Night of Madness

Chapter Twenty-two

Manrin the Mage, Guildmaster of Ethshar of the Sands, charged with overseeing and representing all those wizards who dwelt outside the city walls but within two days’ travel, was not happy at all. He was even less happy than his colleague Ithinia in Ethshar of the Spices, forty leagues to the east, had been the afternoon before when she heard from Lord Faran.

The Night of Madness, as it was now referred to, had initially hit Ethshar of the Sands roughly as hard as it had hit Ethshar of the Spices; hundreds of people had vanished, dozens had been killed, shops and homes had been looted and burned. However, unlike the disturbances in its sister city, the rioting in Ethshar of the Sands had lasted until dawn. No party of well-intentioned warlocks had roamed the streets, suppressing their wilder compatriots; Ederd IV had not called out the guard to defend his palace as his brother-in-law Azrad VI had, but had instead dispersed them through the streets, which had in many cases only inflamed the situation.

That, however, was not the major reason why Manrin was even less cheerful than Ithinia.

Lord Ederd’s people were now ranging up and down Wizard Street, questioning every magician they could find, hoping to find an explanation for the outburst of magic. Ederd himself was in conference with several well-respected magicians of various sorts at the Palace, while Ederd’s wife, ZarrГ©a of the Spices, was roaming the city organizing rebuilding efforts, sometimes conscripting magicians into service.

Manrin had been questioned at considerable length in his home by Lord Kalthon, son of the Minister of Justice, which had not been pleasant. The general impression Manrin had received was that the people of the city did not trustany magicians right now.

That was not the major reason why Manrin was unhappy, either.

Manrin’s own daughter Ferris was among the missing; she had not been seen since the moment the screaming began. Even that, though, was not whatmost upset him, though it was a close second. Ferris was a grown woman, aging but still well able to take care of herself, and Manrin told himself that she was probably safely in hiding, waiting for things to return to normal. Even if she was truly among the vanished, nobody knew what had become of them; they might all be alive and well somewhere.

And Manrin’s other three children, their spouses, his dozen grandchildren, and his half-dozen great-grandchildren were all unharmed and safe in their homes. He was not concerned about any of them.

What worried Manrin most was his magic. He had tried to perform several different spells in the past day or so, and far too many of them had not worked. That the Spell of the Revealed Power had yielded nothing when applied to the debris in the street was not particularly alarming-that was a tricky ninth-order spell, and the debris might simply not have carried any traces that the spell recognized. That the Spell of Omniscient Vision had failed, though, meant something was wrong. That was an easy third-order incantation-he had learned that as anapprentice, almost a hundred years ago, and he hadn’t had any problem with it since he was a journeyman! He was a Guildmaster now; how could he have made a mess of something so trivial? The ingredients were basic. He knew the dagger and incense were exactly what they should be; could the stone have somehow been exposed to sunlight, destroying its virtue?

His magic wasn’ttotally gone-he had tested himself with a few quick little first-order spells that had all worked properly— but it had become completely unreliable for anything complex enough to be useful.

And then there were things that had moved about his workshop, apparently by themselves-the chair that had slid into place, his Book of Spells leaping to his hand, and a handful of other incidents. All these movements had been harmless or even beneficial, but they shouldn’t have happened. Had he left some spell unfinished, some magical being unrestrained? Could the Aerial Servitor he’d conjured up a sixnight before still be lingering, trying to be helpful? He had set it the required three tasks, and it had performed all three-it should have been dismissed thereafter.

These failures and movements were worrisome. Anytime magic misbehaved there was good cause for concern; the forces involved could be catastrophically powerful.

Was age starting to catch up with him again? It had been a long time since his youth spell; he might well be due for another. He could scarcely expect to perform anything that difficult for himself under the circumstances, though, and hiring another wizard to do it would be troublesome and expensive. He almost wished he had gone foreternal youth the first time, rather than mere rejuvenation.

Or it might not have anything to do with age. Could there be any connection between his own problems and the mysterious magical power that had so disrupted the city’s life?

Well, he was a wizard; when he had a question, no matter what it was, he could get an answer-if the spell worked. And if it didn’t, he wasn’t really much of a wizard.

He had gathered the necessary ingredients-salt, cock’s blood, his athame, and a cake of the appropriate incense-and was working out the exact phrasing of the question he intended to address with Fendel’s Divination, assuming he could indeed get the Divination to work, when someone knocked on his workshop door.

Manrin sighed and put down his athame. “Yes?” he called.

The door opened and his servant Derneth peered in. “Master? You have visitors.” “Lord Kalthon? Or Lady ZarrГ©a?”

“No, Master. A wizard by the name of Abdaran the White, and his apprentice, Ulpen of North Herris.”

Manrin frowned. “Abdaran? Oh, yes. I know him. He has an apprentice?”

“Apparently, Master.”

“Send them in.”

Derneth hesitated-ordinarily, Manrin met visitors in one of the parlors. Still, the order was clear enough. “Yes, Master,” he said, closing the door.

Manrin looked at his question again, debating whether “explain” or “describe” would be the better verb-or whether either of them would transform the question to a request, which the Divination would not handle properly. Perhaps “What is the nature of...”

The door opened again and two wizards stepped in-a man who appeared to be perhaps half a century in age, with snow-white hair, and a black-haired lad of sixteen or so, both in formal robes. Abdaran wore deep red, while the boy-presumably Ulpen-wore apprentice gray.

“Guildmaster,” the older man said with a bow.

“Abdaran,” Manrin said, pushing aside the paper. “What brings you to Ethshar?”

Abdaran smiled wryly. “My feet, actually,” he said. “I had no transportation spells on hand, and the matter seemed urgent. May we sit down?”

“If you can find somewhere to sit, by all means,” Manrin said, gesturing broadly. “What was it that seemed urgent?”

Abdaran looked significantly at a chair, and Ulpen hurriedly cleared several books and a neatly tied bundle of small bones off it, so that his master could sit. When Abdaran had settled comfortably, he said, “My apprentice, Ulpen, has developed some curious new abilities.”

Ulpen was busily clearing jars from another chair-there were only three chairs, in addition to Manrin’s own stool, and a great many things were stacked on them-and didn’t see Manrin look questioningly at him.

“What sort of abilities?” Manrin asked.

“Primarily, the ability to move physical objects by the power of thought alone,” Abdaran replied.

“Warlockry,” Manrin said. He looked at Ulpen. “But surely, he has his athame?”

“Of course he does, Guildmaster,” Abdaran said. “Right there on his belt. I’m afraid I don’t see the relevance, however, nor do I recognize the word ’warlockry.’ We heard it mentioned by the guards in Grandgate, but we don’t know the term.”

Ulpen finally got the chair cleared and sat down, turning to face his elders expectantly. Manrin stared at the two in surprise. “Gods!” he said. “Where have you two been?”

“North Herris,” Abdaran said sharply. “A village some eight leagues northeast of here, as you certainly ought to know.”

“Master,” Ulpen whispered loudly, “he’s aGuildmaster!”

Manrin sighed. “No, he’s right, boy,” he said. “I’m sorry, it’s been so much in evidence here that... well, obviously you somehow missed it.”

“Missed what?” Abdaran said, keeping his tone more civil this time.

“The Night of Madness,” Manrin said. “That’s what people are calling it. The night before last-late on the fourth day of Sum-merheat, and into the morning of the fifth.”

Abdaran looked at him expectantly, and Manrin continued, “Somewhere after sunset, but still a little beforemidnight on that night,something happened. We still don’t know what; attempts at divination have been unsuccessful, apparently blocked by somevery powerful, and completely unfamiliar, magic. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who were sleeping were awakened by intense nightmares; some people who were awake report an odd sensation, as if hit by something invisible. Many of both groups began screaming, though they often couldn’t explain why, and many of them panicked. Almost everyone who screamed, and some who did not, discovered that like your apprentice here they could now move objects about without touching them. And those who panicked went rampaging through their homes and the streets, using their new power to smash anything in their way and snatch whatever caught their fancy. Some who hadn’t panicked did the same, simply because the opportunity was there and they could see others running wild in this fashion. Dozens of people were killed, shops and houses were smashed or burned-it wasvery bad, and you’re lucky to have missed it.”

Ulpen’s face had gone pale, and Abdaran frowned deeply.

“I see,” he said. “And you think this thing has affected my apprentice?”

“Yes, I do,” Manrin said. “Assuming that he can, in fact, move things in this fashion. If so, then yes, he’s a warlock.”

“Show him,” Abdaran said, turning to Ulpen.

Ulpen swallowed, looked around, and pointed at the bundle of bones he had moved from Abdaran’s chair. “Will that do?”

“Certainly,” Manrin said-and before the word had entirely left his lips the bundle was floating in midair, a foot or so off the floor. It moved tentatively back and forth, then lowered itself back to the planking.

“And have you had bad dreams these past two nights?” Manrin asked. “Dreams of falling, or burning, or being buried alive?”

“Not last night,” Ulpen said. “The night before, yes.”

Manrin turned back to Abdaran. “He’s definitely a warlock,” he said. “This word ’warlock,’ ” Abdaran asked, “where is it from?”

“The witches in Ethshar of the Spices reportedly say that this magic resembles a secret they used during the Great War, centuries ago. The name has caught on, though it appears the resemblance is only superficial.”

“Are there many people affected this way?”

“Lord Ederd’s people estimate there could be hundreds, perhaps as many as a thousand, just in Ethshar of the Sands, and reports from Ethshar of the Spices indicate they have a similar number. Ethshar of the Rocks has fewer-perhaps a few hundred at most. We have no word as yet from the Small Kingdoms or thenorthern territories.” He hesitated, then added, “I haven’t told you the worst of it. When this first happened, hundreds of people simply disappeared. Some were seen walking or running or even flying, using their new abilities, to the north-north by northeast, to be precise. Others were just gone when their families awoke the next day. None of them have returned; we have no idea what became of them. Most people assume the warlocks are responsible, and Ederd is considering ordering them all into exile-or perhaps killing the lot of them, though I doubt anyone would want to bethat drastic. Apparently the other two members of the triumvirate favor this solution, as well.”

“Can’t you find out what caused all this?” Abdaran asked.

Manrin turned up an empty palm. “We’re trying,” he said. “So far we’ve established that it wasn’t the work of a god, that despite the similarities it’s not witchcraft, that it isn’t any recognizable form of wizardry that’s responsible.” He looked at Ulpen again. “And wethought that it didn’t affect wizards. You do have a proper athame, don’t you, lad?”

Ulpen nodded and patted the sheathed dagger on his belt.

“Well, then we have a puzzle,” Manrin said. “A part of your soul is in that knife, and we thought that meant that wizards can’t do any other kind of magic. That’s why we forbid anyone to learn more than one kind of magic-because we thought we couldn’t do it, and we didn’t want anyone else to have an advantage over us. We know we can’t summon gods or demons, or learn witchcraft, because of our divided souls-but it would appear we can still be warlocks. Interesting!”

Ulpen swallowed hard, then said, “Guildmaster?”

“Yes? Speak freely, my boy.”

“I’m not sure Iam a wizard anymore.”

Manrin eyed the boy thoughtfully.

“Explain that, if you please,” he said.

Ulpen glanced at his master, took a deep breath, and said, “I haven’t worked a real spell since the night before last-since this thing happened. And I’ve tried four times. When it didn’t work I used the new magic instead.”

Manrin and Abdaran both stared at him for a moment. Then Manrin said, “Abdaran, would you be so kind as to test the boy’s athame?” Abdaran turned, puzzled. “Test it? How?”

Manrin sighed. How in the World had Abdaran ever qualified as a master wizard without learning these simple tricks? “Touch the tip of his athame with the tip of yours. We should see a clear reaction.”

Abdaran frowned, but drew his dagger. Ulpen drew his own and held it out, remembering at the last moment to offer it point first, instead of the standard polite hilt first.

Abdaran touched the knives together.

A sudden loud crackle sounded, and a burst of green and blue sparks appeared from the point of contact, spraying in all directions and then vanishing. Abdaran was so startled he dropped his own athame, but he caught it before it hit the floor.

Manrin frowned. “That’s odd,” he said. “You never tried that before?”

“No, Guildmaster,” Abdaran said, his tone more respectful than it had been a moment ago.

“It should have been more of abang, and there should have been more colors,” Manrin said unhappily. “So the boy is a wizard, but there is something notright about his athame. Was he a good student before this?”

“Competent enough,” Abdaran admitted. “Not brilliant, but he could work a dozen spells reliably.”

“Well, there’s definitely something wrong.” He picked up his own athame from the workbench. “Here, I’ll show you.” He held out the knife.

Abdaran rose from his chair and approached cautiously until at last the knife points touched. The air crackled again, and a shower of blue and purple sparks exploded from nowhere and vanished into nothingness.

Manrin stared. “Butthat’s not right!” he said. “That wasn’t any better at all. It must beyour athame that’s damaged! Here, boy, come try yours.”

Ulpen obeyed-but when his athame touched Manrin’s there was only a fizzing hiss, and a handful of indigo sparks trickled.

“Oh, no,” Manrin said, staring at the daggers.“Oh, please, no!”

The pieces had fallen into place.

“Guildmaster?” Abdaran said, puzzled.

“Get out!” Manrin bellowed, waving his free hand wildly. “Get out of here, right now! I must talk to the boyalone!”

Baffled and clearly upset, Abdaran retreated to the door. “I don’t...” he began.

“Out!”

“But he’smy apprentice...” Manrin brandished his athame. “Get out now, or I’ll turn you into a toad, I swear by all the gods!”

Abdaran got. Manrin closed the door behind him and locked it securely.

Then he turned to Ulpen.

“Now,” he said, “I want you to tell me how you move things, how you do your warlockry.”

“I don’t understand,” Ulpen said. His face was ashen with terror. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on, boy, is that you and I have something in common, though I didn’t realize it until I saw thatboth our atha-mes are somehow depleted. I was sosure that wizards would be immune that I missed the obvious!”

“The obviouswhat, Guildmaster?”

“ThatI’m a warlock, too! And that’s why I haven’t been able to work any high-order magic for the past two days!” He gestured with the athame. “We’re still wizards, you and I-we know the spells, and we have our athames-but this new magic is suppressing our skills.”

“It is? How can you be sure?”

Manrin had been on the verge of dancing around the room, but now he stopped and stared at Ulpen.

“I can besure with a simple divination,” he said. He looked at the Book of Spells, and the waiting salt, incense, and blood. “But we may need to have someone else perform the spell.”

“Should I call Abdaran back?”

Manrin held up a palm. “No,” he said. “I don’t think we want Abdaran involved; he’s just a country wizard. This is a Guild matter.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Serem should do.”