Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [46]
Within instants, the summons would appear to each member of the Conclave as letters of blood and fire. A White Robe, slumbering in her bed, was awakened by the bright light of fiery tracings blazing across the ceiling of her bedchamber. A Black Robe saw the words materialize on the wall of his laboratory. He left immediately, if reluctantly, for he had just finished summoning a fiend from the Abyss, who was undoubtedly smashing up the furniture in his absence. A Red Robe had been battling goblins when he saw the words emblazoned on the forehead of his foe. The Red Robe arrived bruised and out of breath, his hands covered in goblin blood. He’d been forced to leave behind a group of goblin-hunters, who were now looking about in baffled astonishment, wondering what had become of their magic-user.
“There goes my share of the bounty,” he muttered as he took his seat.
“Wait until my husband wakes up to find me missing,” said the White Robe at his side. “I’ll have some explaining to do when I go back home.”
“You think you have problems,” said the Black Robe, who sighed as he thought of the mess the demon was making in his laboratory. Provided he still had a laboratory.
All personal inconveniences were forgotten, however, as the wizards listened in shock to Jenna’s tale. She started at the beginning, telling Rhys’s story as he had told it to her. She ended with the ill-fated attack on the Beloved.
“The spell I cast was ‘Sunburst,’ ” she told them. “I assume all of you are familiar with it?”
There was a general nodding of hooded heads.
“As you know, this spell is particularly effective against undead. It should have fried that walking corpse to a crisp. It had no effect on it whatsoever. The Beloved laughed at me.”
“Since it is you, Jenna, who cast the spell, I must assume that there is no possibility that you made a mistake. That you mispronounced a word or used an impure spell component.”
The speaker was Dalamar the Dark, Head of the Order of Black Robes. Although an elf and one who was relatively young by elven standards, Dalamar appeared older than the eldest human at the table. His black hair was streaked with white. His eyes were set deep within hollow eye sockets. His fine-boned face seemed carved of ivory. Though he seemed frail, he was at the height of his power and well respected among all the Orders.
He should have been head of the Conclave but for a few regrettable mistakes in his past that had led both gods and wizards to oppose him and promote Jenna in his place. The two had been lovers many years ago and were still friends when they weren’t rivals.
“Since I am the one who cast the spell,” Jenna returned coolly, “I can assure you that there is no possibility that I made a mistake.”
Dalamar appeared skeptical.
Jenna raised her hand to heaven. “As Lunitari is my witness,” she declared. “Let the god send us a sign if I miscast the spell.”
“Jenna made no mistake,” said Lunitari with a frowning glance at Nuitari.
“Dalamar didn’t say she did,” Nuitari returned. “In fact, he said she didn’t.”
“That wasn’t what he meant.”
“Stop it, both of you,” Solinari intervened. “This is a serious matter, perhaps the most serious we have encountered since our return. Calm your ire, Cousin. Dalamar the Dark acted quite properly in asking for reassurance.”
“And he will get it,” said Lunitari.
The library was suddenly suffused with warm red light. Jenna smiled with satisfaction. Dalamar cast a glance toward heaven and inclined his hooded head in deference to the god.
“None of us doubts Mistress Jenna’s abilities,