and that traitor Fzoul! Go, speedily!” And he whirled the great mace over his head as if it weighed nothing and brought it down upon the stone altar with a crash that shook the very Seat of Bane itself. Kuldus scurried out of the room with the wild laughter of the High Imperceptor ringing in his ears.
The clear light of dawn laid a network of diamonds upon the bed as it came through the leaded windows. Narm awoke as it touched his face, reaching vaguely for a dagger or something of the sort, and abruptly recalled where they were-and where exactly he was now: in Shandril’s bedchamber. But-he reached out his hand-where was she?
He sat up abruptly, which set his head throbbing, and looked all about. The tapestries were beautiful, and even the vaulted corners of the ceiling were impressive, but they weren’t Shandril. He looked the other way, past a tall, arched wardrobe and a burnished metal mirror taller than he was, to the door-which obligingly opened. Shandril looked in and grinned.
“Ah, you’re awake at last,” she said delightedly. “Not feeling ill, I hope?”
Narm held his head for a moment, considered the nagging ache within, and said carefully, “Not really, my lady. Is there morningfeast? And-is there a chamber pot?”
Shandril laughed. “How romantic, I must say, my lord. Morningfeast is an ask-in-the-great-hall affair that lasts until highsun. The chamber pot is under there if you must, but behind that door over there is a water-bain-you flush with the jug after using it, or with the hand-pump-that all the ladies here have in their chambers. Was there not one in your room?”
“No,” Narm said, vanishing through the little door to investigate. “Nothing like. It had only a bed and a clothes-chest, a wardrobe, and a little window.”
“That,” said Jhessail from the doorway, “is because Mourngrym and Shaeril figured you’d spend far more time here.”
“Oh?” Shandril asked with lifted brows, “and how came they by that idea?”
“I suspect,” Jhessail said innocently, “that someone must have told them.” She chuckled at Narm’s hasty reappearance to find the door-handle and pull it closed behind him as he vanished again. Then they both chuckled at his muffled complaint from within.
“It’s dark enough!”
“Just like a cavern” Jhessail said encouragingly. “You’ll get used to it… or you could light the night-lamp just within the door. Only mind you put it out when you leave, or the room will be a smoke-hole the next time you want to use it.” She turned to Shandril. “Do you have plans for the day, you two?”
Shandril shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”
Jhessail got up and paced thoughtfully over to the mirror. “Well, it is usual to see the dale, your first full day, and hunt or ride the countryside after highsun, with gaming and talk in the evening… but I’d like to advise a far less interesting alternative, if I may-Narm, the lamp, remember?-at least until after the testing this evening.”
Shandril said simply, “Say on.” She plucked up Narm’s over-robe and, opening the Jakes door, thrust it within.
“If you don’t mind,” Jhessail suggested, “lllistyl and I will bring your meals. You stay here in this room until tonight. Any of the knights will come to see you, or you could spend the day together, just the two of you…” The Jakes door swung open and Narm emerged.
He grinned. “No words against that from this mouth.”
“Nor from mine,” Shandril agreed. “Only, why?”
Jhessail studied the rich rugs beneath her feet for an instant, and then raised solemn eyes to theirs. “Eight men tried to get into the tower last night, using magic. They were sent by the High Imperceptor of Bane, and they were after you, Shandril. They were to capture you for your power to wield spellfire. They were all slain, or are all dead now. They might well have succeeded except for Torm and Rathan, who were out on an extra patrol requested by Mourngrym, and Sharantyr, who went for a walk, unarmed, to clear her head.”