The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [78]
Hawkril sighed, and it was in tones of defeat that he asked, "So what must we do right now?"
"Watch me," Embra said crisply, "from far enough away that you'll have a chance to get out if some magic or other bursts forth from me. Oh, and draw me a bucket to drink."
Wordlessly Hawkril offered her his flask; she shook her head. "I don't want anything stronger than water in me when I try the tracing."
"You're going to trace the Dwaer-Stone you carried," Sarasper said grimly. "A wise thing, when you've no Dwaer to protect yourself with?"
"None of this charging about the realm fighting mages and hurling Dwaer-blasts is 'wise,' Lord Longfangs," Embra snarled at him. "It is, however, necessary… unless one prefers to sit drinking in a chair somewhere and watch doom charging up, ruining Aglirta as it comes, to sink its claws in one!"
Sarasper shrugged. "She's well enough to try it," he told Hawkril and Craer, lips almost twisting into a smile. "Stand back."
They exchanged wry glances as Embra watched them, shook her head, and held up the figurine. She closed her eyes and murmured something-whereupon a crackling, humming webwork of tiny bright lightnings burst into raging being around her closed hands, spitting bolts that coiled down her arms almost hungrily. The light between her fingers flared and the bright radiances suddenly washed down over the lady sorceress, causing her limbs to shudder and spasm… and faded away.
Embra's head lolled to one side, and wisps of smoke rose from her empty palms.
"Lass?" Hawkril cried. "Embra! Embra, speak!"
"Clever remark," she mumbled. "Arch observation, airy comment about it being nothing and another to the effect that I feel fine, sarcastic declaration about Aglirta never feeling safer around me, followed by a light-hearted quip, and… Craer to supply all the words, because my brain just won't."
Hawkril almost shook her. "But are you all right?"
"To use my most hearty lie once more," she said slowly, looking up at him with a twinkle in her eyes, "I feel fine."
"The trace failed?" Sarasper asked, his eyes on Craer-who was crouched behind the row of swords, watching the villagers and hefting a dagger in one hand, ready to throw. By their mutterings and strategic withdrawals, it seemed that they were watching him, too.
"Yes," Embra sighed, looking around at the gloomy wellhouse in exasperation. "Whoever has the Dwaer has used its magic to make it untraceable by my spells, at least. Without an altar or some other thing with a powerful, permanent enchantment to 'boost' my magic, I'll never be able to gain the slightest hint of where any Dwaer-Stone might be unless I happen to be so close to it as to already have it in sight."
"So we've failed the king?" Hawkril growled slowly.
"Call it, rather, a small defeat," Sarasper told him. "A setback worth a rest by a fireside to brood over-and then on again come morning, with blades out and fresh merriment to lend us wings!"
Craer's head turned. "Gods above," he said, "you sound like a courtier!"
"Sir Slytongue," the old man replied gruffly, drawing himself up in mock pomposity, "I once was a courtier."
"Well, that explains some things," Embra told the ceiling innocently.
Hawkril stared at her for a moment, and then shook his head. "If you've all finished being clever," he growled, "there remains before us the problem of what do we do now?"
"Well, then," Craer replied, holding up a calming hand, "I see two choices before us. We can blunder about Aglirta trying to find a Stone by spying on Serpent-clergy and any wizards who make unusual trips-an approach that's likely to fail at anything but getting us slain in any ambushes barons, tersepts, or Serpent-priests care to mount."
"Or we can follow the clever advice of Craer Delnbone," Embra put in, "and-?"
Craer smiled and sketched a courtly bow. "Or we can set a trap of our own by choosing a defensible place