A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [44]
Yet it saved his life. In the moments before his awareness would have boiled away forever, Ingryl managed to bow before the regent's mind-bolt, let it roll over him-hugging the throne as a spell-anchor, in all the raging- and deflect it into the scrying shield.
Like a fireball caught in a net, he could hope to hold it there only a fleeting time-but as it blazed up brightly, spilling energies in all directions, Ingryl used that energy to transform his faulty scrying web into a better warding.
For the space of a few breaths, Flowfoam was girded about with a shield that blocked all magic-forcing the regent's strike back whence it came and preventing any lurking foe or opportunistic hedge-wizard from striking at him in his spasming weakness.
Not for nothing was he called the Spellmaster.
Smiling grimly-for he knew just how close to death he'd come, this time, and how fortunate he'd been to cheat it-Ingryl Ambelter reached behind his ear and broke the dragonfang he wore hidden in his hair there, on a dainty coif net wrenched long ago from some cringing noble lass or other.
It was the only one he'd ever seen, and the enchantment he'd sourced in its power had taken a long time to oh-so-carefully cast. He'd known that if he ever had to use it, the time would be desperate.
The fang broke, sighing away into nothingness as legend insisted they always did-and his spell awakened immediately. Until he slept or worked magic again, he was "not there" to all magic, hidden and unreachable.
A guard's blade could still slay him, but no spell could see or touch him-no matter what it was. Or so the enchantment claimed.
Gasping in relief and pain, Ingryl Ambelter slid bonelessly forward off the throne and ended up on one hip on the cold, smooth marble. The Melted stood like silent statues all around him, and he gathered himself against the shuddering pain and started crawling slowly through them, on his hands and knees, seeking the back passage and the stair to the north that would take him down, down into the dark ways of Flowfoam, where Gadaster awaited.
Freed from his control, the Melted started to wander, stumbling aimlessly about, truly staggering at random. Wincing-if one fell on him now, he might be pinned helplessly, or even slain outright-the Spellmaster crawled on, weeping softly from the pain of shattered fingers. Other things were broken within him, too, not least his mind, which persisted in presenting him with sudden, blinding-bright images of events long ago, and folk long dead… most of them slain by him.
Groaning, he clawed his way out of the throne chamber. He'd slain Gadaster, for one-Gadaster Mulkyn, his master and perhaps the most coldly cruel archwizard Ingryl had ever met.
Now he had to reach Gadaster's bones, and embrace them, drinking in the vitality he'd spelltrapped there, and bound for his use in dark moments like this. He'd done it before… in similar times of dark defeat.
He didn't like to think about those times, now or ever, but they had taught him one timely lesson: Aglirta would keep until he had strength to contemplate ruling it again. Oh, yes…
He lay slumped against the door to the stair for a long time, shivering, too weak to go on. Thankfully, there were no prying courtiers or watchful guards still alive to find him. He had Flowfoam all to himself-just as he'd wanted, for so many years.
All his, the Great Isle, every tomb and crypt and turret of it, every forgotten spellbook and enchanted bauble, all the magics grasping Silvertrees had crafted, stolen, or stored since they'd fled the curse of the Silent House. All his, now-except for the wench, Embra, who'd slipped through his fingers. She should be his bound lover, his Living Castle, part of Flowfoam Palace, another Gadaster to drink from at will… but she'd escaped him.
Never again. When he was whole again, he must hunt for her. The Lady of Jewels first-not her Worldstones, nor the