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“Really?” Vangerdahast asked. Being careful not to look in Tanalasta’s direction, he slipped a hand into his pocket and fished for a scrap of silk. “I didn’t know you had taught her to read elven glyphs.”

Alaphondar nodded. “Oh yes, of course. Post Thaugloraneous glyphs are a standard for well-bred princesses these days.”

Tanalasta’s red eyes flickered about the chamber, studying each man in turn. Vangerdahast was careful to keep a neutral expression. Alusair wouldn’t know a glyph from a rune, and he had a pretty good idea what Alaphondar was trying to tell him.

But Owden was not as quick to appreciate the situation. “Post-Thaugloraneous glyphs?” he asked, incredulous. “As in the dragon Thauglor?”

“A groundsplitter wouldn’t understand,” growled Vangerdahast. Continuing to look at Alaphondar, he casually drew the silk scrap from his pocket. “Did she say anything else?”

“She wanted to know the words of Alaundo’s prophecy.” The sage’s eyes shifted in Tanalasta’s direction. He hesitated a moment, giving Vangerdahast a somewhat more obvious cue than necessary, then said, “You know the one, don’t you, Xanthon? ‘Seven scourges, five that were, one of the day…’ “

“Xanthon!” Vangerdahast spun instantly, flinging the silken scrap in the direction of the ghazneth imposter.

Had he not been slowed by a pounding head and aching joints, he might have been quick enough to catch the phantom. As matters were, however, Xanthon was already gone. Vangerdahast’s magic web spattered across the floor and wall, encasing dozens of snakes and an untold number of insects.

Alaphondar shrieked in pain, and Vangerdahast swung his glowing wand around to see the imposter clinging to the sage from below, claws sunk deep into the old man’s flanks. The extra weight was slowly dragging both Alaphondar and Owden down toward the poisonous tangle on the floor, but Xanthon was not content to wait for his swarms to finish the job. He drew his head back and stretched up to bite Alaphondar’s neck.

Vangerdahast leveled his wand at Xanthon’s temple and uttered his command word. There was a deafening crack and a blinding flash, then the thud of a body slamming into a wall. Still blinking the blindness out of his eyes, the wizard reached out and caught Owden by the back of the cloak.

“Are you still flying?” he asked.

“For now,” came the reply.

As Vangerdahast’s vision cleared, he saw that his lightning bolt had knocked Xanthon into the morass of sticky filaments strewn across the far side the room. The imposter hung sideways on the wall, struggling against his bonds and spewing foul curses on Azoun’s name. He still bore a faint resemblance to Tanalasta, but the illusion was no longer strong. The ghazneth had suffered no damage, of course, and the sticky filaments of web were fast growing translucent, but he would remain trapped for at least a few moments.

Vangerdahast turned to check on Alaphondar. The old sage hung limp but breathing in Owden’s arms, the long gashes in his flank already puffy and red with purulence. The wizard laid a gentle hand on his friend’s arm.

“Tanalasta is safe?”

“For now,” Alaphondar replied. “She is with Alusair.”

“You are sure?”

When the sage nodded, Vangerdahast drew his iron dagger and looked back to Xanthon. The phantom’s eyes turned orange with fear, and he began to struggle even more fiercely than before. One arm came free, and he began to hack at the web with the sharp talons at the ends of his fingers.

“Not this time, traitor,” hissed Vangerdahast. “Now you pay.”

The royal magician uttered a quick incantation, then hurled his iron dagger across the room. The weapon took Xanthon square in the chest, splitting the sternum and sinking to the hilt. The ghazneth thrashed about madly, shrieking in anguish and trying to jerk free of the web. When the struggle continued for several moments with no sign of abating, Vangerdahast realized he would have to help matters along. Already, Xanthon had torn his back and one leg free.

The wizard passed his glowing wand to Owden, then reached for the priest’s weapon belt. “I need a hammer. Let me borrow your mace.”

That was enough for Xanthon. He plucked the iron dagger from his chest and began to slash, hacking at his own flesh in his haste to escape. Vangerdahast fumbled frantically with Owden’s mace, struggling to free the weapon and pull it past Alaphondar’s groaning form. By the time he had the head loose, Xanthon was standing upright on the floor, black blood pouring from the gaping hole in his chest.

The phantom hurled the iron dagger at Vangerdahast, then turned and fled through the door. Only the wizard’s magic shielding kept the knife from opening his skull.

Vangerdahast cursed, then caught Owden’s eye and glanced at Alaphondar. “Can you save him?”

Owden scowled, clearly insulted by the question. “Of course, but I will need a safe place to work-and for him to rest.”

“Then I will give you one.” Leaving Owden’s mace hanging half out of its belt ring, Vangerdahast reached into Alaphondar’s weathercloak. “Pardon me, my friend.”

He grabbed a pocket by the outside lining and tore it free, then held the resulting pouch in the air. Keeping one eye on the door lest Xanthon return, he spread the pocket and spoke a long incantation. When he finished, the pocket mouth expanded to the size of a trap door. Vangerdahast released the pouch, and it continued to hover in the air.

“You can take refuge in there. Pull the mouth in after you and no one can touch you-they won’t even know you’re there.” Vangerdahast drew the mace from Owden’s belt. “And don’t come out until you hear me calling-even if it seems like tendays. Time will be strange inside, so it may be that only a matter of seconds has passed out here.”

Owden glanced at his mace and cocked a brow. “And what are you going to do?”

“Avenge a betrayal,” Vangerdahast said. “And stop a scourge.”

“No!” Alaphondar’s voice was barely a whisper “The door no man can close… you’ll open it!”

“It appears Xanthon has already opened that door.”

Vangerdahast looked away, peering through the chamber’s profane darkness into the adjacent passageway.

“And I am going to slam it in his face.”

21

The sliver rotated in Vangerdahast’s palm, pointing around the corner into the swarming darkness of the lower keep. The wizard floated to the far wall to peer into the next section of corridor. When he found nothing lurking in ambush except more snakes and insects, he eased forward and continued down the passageway. With three different spells shielding him from harm, he was not overly concerned about being attacked-but a wise hunter treated his prey with respect.

The corridor continued past another half a dozen doors, all as rotten and slime-caked as the first. The air was warmer and more fetid than ever, though thankfully it no longer made the royal magician feel quite so ill. Before parting ways, Owden had insisted on casting a few spells of his own, calling upon Chauntea to guard the wizard against the disease, poison, and evil of the place. To Vangerdahast’s surprise, his strength had quickly returned, and even the doors seemed to swirl away from him as it passed. This small service could not make him embrace Tanalasta’s royal temple, of course-but he would not be above saying a prayer or two of thanks when everyone returned to Suzail.

As Vangerdahast approached the next corner, the sliver in his palm stood on end. This perplexed him, until he rounded the bend and the tiny piece of wood fell flat again, then swiveled around to point back into the corner. The wizard turned around and drifted lower to inspect the area. He had traded his glowing wand for Alaphondar’s commander’s ring so his hands would be free to fight, but the ring’s light was even more limited than that of his wand. He had to descend to within an arm’s length of the floor before he noticed the ribbons of yellow fume spiraling down through a tangle of red-banded snakes.