Noise of soft surf, and a soothing warmth, woke him. Groaning, he sat up, blinking and holding his head. It ached like murder – far worse than any hangover or blow he’d ever endured. He peered round, wincing at the bright sunlight. He was on another shore, but one as different from the earlier one as was possible. The soft warm sand of a beach lay beneath him, and turquoise wavelets lapped gently. Inland, a wall of rich verdant foliage stood solid, seemingly impenetrable.
And no Kellanved. Panicked, he rose – which was a mistake as he was assaulted by a wave of pain and nausea and almost fell. He was standing, hands pressed to his head, fighting the dizziness, when Kellanved spoke.
‘Ah! There you are.’
He peered up, blinking, to see the man off a distance, upon a dune, apparently none the worse, and he gritted his teeth. ‘What happened?’ he ground out.
The little fellow came gingerly down the sand slope. ‘We were intercepted in mid-shift,’ he explained. ‘Not an easy accomplishment, I must add.’
‘Intercepted?’
The mage nodded. ‘Yes.’ He pointed his walking stick. ‘By whoever it is in a tent just down the shore here.’
Dancer was still cradling his head. ‘I don’t like him already.’
‘Now, now. Let’s see what he has to say.’
Dancer tried straightening and shuddered; he realized he actually felt physically ill and he looked to Kellanved. ‘Why do I feel so sick?’
The mage nodded. ‘Ah. It affects you strongly, does it? I suppose it must, you not being a talent so having no way to shield yourself.’
Dancer gritted his teeth anew. ‘What does, damn you!’
‘Chaos itself. Our host here appears able to draw upon it more directly than anyone ought.’
‘Chaos? Am I going to get sick?’
Kellanved eyed him closely. ‘It should be temporary.’
‘How very helpful.’ He tried a few tentative steps, pointed ahead. ‘Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible, then.’
A short way round the shore of what looked to be a very small island lay a sprawling tent of canvas and hides, its many ridgepoles poking up like mismatched ribs. Oddly, given the heat, smoke rose from almost every gap, tear and hole.
Dancer and Kellanved eyed one another, uncertain, then made their way up to it and the mage used his walking stick to edge aside a flap.
Within, it was unnaturally gloomy, given the bright sunshine outside – hazy with hanging smoke, and uncomfortably hot as braziers of shimmering coals stood here and there about the interior. A hunched and broad shape, draped in rags, appeared to rise across the murkiness.
‘You made it – excellent,’ called a strong voice.
‘Your invitation was rather … abrupt,’ Kellanved answered.
The hunched figure, his head almost hidden so low was it, like an old bent ancient, nodded. ‘Apologies. Given my, ah, state I cannot venture beyond my sanctuary here. And so I must reach out to those I wish to address.’
Kellanved waved the hanging layers of smoke from his face. ‘You wish to talk, then?’
‘Yes.’ A rag-wrapped lumpy hand rose to point. ‘I have had my eye upon you for some time, my tricky friend. I think we are much alike, you and I.’
The mock-elderly mage peered at the deformed figure. ‘Oh? I fail to see it.’
‘Dominion!’ their host answered, an edge to his voice. ‘You and I! We both seek power and dominion. With you as my worldly representative and I the well-spring of your power – we would be unstoppable!’
Kellanved paced aside to study a nearby standing iron brazier. He poked his walking stick at the coals. ‘I appear to be doing just fine,’ he mused.
The figure chuckled. ‘Do not try to fool either of us. You think yourself accomplished. But you also know there are powers out there that could snuff you like a candle. I could shield you from them.’
‘Thank you, but I do not think I need shielding.’
Dancer caught the mage’s eye and glanced to the entrance.
The figure shambled closer, raised a knotted rag-wrapped fist. ‘You little upstart! You have no idea what you meddle with. Like a child you foolishly grab at flames – and you will be burned.’
‘How do you propose—’ Kellanved began, and turned quickly. As he did so his walking stick struck the brazier, which fell, its coals scattering against the tent in a rain of embers. ‘Oh dear,’ he murmured.
‘You fool!’ their host snarled. ‘What have you done?’
The sun-dried canvas burst afire.
‘Apologies.’ Kellanved thrust a handful of nearby furs on to it, which themselves immediately roared into flame.
The bent rag-wrapped figure waved his arms in a panic, backing away. ‘You idiot! You utter complete imbecile!’ He pointed at Kellanved. ‘I will cast you so far afield for this you shall never be seen again!’
As the fire spread Dancer took the mage’s arm and yanked him away. He pushed through the thickening smoke, dragging Kellanved after him.
A wail sounded, and glancing back Dancer thought he saw a squat, flaming figure flailing amid the conflagration.
They emerged into the sunlight and Dancer kept going, a roaring bonfire growing behind them. Coughing, wiping his eyes, he finally relinquished his grip on Kellanved and leaned, hands on knees, gasping for breath.
The wrinkled mage turned to the rising black smoke. ‘Oh dear. That didn’t go so well.’
A circle of coursing and roiling energies rose about them like a gyre and Kellanved let out a hissed breath. ‘Ah … this might be … difficult …’
Dancer turned on him. ‘Difficult? What do you mean? Like really difficult?’
Kellanved grimaced. ‘Yes. Like really—’
Then the wall of moiling greyness closed upon them and Dancer felt himself torn sideways once more, only this time with such cruel savageness that he blacked out immediately.
* * *
More out of boredom than anything else, Sister of Cold Nights agreed to help Tayschrenn with his project of creating devices for the projection of communication. She knew that she should trust K’rul’s assurances that this was the right place and the right time to further her own long-term plans, but personally she did not see it and was frankly rather disheartened.
Oh, certainly the woman Surly was an excellent administrator and leader, and she saw great potential in her, while the Dal Hon mage had forged remarkable mastery of Meanas, and his … arrangement … with the ancient hounds showed true cunning. Still, her goals ran far deeper than the establishment of mere mundane telluric rule.
She wondered whether there really was anything here for her at all.
As for this Kartoolian mage; certainly he was powerful, and his grasp of Warren fundamentals was impressive. Still, he was so young, and had so much to learn. His initial instinct of using certain crystals as foci was, she felt, correct; however, she worried that the mage was not giving sufficient attention to the considerable forces involved in such channelling.
They were in his quarters in Mock’s Hold, examining the remnants of the Kartoolian’s latest efforts. She raised one fragment of the shattered gemstone to her eye, then glanced at the frustrated mage. ‘Why so small?’ she asked.
‘To fit in the hilts of daggers.’ He rubbed his face, clearly exhausted. ‘Or something of that sort. Portable, concealable, unobtrusive.’
‘I see. Well, I am sorry, but you are going to have to go with something larger. A globe. At least fist-sized, I should think. Otherwise the forces are too concentrated.’
The mage tapped his fingers to his lips. ‘It would be very difficult to procure such items.’
‘The crystals need not be precious. Quartz should suffice.’