First and Last Sorcerer

Chapter Sixteen

Two mornings later, Wynn sat on the floor with Shade in the back corner of the sanctuary’s main room watching Chane as he lay dormant. She hadn’t bothered covering him yet. The sun had risen, but Magiere, Leesil, Chap, and Wayfarer were still asleep in the bedchamber. The sheet tacked up over the bedchamber entrance was still in place.

For Wynn, time seemed difficult to measure since destroying the specter. Some moments had stretched endlessly while others had passed in a wink. After most of her companions had left the battle site two nights before, she—along with Shade, Ghassan, and dormant Chane—had spent the day in that hidden cellar room where they’d intended to trap the specter’s host.

She’d found herself unable to openly thank Ghassan, though she was grateful for his help where Chane was concerned. The domin’s assistance in getting Chane down the stairs and into hiding, and then sitting vigil with her and Shade all day, had somewhat restored Wynn’s trust in him after all of his deceptions.

Unlike the others, Ghassan seemed to accept Chane as a useful member of the group and did not view him as a necessary “evil.” But when Chane rose at dusk that night, Wynn had been unsettled by the ease with which they all left that other house.

The bodies in the street were gone, as was that of the specter’s host. No imperial guards were present. Other than the broken shards of glass on the ground, the street and market looked as if nothing had happened.

Wynn’s wariness toward the last “sorcerer,” a fallen domin of the guild, rose again. But in the face of all that still lay ahead, she’d thought better of asking Ghassan anything as they returned to the tenement sanctuary.

Everyone had been quiet since then, though Wynn still wondered about the bodies. Had Ghassan simply blotted those from anyone’s awareness, just as his sect had hidden this place she was in? Or had they been cleared away somehow ... by someone?

She looked down at Chane, thankful that he hadn’t been burned by her staff.

Brot’an again sat cross-legged in the main room’s front corner. Wynn couldn’t see him clearly beyond the table and chairs in her way, but he was likely sleeping sitting up again. Or maybe he was just pretending. Ghassan had made a bed from floor cushions in the sitting area and appeared to be sound asleep. Only Osha was awake.

He sat in one chair and stared blankly at a glass cup framed between his palms on the table. Since Wynn’s return, Osha hadn’t said a word to her. She wasn’t certain why, but that hurt her.

No one had discussed what was to come next. They were all numb from what it had taken to destroy a thousand-year-old sorcerer. In truth, Wynn couldn’t stop dwelling on this. Now it felt too easy though it hadn’t been.

Shade whined softly, and Wynn absently stroked the dog’s back as she looked down again at Chane’s handsome face. She’d gotten over the sight of him like this, considering he always looked ... dead. His red-brown hair hung in jagged layers against the pillow, and now he looked peaceful. But again troublesome thoughts wouldn’t leave her in peace.

None of them had uncovered the specter’s true agenda.

According to Ghassan, it had infiltrated the highest level of the Suman court. Why? What did it want there? Perhaps to influence the empire, but to what end?

This didn’t fit its obsession with Magiere to the point of torturing her about why she had come here. But he had been a servant of the Ancient Enemy.

Khalidah was gone, and the truth might never be learned.

The lack of answers weighed upon Wynn as she peered toward the sheet-curtained bedchamber. In there, an orb still lay in its chest. All of the Enemy’s minions who’d crossed her path had been seeking one of those. That was why she and Magiere had come here.

Had Khalidah come to the empire for that reason as well?

The thought made her even more anxious.

Patting Shade’s head, she whispered, “Stay here.” She got up and quietly crept around Ghassan toward the bedchamber.

Much as she didn’t want to disturb anyone in there, she felt the need to check.

She pinched aside the sheet curtain to peek in and saw Chap lying asleep before Wayfarer on the far bed’s edge. The girl’s arm was wrapped over his shoulders. Leesil and Magiere were still tucked away in the nearer bed. Wynn crept in slowly.

She knelt before the chest on the floor between the two beds, pulled the pin in its latch a little at a time, and lifted the lid. Weatherworn hinges squeaked, and she froze, holding her breath. Once certain no one had awakened, she pushed the lid up and drew aside a fold of canvas over the chest’s contents.

There it lay: the orb of Spirit.

Slightly larger than a great helm, its central globe was as dark as char, though not made of any stone she’d ever seen. Its surface was faintly rough to the touch, like smoothly chiseled basalt. Atop it was the large tapered head of a spike that pierced down through the globe’s center, and the spike’s head was larger than the breadth of a man’s fist. Its roughly pointed tip protruded through the orb’s bottom somewhere below in the chest.

Both spike and orb looked as if fashioned from one single piece with no mark of separation hinting that the spike could be removed.

Wynn knew it could be through the use of a thôrhk, one of the handles ... an orb key.

She reached in to brush one such key with a fingertip.

That circlet, broken by design, was made of some unknown ruddy metal. It was thick and heavy-looking, with a circumference larger than a helmet and covered in strange markings. About a fourth of its circumference was missing by design. The two open ends had protruding knobs pointing inward across the break, directly at each other.

Those knobs fit perfectly into a groove running around the orb spike’s head. Once inserted, the spike could lift out, thus opening the orb and releasing its power.

Wynn had never attempted such a thing, nor did she plan to.

The previous few desperate years had centered upon locating all five orbs to keep them hidden from the Enemy’s minions. Now there was only one left.

She carefully closed the chest, looked both ways to be certain everyone was still asleep, and crept out of the bedchamber. In the main room’s back corner, Shade raised her head, her ears upright, and Wynn put a finger over her lips to keep the dog quiet.

There was another arcane object related to the orbs that she’d found.

Wynn inched into the main room’s back. Chane had earlier moved her belongings out of the bedchamber and nearer to his. She crouched to dig into her own pack.

Osha was the only one who appeared to be awake, but he didn’t pay her any attention. It was common for her to dig into her own belongings in the morning, and she kept her back to him now as she withdrew a small object wrapped in cloth and flipped the fabric open.

In her hand rested a slightly curved piece of ruddy metal. It looked sound for appearing so old, was little longer than her palm was wide, and about as thick as two of her fingers.

This device had been cut centuries ago from the key—the handle, the thôrhk—created for the orb of Spirit.

Wynn had tried to tell Magiere of its existence, but this wasn’t a simple tale and would require a good deal of explaining. During her time at Beáumie Keep in Witeny, she had met some of the most unique people of her life.

Aupsha had been part of an ancient sect following some unknown edicts of a long-forgotten “saint,” for lack of a better term. Supposedly that someone had been real and managed to steal the orb of Spirit. The saint’s followers and their descendants kept the orb hidden in the mountains above the great desert for who knew how long. Aupsha had been less than open but swore her people wished only to keep the orb from the wrong hands; their purpose was to guard it.

Sau’ilahk, the wraith, killed Aupsha’s entire sect, much as the specter had done to Ghassan’s. Aupsha had followed Sau’ilahk in secret to Beáumie Keep by using the tool Wynn now held.

Wynn turned that bit of metal over, still studying it.

Aupsha’s sect had cut up their orb’s key found with it. Somehow they’d fashioned the pieces to track the orb, should it ever be taken from them. Of course, they’d had only one orb and didn’t know that what they’d created could track the others as well. After the battle outside Beáumie Keep, Wynn had walked away with the orb of Spirit, the thôrhk to the orb of Earth, and this tracking device.

There was just one problem: she didn’t know how to reactivate the device.

Shade had heard words in someone else’s memory that were used to activate it, and she had passed them to Wynn. The words were in an ancient Sumanese dialect, so Wynn didn’t know their meaning or intent. And that was the trick.

Knowing and intention were required—not mere words, like in a children’s story.

It was frustrating, considering how many languages she spoke fluently, aside from others in part. Worse—frightening, even—she would have to tell Ghassan everything. He was the only scholar of this region with knowledge of his language’s predecessors who might keep such things to himself.

Wynn’s trust in her old teacher had been tested of late. She still didn’t fully trust him, but then again ... she’d been keeping many secrets—more and more—as well.

Shade suddenly pressed up beside her, looking at the device first and then up at her.

Wynn covered the device, but kept it in her grip, and whispered very softly, “I think it’s time we told Ghassan and Magiere about this. I don’t see how else to move forward.”

Shade sniffed the cloth and her sky blue eyes locked with Wynn’s.

—Wait for ... night— ... —Wait for ... Chane—

Wynn frowned. Why did Shade think they needed Chane before showing or saying anything to Ghassan? Or was it Magiere for whom Shade expressed concern? Either way, Wynn hesitated.

“Very well,” she whispered, putting the device away. “Until dusk.”

Prince Ounyal’am stood on the dais within the great domed chamber. The clear night was filled with stars above the imperial palace, which glittered in impossible colors through the dome’s tinted glass panes. Just as unreal were the events in this highest place in the palace.

His father’s birthday celebration had gone forth as planned, regardless that most members of the court had not even seen the guest of honor in a season or more. Dozens of servants had spent days and nights transforming this audience chamber into a traditional banquet hall, as was the custom for this event each year. Other preparations had been ongoing for almost a moon.

Low tables were carefully positioned and adorned with silk cloths, silver-gilt plates, and shallow gold bowls with floating flowers from the imperial garden—Ounyal’am’s garden. Around the tables newly tailored sitting cushions had been arranged, all made from silk and satin and even sheot’a cloth from the Lhoin’na lands. Members of all seven royal households and many noble ones throughout the empire were in attendance, along with wealthy merchants, prominent city figures, foreign dignitaries, and three members of the Premin Council for the Suman branch of the Guild of Sagecraft.

With the banquet still pending, finely dressed guests strolled the chamber’s periphery. Greetings as well as polite introductions passed between acquaintances old and new. And there were always whispers behind one another’s backs in new and old ploys. This year the whispers grew too many, too loud, and too distracting for the one recent event that changed everything.

Imperial Counselor Wihid al a’Yamin was dead.

Ounyal’am could not cancel the banquet with feigned grief. A number of dignitaries had traveled long distances to be here. And privately he had more reason to silently celebrate. Commander Har’ith was also dead, shot through one eye with an arrow.

The prince’s hands trembled slightly as he thought on Ghassan’s recent message: a’Yamin had been the specter’s final host. It was chilling to think that an ancient undead sorcerer had been so close, acting as the public voice of the emperor.

At Ghassan’s hasty request in the night, Ounyal’am had had the bodies near the south-side market removed. Any questions among the imperial guard in this were put off. Ghassan’s second request—to remove guards specifically watching for the escapees at the city’s outer gates—could not be obliged so openly.

Har’ith’s subordinate had already taken his place. There were others now vying for the vacant position of subcommander. While imperial guards were trained to follow orders, Ounyal’am was not their emperor yet, and he had to tread carefully. Still, with a’Yamin dead and the emperor fading, the guards would also avoid questioning the imperial heir, as they could soon owe their positions to him.

Ounyal’am had arranged to call in some imperial guards stationed at the city’s exit, for there were many important guests who needed constant protection. As a result, there would also be more reallocations of forces, as well as changes in rotation during the coming days and nights. Ghassan would have to watch carefully for gaps through which to escape the city.

There was no such escape for Ounyal’am.

A prince in an empire without someone to speak for its failing emperor had tenuous authority at best. As he was unmarried and unengaged, there were enough present this night who would use tradition to claim he was not suitable as a regent regardless of being the imperial heir. That would suit them to make certain he first chose one of their daughters before gaining their support.

There were also still those among the court who secretly worshipped the old ways, the gods, like his father. They would soon vie and connive to step into a’Yamin’s place, and High Premin Aweli-Jama would be among them. Of course, some of those seeking imperial alliance by marriage would work against attempts to install another counselor.

A’Yamin, or rather the specter, had made as many enemies.

“My prince,” said a silken voice. “Salutations of joy from my family to yours.”

Shaken from thought, Ounyal’am turned his head slowly to regain control.

Resplendent Durrah bowed her head to him.

She had actually stepped up upon the edge of the dais, creating a moment—the sight—of her on the same level of a future emperor. And no, there was nothing he could do about this for the moment.

Durrah was an eyelash or two taller than him, but nobles—and especially the royals—admired height in a woman. Thick waves of hair fell down around her strong features: a prominent yet straight nose and high cheekbones. Perfectly decorated in sapphire earrings and a deep azure tunic that fit her shapeliness, she smiled softly, little more than an upturn in the corners of her mouth.

She was considered one of the most beautiful women in the empire.

Ounyal’am did not think so, not when he looked into her eyes.

“Forgive my impudence, my prince,” she murmured. “I beg you.”

There was no begging in her voice, though there was certainty of a kind.

“I thought to offer myself as your dinner companion this evening,” she went on, whispering and thereby having to lean close before all eyes. “I only now found courage to beg so. I do not want you to feel so alone, without comfort, in the loss of your counselor and the commander of your guards.”

In presiding over the evening’s celebration, Ounyal’am would sit right of center at a lone table placed up on the dais. Near its forward edge, all present could see him beside the empty place for his father.

To the left of that emptiness would sit his aunt, his father’s aged sister. The cushion to his own right was reserved for whomever he chose as companion for the meal. This custom had existed for as long as he could remember, but no one in his lifetime had asked for the privilege.

Durrah’s arrogance was demurely curtained in concern, along with her confidence in her charms, her wealth, and ... all else she had to offer a man. How could anyone resist her after all? Few would.

Ounyal’am turned his eyes from her.

Pretending to survey the great chamber and everyone within it, he was careful not to let his gaze pause on anyone in particular. Yet it still passed over one small young woman standing alone near the chamber’s front doors and its guards. She pretended to sip something from a silver cup and clearly hoped to remain unnoticed as her father, Mansoor, connived and chatted with others nearby.

Ounyal’am’s gaze kept moving as he spoke.

“Thank you for your concern, but, under the circumstances, I will dine alone this evening.”

He waited a breath to see whether Durrah faltered into further entreaty; she did not.

“Considering the imperial counselor’s death,” he went on, “I cannot unduly worry my bodyguards. The perpetrators have not been found, and likely they did not act alone but had help from someone inside the imperial court. I am certain you understand.”

Ounyal’am did not need to look at Durrah. Some would foolishly take this as suspicion cast their way. Others would try to assure him of their innocence in desperation for favor. What could—would—Durrah say?

Nothing, of course.

In the side of his view, she bowed her head low.

“I wish you only blessings and safety, my great prince,” she breathed, hushed like the whisper that charms a reluctant suitor. “More tonight than ever before, on your honored father’s birthday.”

Durrah gracefully backed off the dais without looking to see her father’s angry disappointment.

Offering no reply, Ounyal’am stepped off the dais as well. Suddenly, he could not stand the hypocrisy around him a moment longer. Though he kept his expression coldly impassive, he was bursting inside to do something to quell his panic. He headed straight across the vast chamber toward the main doors, veering at the last moment.

At his approach, A’ish’ah raised only her eyes and not her head. She paled and then lowered her head even more. Her silken dark hair nearly curtained her face, and he was forced to look down at the top of her head as he stepped within arm’s reach.

“A’ish’ah,” he said softly, and then corrected himself for anyone nearby who might hear. “Lady A’ish’ah ... it would be my honor to have you dine with me.”

Did she shudder? His stomach tightened at having made her so uncomfortable ... and the object of too much attention. But he could not stop himself.

For an instant, he feared she might find some polite way to decline, and he was unprepared for that.

“Of course ... my prince,” she whispered before regaining her voice. “It would be my honor ... and my family’s.”

“Then let us begin the feast,” he said, turning slowly enough to let her step in beside him.

He wanted to take her hand, but that would have shown too much favor in the eyes of all present. The chamber grew quiet as they walked back toward the dais and the head table.

Nazhif stood behind that table watching, and perhaps a little concerned.

Ounyal’am nodded once to the captain of his bodyguards, and Nazhif quickly stepped around to offer a hand as A’ish’ah stepped up on the dais. One—or rather two—of his other men helped the emperor’s aged sister to be settled on the cushion to the left of the empty center one.

Once A’ish’ah was seated, Ounyal’am surveyed the chamber, waiting for all to find their place. And then they were the ones to wait, not sitting until he did. Upon settling on his own cushion, he took another quick glance across the vast room, slowing his visual sweep slightly at Durrah’s table.

She was as serene as ever with the wisp of a smile on her full, dark lips. Her eyes held something else, cold as a winter’s night in the desert.

Before, he would not have exposed A’ish’ah to such attention, and he was well aware that he shouldn’t do so now. But without a’Yamin, things at court had altered, and tonight he felt bold.

For once, he felt like doing as he wished.

With a solemn nod from him, the feast began as he raised a cup.

“Let us drink to the emperor’s health,” he said with a clear voice. “Tonight we celebrate the day of his birth, and we pray for many more to follow.”

Nods, murmurs, and some echoes of his words rose around the chamber. A moment later, an army of servants filed through the main doors carrying trays overburdened with the first course. As always, the emperor’s table was served first.

A’ish’ah kept her hands clasped in her lap and did not look up at the golden platter set before her on the table. It contained three roasted pheasants surrounded by herbed oysters in their glistening half shells.

“A’ish’ah,” Ounyal’am whispered, hoping to ease her mind with a joke. “Please eat something or everyone will think you are afraid of me.”

She raised her head and met his eyes. “Perhaps it would do a few of them good to be afraid of you ... my prince.”

Her words took him aback. So much of what she said took him aback. He never knew what to expect.

“Perhaps,” he answered. “But not you ... not ever.”

After another moment of silence, she carefully picked out an oyster for her own plate. Dinner was not such a painful affair. There was little said between them, and he did not care, so long as she would look at him—right at him—time and again.

Halfway through the expected courses, with so many watching, his thoughts returned to the impending intrigues concerning a new imperial counselor. Without a’Yamin, there were a few who had the power to gain access to the emperor’s chambers. They could pretend having spoken with him and gained his consent as temporarily appointed. Others would likewise dispute this with their own claims.

Ounyal’am could not stop this without exposing that his father was no longer fit to rule, and the repercussions of him doing that could be even worse. While the emperor lived, Ounyal’am would still be only regent, and any panic he created—over what might be a short window of opportunity—could make some of the vipers even more dangerous.

“Are you well, my prince?” A’ish’ah asked so quietly.

He started and looked over. Her face was awash with genuine concern. Again, he wanted to grasp her small hand.

“I was only thinking on ... on a little nothing.”

At that moment, something—he never knew what—pulled his attention to the main doors. Jib’rail, the new commander of the imperial guard, came toward him. Something in the man’s face caused time to slow; his stride was steady, but his eyes were manic.

Nazhif stood only a few paces behind Ounyal’am. He would be watching the commander’s approach as well. A few others in the chamber noticed and cast curious glances.

Commander Jib’rail bowed upon reaching the table and spoke in a low tone that would not be overheard.

“My prince ...” He stopped as if stumbling over the title. “I beg forgiveness for this interruption. Could you please step outside with me for a private ... word?”

Something in the world shifted. Ounyal’am did not yet know what, only that it had. The moment stretched out.

“My ... my ...” Commander Jib’rail trailed off again, as if he had forgotten how to address an imperial prince.

With a quick glance at A’ish’ah, Ounyal’am dared to touch her hand once under the table to stop the worried furrow of her brow. He rose, and though he should have assured all present that there was only some minor matter to attend, his throat was too dry.

Gesturing toward the rear doors, he directed the commander out of the chamber. He followed, as Nazhif did so with two others of his private guard, but only after placing the fourth on watch over A’ish’ah. Once out in the rear passage, Ounyal’am faced the new commander of the imperial guard.

“What has happened?” he demanded, trying to sound sharp rather than anxious.

The imperial guards were renowned for their almost complete lack of visible emotion, but though Jib’rail spoke low, his voice broke when he answered.

“The emperor’s breath has stopped.” He paused and his voice grew more uneven. “I was on guard at his door when an attendant came to tell me the emperor could not be awakened. I checked his condition myself and then came directly to you.”

On some level, Ounyal’am knew what the commander had been about to say, but he still felt unprepared.

“Take me to my father, now,” he ordered.

Jib’rail bowed and turned quickly. The following walk through the palace felt endless, even with Nazhif’s welcome presence close behind him.

Three imperial guards stood before the emperor’s chamber, where three attendants whispered and fidgeted. All six dropped to one knee at Ounyal’am’s approach. That sight made his chest tighten and his stomach roil. He passed them without another glance and went straight for the doors.

“Nazhif, with me. No one else.”

He pushed through the doors into the overdecorated sitting room and on to the bedchamber. All was silent but for the sound of Nazhif’s light footsteps behind him, which halted when he did.

He peered through the gauze curtains at the enormous bed’s foot. Nothing appeared any different from what he had seen on the night he had come to use the imperial seal. The windows were closed, and the room now stank even more of decay. He stepped around to the bed’s side to clear his view.

What was left of his once powerful father was a shrunken, wizened form. Thankfully, the eyes were closed, but stillness did not confirm what had been said.

Ounyal’am stood so long, unable to move, until Nazhif finally stepped around him to the bedside and reached out with two fingers for the emperor’s throat. The very act was presumptuous, but someone had to verify death.

Nazhif straightened as his fingers came away. “He must have passed in his sleep.”

Ounyal’am stared down at the face of his dead father. A wave of unwanted regret passed through him, but how could he mourn?

Emperor Kanal’am had loved no one—perhaps not even himself, let alone his son. He had turned the court into a pit of vipers to match his own corruption. And yet, as a son, Ounyal’am had sometimes harbored a secret hope of someday changing their relationship, if only a little, to something better—perhaps mutual respect if not love.

This was his single stab of regret, as now ... that could never happen.

Nazhif dropped to one knee. “My emperor,” he said. “What is your command?”

Ounyal’am could only stand there and breathe. Though he tried to hold off the repercussions, they crept in upon him. He allowed them in slowly, one at a time.

“My emperor?” Nazhif repeated. “Should this be announced at the banquet?”

Ounyal’am’s thoughts tangled in what would happen if he made this public tonight with so many royals and nobles present in close quarters.

“No,” he answered. “Swear the attendants and guards to silence. I will return to the banquet and continue the celebration. The mourning horns are not to be sounded until dawn, when all guests are in their own quarters.”

Still on one knee, Nazhif nodded. “Yes. That is wise ... my emperor.”

Ounyal’am stiffened at the change of address. Nazhif, the closest thing he had to a friend, was far too good a man to offer empty condolences.

“I will need you most in the coming days,” Ounyal’am said. “More than ever before.”

Nazhif rose up, though he kept his head bowed. “I am ever at your side, my emperor.”

They left the room together. Nazhif stopped to speak briefly to Commander Jib’rail, and then the two of them continued on to the great domed chamber. Ounyal’am did not know how he could go back into the banquet, smile and eat, and pretend nothing had happened.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

Upon returning to the banquet, he managed to make some excuse for his brief absence. Later, he did not remember what it was. He remembered only sinking down onto his cushion beside A’ish’ah and how she’d studied his face in concern. Her eyes missed little.

“My prince?” she whispered.

He could not help cringing for an instant. After tonight, no one would ever again call him “my prince.”

A’ish’ah’s eyes suddenly widened as she took one glance back toward Nazhif.

She knew, and as he stared back into her eyes, a number of truths hit him.

He was emperor.

He could do almost anything he wished, though for some little things, only if he acted quickly.

The imperial guard was at his absolute command, and in time he could effectively clear the palace of the worst vipers. He could name anyone ... anyone as his first counselor. He could appoint Ghassan if he wished.

His eyes moved up and down over A’ish’ah’s face.

He could marry anyone he wished, and he now had the power to protect her.

“A’ish’ah ...” he began, nearly stuttering for the first time in his life. “After the banquet, I wish to speak with you. Will you walk in the gardens with me?” His tone held a note of urgency, but he did not want to order her, not ever. “Will you?”

As with a moment before, her expression took on a look of understanding. She knew what he was asking.

“Yes, my prince,” she answered firmly without looking away from him.