There were five other sorcerers in the room when they arrived-two Black Robes, three White. They nodded to Leciane as she followed Khadar through the door. She returned the gesture, then turned, gazing across the House of the Guardians.
The House was a dimly lit cavern deep beneath the Tower, its walls hewn out of golden sandstone. The mages stood on a narrow ledge. Beyond, the floor dropped away into a bowl thirty paces across. Standing in the hollow, arrayed in neat rows and columns, were the Guardians: half a hundred statues of malachite, their green surfaces glistening in the glow of the magical lamps that hovered in the air. The statues were of warriors, nine-foot men in suits of scale mail of a style that had been archaic centuries ago. In their hands they held curved swords, a pair each, crossed across their chests. Their heads were those of animals-dogs and hawks, serpents and lions, all drawn into fearsome snarls. Their eyes were shut.
Leciane stared at them. When the mages built the Tower, they had crafted the statues to serve as its protectors. Not once in the millennia since had the wizards used them. There had been no need. Now, though, the Guardians must be awakened.
“Come, my kin in the Art,” said Khadar, beckoning the others near. “Give your power to me, that I may do this thing.”
The other wizards exchanged meaningful glances, then walked toward the master, forming a circle around him. Another time, Leciane might have chuckled to see those in the White Robes mingling with their dark-souled cousins, but not now.
She went to work, her hands dancing in the air, fingers weaving and twitching to form the gestures of power. The other five mages surrounding Khadar did the same. They moved in unison, like Karthayan dancers, every movement graceful and precise. As one, their voices rose to chant.
“Mapothi sek bunaru, jandoth lo shakar. Fas uganti yasham, tsarlas gangatiad … ”
All at once, sparks leaped from the wizards’ fingertips, matching the sorcerers’ robes-blazing white, oddly radiant black, and, from Leciane, blood red. This was pure magic, the essence of the three moons. With the rest of her brothers and sisters, Leciane extended her arms, pointing at the Master, her voice rising into a shout.
“Kusat kelas bandonai!”
The magic flowed from her in a rash-great, writhing ropes of it, the color of rubies, clothed in scarlet mist. Inky streams and milky ones joined it, striking Khadar all at once.
He jerked, his back arching as the magic struck him, pouring together the strength of Solinari, Nuitari, and Luntari. Leciane found herself envying the Master. What he was feeling now, few wizards had felt in a thousand years. The gods of magic had different voices, but when they joined together, the harmony was beautiful. That was something the Lightbringer and his minions would never understand.
Khadar was glowing, throwing off energy in white, black, and red waves. No mortal could withstand that much power for long. If he didn’t release it soon, it would tear him apart.
Shivering with a pain that was also pleasure, Khadar stepped out of the circle and stood at the edge of the ledge, looking down at the Guardians. He began to gesture, shouting the words of his spell.
“Obai deafas, jolifi mur latanniath!”
With a roar, the three colors of magic became one, a roseate hue that leaped from his body, streaming out across the cavern in a rippling sheet. Leciane watched it, her chest swelling with pride. The united magic kept going, until its edges fountained against the walls. Then, with a jarring gong, it shattered into a million pieces. The shards rained down upon the statues below.
One by one, the Guardians opened their eyes. They glowed with the same rosy light, the light of the three moons mixed together. Their faces remained immobile, frozen in furious glares, but their limbs began to move, grinding and scraping as they turned to stare up at Khadar.
He did not speak to them; he didn’t have to. They communicated without words. Though weakened by the magic’s flow-as were all the wizards in the room-Khadar looked down on them with a commanding air. For a moment, all was silent-then, grinding and scraping, the Guardians turned and marched from the cave, leaving only dust and shards of green stone behind them.
“They won’t be enough,” Leciane said when they were gone. “Will they?”
Khadar shook his head. “If we had twice as many, perhaps, but the mages who built this place never dreamed of needing them in greater numbers. Still, they will hold back the knights, for a time.”
Leciane nodded. It would have to do.
Please, Lunitari, she prayed. Let the attack not be soon.
“More wine!” cried Sir Marto, holding up his empty drinking-bowl.
His broad face, already reddened by drink, broke into a grin as a servant-a shaven-headed girl in a revealing garment of golden silk-brought a pitcher. The straw-colored liquid that poured from it was thick and redolent of spices. The folk of Losarcum did not mix their wine with water, as they did elsewhere in the empire. Marto took a long swallow-and an even longer look at the servant girl as she saucily sauntered away-then glanced at Cathan and beamed.
“I’ll say it again,” he said, slurring the words, “these desert folk know how to live. If I’d known this place existed, I might never have joined the knighthood!”
Cathan nodded, forcing a smile. They had been in Losarcum a week now, staying as guests of the Patriarch, and Marto had said the same thing every night.
The big knight had a point. Losarcum was a city of pleasures, and while the coming of the Istaran Church had tempered that somewhat-its women no longer went bare-breasted in public, for one thing-it was still a place where wine and song ruled. Many of the other knights, including Sir Tithian, were in love with the exotic place, but to Marto in particular it was a wonder beyond wonders.
For Cathan, however, the pleasures were muted at best. The festhall where the knights drank wine and ate olives and sweets while lounging on satin cushions was huge and rich, sporting gold-threaded arrases and marble fountains. In one corner, a young man with henna-red hands played dulcet melodies on a cimbello, a plucked dulcimer that sounded far sweeter than the hammered instruments of the northern provinces. In another, men fed scraps of spiced pheasant to a furred serpent in a cage. Elsewhere, a troupe of dancers was enacting the account of a tragic romance-Losarcine lore was full of such tales-and not far away, a boy with a yellow-painted face juggled what appeared to be seven double-bladed daggers.
The delights of the city were more than enough to keep his men happy. No matter how wonderful the distractions, however, Cathan couldn’t keep his mind from roaming back to the Tower.
Absently, he popped a honeyed date into his mouth, then spat it out again. It tasted like ashes. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from his cushion and-ignoring Sir Marto’s booming protest-strode from the festhall, shoving aside a curtain of amber beads as he made his way out into the night. The silver and red moons were both high, making the City of Stone glow pink. Stained glass lamps lit in the chasms between the buildings, and the sounds of laughter and music echoed back and forth. The scents of saffron and blood-blossom hung in the air.
Above everything the Tower gleamed, its glassy black surface reflecting the light of moons and stars. It gave no sign of life and had not since their arrival, but the wizards hadn’t abandoned their home. He’d sent a handful of knights into the grove with ropes tied to them to see if the enchantments still worked. They did. By the time his men had taken five steps, the magic had taken hold. Unlike the spell of forgetfulness that had overwhelmed him at Istar’s Tower, the power of this grove was to inflame men’s passions. They had begun to laugh wildly or yell at each other in rage, alternating between the two from one moment to the next. It had taken a dozen knights hauling on the ropes to pull them out again.