“Amazing,” Favaronas breathed. “Does this occur every year on this date?”
The sorcerer flicked a contemptuous look at him. “Barring clouds, it occurs at every sunset, but it is visible only from this exact point in the valley.”
That seemed unlikely to Favaronas, knowing what he did about the movement of celestial bodies during the course of a year, but Faeterus’s next words explained the discrepancy: magic was at work.
“The glory of the sign,” the sorcerer said, “is not a natural occurrence, and no mortal mind can retain its detail. I must make an impression of it when it appears. It is the key to my quest.”
The apparition’s words echoed in Favaronas’s memory:
Seize the key before the door opens.
Faeterus gave him new instructions. He wanted a small fire kindled at a particular spot on the Stair. Favaronas scurried away to gather tinder. He made several trips, dumping fistfuls of dry leaves and twigs by a waist-high block of dark blue basalt. The block had a shallow depression in its top. While Favaronas fetched and carried, Faeterus produced tiny flasks and small suede bags from inside his ponderous robes. These he arranged atop the stone block, then added a large, shiny coin and a small trinket on a chain. Favaronas managed to pass close enough to identify the coin as a Khurish begon, a silver piece whose name meant “loaf of bread.” The trinket and chain carried the black patina of tarnish, and the archivist deduced it must be silver too. it resembled a four-footed animal, perhaps a cat.
When Favaronas had the fire burning, Faeterus ordered him to find water. Favaronas’s stomach chose that moment to offer a loud grumble. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.
“Care to share my fare, elf spawn?”
Favaronas looked away from the mocking voice and blank hood and went to search for water.
They’d passed no springs on their ascent. He’d have to go higher. With much puffing, he climbed the steep slope behind the Stair. The sun was down, and the growing dark made his quest all the more difficult. He poked among thorny shrubs and peered under rock ledges. All he found were patches of leathery lichen.
Pausing to rest, he looked down on the Stair. The notion of escape was alluring, but be couldn’t muster the nerve. Faeterus was in no better physical shape than he and likely couldn’t catch him if it came to a foot race. But the sorcerer might hurl a thunderbolt at him or blind him or lame him. Favaronas shuddered at the possibilities his imagination conjured. If a warrior had stood in his place, that worthy might have found an opportunity to escape or to kill his captor. Favaronas was no warrior.
It wasn’t only fear that held him back. Weak and beaten as he was, he still clung to a faint hope that he could foil Faeterus’s evil machinations. Perhaps he might yet be able to serve his people.
A force tugged on the hem of his robe, pulling him off balance and forcing him to scrabble wildly to avoid a fall. The invisible hand of Faeterus beckoned. Favaronas hurried back down the mountainside and reported his failure to find water.
“A pity. I’ll have to use the drinking supply.”
Favaronas’s throat was terribly dry, but he maintained a prudent silence.
The sorcerer was grinding powders in the hollow atop the basalt block. The tarnished silver necklace and the begon sat in a shallow pan. Into the pan, he poured liquid from a pottery flask. The silver items hissed and bubbled, sending an ugly stench into the evening air. Some sort of vitriol. Favaronas edged upwind from it.
The contents of their only water bottle went into the pot. Faeterus sprinkled in the powders he’d mixed then added the hissing, stinking contents of the shallow pan. The vitriol had completely dissolved the silver coin and necklace.
A light breeze had come up, and the fire wavered. A sharp command from Faeterus sent Favaronas hurrying to add more wood.
Faeterus next produced a parchment, one very long, continuous sheet. “Set the pot by the fire,” he said. “Stoke the flames to medium intensity. And mind what you do! Spill that pot, and you’ll die right now!”
Favaronas placed the pot carefully next to the fire. The corrosive mixture continued to swirl as if stirred by an unseen hand. Its noxious fumes set Favaronas to coughing. Faeterus pointed a finger at him, and the archivist was horrified to feel his lips seal themselves shut again. He inhaled and exhaled rapidly through his nose and retreated to the far side of the platforms but Faeterus wasn’t done with him. The finger pointed again, and Favaronas’s legs fused at the ankles. As with his mouth, there was no outward trace of a seam. His ankles were welded together as though he’d been born that way. Caught completely by surprise, he lost his balance and fell.
The scroll proved long enough to stretch from one side of the Stair to the other. Unrolling it, Faeterus made use of the stones and tree branches Favaronas had collected. At intervals along the parchment’s length, he erected the spindly branches, supporting each with a pile of stones. He lifted the parchment, turned it on its edge, and wove it in and out of the natural forks in the branches. With a scrap of cloth from his robe and a short branch, he fashioned a makeshift swab and dipped it into the liquid simmering by the fire. He painted the liquid onto the upright sheet of parchment, covering only the side facing the valley. Then he settled himself by the dying fire.
“Now we shall see what we shall see.”
A wave of his hand brought Favaronas’s eyelids down and sealed them. That was a new horror. Blind, mouthless, hobbled, Favaronas screamed against his own flesh until he could scream no more.
Chapter 15
The sun bathed the city in gentle, golden warmth. Trees spread their shading canopies over broad streets and slender paths. Towers and other buildings rose above the trees, not competing with them, but coexisting in close harmony. Warm stone set off green leaves that exactly matched the green copper sheathing on the tower roofs. Four especially tall towers rose from the city’s outer corners. Arching crystalline bridges, delicate as lace, connected the four towers and enclosed the city like a glittering crown.
From the lofty vantage point of the palace’s highest terrace, Qualinost seemed unreal in its serenity and impossible beauty. Gilthas stood alone on the terrace, looking out on the city he ruled. He was filled with such peace, he felt his heart would burst from the sheer joy of it. He would be content to remain here forever, drinking in that view. He’d read once that when the emperors of old Ergoth passed away, their bodies were converted by magic into stone statues. Perhaps when his life drew to a close, he could become a statue, and be placed here, forever overlooking the city and its people.
Smiling, he chided himself for such morbid thoughts. A Speaker’s duty was to the living. However much he wished to linger, matters of state would not wait. He delayed only a moment longer, drinking in the blue of the sky and the infinite varieties of green in the trees, breathing deeply of the scents of jasmine and orange blossom carried by the breeze. Finally, like a reluctant swain, he turned away, his fingers reaching out for one last touch of the smooth wood of the balcony’s railing.
The palace was alive with activity. Servants moved swiftly through side corridors bearing food and drink, hampers of linen, or pots of living flowers. In the main passages, soldiers of the royal guard kept watch as all manner of people strolled the elegant halls. The Speaker’s daily audience would commence soon, and favor-seekers already were jockeying for position.