Sadira slipped past Rikus and Magnus. “I see only seven giants,” she said, kneeling on the ground. “I thought there were eight.”
Turning back toward their attackers, Rikus saw that his wife’s conspicuous arrival had caused the giants to stop and reach for more boulders to throw. The mul was not surprised, for even the dullest warrior would recognize Sadira as a sorceress and would approach her with caution.
Rikus pointed at Tay’s prone form. “The eighth is lying over there.”
“Good.”
Sadira turned one ebony palm to the sky. Rikus was surprised to see the signet ring of her other husband, Agis of Asticles, glimmering on her finger. Before the mul could ask where it had come from, a string of mystic syllables flowed from the sorceress’s blue lips, and a wave of pulsing red energy sizzled into the valley floor. The glow fanned outward from her fingers in a brilliant flash. Stone and sand began to melt into a hot, viscous mud, sending yellow wisps of acrid smoke curling into the sky.
The spell swept out to Yab and his company. Screaming in terror and confusion, the giants sank to their waists in the mush. The boulders they had been grasping turned to liquid and drained between their fingers. Then the whole field gradually hardened into a steaming orange plain as smooth as glass. The titan wearing the patch roared in anger and began to pound at the lustrous ground, but the stuff was as hard as granite and showed no sign of cracking.
Sadira withdrew a ball of yellow wax from her pocket and began working it between her fingers. Rikus knew from experience that she was preparing some sort of fire spell.
Rikus laid a hand across her wrists. “How long will your first spell hold them?”
“Until the sun goes down.”
Rikus nodded, for it was the answer he had expected. Sadira’s powers lasted as long as the sun was in the sky, and generally so did any spell that she cast during the day. There were exceptions, however, so he had thought it wisest to check before making his next suggestion.
“You might not want to kill the giants,” he said. “They seem to know something about Agis and Tithian. They also claimed that the Dark Lens was stolen from them, and that if we don’t give it back, something terrible will happen.”
Sadira’s eyes flashed a deeper shade of blue. “Do you believe them?”
Rikus shrugged. “I didn’t have time to ask many questions,” he said. “But I don’t think we’ll solve anything by killing this bunch. The giants will just send more warriors to recover the Lens. We’d be better off to convince them that we don’t have it.”
Sadira considered this for a moment, then nodded. “We’ll talk with them later,” she said. “But I must return to Tyr now. The warder had just opened the chamber doors when I received Magnus’s message, and I should be there.”
Rikus nodded. “We’ll stay here.”
Sadira shook her head. “You’re needed in Tyr, to lead the legion out of the city,” she said. “Return as quickly as you can. I’d take you with me, but the spell I must use can carry only one.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rikus said, just as glad he would not have to endure the touch of her strange magic. “But what about the giants?”
“They can’t escape-and if they could, you couldn’t stop them.”
The sorceress raised both hands toward the sun. Her shadow formed a circle around her feet, then rose up to swallow her body in a dark fog.
THREE
THE COUNCIL OF ADVISORS
When Sadira stepped into the vaulted murkiness of the advisors’ chamber, she saw that the entire host of Tyrian councilors stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the orator’s floor, while the feather-stuffed chairs in the gallery sat empty. She knew instantly that this morning’s session would be a trying one and that her opponents on the council would use her tardiness to make it even more difficult. Although her trip to help Rikus and Magnus had delayed the meeting less than a quarter hour, many advisors made a point of shuffling around to cast impatient glares in her direction.
Sadira started across the floor. The advisors were divided into four different groups, each gathered around a podium in a separate quarter of the floor. In the far corner, with the rays of the morning sun spilling through the windows behind them, were the guildsmen. Mostly humans and dwarves, they were dressed in sooty aprons and clay-specked tabards appropriate to their various professions. Next to them stood the free citizens, consisting of hemp-robed muls, half-elves, tareks, humans, and anyone else who had been either a slave or pauper before Tyr’s liberation. Closer to the entrance were the nobles, dressed in exotic silks of every color and description, and the templars, who embellished their black cassocks with bronze neckchains and breastpins of precious copper.
As Sadira passed between the noble and templar podiums, she found her way blocked by a double-chinned templar. He had a shaved head, eyes as shadowy as her own skin, and a long silver chain hanging around his corpulent neck.
“Sadira, here you are-at last!” he said, smiling just enough to bare his gray incisors. “How kind of you to come so promptly to the meeting you called.”
“If a short delay matters so much, then I suggest you let me pass so we can get started, Cybrian.” Sadira tried to step around the heavy templar.
“I think we can excuse your tardiness,” said a blue-frocked noblewoman, moving forward to block the sorceress’s way. She was a handsome woman with gray eyes, silver hair, and a patrician nose. The lady eyed Sadira’s dusty robe, then clucked her tongue and added, “But your raiment is another matter. By now, you should realize that your apparel reflects your respect for the council itself.”
Sadira suppressed the urge to make a sharp reply, suspecting that the noblewoman’s purpose was to disrupt the meeting by starting a senseless argument.
“To the contrary, Lady Laaj,” the sorceress said. “I came as I am because I have no wish to keep the council waiting.”
Sadira stepped between the noblewoman and Cybrian. When her adversaries tried to stand their ground, the sorceress chuckled at their foolishness. While her ebony body was steeped in the power of the sun, even a half-giant could not have blocked her way. She brushed the pair aside easily, sending them stumbling into the midst of their respective groups, and walked over to the free citizens. Here, the sorceress found her three guests waiting.
“Who were those two?” asked Neeva. A former gladiator with blonde hair, deep emerald eyes, and a figure as powerful as it was voluptuous, she wore only a breechcloth and halter, with a cape of green silk thrown over her shoulders to show respect for the council.
Sadira cast a contemptuous eye upon the two advisors she had just shoved aside. “The lady fancies herself the leader of the noble faction in Agis’s absence, and the templar is one of several who claim to speak in Tithian’s name,” the sorceress explained. “Because I asked the legion to stand ready this morning, they must think we’re going to find Agis and Tithian. Neither one would like that; they enjoy playing leader too much.”
“Never mind them,” interrupted Rkard, Neeva’s mul son. “What about Rikus?”
Though only six years old, the boy already stood as tall as most dwarves, with long graceful limbs, a sturdy frame, and cords of muscle running across his chest and arms. Like Rikus, he had sharply pointed ears and a hairless body, but he also had the distinguishing marks of a young sun-cleric: red eyes and a crimson sun emblazoned on his forehead.
“Both Rikus and Magnus are fine,” Sadira said. “They’ll be coming along later.”
“What happened?” Rkard pressed. “If Rikus needed help, it must have been bad trouble.”
“We can talk about that later, son,” said Caelum. He had the blocky features, pointed ears, and hairless body typical of a dwarf, with the same red eyes and crimson mark his son, Rkard, bore. In his hands, the dwarf grasped a closed ironwood box that Sadira had asked him to hold during the council meeting. “Right now, we have business to conduct.”