The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [111]
"Then we'll do that," the healer said quietly. "Disrobe, everyone-and get all metal far away from us. Hawkril, don't forget your bracers. All metal must go."
"Our clothes?" the armaragor growled, his hands already on a buckle.
"Unless you want them burned to ash," Sarasper said almost cheerfully. "I'll be needing to draw on both of you, if we're to keep our Lady alive. Don't strew things; I want bundles we can snatch and run with, if we have to. She'll probably do her share of screaming, once we begin."
"Right," Craer said, almost briskly, and then looked at Hawkril. Slowly Sarasper and Embra turned their heads to regard the armaragor, too.
Hawkril Anharu growled something wordless, deep in his throat, before he stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on Embra's shoulder.
She put her fingers over it and stroked it, biting her lip to hold back fresh tears, and he gave her an awkward pat before taking his hand away.
"I hate magic," Hawkril told all Darsar then, looking up at the night sky as if he expected a reply.
There was a brief sputtering that surprised all three men, and then Embra Silvertree was crying and laughing at the same time, struggling to frame the words, "I've said that, myself, more than once!"
Three men exchanged slim ghosts of smiles and turned away to disrobe.
It was not long before the hollow was lit by eerie flames-fire that rose raggedly from the bucking body of a beautiful woman who arched and shrieked in agony, her ankles hooked under a smoldering fallen tree and her wrists held firmly by an old and bony man upon whose face pain danced and twitched. A large man and a small one held to the old man's arms, and they trembled and cursed softly, but did not draw away.
More than once the large man growled, "I hate magic!" but the dark and silent trees standing all around made no reply.
Above a glossy tabletop, deft fingers suddenly convulsed and flew apart. Flames burst into being between them, and the wooden figurine at their heart seemed to smile coldly at Ingryl Ambelter for an instant, before it slumped into ash in the fierce conflagration.
"Serpent in the Shadows!" the shocked Spellmaster hissed. "She has that much power?"
Baron Faerod Silvertree smiled faintly and spread his hands. "Well, now, Ingryl… she is my daughter."
13
Things Become Crowded
The doors of the chamber boomed with a cold and very final sound under the firm hands of armsmen who kept their faces carefully impassive as they shut themselves out.
"Stand just there," Baron Faerod Silvertree told his two younger wizards, in the same gentle voice he'd used when greeting them. His eyes, however, were wintry, and Spellmaster Ingryl was standing close behind him with wands just visible poking out of both sleeves, and a cold and silent smile on his face.
Klamantle and Markoun moved to the indicated spot in similar silence, not looking at each other, and the ruler of Silvertree put his fingertips together almost like a priest choosing gentle words of prayer.
"I thought you wizards of passable skill when I employed you," the baron began, his voice still silky, "and more than that: I considered you men of good judgment. That is something all too rare among mages… rarer, it seems, than I'd thought."
He reached for a goblet in slow elegance, sipped, and added, "You stand revealed as a pair of reckless, destructive fools-whose continued lives have become matters of consideration, not accepted certainties. Have you any idea just how many of my Sirl investments you've burned or blasted to dust this evening?"
Markoun licked dry lips, and said, "Lord, I-"
"Be still," the baron almost whispered. "Speak not. Hear instead my orders: exhibit no shred of disloyalty, and perform no act of independence, but abide here in this room until given leave to walk elsewhere-and use every scrap of magic you have mastery over to return my daughter, the mortar of my fortress!"
"Lord," Markoun protested, "I want y-"
"Did I, young fool of a mage," the baron asked, "or did I not command your silence just now? Is my authority such a