The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [139]
From her place with her back to the dawn, Valandario sang out the ritual evocation of Aethyr. From their stations at the other cardinal points, the other dweomerwomen sang back their responses.
“In the name of the Kings of Aethyr,” Val finished up, “I declare this circle a place of safe visitation for their subjects.” With wide arm movements, she sketched the sigils of the Kings into the air.
“So we do pledge.” The three chanted in unison.
In the gauzy silver light of the first dawn, the air within the circle became not quite visible but oddly present, as if it suddenly weighed more than the air outside the ritual marking. It seemed to quiver with unseen lives. In the center, just above the cross of swords, a glowing point appeared and took on color, a peculiar lavender at first, then changing to an unnaturally metallic turquoise. The point widened itself to a line. The line curled round into a circle, floating parallel to the ground. The circle expanded up and down, forming a glowing pillar of silvery light shot through with turquoise and lavender gleams and glints.
Among the glimmerings of colored light a form appeared, vaguely human, vaguely female, her flesh dead-white, her blue dress strangely fleshy. She stepped out of the pillar and curtsied to Valandario, then turned back to point at the pillar. Inside it gleamed a long line of gold light, hovering perpendicular to the earth.
“Behold this spirit,” the white woman said, “released from a crystal’s greedy maw by she who stands in the North. He has come to aid you.”
“My thanks.” Dallandra stepped forward and addressed the light inside the pillar. “My thanks for your aid.”
The spirit bent itself slightly as if bowing to her. Dallandra stepped back to her station.
“We have summoned you to ask about the dragon book,” Valandario said. “We know it lies to the north. We have sent a man to find it, but it seems to flee from him.”
“The book belongs to the silver wyrm,” the white spirit said.
“True, but he cannot claim it. He has no hands. Nor can he hold a steady purpose in mind with war so close to us.”
Inside its gleaming pillar the golden line thickened and pulsed.
“Is the man with the burned hands and face your messenger?” the white woman asked.
“He is.”
The female spirit stepped back several paces until she stood up against the pillar. The golden spirit inside pulsed and shrank, twisted and pulsed the more while she stood with her head cocked to one side, as if listening. Eventually she spoke again. “He who has the book has been bound.”
“With chains?” Valandario said.
“With custom alone. A slave, he is, and no longer a man, though he once was whole.”
“I see. Can you free him?”
“We know not, but we shall try. Shall we trust the man with the burned hands?”
Valandario hesitated, glancing Dallandra’s way.
“You may,” Dalla said at last. “To a point. If he makes any move to bind you, flee. Listen not to a word, just flee.”
“So we shall do.”
As the white spirit stepped back into the pillar, the golden line flickered once and disappeared. Slowly her form dissolved into gleams and sparks of colored lights; then she, too, vanished. The pillar shrank back to a circle, the circle to a line, the line to a point—and then nothing. The air returned to mere air.
“It is over,” Valandario called out. “May all spirits bound by this ceremony go free!” She used her foot to scatter some of the charcoal and make a wide break in the ritual circle. “I declare this place a place on earth and naught more.”
“So do we declare,” the three responded. “It is over.”
As they all trooped back to camp, Valandario noticed that Branna and Neb, both of them wide-eyed, their faces flushed with excitement, hurried on ahead. They were talking about the ritual in low voices, leaning toward each other as they walked. When Neb took Branna’s hand and drew her a little closer, Valandario’s sudden stab of envy took her by surprise. She did her best to suppress it and look elsewhere, but