The magi concurred with the suggestion and the council dispersed. Nudin beckoned Lot-Ionan to the north-facing window.
Seen from close range, the ruler of Lios Nudin looked bloated and swollen. The whites of his eyes were shot with red veins and his pupils glinted feverishly. It was clear to Lot-Ionan that he was seriously ill.
Just then Nudin was seized by a coughing fit and held a handkerchief to his mouth. With his free hand he steadied himself on his maple staff. He stuffed the handkerchief hastily away.
Lot-Ionan thought he glimpsed blood on the cloth. "You should ask Sabora to lay hands on you," he said anxiously. "You look…To be honest, you don't look well."
Nudin arranged his swollen features into a smile. "It's nothing, just a nasty cold. It's good for the body to have something to pit itself against." He gave Lot-Ionan an approving nod. "That was an excellent idea of yours, you know. Even Andфkai was convinced of the scheme, so the others are bound to fall into line." His face went a violent shade of purple as he struggled to suppress another cough. "We magi have pursued our own private interests for too long," he continued in a strangled voice. "I'm not talking about Sabora, of course; she's always been different. But it's good to see that there are some things on which the council is prepared to take a stand. It's a pity it had to come to this first."
"Indeed," Lot-Ionan said uncertainly. For once Nudin seemed perfectly amenable and even his condescending tone was gone. If this was the effect of the illness, Andфkai and Turgur could do with catching it as well. "Are you sure we shouldn't be calling you Nudin the Solicitous?"
Nudin chuckled good-humoredly and ended up coughing instead. Lot-Ionan caught a clear glimpse of blood on his lips before he hurriedly dabbed it away.
"That does it. I'm sending you to Sabora," the white-bearded magus said firmly. This time it was an order. "The ritual will be draining and you look weak enough as it is."
Nudin raised his hands in surrender. "I give in," he rasped. "I'll go to Sabora. But one last question: Where are my artifacts, old friend?"
Lot-Ionan had rather hoped that the matter had been forgotten. "I left them in Ionandar," he admitted. "I'll get my famuli to bring them when they come."
Nudin smiled. "Well, at least you know where they are now. Don't worry. There's no rush. The Perished Land is our primary concern."
"It slipped my mind entirely. I meant to go through the cabinet in my study and pack the things together, but after what you told me about the orcs and the girdle…"
Nudin gave him a pat on the back. "Don't worry about it." He swayed slightly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll lie down." He turned and made for the door, his voluminous robes rustling softly and his staff tapping out a steady rhythm against the floor.
"Don't forget to see Sabora!" Lot-Ionan called after him.
Pensively, he gazed out of the window beyond the artful palace gardens and over the roofs of Porista to the horizon where the green plains fused with the bright blue sky. There was no sign of the Perished Land from this distance, but he knew it was there, only a few miles from the city.
After a while he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and a delicate fragrance wafted through the air. It had been a long time since he had smelled that perfume and his old heart quickened. He placed his right hand over hers. "My favorite maga," he said, turning to face Sabora.
"My favorite magus," she replied with a smile.
He was always delighted to see Sabora. They shared the same attitude where aging was concerned: Neither attempted to disguise the passage of time. He found it reassuring that he wasn't the only one with wrinkles, especially when the others looked so young.
No one could accuse Lot-Ionan of being vain, but the meetings in Porista made him feel ancient. Andфkai, with her hundred and fifty cycles, looked no older than thirty, while Maira could be taken for fifty, despite being six times that age. Turgur, of course, was always refining his looks and maintained the appearance of a vigorous man of forty cycles.
Sabora guessed his thoughts. "Oh, Lot-Ionan," she commiserated, "they're getting older as well, you know." They embraced.
"So tell me about your work," she said when they finally drew apart.
"It was coming along nicely until one of my assistants ruined a vital part of the formula before I had a chance to try it out," he reported. "Still, it won't be long before I can render the presence of magic in people and objects visible to the eye. It should mean a breakthrough in our understanding of what magic energy really is. But let's hear about you. Can you cure all our illnesses and ailments?"
Sabora slipped her arm through his and they set off leisurely through the arcades. "I've mastered injuries and wounds and now I'm focusing my efforts on eliminating the plague. I've been quite successful, actually," she confided. "The trouble is, there's no shortage of people with new and mysterious diseases. The gods send us new ailments every day."
"You'll get there eventually," he said encouragingly. "Has Nudin been to see you? He looks dreadful."
Sabora shook her head. "I saw him hurry past earlier, but he didn't stop to talk." A mischievous smile spread across her face. "If it's his waistline that's bothering him, he'd better ask Turgur. He's the one who knows how to remodel his body and his face."
"He must be nearing his goal, don't you think? He seems to have lost more of his wrinkles since the last time I saw him. Everlasting beauty can't be much farther off."
They stopped in one of the palace's many gardens and sat down.
Sabora laid her head on Lot-Ionan's shoulder. "It's incredible, isn't it?" she said softly. "We all pursue such different goals, but for once we're in agreement."
"Maira's support was as good as guaranteed. I suppose you've heard that she's opened her forests to the purest animals of Girdlegard? She's determined to save them from the orcs. As the eldest among us, she knows better than anyone what the northern pestilence would do to Girdlegard."
"Yes, her realm is a sanctuary. The last of the unicorns have taken refuge in Oremaira." She paused. "If everything goes to plan, Girdlegard will be safer than it has been for eleven hundred cycles-and it won't be a moment too soon."
Lot-Ionan laid an arm around her shoulders, savoring her presence. Duty and geography made such moments all too rare. "I was pleasantly surprised by Turgur," he confessed. "He usually seems so self-obsessed. His life revolves around physical perfection, beauty, aesthetics, and yet…"
Sabora laughed. "I expect he's worried about his flawless blossoms and flower beds. He's lavished so much time on perfecting his gardens that it would be a pity to see them ruined by the Perished Land." She straightened up suddenly. "I heard Gorйn was here. Wasn't he one of your apprentices?"
"Gorйn? What would Gorйn be doing in Porista? He lives in Greenglade."
"Turgur said something about a meeting he held with Gorйn and one of Nudin's apprentices. It was here in Porista, the last time we met."
"Now, that sounds suspicious," the magus said jokingly. "Turgur the Fair-Faced meets two of his rivals' apprentices and steals their secrets. He'd know all about my work!"
"Much good it would do him: charmed beauty combined with the power of discerning magical presences, and…" She hesitated. "What does Nudin do?"
"He hasn't said." The magus shrugged. "Judging by the look of him, he doesn't have time for exercise, so it must be demanding." Now that he thought about it, he was intrigued; at the next opportunity he would ask Turgur what Gorйn had wanted in Porista. "Let's forget about the others," he said tenderly, wrapping his arms around Sabora and hugging her gently. "We don't spend nearly enough time together."
"You're right," she said. "I'll ask Andфkai to swap kingdoms and then we'll be a little closer."