Lesser Evils

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

From the moment they’d set foot in the library, Tam had been certain they needed to leave. There weren’t enough of them to clear the site. There weren’t even enough of them to seek out the spellbooks Mira wanted. They needed reinforcements to defend the entrance, and to keep information flowing from Everlund and Waterdeep about any movement on Netheril’s part.

Now, he thought, with a dead shade and unnumbered ghosts, more than ever.

“Pack everything up,” he told the rest of the expedition once they’d found them all and brought them back to the camp. “Our safety’s been compromised.”

None of them moved.

“Were you planning to ask if we wanted to leave?” Dahl said.

Tam turned on him. “Were you planning to hear me out before deciding you’d rather stay?”

What was it about Dahl that made Tam wish he could abandon him here? The question seemed too obvious for words. He was surly and disobedient-but then so were the twins by turns, and they didn’t rankle Tam. He had a smart mouth and he was too ready to call Tam’s bluff, even when there was no such agenda-but then much the same could be said of Brin, and the boy mostly amused the silverstar. But Dahl ought to be more, ought to do better. If he was the next generation of Harpers, he ought to be following orders, learning from his elders.

Did you? a voice in Tam’s thoughts asked, and it sounded so much like Viridi, he momentarily feared another illusion. When you were so young, did you follow? Or did you fumble your way into a Shadovar agent’s quarters and murder him without a plan for escape?

No, he thought, noting the look of fierce stubbornness the younger man wore. Dahl probably would have had some semblance of an escape plan. But at twenty, Tam had been no one to emulate. He’d settled down since. He’d learned the way of things, the rules of an agent moving through the world without disrupting more than necessary.

And you still work alone, the same voice all but laughed. You still won’t settle for orders you don’t like. You still, it added, as Tam considered Mira’s stony expression, would rather avoid fragile, difficult things like people.

“By all means,” Mira said quietly, “elaborate.”

I shouldn’t have to elaborate, he thought. And again, he could hear Viridi laughing at the stubborn old man he’d become.

“A few hundred feet from the entrance,” he said sharply, “there’s a dead shade and his lieutenants, rotting amid the arcanist’s tomes.”

Mira startled, shut her mouth, and he nearly regretted throwing the revelation at her. “How long?” she asked.

“Hard to say. Shades don’t rot like the rest of us do. No more than a few days. We would have walked in on them if we’d come any quicker. Netheril knows about this place, you can be sure of that. And if they’ve sent a shade, they’re going to be wondering where he’s gone off to sooner rather than later.”

Mira bit her upper lip, deep in thought. “What about the spellbooks?” she asked after a moment.

“What spellbooks?” Tam said. “Have any of you found a damned thing that looks like a spellbook?”

“They are here,” Mira said.

“Oh, they’re here all right,” Maspero chimed in. The big man stepped up behind Mira and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Your girl knows best, after all. I didn’t come down here for garbage like old maps and ledgers.” He squeezed her shoulder, and Mira’s mouth went small and tight.

Ah, Silver Lady-Tam’s hands itched to take up the chain, to show that brooding bastard what his veiled threats were worth, whoever he was. Not here, he thought. Not now. Not with so many bystanders. Maspero gave him a smile full of violence.

Priorities, he reminded himself-Netheril came first.

“Are you planning on dragging us out of here?” Pernika folded her arms and regarded him lazily. “Maybe not all of us are afraid of shadows.”

“Oh, ye gods!” Brin cried. “Just leave them here then, and let the ghosts turn them in circles until Shade can sort them out. It’s stupid to stand here arguing.”

We haven’t got as many allies as we thought, Brin had said, and now Tam was cursing himself for not hearing the boy out then and there.

“What ghosts?” Dahl demanded.

“Two of them,” Brin said. “At least. They look exactly like Tam and Havilar. You think you’re having a conversation all normal and … mostly normal, anyway. And then they’re suddenly trying to coerce you into going and using Tarchamus’s Book.”

“Oh,” Farideh said. She blushed when all eyes turned to her. “I didn’t know there was one that looked like Havi. I’ve seen her too.” Her eyes slid to Havilar. “Unless you were adamant I read the Book?”

“Are you serious?” Havilar cried. “It’s bad enough Brin couldn’t tell, but you’re my karshoji sister.”

“Perhaps they’re very convincing,” Mira said quietly. She chewed her lip.

“You’ve seen one too,” Tam surmised.

She hesitated. “Do you remember chasing Maspero and me from the door? Chiding me about my scholarly pursuits?”

Tam’s eyes narrowed. “What door?”

“The door we discovered shortly before you hauled us back here,” Mira said. “The door, which I intend to open before I leave here. It may lead to the location of Tarchamus’s spellbooks.”

There was so much of her mother in that face-the set of her jaw, the purse of her mouth. It was a stark reminder that she wasn’t a child anymore. There was a balance to be struck if he wanted her to follow him out of this place, he knew.

He also knew there was no time left for cajolery.

“What do I have to say to make it clear to you that you are in danger like you’ve never been before?” he demanded, low and quick. “Do you want to hear what they will do when they find you in their way? Do you want to hear how they will hunt you down? Do you want to hear how the shadar-kai amuse themselves with captives? Because, Mira, I wish I didn’t know. Don’t make me tell your mother I left you to die at the Shadovar’s hands.”

Mira’s expression betrayed no fear. “So you’d rather I left the spellbooks to them.”

“Pack everything up,” Tam said. “This isn’t a discussion.”

“I think you’ve made your point, Harper,” Maspero said. “And you’re free to go. We’re not leaving until we have those spellbooks.” He looked over at the twins, Brin, and Dahl. “And if any of your charges would rather stay and assist us, they’re welcome to.”

“Could we not just send word to Everlund?” Dahl asked.

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” Tam asked. “The wards on this place block any such magic. If the sending’s going through, the replies aren’t.”

Dahl folded his arms. “Well if there’s a ward that can block sendings, I assume that held true for the Netherese who came before us too. Which means Netheril doesn’t know-”

“We can’t be certain of that. They might have found a way around them. They might have had compatriots in the woods. They might have agreed to report back at proper intervals and now that they aren’t, Netheril will come looking.”

“Shouldn’t we at least see if we can find the spellbooks?” Farideh asked. “Isn’t that why we stayed in the first place, to keep those things from Shade?”

Tam regarded her levelly. “Do you want to protect the spellbooks, or are you looking for something else in the arcanist’s hoard?”

She flushed angrily, and folded her arms as well.

Havilar sighed. “If Farideh’s going to stay, I have to too.”

“What is wrong with all of you?” Brin demanded. “Have you not been listening?”

Havilar shrugged. “Fari’s staying.”

“Well, I’m not,” he said. “There are dead shades in the stacks, imposter ghosts on the prowl, illusions sucking people in-”

“We’re worrying about illusions now?” Dahl said.

Brin scowled at him. “They’re powerful. They pull out old, dreadful memories and twist them around. Make you think you’re in another time and place.”

“Very frightening,” Dahl said dryly.

“Watch your mouth,” Maspero said.

“You too?” Tam asked.

Maspero eyed him a moment. “Thought it was just the spirit of the place or something, rattling my thoughts. Had me thinking of a girl I knew as a lad, Blind Jhaeri. Pretty thing, quick with a lock.” He looked away and nodded to himself. “She died of some sickness that swept the docks one summer. Haven’t thought of her in ages, and all of the sudden, I’m caught up in an old argument.” He met Tam’s eyes. “Glad to hear I’m not the only one.”

“The Book mentioned traps,” Mira said. “Illusions to drive off people who weren’t worthy. Could it be that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tam insisted once more. “The ghosts are a danger, the illusions are a danger, the traps are a danger, and it may well be that whatever killed our shade and his comrades is some other horror we haven’t discovered. And none of that matters if Netheril is looking for their lost agents.”

“And if they aren’t?” Mira asked.

Tam bit back a curse. “Humor me. Please. Come back out onto the surface and we’ll contact Everlund and Waterdeep. We’ll see what they say.”

“And then?”

And then, he thought, I do not care how old you are, I will drag you out of this place myself if you won’t come. What deal had she gotten tangled in to be under the thumb of someone like Maspero?

“And then,” he said out loud, “you’ll have better information.”

She bit her lip again, staring down at the mess of their camp. “Leave the heavy supplies,” she said finally. She looked up at him with those clear, dark eyes. “We’ll be back soon enough.”

It wasn’t what Tam had hoped for, but at least she gathered up her personal items, and the rest of them did the same. They put out the coals of the cookfire, bound up their bedrolls, and gathered their haversacks.

Silver Lady, he prayed. Don’t let us be too late.

Farideh came to stand beside him. “Do you think,” she asked, “we ought to take the Book? It seems like the worst thing to leave in a wicked person’s hands, after all.”

Tam hesitated. If the ghosts were pushing them toward the Book, would they know once someone removed it? Would they try and stop them? Or would the Book?

It had insisted it didn’t know the location of the spellbooks. Would it say the same to Shade?

“Come with me,” he said. She followed him through the winding aisles, back toward the Book’s alcove. “Shall I pretend your interest in staying is all altruistic?” he asked. “Or are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

Silence. “Is there something wrong with being interested in rituals?”

“You had a map of the Hells,” he noted. “There is something wrong with tampering with that sort of ritual.” Silence again. “Did you never think,” Tam said, “that you might be better off without that devil? That his death might be a blessing?”

“If he dies,” Farideh said tightly, “then I lose everything.”

“It might feel that way now-”

“No,” she said, stopping as they reached the Book’s resting place and facing him. “If he dies, I lose everything. I lose my pact. I lose my powers. I lose the protection I have against other devils. They’ll seek me out. They’ll seek out Havilar. I’ll lose her too. Lorcan isn’t perfect, I know that. But he’s worlds better than being helpless and at the mercy of uncountable devils.”

Tam shook his head. “There are ways to deter fiends. Don’t you see? You could be so much more than a warlock.”

Farideh regarded him, her temper barely leashed. “Whatever I can be,” she said, “I can be that as well as a warlock. Otherwise, let’s be honest, I could never have been so in the first place.”

“Be reasonable.”

“What do you think, Tam?” she demanded. “That I could renounce the pact and be a Harper? And then when you put me to work with someone like Dahl, then what? He leaves me for dead in a fight because I’m just some tiefling? You be reasonable. You sound worse than Mehen.” She glanced back the way they’d come. “And frankly, if you’re going to act like Mehen, you can start by worrying about your own daughter.”

He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Farideh colored. “Nothing.” She scooped the Book off its pedestal and started determinedly back the way they’d come. “Forget it.”

Where, the Book asked, are you taking me?

“Back to our camp,” Farideh answered.

Their things packed and ready, the expedition returned down the stunning main aisle, back to the enormous double doors. Tam stayed to the rear of the procession, his eyes sweeping the shadows on either side, ready for the ghosts to strike again, for the illusions to overwhelm someone. He couldn’t shake the sense that someone was watching them pass, and his imagination was full of shadowalking warriors.

We are nearly done, he reminded himself. We are nearly safe. He spoke too soon.

The doors were shut tight at the end of the passageway. For a moment, Tam wondered why Dahl and Maspero at the front of the group had shut them-they had been open when Tam returned from trying to contact the Fisher. But both men were straining at the portal, trying to pull the doors wide again.

“Now we have a problem that trumps Shadovar,” Mira said as he caught up to them.

Green-tinted magic glowed all around the egress, the mark of the spell that sealed tight their only exit from the arcanist’s library.

I did warn you, the Book said, when they’d returned to camp. Tarchamus littered this place with traps to dissuade those who weren’t dedicated to knowledge.

Farideh stood, holding the tome open, so everyone could see the shift of ink. “And sealing the door?”

I haven’t the faintest idea, the Book said. I suppose no one’s tried to leave before they were meant to.

“Are you implying,” Tam asked, “that the arcanist is deciding what’s best for us?”

Nothing of the sort. I’m merely suggesting possibilities. Perhaps one of you did something to trigger a lock. Perhaps these ghosts you mentioned are to blame. Perhaps it’s the work of someone on the outside.

“Perhaps we weren’t meant to take you out of here,” Tam said.

I would have known about that, the Book scoffed.

If they all had been hesitant to listen to Tam’s concerns before, now everyone was watching the silverstar for answers.

He must love that, Farideh thought bitterly-even if Tam had been right. His lecture still smarted, as did the embarrassment that she hadn’t been as subtle as she’d thought she was being. You wouldn’t have to be, she thought, if anyone gave you the slightest benefit of the doubt. If anyone asked what was so dire.

“All right,” Tam said after a moment. “Pair off. No one goes anywhere from now on without a partner.” He set a hand on Maspero’s shoulder with a very tense smile not even Tam could pretend wasn’t threatening.

Farideh set the Book down and started toward Havilar. But she’d hardly taken a step before Havilar’s hand intertwined with Brin’s. Farideh looked away. Pernika moved to stand beside Mira. Farideh shut her eyes and cursed.

“Anyone approaches alone,” Tam said, “assume it’s one of the ghosts. Your partner stops reacting to you, assume they’re caught by one of the traps. Mark its place. Maspero and I will go search the Shadovars’ bodies for clues on what sort of timeline we’re talking about. Mira, you and Pernika go search the lower floor. Find us a rear exit.” And put the Book back, he mouthed. Mira nodded once.

He frowned at Brin and Havilar, hesitating a moment. “Can I trust you two to guard the camp?” he asked finally. “That’s it?” Havilar said.

“Twice the ghosts turned up near the camp. If they want us to stay, it makes sense they’ll be back,” Tam said. “Besides, I thought you’d like the chance to deal with your double.”

Farideh gave a very small sigh. Was Havilar that predictable, or was Tam that smooth? Suddenly her sister was not only determined to defend every inch of the camp, but also not to slack off at it and spend her time kissing Brin.

Hells, Farideh hoped so. It was too easy to imagine a ghost like the one who’d looked like Tam catching Havilar around the throat with his icy hands, because she’d been too busy staring into Brin’s eyes …

She cursed again, angry she was annoyed. Annoyed she was angry.

“You two,” Tam said, considering Farideh and Dahl. He sighed. “Try and fix the door. Farideh, don’t set the place on fire. Everyone meet back at the camp as soon as you’ve found anything. There’s no keeping track of the time, but be sensible. If we have to come find you, there had better be a good reason.” They dispersed.

“What rear exit?” Dahl muttered as he gathered up his sword and haversack. “It’s not a stlarning inn.”

“There’s fresh air coming in from somewhere,” Farideh said, recalling Havilar’s trap. “There are vents under the floor.”

“Excellent,” Dahl said. “We can shinny a thousand feet up a crack the size of a hay straw.” He started off without waiting for her.

Farideh gave her sister one last look. “Be careful.” Havilar folded her arms and turned away. A sick feeling tightened Farideh’s lower back, and her tail started thrashing. She hurried after Dahl.

The magic glowing around the edges of the door had not faded. Dahl dropped his haversack on the floor and prodded the gaps with the tip of a dagger. The green light seemed to have completely filled the space between the doors.

“I might be able to jump through it,” Farideh said. Dahl looked back at her as if she were insane. “Humor me,” she said, “and rule it out. We’re going to both feel like fools if it turns out the door could have just been opened from the other side.” He stepped out of the way.

Farideh drew the powers into herself, enough to make the little tear in the world that would let her leap through space and even the thin stone of the door. The pulse of Malbolge surged, the shadows around her deepened … and nothing happened. The magic broke around her with a crack and fell back, through the planes to its faraway source.

“There we are,” Dahl said. “Tarchamus had a little more power than you.”

Or her link to the Hells was damaged, she thought, and the spell weakened. Could it work that way? The urge to pull all the scrolls and notes from her haversack and attempt the cobbled-together ritual of the Book was strong. She quashed it, burying it down under more pressing worries. She couldn’t attempt anything with Dahl watching, anyway.

“I never said he didn’t,” she replied. “It was just supposed to go around his spells.”

Dahl broke off. “Never mind. You were right. It needed to be ruled out.” He stared at the door, silent for a long moment. “I don’t suppose you were eager for this assignment either.”

She folded her arms, doubting anyone was eager to be matched up with Dahl. “I expected to be left back at the camp with Havilar.”

“I take it,” he said, pulling out his ritual book, “that means your sister and the lordling have some kind of understanding? Not pleasant being abandoned, is it?”

She laughed. “Oh, what in the Hells would you know about that?” His expression closed, and he looked down at the tome in his lap. Sulky henish, she thought, but her ire softened slightly. She didn’t have to coddle Dahl or coax a reason out of him not to find him impossible. But she didn’t want to be a henish herself.

“There are runes on the walls and the columns,” she offered. “They lock some of the doors. Maybe there’s one for this.” She thought back to her earlier conversation with Havilar. “I think there’s one on the wall near here.”

Dahl gave her a puzzled expression. “Who told you there were rune-based locks?”

“The Book,” she said. “Look, we’ll just go, break the rune, and see if it does any good. It’s worth trying.”

He turned back to the door. “How far is it?”

“I don’t know. Not far, I imagine.”

“Why don’t you take care of it?” he said. “I’ll stay here.”

She nearly laughed again-who could have guessed her example for Tam was so prophetic. “And if the ghosts find us? The illusion triggers?”

“The ghosts don’t look like you or me,” Dahl said dismissively. “And we’ve tramped through here enough that I’m certain there’s no trap to trigger. Go test your theory. I’ll be here.”

Farideh started to protest again, but she caught herself. The scrolls in her haversack were still calling. She could go, destroy the rune, and try the ritual-if it didn’t work, she needed every possible moment to find a way to fix it before Tam made them leave and she was back to not knowing where to start. She had the components-borrowed, begged, and gathered from the library and her comrades. She just needed space, time, and to be as far from anyone else as possible for a few moments.

“All right,” she said. “But be careful.”

She followed the wall to the west, where Havilar had said she’d seen the large rune. The library was darker here along the edges, but her eyes were sensitive enough to make the path clear. Not so sensitive to make the space less eerie. She listened for a moment, but not even the echoes of her comrades reached her.

The rune had been etched into a space between shelves, a letter nearly as tall as she was drawn in strokes as thick as her leg. It glowed faintly, as if reflecting the light of the orbs overhead. The floor around it was open, as if the shelves had been arranged to better display the rune, and a statue of a man in wizard’s robes stood opposite it.

First the ritual, she thought. Better to break the rune right before she went back to Dahl, in case he decided to come find her once the doors opened.

If she listened hard enough, could she hear the motions of the ghosts of the library? At least now if anyone came toward her alone she’d know better. Anyone but Dahl, she amended. She looked back the way she came-a gloomy path through the shadows and the sickly cast of the arcanist’s greenish magic tracing the walls. Which would be worse-Dahl or a ghost playing at being Dahl coming across her now?

Farideh kneeled near the statue and opened the ritual book-Dahl could take care of himself, and if he came upon her, it didn’t matter, she’d already be well underway. She started drawing the runes one by one in a careful circle, slowly so the shaking of her hand wouldn’t muss things. Her thoughts raced. What if Lorcan wouldn’t come? What if he couldn’t? What if someone else had already rescued him and he was somewhere else entirely?

Worse, she thought, chalking the rune carefully over a seam in the tiles, what if he never needed rescuing at all? What if he’s only grown tired of me?

You should be so lucky, a little part of her thought. A very little part.

She didn’t want Lorcan back the way he was, the way Havilar seemed to remember him-chasing her down and trying to drag her through portals, sending assassins to kill her friends because he didn’t like them-but when the forces of the Hells had appeared to take him back … He’d changed, she thought. By then he was different. By then he’d been kinder, maybe gentler. His nobler side, she thought, coming through. He wasn’t all wicked. Neverwinter proved that. Surely.

Farideh finished the circle and thought of the night in the winter woods, after she’d taken the pact, after she’d fled the village. The heat of him and his burning hands grasping her wrists … Perhaps a little wicked wasn’t so bad.

Gods, now she was making herself blush. She rubbed her hands over her face, as if to scrub away the memory. She wasn’t fond of Lorcan. She was rescuing a … comrade. Returning a favor.

You are a terrible liar, the same little part of her seemed to say.

She trailed a line of the silver dust over the runes. As the line closed into a circle, the runes took on a soft, white glow.

Farideh’s heart was in her throat as she kneeled again, a little ways off, the ritual book open in front of her. What if he didn’t come? What if he couldn’t? He might be dead, after all, she thought. He might have died at his mistress’s hands so I wouldn’t.

Or Glasya might have killed him anyway, with or without Farideh …

Or his terrible, monstrous sisters might come instead … Or the ritual might fail …

She started speaking the words of the spell, her mouth moving as if on its own, as if it had decided to go ahead and try even though her thoughts still raced, screaming that the magic wouldn’t work, that she was wasting time and components, that she was going to break her own heart. The cadence of the ritual was powerful and rhythmic-it pulled itself out of her, drawing strands of the frayed Weave together, and she couldn’t stop any of it even if she’d wanted to. The air in the antechamber thickened and her hands began to ache as the powers of the Hells rose in concert with the powers of the Weave, straining to be set free.

Just when Farideh’s words began to run out, just when she was sure she could not handle another strand, another syllable, the magic split the air, neatly as a razor.

“Son of a barghest,” Dahl muttered, considering the spent remains of yet another ritual arrayed around the base of the door. The green light of the magic sealing the portal and the yellowish light of his sunrod made it all look like a sickly mess. He could not pass through it, unlock it, break it down, melt it with heat, crack it with cold, or ask it nicely to open up.

That marked the last of his ideas. He blew out a breath.

“Would you let me try and shrink you down?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder. “It probably won’t work, but …”

Farideh was still not there.

He walked a little ways down the tunnel, to where he could see the library beyond. Nothing. Damn it.

Dahl walked to the opening of the tunnel and scanned the shelves. If he went looking, she might come back to the door while he was out. If she came back and couldn’t find him, gods knew what she’d decide to do next. He made his way back down the tunnel to the sealed door and pulled out the diary he’d taken. She’d be back. Surely.

He’d read several years’ worth of memories-and with each successive entry, he found himself wondering more and more what he was meant to gain from it. For though that late entry remarked on the intercession done to prevent the arcanist’s access to the Weave, as he paged through earlier comments, there was little to remark on but Tarchamus’s biting wit and disdainful nature.

He turned to a later page, one dated to the spring of 1374, by Netheril’s calendar.

Tarchamus has made fools of us all. We should have known better. Censuring him has only driven him to find more dangerous sources of power. Last night I called on him to make some amends-more the fool am I. I thought I owed him that-and over wine he asked after my eruption spell. I told him, quite honestly, that it progressed well, but I have reconsidered its need. Such a feat of magic would wreak more destruction than anything we’ve attempted thus far. He scoffed-what is the world for, if not so that we can remake it to our imaginations? Better to devise such feats as might destroy what came before than to sit in our halls making lights and plumbing for the unfortunate worms unwilling to seek the knowledge of the spheres.

“That is the sort of talk which led to your censure,” I said to him.

He replied, “It is the sort of talk all you fools are thinking. Thinking, but not brave enough to speak. Burn the lower cities if it gives you greater insight. Melt the mountains down and boil away the rivers if it shows the gods what greatness we can achieve without them. There will always be more-mountains, rivers, men.”

I said, “I think you forget yourself. You are talking of humans. Of our subjects. You can’t treat them like simple gnomes or elves.”

I shall never forget his answer: “They are as far from us, Emrys, as they are from the gods.” And then he showed me the scroll on which he had written his own spell-one which would take a relatively small amount of magical effort, applied just so, and tap into the planes in such a way as to create, if not a volcano, then its near simulacrum. I have copied it to the best of my memory on the following pages, because of what came next.

We fought. He accused me of envy. I accused him of callousness. I warned him I would turn him over to the council. I left, but I did not go to Sadebreth. I told myself it was merely Tarchamus’s temper and if he were allowed to cool, things would return to the way they had been.

The next morning the ground beneath the city of Tenish had erupted, burning Arion’s fortress from the sky, and laying waste to his vassals below.

“Gods’ books,” Dahl muttered. If the arcanist was truly the misunderstood scholar that the Book had painted for Dahl, there was a lot of explanation missing from Emrys’s diary. His thoughts turned circles trying to find a way to understand Tarchamus’s actions as anything but horrific. Perhaps this Arion had been a greater threat? Perhaps someone had stolen Tarchamus’s spell and used it? Perhaps it had gone off by some accident?

But still: he had crafted a spell to destroy vast tracts of land and had not cared if it killed those who stood in its way.

He could not help but wonder what Jedik would have thought of it-a thought experiment for a novice loremaster if Dahl had ever seen one. If knowledge was not meant to be hidden or hindered, how did one act when the freedom of some knowledge led to death and destruction?

“The knowledge is not to blame,” he murmured, as if at lessons, “only the use of such. The actor controls the action, not the potential for action.” A pretty answer, but Dahl-perhaps, he thought bitterly, since his fall-found it hard to accept. A spell to birth a volcano from the fields might well sit quietly on a shelf, an example of one wizard’s careful, brilliant study … but that counted on the goodwill and self-discipline of a great many people who weren’t known for such things.

He turned the page to see Emrys’s scribbled diagrams, full of questions and strange symbols he’d marked as provisional. Dahl rubbed his eyes-even with the ritual’s help, the pages were barely comprehensible.

The voices that carried through the door on the other hand-

“It’s right!” he heard a man shout in Netherese. “It’s right! There’s the old bastard. Pull the wizard out, you idiots.”

Dahl slammed the book shut and pressed his ear to the door. Movement-plenty of bodies. More muffled Netherese. And then a voice he had been sure that he’d never have to hear again.

“Well done,” Adolican Rhand said, so close, Dahl could picture him admiring the garnet in the arcanist’s pendant. “Get them open.”

Dahl scrambled back from the door, one hand on his sword and his ears ringing with nerves. The doors started to shudder with the impact of a ram. The green magic held them shut and whole, but they’d soon realize that and try other means-he had as long as it took Rhand to come to drastic measures. And he couldn’t sit here and wait.

Dahl snatched up the heavy haversack and tossed it back down the tunnel, before pacing out a distance between the doors and the point where he’d have to cast the ritual. He yanked the bag open, digging through the bottles and vials and pouches for the right pieces, stringing together in his head the two rituals he needed, and the way to cast them both as one.

The sentry was simple-a spell for a student, a spell he could have taught Farideh and been done by highsunfeast. He set the two components-crushed quartz and basilisk spines-to one side. The other, the amplifying ritual was much trickier and would take all his concentration.

Or, he thought, all he could give while the rhythmic crashing of the ram demanded his attention.

Salts of copper, powdered silver, the splintered roots of a Feywild tree, and a chip of diamond the size of a flea. He worked feverishly, fighting to keep his focus on the spell and not the door, not the boom, boom, boom and the inevitable point when the ram stopped its futile efforts and the wizard went to work.

The sentry came together quickly, an invisible watcher left in sight of the doors but as far down the tunnel as possible. It wouldn’t see Dahl or the others but it would be very quick to spot the Shadovar.

The second half took longer, the broken strands of the Weave fighting against Dahl as the spell pulled them together, winding them down into the secret substance of the sentry, down around the core of its spell. The booming slowed.

Dahl’s grip on the magic started to slip. He spoke the last words of the ritual in a rush, all gasped together in one breath of air. The magic snapped tight around the sentry, and a flash of colorless light filled the tunnel. Dahl dropped to his knees, panting.

What he’d told Farideh before was true: ritual magic wasn’t for fighting. But the amplification spell he’d been part of creating back in Procampur would make a simple workaday ritual feed into itself, casting at a hundredfold its prior power without changing the intent of the original spell.

In this case, the sentry would scream when its range was breached. Hopefully loud enough to shatter Rhand’s ear drums and echo off the farthest walls of the library. It would buy them time to prepare.

The ram stopped. He scooped his components and books back into the haversack. He had to get back to the others. But first, he had to find Farideh.

Dahl sprinted out into the stacks, and had no more than hit the last stair before he heard Farideh’s cry of alarm echo through the library.

“Shit,” he cursed.

With only a vague idea of where she’d gone, he followed the nearest to the wall, calling her name. He shouldn’t have to pay attention to her comings and goings. He shouldn’t have been asked to play nursemaid. Damn it, he thought easing around one of the enormous columns-if anything happened …

Gods, he hoped this was just her being foolhardy and easily excited. Could one of the ghosts have lured her away? Could they have killed her the way they had the scouts? Or gods, worse-what if the shadar-kai found a way in? What if they didn’t need to breach the doors?

You ignorant fool, he thought at himself. Tam would skin him alive.

The pathways through the library twisted onto themselves, throwing shelves up into his path and dwindling into dead ends with dead-eyed statues. The farther he went, the more worried he became. He’d sneered at the notion of the ghosts. He’d not believed they were in danger, and now he’d lost Farideh and himself in the maze of the library-

There. Voices. Farideh and … someone else.

Calm voices, he noted, and he slowed down, easing his way toward the sounds. What did the illusions look like from the outside? Would he know?

Who else would she be talking to? he wondered. He came around the corner, his sword at the ready, and froze.