The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [142]
Craer looked down at the bloody dagger clenched in his hand and hissed, "Easily said, Tall Post… but I don't even know who's doing it! A man who took Embra's Dwaer, yes-and how can I stand against magic like that?"
"First," Hawkril growled, setting Craer gently down again, "we cut the Stones out of his hands. Then we hand them to Embra, and let her think of something to do to him."
Craer wrinkled his nose. "And what'll he be doing, while she's thinking?"
"Making little cracking noises under my boots," the armaragor rumbled, "as I jump up and down on all of his bones."
The procurer winced before he started to chuckle.
Ingryl Ambelter, who had been Spellmaster in Silvertree and would be again-that, and more-backed his head out of the enchanted mask and turned away with a smile quirking his lips.
"Fools," he told the close darkness around him. Fancy Priests of the Serpent being so arrogant as to choose a ruined temple of Hoaradrim for their plotting. Had they no fear of lurking magics, or the anger of the gods?
That particular temple stood on a hill overgrown with trees, hard by Flowfoam on the Silvertree shore. Handy to the Risen King's court, it afforded conspirators cover and a vantage-view down on anyone else approaching… and like all older temples, was liberally adorned with carved stone faces of Forefather Oak. Were the Serpents so stupid as not to know of the Mask of Eyes spell, familiar to nearly every wizard of more than the most fumbling accomplishments? If they thought mages might fear to cast such a spell on a holy carving… well, they were wrong.
All he'd had to do, as a Spellmaster hiding behind a Changeface spell as he idly sipped wine and enjoyed the pleasant fall of evening, was watch out his window as the Serpents stole up the hill so furtively as to draw every eye from here to the horizon, go to his mask and say the right word, fit his face into its cold contours-and he'd seen and heard all at the moot as if he'd been part of it.
Two of the plotters had been local Snake-lovers, excited at the thought of many important superiors attending and scared at the thought of offending by any misstep they might make; two had been more senior, visiting clergy eager that the Faithful of the Serpent were possibly preparing for a bold strike at the Throne itself; and the highest-ranking priest, a hissing monstrosity carefully shrouded in a too-large hooded cloak, had been agitated by some greater news that he kept to himself, but that drove him to make this a ritual attended by many. Whatever that news was, it did not seem entirely good for Serpents.
The ritual would begin at the ruins as the moon rose over Harrowhelm Hill-not long hence, but time enough. While senior Serpent priests were making their slow and slithering ways from wherever they customarily laired-for the longest-serving and most devout Faithful of the Serpent, over ritual after ritual of submitting to spells and drinking venom, slowly grew tails and lost their legs, becoming in the end manserpents with venom of their own-Ingryl Ambelter would be compelling the king and a small clutch of courtiers into a journey of sudden whim, straight to a certain ruined temple, where…
The Spellmaster chuckled and poured himself another flagon of Sirl Starfall. It sparkled on the tongue and slid down with its usual cool tang that spread slowly into deep warmth… ahhh, delicious. When he ruled from Flowfoam, he'd-
Ah, but let's not make that mistake. Faerod Silvertree was the one who counted the coins before the coffer was his, not his oh-so-faithful Spellmaster.
Faithful. Indeed. Sniggering at that thought, Ingryl turned to the table overhung by a glowstone, where he worked his most exacting enchantments.
First, the Stealing Touch spell, to delicately find and create a link with one of the three magics always awake and surrounding the Risen King. The Touch was subtle by nature, but the