Istaahl stopped his work at rebuilding the broken white tower that same day, even dismissed the workers assisting him in the task. He considered going out then to King Benador to help in the bridge reconstruction, but no, he decided, by the time he even got out to the river, the work would be nearly completed. He would not go across with Benador’s legions, for his power base was the sea, not the inland plains, and by the time he got near to that power again, he would be in the shadows of Kored-dul, in the domain of Morgan Thalasi.
No, Istaahl knew, that was not his place, not his destiny in this great struggle.
Instead, he went into seclusion in the rooms below the ground level of the structure, locking himself in.
No more could he tolerate the impotence, no more could he, could all the world, tolerate the ugly plague that was Morgan Thalasi. Istaahl fell into a deep trance then, as deep as the one that had sustained him during the score of years he had been a prisoner of the Black Warlock, when Thalasi had stolen his identity to serve in disguise as Istaahl at the side of Ungden the Usurper.
Deeper and deeper the White Mage slipped, far from the world of men and beasts, into the realm of magic-his magic, the power of the sea. He knew the risks, knew the price, and soon enough it became obvious to him that the cost would not be a possibility, but a truth.
And yet he went deeper still, gave himself over heart and soul to this one great task.
This one final task.
Far to the west in the black bastion that was Talas-dun, Morgan Thalasi and Hollis Mitchell plotted and schemed, taking heart that they would soon again loose their armies upon the world, their courage bolstered by the fact that they had a most valuable prisoner now, one who would give them tremendous leverage over their enemies-particularly their two greatest enemies, the Emerald Witch and the Silver Mage.
Neither could understand or appreciate the deeper implications of the capture of Rhiannon, the solidarity and sheer determination that heinous act would inspire among their enemies. Neither could appreciate the added hours of back-breaking labor at the broken bridges, nor the ride of Bryan and the rangers, nor the charge of Arien Silverleaf and the elves, nor, most of all, the mounting, desperate efforts of Istaahl the White. That single act of capturing the witch’s daughter, who had become so beloved by the soldiers of Calva, by the elves of Lochsilinilume, and by the rangers of Avalon, had straightened the shoulders of war-weary warriors, had forced the grief aside, temporarily, in all of those who had lost so much. Now the expressions were much the same from Pallendara to the Four bridges, to Avalon, to Lochsilinilume; faces locked in grim determination.
This outrage would not stand.
Chapter 18
Tease
THE UNDERGROUND COMPLEX of the Architect Tribe was huge, tremendous, larger than anything Ardaz or Belexus would ever have believed possible. Their tunnels ran on and on, often ending in cavernous chambers, some full of stalagmite mounds, decorated pillars, carved with strange symbols and faces with exaggerated lips or ears or some other such feature. The wizard marveled at the workmanship, the artistry, and remarked repeatedly that he would simply have to return and engross himself in this most wonderful culture. Desdemona, predictably, slept through it all, while Calamus, not used to being underground, remained edgy and anxious, as did Belexus, the ranger wanting only to be on his way now that he had the all-important sword.
He grew quite impatient with Ardaz, for the wizard became distracted by every sculpture, by every ornate pillar lining every side passage. Ardaz babbled and waved his arms and promised Okin Balokey a thousand times that he would return.
On several occasions, the wizard became so distracted that Belexus had to hand over the reins of the pegasus to Del and walk over to pull Ardaz physically from whatever it was he was inspecting. After a couple of hours, with one marvel showing after another, the ranger finally just held Ardaz close at his side, his strong hand resting firmly on the wizard’s shoulder, clutching whenever Ardaz seemed about to run off for another inspection.
Despite all the delays and the nervousness of the pegasus, the detour through the tunnels proved worthwhile, when, late that afternoon, Okin Balokey led the way up a sloping corridor, into a wide chamber with only one other exit, one that more resembled a rock than a door. It seemed to the ranger that the door must weigh tons, and when he glanced around, he saw no apparent crank, nor any levers. The craftsmanship proved perfect, though, and a small push by the proudly grinning Okin Balokey had the thing pivoting around, opening the portal to the dazzling daylight beyond.
Belexus stepped out first, squinting and glancing about, looking for familiar landmarks. He did indeed spot one, a peak he knew well, and he realized then that the shortcut through the tunnels had taken them far under the mountains, back to an area that would have taken the pegasus three days of flying, and that in good and warm weather, weaving about the tall peaks and landing often, that Belexus and Ardaz might take a break from the too-cold air.
“Dere you go, boss,” Okin remarked. “You should be staying in dem tunnels dis cold night, and be out early in the morning.”
It was an invitation that Belexus, to Ardaz’ obvious relief, could not refuse, and so the three, and the pegasus and cat, followed Okin back into the complex, to a nearby room that had already been prepared for them.
“We’re owing ye much,” the ranger remarked to the brown-skinned man before he departed.
“Dat you are,” Okin Balokey replied with a chuckle. “So you be using well dat sword!” he insisted. “You make Pouilla Camby sing. Dat be de way you pay back the Architect Tribe.”
They shook hands then, and it seemed to DelGiudice that the often-aloof ranger was full of gratitude and warmth toward these mountain folk.
The next morning, after many good-byes to Okin and several others who had come back with him, the friends were off, Calamus flying hard to the south and west. The day was not especially cold, and the pegasus stayed aloft for many minutes at a time, and that evening, the friends camped in a sheltered lea only three short hours’ travel from Lochsilinilume. The ranger was even more eager now, pacing and mumbling, handling often the magnificent sword, the promise of vengeance upon the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.
Del, too, was anxious that night, as memories of the Silver City of the elves flooded back to him, filled him with joy. In his previous existence, the ghost had found his finest moments in Lochsilinilume, except perhaps for those in Avalon, and the prospect of seeing both places again thrilled him-to the bone, he supposed, if he’d had any bones. Ardaz didn’t help things much that night, reminding Del of all the joys: the elven dance, the wine, the free-spirited people at play in the snow, and, reminding him, mostly, of the witch of the wood.
Thus, they were out before the dawn, flying though the sun-sparkles that only touched the very tallest peaks of the easternmost mountains. They saw the candles burning as they came over the valley of the elves, and saw, too, many more fires, campfires, down the mountainside from that valley, spread wide on the field of Mountaingate, awaiting the break of day.
“We must investigate,” Ardaz reasoned, prodding Belexus to keep the pegasus flying on, right over the Silver City. The wizard looked to DelGiudice then, and bade the spirit to go on ahead, to determine whether those campfires belonged to friend or foe. When Del returned to the other two a few minutes later, he brought curious news.