When Gredchen was gone, Rivven turned on the mage. “Fetch me that sword. I’m taking it with me.”
“Your Excellency, is that wise? It is highly magical,” said Cazuvel. “My preliminary examination of the weapon was cut short by the necessity of dealing with the dragonne, however, so I have not had time to divine its properties.”
“Leave that to me,” she said. “I may not have your experience with extradimensional forces, but I know magic swords when I see them. Meet me on the tower’s roof in a few minutes.”
Cazuvel bent low and nodded, whispering a few words in the language of mages. They were the command words for a teleportation spell, and Rivven watched as the winds of magic spirited him away, leaving behind only a brief afterimage.
Alone, Rivven Cairn turned to the portrait of the baron’s beautiful daughter. She ran a gauntleted finger down the painted curve of the girl’s jawline and tilted her head to one side.
“Such a terrible loss to the world,” she whispered. “Captured here in your youth and wide-eyed innocence by the skill of the artist. You’re just as I remember you.”
She turned away then. “No time for sentiment now, Rivven. What’s done is done.” She made a mental note to herself to have the painting locked away somewhere. It was an embarrassment, even there in the middle of the Sahket Jungle. She didn’t like how close the baron had come to getting his hands on it, even though there was no way that could have actually happened.
Rivven extinguished the magical lamps with a spell of dismissal. She left the gallery in darkness and went down the spiral stairs. As she alighted on the upper landing, she paused for a moment. She looked over the railing to watch Gredchen carry the gnome out of the huge front doors of the castle and into the late-evening air. She smiled a little at the “Vanderjack” lying on the stairs-that had given her a momentary jolt earlier-then went on through the doors to the great hall.
The sivak had already passed through there with the Ergothian prisoner. The door near the back of the hall that led to the sitting room was still partly open. She passed the cage with its slumbering beast and, curious, stopped beside it.
“Mencelik batin sihir,” Rivven said, speaking the words of a spell, opening her senses to the hidden threads of magic around her. “Mencelik tak’kalihatan sihir.”
Sure enough, vivid purple and black bonds of power wreathed the dragonne, keeping it from waking. She looked around the room, following the lines of power unseen to those without arcane talents, and saw that they were tightly bound to the very foundations of the castle. Threads of magically infused energy wove into the walls, along the granite floor, and even around the wooden supports above.
Commander Aggurat stood motionless as ever, and Rivven could see the spell that had been placed upon him. She narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t a magical trap or an accidental trigger. Cazuvel had deliberately frozen the sivak commander in place, binding him just as securely as he had the dragonne in the cage.
What in the name of the Dark Queen was the wizard playing at? She walked over to Aggurat and rested a hand on the shapeshifted draconian’s shoulder. With her vision she could see both the smaller, human form he was wearing and a ghostly outline where his true form would be. The true form wasn’t bound by Cazuvel’s magic. So …
“Sihir perubhan keajukan,” she intoned, passing her hand before the sivak’s face, chest, and over his head. “An-narhr sihir an-nahr.”
Nothing happened.
“Sihir perubhan keajukan,” she repeated more insistently. “An-narhr sihir an-nahr.”
The sivak’s human form began to blur and swell. The illusory form of the human faltered and changed to silver scales, dragon wings, and a reptilian countenance; without the human form to attach to, the dark ropes of magic snapped free and retreated into the walls and floor.
Commander Aggurat convulsed and jerked as if he were overcome with a seizure. His eyes darted from left to right, finally settling on the highmaster, who waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts and steady himself.
“Your Excellency!” breathed Aggurat. “How …?”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I freed you from Cazuvel’s spell, but I had to get rid of your disguise to do it. What has happened to you and why?”
“It is not the Black Robe Cazuvel,” Aggurat said, rubbing at the stump of his left arm with the clawed hand of his right. “It looks like him, and perhaps it even thinks on some level that it is Cazuvel, but it is not.”
Rivven swore. “Another draconian?”
“No, Your Excellency. No sivak or aurak could maintain so skilled a transformation. This creature is almost an exact mental and physical replicate of Cazuvel. Were it not for the special training I received under the emperor and the dark pilgrims, I would not have discovered the truth.”
Rivven looked toward the door out then up. “Whatever it is, it now possesses the Ergothian’s magic sword. The one that removed your arm.”
Aggurat growled but nodded. “That is nothing to me. But it has plans of its own, Your Excellency. I regret that I can tell you no more of what they are, but I think everything that has happened here is part of those plans.”
Rivven frowned. “Aggurat, you’re coming with me. I told Cazuvel to meet me on the roof with the sword. If it hasn’t run off by now, I may need your help.”
Aggurat nodded, following Rivven Cairn as she raced through the doors. The great hall stood quiet for a moment after the highmaster and the sivak commander left, apart from the deep and rhythmic breathing of the dragonne. Then, slowly, the massive brass-scaled forelegs of Star began to twitch and stir.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Vanderjack was surrounded by stars.
On the roof of the main tower of Castle Glayward, the sellsword stood with the sivak thug waiting for the red dragnarmy highmaster to arrive. It was early evening already, the sun having sunk beneath the western horizon. Solinari was a huge silver orb just cresting the horizon to the east. Red Lunitari was absent, though he knew it would likely rise later in the night. The sky was clear, and the stars were bright and plentiful.
“Nice evening for it,” he said to the sivak.
The sivak said nothing.
Vanderjack flexed his forearms a little, but the iron manacles the sivak had clapped over his wrists did not budge. He looked around a little more, seeing the Emerald Peaks limned with silver light by the rising moon, and several miles to the south he could just barely make out the lights of the city of North Keep, capital of Nordmaar and home to the young prisoner king, Shredler Kerian.
There wasn’t much point in making a break for it, and while he had dispatched the sivak down on the entrance hall balcony, the one next to him was far too conscious of the sellsword’s presence. So Vanderjack waited.
His anger and frustration at the revelation of the truth about the baron’s beautiful daughter had subsided, replaced mostly by a different anger and frustration. He had actually been looking forward to being in the company of an attractive, appreciative woman for once. Gredchen had occasionally proven herself to be good company, all things considered, but she was the complete opposite of the beauty in the painting.
Thinking back to the baron’s manor, he recalled the empty space in the baron’s living room, where something that deserved pride of place should be mounted. Obviously, the painting belonged there.
Had she died at a youthful age? Was that it? Was that really his daughter, only a memory, or an image in a frame?
Standing there with the sivak beside him, another thought entered his aching head.
“Were you ever on Southern Ergoth?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the draconian.