Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [27]
“In the name of the Almin, who watches over the peace of this world, we refuse,” answered the Thon-li to the Prince in return. A high-ranking member of the catalysts and chosen especially for this important part, she threw herself into her role, glaring at Garald as fiercely as if he truly meant to take her post by storm.
Though somewhat taken back by the catalyst’s vehement defiance, the Prince signaled for the trumpet to sound again. His War Masters came forward, their catalysts at their sides, and the “battle” began.
The catalysts opened conduits to their wizards; the Life that they gathered into their bodies arcing into that of the magi with a blue light. Suffused with magic, the War Masters cast their spells. Balls of fire exploded in the skies. Cyclones appeared out of clear air, spinning in the palms of the warlocks who threatened to unleash their fury upon the Thon-li. Lightning crackled from fingertips, fiery hail sizzled on the street. The children shrieked in excitement, and one young War Master was so carried away by the spectacle that he accidentally caused a crack to open in the earth, frightening the populace as much or more than the Thon-li.
Fortunately, the Corridor Masters surrendered immediately at this show of power, even the fierce catalyst who continued to glower at Prince Garald with wounded dignity. Stepping out of her Corridor, she held her hands in front of her, wrists together. The other Thon-li followed her example. The War Masters bound the wrists of the catalysts loosely with silken cord. The trumpet rang out in victory and a great cheer went up from the populace.
Then the Thon-li returned to their Corridors, the citizens returned to their homes, and the Prince and his forces set forth to issue the Challenge.
What the people of Sharakan did not know was that their Prince wasn’t playing a grand game. Garald believed secretly—and he had not shared this with anyone, either his father or the Cardinal, although he was fairly certain Radisovik suspected—that Xavier would not be content with winning on the Gameboard if he won. He would certainly not be content if he lost. No matter what the outcome on the Field of Glory, Prince Garald believed that once again war—true war—had come to the world.
His heart swelled with excitement. Dreams of deeds of bravery done on the field of battle, of the glories of victory won over an evil foe set his blood burning. Looking into the heavens, the Prince gave fervent thanks to the Almin that he had been born to right the wrongs of this world.
8
The Challenge
The Crystal Palace of Merilon outshone the sun in the early morning dawn. This was not a difficult task. Yesterday, the Sif-Hanar had spent most of the day practicing their war spells against the shining orb—covering it with black clouds, turning it ghastly colors, once attempting to obliterate it from the sky completely. Today the sun edged up over the mountains, appearing pale and sulky, seeming ready to set again in an instant if it caught sight of the weather magi.
The pallid sun couldn’t hold a candle, therefore, to the brilliance of the Crystal Palace, whose lights had been burning all night. At dawn, the tapestries covering the transparent walls of every room in the palace were rolled up, curtains were opened, shades and shutters raised. Magical light spilled out, beaming down upon the city below.
In the days of the old Emperor and his enchanting Empress, this brilliant splendor would have meant night-long revelry and merriment. In the old days, beautiful women and elegant men would have thronged the palace, filling the rooms with laughter and perfume. In these days of the new Emperor, the brightly burning lights meant night-long plotting and planning. In these days, red-robed warlocks lurked about the halls, filling the rooms with grim discussion and the faint smell of sulphur.
On this morning, the morning of the Challenge, Emperor Xavier hovered in the air near the transparent wall of his study