Krispos recognized the didactic tone in the sorcerer's voice. It suited him: though he had no sorcerous talent himself, he was always interested in hearing how wizards did what they did. Today, moreover, it would influence how he conducted his campaign. And so he asked, "How will you manage it, sorcerous sir?"
"By opposing the power of death with the power of life," Zaidas answered. "The sorcery is prepared, your Majesty. I shall essay it tomorrow at dawn, when the rising of Phos' sun, most powerful symbol of light and life and rebirth, shall add its influence to that of my magic. And your son, too, shall play a role, as shall Livanios' daughter Olyvria."
"Shall they?" Krispos said. "Will it endanger them? I'd not care to have Phostis restored to me only to lose him two days later in a war of sorcerers."
"No, no." Zaidas shook his head. "The good god willing— and so I believe the case to be—the procedure I have in mind will take Artapan altogether by surprise. And even if he knows Phostis has escaped and joined you here, your son gives the strong impression the Makuraner does not know his technique has been discovered."
"Until the dawn, then," Krispos said. He wanted immediate action, but Zaidas' reason for delay struck him as good. It also let the imperial army advance farther onto the westlands' central plateau—with luck, positioning the force to exploit whatever success against Artapan that Zaidas achieved.
Krispos wondered how much faith to place in his chief mage. Zaidas hadn't had much luck against the Thanasioi. Before, though, he hadn't known what he was opposing. Now he did. If he couldn't do something useful with that advantage ... "Then he won't be any help at all," Krispos said aloud. He breathed a silent prayer for Zaidas up to the watching sky.
Red as blood, the sun crawled up over the eastern horizon. Zaidas greeted it by raising his hands to the heavens and intoning Phos' creed: "We bless thee. Phos, lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor."
Phostis imitated the gesture and echoed the creed. He fought to stifle a yawn; yawning during the creed struck him as faintly blasphemous. But getting up well before sunrise as spring grew toward summer was anything but easy.
Beside him. Olyvria shifted from foot to foot. She looked awake enough, but nervous nonetheless. She kept stealing glances at Krispos. Being around the Avtokrator had to add to her unease. To Phostis, his father—for so he still supposed Krispos to be—was family first and ruler second; familiarity overcame awe. It was just the other way round for Olyvria.
"Get on with it," Krispos said harshly.
Used to any other man, it would have been a heads-will-roll tone. Zaidas merely nodded and said, "All in good time, your Majesty ... Ah, now we see the entire disk of the sun. We may proceed."
A few hundred yards away, sunrise made the imperial army begin to stir in camp. Almost all the Haloga bodyguards stood between the camp and this little hillock, to make sure no one blundered up while Zaidas was at his magic. The rest were between the sorcerer and Krispos. Phostis didn't know what their axes could do against magic gone wrong. He didn't think they knew, either, but they were ready to try.
Zaidas lighted a sliver of wood from one of the torches that had illuminated the hillock before the day began. He used the flame to light a stout candle of sky-blue wax, one fat and tall enough to have provided imperial sealing wax for the next fifty years. As the flame slid down the wick and caught in the wax, he spoke the creed again, this time softly to himself.
Candles in daylight were normally overwhelmed by the sun. Somehow this one was not. Though when seen directly its flame was no brighter than that of an ordinary candle, yet its glow caught and held on Zaidas' face, and Krispos', and Olyvria's. Though he could not see himself, Phostis supposed the light lingered on him, as well.
Zaidas said, "This light symbolizes the long and great life of the Empire of Videssos, and of the faith that it has sustained and that has sustained it across the centuries. Long may Empire and faith flourish."
From under a silk cloth he took out another candle, this one hardly better than a tiny taper, a thin layer of bright red wax around a wick.
"That's the same color as the sealing wax on that vaunting letter Livanios sent me," Krispos said.
Zaidas smiled. "Your Majesty lacks only the gift to be a first-rate wizard. Your instincts are perfectly sound." He raised his voice to the half-chanting tone he used when incanting. "This small, brief candle stands for the Thanasioi, whose foolish heresy will soon fail and be forgotten."
Almost as soon as he spoke the last words, the little red candle guttered out. A thin spiral of smoke rose from it. When the breeze blew that away, nothing showed that the candle representing the Thanasioi had ever existed. The larger light, the one symbolizing Videssos as a whole, burned on.
"Now what?" Krispos demanded. "This should be the time to settle accounts with that Makuraner mage."
"Yes, your Majesty." Zaidas was a patient man. Sometimes even the most patient of men finds it necessary to let his patience show. He said, "I could proceed even more expeditiously if I did not have to pause and respond to inquiries and comments. Now—"
Krispos chuckled, quite unabashed. This time Zaidas ignored him. He took a large silk cloth, big enough for a wall hanging, and draped it over both Phostis and Olyvria. The cloth was of the same sky blue as the candle that stood for the Empire and the orthodox faith. The silk's fine weave let Phostis see through it mistily, as if through fog.
He watched Zaidas take up yet another cloth, this one striped in bright colors. It reminded him of the caftans Artapan had worn. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Zaidas declared, "Now we shall sorcerously show the wicked wizard of Makuran that he shall profit nothing from his courtship of death!" He dropped out of that impressive tone and into ordinary speech for a moment: "Now, young Majesty, comes your time to contribute to this magic. Take your intended in your arms, kiss her, and think on all you might be doing were the rest of us not standing around here making nuisances of ourselves."
Phostis stared at him through the thin silk cloth. "Are you sure that's what you want of us, Uncle Z—uh, sorcerous sir?"
"Do that alone and do it properly, young Majesty, and no one could do more this day. Think of it, if you must, as duty rather than pleasure."
Kissing Olyvria was not a duty, and Phostis refused to consider it one. Her sweet lips and tongue, the soft firmness of her body pressed against his, argued that she, too, enjoyed the task Zaidas had set them. So tightly did Phostis hold her against him that she could not have doubted what he wanted to do with her. He heard her laugh softly, back in her throat.
After a while, he opened his eyes. He'd kissed Olyvria a lot lately, and while he thoroughly enjoyed it, he'd never been part of a major conjuration before. He wanted to see what Zaidas was up to. The first thing he saw was that Olyvria's eyes were already open. That made him laugh.
Zaidas was holding the piece of striped fabric above the flame of the blue candle. He intoned, "As they celebrate life under their cloth, so may that overturn the Makuraner mage who would strengthen himself through death. Let his sorcery be consumed as Videssos' light consumes the cloth of his country." He thrust the fabric into the fire.
Phostis always regretted the silk cloth that hazed his vision; it made him doubt his own eyes. The striped square of fabric flared up brightly the moment the candle flame touched it. For that instant, it burned as if it had been soaked in oil; Phostis wondered if Zaidas could drop it fast enough to save his fingers.