The world seemed strangely muted as he galloped toward the Oreska. The streets, the pale morning sky, the sound of Cynril's hooves-all had a vague, muffled air, as if he were observing the scene from a distance through one of Nysander's magnifying lenses. But somewhere behind the protective barrier of shock, the anguish was building.
Not yet. Not yet. So much to do.
He pelted on through the streets, through the Oreska gate and the scented gardens, not slowing his horse until he reached the House itself. Reining in, he leapt from the saddle and took the steps two at a time.
The atrium reeked of smoke and magic. The mosaic floor was scorched and cracked, the dragon design nearly obliterated. Where the arched doors leading to the museum had been, there was now a gaping hole partially blocked by rubble.
Afterward, Seregil could not recall how he got upstairs, or who had let him into the tower, but when he finally stopped running, he was at Nysander's bedroom door and Valerius was blocking his way.
"Is he alive?" Seregil panted, heart hammering in his chest.
The drysian nodded, frowning. "Yes, for the moment at least."
"Then let me pass. I've got to talk to him!"
Seregil tried to shoulder past but Valerius grabbed his arm, holding him back with considerable insistence.
"Gently, Seregil. Gently," he warned.
"By all the medicine I know, he shouldn't have survived such an attack. A good many others weren't so fortunate. But all the same, he won't let any of us ease his pain as much as we should until he's spoken with you. Be quick and don't tax his strength. He's got none to spare."
Stepping aside, Valerius opened the door and followed Seregil in.
Nysander lay on his side beneath a clean white sheet. His eyes were shut, his face slack.
Hwerlu knelt at the end of the bed, tears streaming from his strange horse eyes as he played a song of healing. Two unfamiliar drysians, a woman and a boy, stood chanting softly nearby.
Valerius exchanged a brief word with them and they withdrew.
Seregil went to the bed and knelt beside Nysander. The wizard's breathing was so shallow Seregil could scarcely hear it.
"What happened?" he whispered, gently touching the old man's cheek. It was as cold and moist as clay.
"There was a great noise in the night, like thunder and battle," Hwerlu told him, still playing as he spoke. "The sound of it woke us in our grove. As I ran to the House, I saw a dark shape rise above it, very large. It disappeared against the darkness of the sky.
I ran on, and inside I found a scene of such carnage—"
The centaur's fingers faltered briefly on the harp strings. "The intruders had brought swordsmen as well as wizards. So many dead!"
"But how?" Seregil asked in disbelief. "How did they get so many in? Illior's Hands, this is the Oreska House!"
"Through the front gate, and the sewers, it appears,"
Valerius said behind him.
"The sewers? But I thought that had all been taken care of after Alec and I found out about Rhythel."
"As it turns out, the authorities concentrated only on those routes that might lead toward the Palace. It's also possible someone was paid to turn a blind eye here and there. Whatever the case, just after the alarm went up, another group, mostly swordsmen, burst through the garden. How they got in unnoticed is another mystery, but the main attack seems to have come up through the vaults."
Seregil sank his head into his hands. "All those dead gate— runners this winter. By the Four, if I'd gotten to Rythel sooner, we might have been able to stop this!"
Nysander's eyelids fluttered slightly.
"Mardus," he whispered, the word scarcely audible.
"It was Mardus, I saw him, a dyrmagnos, more—"
His voice failed, but his lips kept moving.
Seregil leaned down, placing his ear close to Nysander's lips to catch the faint words.
"Eater of Death." It was hardly more than a breath, but unmistakable. Nysander shuddered and closed his eyes, fighting a wave of pain. Yet he struggled on, forcing the words out breath by breath. "Where-Alec?"
"They took him, left me this." Seregil pulled out the dagger and held it up for Nysander to see.
The wizard gazed at the lock of hair, then squeezed his eyes shut as another spasm wrenched through him.
"It's not your fault." The words felt like ashes in Seregil's mouth. His emotional defenses were beginning to erode, laying bare the first jagged shards of rage and grief lying just beneath the surface.
"It has begun," Nysander gasped out, his agitation clear. It took every ounce of will he possessed to go on shaping the words. "One place and one time-in Plenimar, beneath the pillar of the sky— The temple-temple—"
"A temple in Plenimar. Where, Nysander? Damnation, you have to tell me where!"
"Synodical—"
Nysander murmured regretfully as blackness surged over him again.
"What? Nysander, what does that mean?" Seregil turned to Valerius. "Isn't there anything you can do? Alec's life may depend on it!"
Taking Seregil by the arm, Valerius drew him away from the bed. "Give him a little time. He must rest or he may never recover. You look like you could use some attention yourself. I'll call for Darbia."
"I don't need anything," Seregil hissed through clenched teeth, straining to see over the drysian's shoulder as the larger man urged him toward the door.
"I've got to know what he meant! It may be too late already."
"If he doesn't rest now he'll never be able to tell you anything again. A few hours, perhaps less. Don't leave the tower, I'll come to you as soon as I've finished here. Now get out!" With a final none-too-gentle shove, Valerius thrust Seregil out into the corridor and shut the door in his face.
Seregil stood there, alone in the corridor, Alec's dagger clutched in one fist. Smoothing the lock of hair between his fingers, he spoke half aloud the words he'd bitten back in the sickroom.
"Tell me, Nysander, can your magic protect him now?"
33
Micum felt the roundness of Kari's belly between them as they embraced. Magyana's message sphere hovered nearby, gleaming greenly in the corner of their guest chamber at Lord Warnik's keep.
"I'm sorry, love, but something's happened and Magyana's waiting." Micum gently stroked a tear from her cheek. How many times had there been someone waiting, calling him away? How many times had she sent him on his way with that small, tight-lipped smile?
"Go on then," she said brusquely, folding her arms. "Sakor guide you safely back."
Shouldering his traveling bundle, Micum turned to the sphere. "I'm ready."
A large oval of darkness yawned where the sphere had been. With a final wave, he stepped through. An instant later he found himself standing in Nysander's casting room. A few feet away the wizard sat on a low stool, looking utterly exhausted. Her brocade robe was dirty and bloodstained, her long silver hair in disarray over her shoulders.
"What's happened?" Micum asked in alarm.
Sinking down on one knee in front of her, he took her hands in his and found them icy cold.
"The Oreska House was attacked last night,"she told him, her voice trembling.
"Nysander was hurt terribly, and many others are dead. I'd have brought you in sooner, but I had to rest a bit first. Oh, Micum, it was terrible, so terrible."
"Then they were right, after all," he groaned, gathering the old woman in his arms. "It was the Plenimarans?"
"Led by Duke Mardus himself. He had necromancers, and a dyrmagnos."
"Where's Seregil? And Alec?"
Magyana shook her head. "Wethis was sent to fetch them. They may be here already. Come, I must be with Nysander."
Downstairs they met a drysian woman coming out of Nysander's chamber with a basin and stained clothes.