Azoun shook his head. “I don’t. You’re my most trusted advisor. My best friend. Please, try to remember. Tell me about Tanalasta.”
“Undo this.” Vangerdahast jerked against the binding on his left hand. “Just this one-then I’ll tell you.”
Azoun cast a querying glance at Owden.
The priest shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell you anyway, and it’s too dangerous. He could wipe us all out with one spell.”
“Don’t listen to the groundsplitter!” Vangerdahast’s head began to throb with the effort of finding some spell to help him escape. “He’s afraid of my power.”
“And rightly so,” said Owden.
Vangerdahast turned to glare at the priest. Owden’s hand came out of his pocket sprinkling yellow dust, but Vangerdahast was too quick for the priest and managed to shut his eyes.
“Do you know where you are, Vangerdahast?” asked Owden. “Do you remember what happened to your head?”
Vangerdahast did not open his eyes. “My head hurts. You did something to it.”
“Not me,” said Owden. “It was the thing that came back with you.”
“You!” Vangerdahast insisted.
“It slapped you in the head, then went after Azoun-“
“No!”
At last, the incantation of a blinding spell popped into Vangerdahast’s head. It would not free him, and it would only affect one person-but if he chose the right person, perhaps he could cause enough confusion to get at one of Owden’s torture knives on the table beside him.
Vangerdahast turned his head toward Azoun and began to repeat the incantation, then smelled something strident and saw Owden sprinkle some glittering droplets into his face. He squeaked out one more syllable, then the room went dark, and he was seized by a sudden sensation of falling.
Sometime much later, Vangerdahast woke bound and naked, covered by a single fresh linen, surrounded by the haggard-looking enemies of the state. To the right stood Owden Foley, a clammy cold cloth in one hand and a brass basin in the other. Alaphondar Emmarask and Merula the Marvelous watched from the foot of the bed, eyes beady and observant, alert as always for any sign that the royal magician knew their thoughts. He did of course, but he could not let them see it, or they would kill him on the spot.
To the wizard’s left stood Azoun IV, arm hanging in a sling and his shoulder wrapped in a fresh bandage.
Vangerdahast did not recall how he had come to be the prisoner of the realm’s enemies. He did not recall anything, save for a faint odor that faded from his memory even as he tried to hold onto it. The only thing that looked vaguely familiar were the log joists and rough hewn planks above his head-the ceiling of his prison, or the floor of the chamber above. It depended on one’s perspective, really, and it seemed to him that there ought to be an escape in that, if he could just recall the right spell.
“Vangerdahast?” asked the rat-faced priest. “Do you know where you are?”
Vangerdahast knew exactly where he was-in a prisoner’s tower-but he would not give his captors the pleasure of hearing him admit it. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over to see the king grasping his shoulder.
“Old friend, do you remember me?”
“Of course.” Vangerdahast decided to stall for time and hope he could recall the spell he needed. “How could I Forget the usur-er, the king?”
Azoun relaxed visibly. “Thank the All Mother!” he gasped. “Do you remember my daughter? Can you tell me what happened to Tanalasta?”
The battle in the canyon returned to him in a flood, the first ghazneth knocking him from his horse with the dismembered body of an orc, the steel gate suddenly appearing with the second ghazneth behind it naked and wild-eyed, reaching for Tanalasta and the ranger, the ranger leaping from his grasp, that harlot of a princess flinging herself after him…
“It’s… it’s all so fuzzy.” Vangerdahast shook his head, then tried to sit up. When his bindings prevented it, he lifted his left arm and looked to the king. “Do you think I could-“
“Of course.”
Azoun started to pull his dagger to cut the bindings, but Owden leaned across the bed to restrain him. “Not yet, Majesty.”
“Not yet?” Vangerdahast yelled. He whirled on the priest and screamed, “Release me! Release me now, or I swear you will rue this day when the crown is mine!”
A weary groan escaped Azoun’s lips, and Vangerdahast saw at once that he was losing all hope of tricking his captors into releasing him. He turned to the king.
“It seems to be coming back.” He closed his eyes in concentration, though what he was concentrating on was recalling some spell that he could cast without his hands. “Perhaps if you let me have just one hand so I could tug on my beard. Yes, that’s it. Tugging on my beard always helps.”
Azoun merely shook his head and glared at Owden. “How much longer?”
The priest could only shrug. “I’m sure His Majesty cannot recall, but his own convalescence was difficult as well, and his wounds were not nearly as grievous as those of the royal magician.”
Vangerdahast blinked several times, then turned his head toward Owden. “Wait. I’m feeling much better now.”
“That’s good,” said Owden. “Can you remember what became of the princess?”
Vangerdahast nodded, and the incantation of his dimension door spell returned to him in a flash. It was a quick and simple alteration no more than half a dozen syllables long. Confident that he would soon be looking at the planks from the other side, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling and started his incantation-then smelled something familiar and strident as Owden Foley’s hand flashed into sight and flung a stream of glittering drops into his eyes.
Vangerdahast had the sudden sensation of falling, and the chamber went dark, and he woke later to find himself bound and naked, covered by a single linen, surrounded by enemies of the realm. Owden Foley stood to his right, a clammy cold cloth in one hand and a brass basin in the other. Alaphondar Emmarask and Merula the Marvelous watched from the foot of the bed, the one with eyes sunken and bloodshot from reading too much, the other dressed in a dusty robe, looking rather spectral and hollow-cheeked for a man of such robust proportions. To the wizard’s left stood Azoun IV in badly dented field armor, a new steel patch covering a jagged hole high on his breastplate.
“Azoun?” gasped Vangerdahast. “Have you been fighting?”
“Thank the gods!” The king clasped Vangerdahast’s shoulder. “You’re back among us.”
Vangerdahast glanced at the hand on his shoulder. “That’s awfully presumptuous, don’t you think?” The wizard lifted an arm to brush away the offending appendage, but found his wrist tied to the bed frame by a stout cord. He glared at the rope in disbelief, then demanded, “What’s the meaning of this? Remove it at once!”
Owden Foley leaned over the wizard and grasped his other arm. “Perhaps later,” he said. “Do you know where you are?”
Vangerdahast scowled. “Of course! I’m in my room in… We’re in the palace at…” He stared up at the familiar-looking joists and planks above his head, but for the life of him could not remember what city they were in. He pondered this for a moment, then reached the only possible conclusion. “You’ve kidnapped me!”
Azoun spewed an unspeakable curse on the goddess Chauntea, then started around the bed to leave. Owden raised a finger.
“One minute, Sire.”
The king glared at the priest. “Just one. I still have a wife to save, even if my daughter is beyond hope.”
Vangerdahast raised his head. “The queen?”
Owden nodded eagerly. “Yes, you remember the queen.”
“Filfaeril?”
“Queen Filfaeril,” Owden confirmed. “Do you remember what happened to her?”
“Of course!” Vangerdahast remembered everything: the battle in the canyon, Tanalasta flinging herself after Rowen, being attacked in the stable yard, trying to knock Filfaeril out of the ghazneth’s grasp. “Is the queen well?”
“That is impossible to say,” said Azoun. “The last time we saw her, she was definitely alive.”