“Or die trying.”

  Chentelle huddled against the stone wall while A’stoc prepared to attack the ward. Effortlessly, she invoked her Gift, letting herself flow naturally into expanded awareness of the Holy Land. She felt the quiet presence of Father Marcus beside her, wrapped in a peace and serenity that was almost inhumanly beautiful. The steady power of the ward burned like a sun, and the rock of the catacombs glowed in its reflection. And beside the ward, a tiny moth hovering near the holocaust, stood A’stoc.

  The mage was summoning his power, using the steady mantra of his incantation to coat himself in thin shields of magic. As each layer was completed, A’stoc’s presence seemed to solidify, to become clearer, more distinct. He wove his own identity into the spell, forging himself into an anchor of reality.

  Without stopping his chant, A’stoc raised the Thunderwood Staff and placed it against the ward. Immediately, the Staff flared into life, pulsing in unison to the ward’s rhythm. Magic flared through the hallway, igniting the very air in a maelstrom of power. And in the center of it all, standing like a rock against the hurricane, was A’stoc.

  The mage increased the urgency of his chant, stressing the rhythm, hammering out the beat with his voice and his will. He drove his power into the Staff. And, slowly, the Staff responded. The throbbing of the wood changed, adjusting itself to the tempo of A’stoc’s spell.

  But the rhythm of the ward did not change. Where Staff and spell came together, there was conflict, disharmony. A shudder passed, as though the world held its breath. And chaos erupted in an explosion of violence.

  Chentelle was thrown into the air. She fell, sliding against the floor and slamming into the far wall. Pain lanced through her head, and the world became hazy and indistinct. Darkness closed in around her vision.

  “Chentelle? Enchantress, can you speak?”

  Father Marcus voice helped Chentelle to anchor herself. Slowly, everything came back into focus. Her face and arms burned from scraping across the rough stone, and the back of her head ached from impact with the wall, but she was not badly hurt. “I’m all right.”

  Father Marcus helped her struggle to her feet. The priest was unshaken, his robes as neat and unwrinkled as when he had entered the council chamber.

  Chentelle tried to shake her head clear, but that only increased the throbbing. “What happ—”

  “Aaahhhhh!” The scream of pure agony echoed through the narrow passage.

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle pulled free of the priest’s hands and ran around the corner. The walls of the hallway were blackened like the walls of a hearth, and dust clouds hovered over a small pile of rubble at the far end. A gaping hole in the left wall marked where the door had stood, but there was no sign of the mage. The mass of rubble and cloud of dust were not large enough to hide a body. As Chentelle came closer she saw another hole, scarring the wall opposite the doorway. A passage had been driven several cubits into the solid stone, and at the far end of the tunnel was A’stoc.

  The mage sat sprawled on the floor, clutching his face in both hands. Tears ran down his arms, and his shoulders trembled violently. The Thunderwood Staff lay discarded by his side.

  Chentelle rushed forward, almost losing her balance on the uneven ground. “A’stoc? Are you well?”

  “Chentelle?” His head snapped up and his eyes locked on hers. “Chentelle!” With a sudden lurch, the mage jumped to his feet and grabbed her by the shoulders. He squeezed her tightly and ran his eyes up and down her body. “You’re alive! I was afraid—I thought—”

  “We are all alive, Wizard A’stoc,” Father Marcus called from the hallway. “And you have succeeded where all others failed. The door is open.”

  A’stoc quickly dropped his hands. He swayed slightly, as if losing equilibrium, but soon righted himself. He bent and retrieved the Thunderwood Staff. “Well, then, let us discover what we have found.”

  A’stoc picked his way across the rubble and led them through the shattered doorway. The orb-lights revealed a square chamber, perhaps fifteen cubits on a side. The aroma of herbs and minerals filled the room, fresh as the day they were gathered. Four tables had once dominated the center of the room, stocked with vials and crucibles and a dozen other implements common to the wizard’s workshop. All lay in ruin now, crushed under the impact of the twisted iron door, which had been torn from its hinges and thrown across the room. Partially obscured by the rubble, a narrow stone door in the far wall was still intact.

  Only a desk and a small chest tucked into one corner had escaped destruction. A’stoc opened the chest and lifted out a pair of candlesticks, a silver place setting, and a red velvet tablecloth. A softness came over his features as he examined the items, then returned them gently to their places. An inkwell and a small red notebook rested neatly on the polished surface of the desk. A’stoc pulled the quill from the well, fresh ink dripping from the tip. He paused for a moment, watching the ink pool, then opened the notebook. A look of pure astonishment crossed his face as he scanned the handwritten pages.

  “By the Creator!” The mage whirled suddenly around, orienting on the stone door. Frantically, he scrambled over the shattered tables, oblivious to the splinters of wood and glass. He slammed into the door, pressing furiously against it for a moment. Then, making a sudden realization, he pulled on the handle. The door swung readily open, revealing a small chamber dominated by several large bookshelves. Each shelf was filled with neatly bound red volumes.

  From the doorway, Chentelle and Father Marcus watched as A’stoc leaned the Staff carefully against one of the shelves. Then he pulled down one of the books and examined it in the orb-light. “A’gnivesa’s Experiments with Fire.”

  He cradled the book reverently for a moment. Then he replaced it with a trembling hand and reached for another. “The Codex of Cleansing Rites: Vol. I, minerals and salts.”

  The mage scuttled from shelf to shelf, calling out the titles of one book after another in childlike glee. Finally, he collapsed, sliding slowly to the floor with his back pressed against one shelf and a thick red volume clutched to his chest. “Bless you, Master,” he said in a hushed voice. “Bless you.”

  Father Marcus cleared his throat. “May I take it that you find this discovery to be a cause for hope, Wizard A’stoc?” he asked softly.

  A’stoc snapped a sharp look toward the priest, but then he threw back his head and smiled thinly. “You may take it as you wish, High Bishop. Thanks to the wisdom of A’pon Boemarre, the Lore of the great wizards has been preserved. Here, in the Holy Land where no evil could reach it, recorded by hand and ink, the legacy of my master is preserved. Whether that will be enough to save us, I cannot say.”

  Father Marcus stared. “All the Lore?” he asked, as if some impossible dream had come true, but was in danger of dissipating before it could be grasped.

  “We must—” A’stoc paused, as if surprised at his own words. “We must share this discovery with the Collegium. But the originals must stay here, where they are safe. Can your scribes make copies of these volumes?”

  “Of course,” Father Marcus said. “I shall order the work to begin at once.”

  While the humans talked, Chentelle’s attention was drawn to something at the end of the far shelf. Something about it just didn’t look right. As she walked toward it, the impression disappeared. She tried to remember what it was that had seemed strange, but she couldn’t. The shelf was identical to all the others. Wait, not quite identical. This shelf was shorter. It seemed to be missing a section.

  She walked to the other end, where the missing section should be. But it didn’t make sense. The ends of the shelves were all lined up. They must be the same length. Then it became clear. The room wasn’t square. The walls and the shelves all slanted slightly, creating the illusion of square angles. But this end of the room was narrower.

  Chentelle walked around behind the shelf, hoping to get a better perspective. She discovered two things. First, there was not enough space behind the shelf for even a slim elf girl to squeeze. And second, the walls in this corner did not actually meet. A small gap, obscured by shadow, opened into a hidden niche. Inside the niche was a pedestal on which rested a single red notebook.

  “A’stoc,” she called. “I think you should come look at this.”

  The mage hurried over. “What is it, Chentelle? What have you—”

  He broke off as he saw the hidden niche and its contents. Slowly, he approached the pedestal, holding up his orb-light to examine the book. “The Creation and Control of an Animate Manifestation of Earthpower as Extracted from the Living Gateway in Arboreal Form.” He looked up, his eyes lighting. “By the Creator, enchantress, you found it!”

  “Found what?”

  “The powers of command for the Thunderwood Staff. This is where they’re recorded. This lone volume is more valuable than all the others together. We’re saved!” A’stoc flipped open the cover of the book—and a fine mist of soot billowed into the air.

  The glow of the orb-light clearly illuminated the look of absolute horror on his face as he stared at the ashes which were all that remained of the book’s pages.

  8

  Quest

  Chentelle lifted the tray of food from Sulmar’s arms. “I think it would be better if I went the rest of the way alone.”

  “I am sworn to your service, mistress,” the Tengarian said, “but it is difficult to protect you if you will not let me stay by your side.”

  “Please, Sulmar,” she said. “You know he does not react well to your presence. Besides, I am in no danger here.”

  Sulmar looked down into her eyes, his expression absolutely blank. “Very well, mistress, I shall be exercising in the gardens. But be wary. The Holy Land is proof against evil, but it does not necessarily protect us from harm. Bear in mind that explosion when the mage opened the workshop.”

  “Of course,” Chentelle agreed quickly. “I’ll come and get you when I am done.”

  She pushed open the heavy door with her foot and descended the steps into the catacombs. Tracks in the dusty floor attested to the heavy traffic that this path had seen recently. Ever since the discovery of the Lore Books, the scribes of the Holy Order had been bustling about furiously. The job of organizing, indexing, and duplicating A’pon’s library had them working day and night. Chentelle was a little nervous about intruding on their effort, but concern for A’stoc compelled her. The scribes worked in shifts, resting in turns, but A’stoc allowed no one access to the Lore books without his presence. He had been working without respite for three days.

  A trail of orb-lights mounted hastily on the walls of the corridors marked Chentelle’s path. She followed their trail, ignoring the myriad forks and side passages which seemed to have been constructed solely for the purpose of confusing travelers. As she neared her destination, she passed several newly opened rooms in which scribes were laboring. Finally she reached the workshop. The wreckage had been cleared from the room, but the twisted metal hinges still rested in the cracked stone of the doorway.

  A long table had been placed just inside the door. A’stoc sat behind it, Thunderwood Staff propped carefully against the wall beside him. He had his face buried in one of the tomes that covered the table in a dozen haphazard stacks.

  He did not look up as Chentelle pushed one of the stacks aside to make room for the tray of food. She lifted the cover off the tray, and the hearty aroma of hot stew filled the air. She even fanned the steam in the mage’s direction, but still there was no response. “A’stoc! You have been working for three days. If you won’t rest, then you must at least eat.”

  The mage snapped his head up from his book. “What have you got there?” he barked.

  Chentelle jumped in surprise at his harsh tone. “Just dinner, A’stoc: stew and bread and some cheese and a tumbler of fresh water.”

  “What?” he said. “Oh, not you, Chentelle. Him.”

  Chentelle turned and saw a young scribe frozen in the doorway, clutching a large volume in his hands.

  “The th-third volume of the metallurgy catalogue, wizard,” he stammered.

  “The third volume,” A’stoc roared. “Then bring back the second volume.”

  “I-I h-haven’t finished the second one, wizard. This one is for Lallas.”

  “Very well,” said A’stoc, “but I’m holding you responsible for it.” He scribbled a quick note onto a parchment and waved the scribe away, muttering about posting a guard. Then he looked up at Chentelle.

  “And what do you want?” he asked.

  “I want you to eat.”

  “Hel’s Pits,” he growled, slamming down his stylus in disgust. “Can I not have five minutes peace from these interruptions? I will eat when I am hungry.”

  “You will eat because you need to,” Chentelle said, shoving the tray in his direction. “Now.”

  A’stoc glared at her, then lowered his eyes to the tray. “Well, perhaps some water. I am thirsty.” He picked up the glass and drained half of it in several large swallows. Then he looked up at her, the ire now gone from his eyes. “All right, leave the food. I’ll eat it as soon as I have finished with this chapter.”

  Chentelle yanked the book from his hands. She marked his place and carefully set the book at the far end of the table. Then she pushed the tray directly in front of him.

  A’stoc pointed at the food. “Am I to assume that you will not leave until I have eaten this?”

  Chentelle found another chair and removed the pile of books from its seat. Then she pulled it around the table and sat down across from him. “You are very perceptive, for an apprentice.”

  The mage inhaled deeply and slowly, as if he were about to explode. But he released the breath with only a snort and a self-mocking smile. “Father Marcus is right about who tames the curmudgeon,” he muttered. He pulled the tray toward him and started to eat.

  Chentelle was embarrassed but insistent. “It’s just that you are so important to this effort. We can’t let you starve yourself.”

  He glanced sharply at her. “No other reason, lady?”

  Startled by the appellation, from him, she had no ready answer.

  “If calling me ‘wizard,’” he said between mouthfuls, “keeps these scribes in line, then I will not contradict them. Thanks to the Lore in these books, it may be that I will finally become worthy of that title.”

  Chentelle studied the mage, trying to see beyond the barriers he erected. The lean face and discontented eyes only hinted at the torments he inflicted upon himself. But she sensed something else, an excitement, an expectation. In anyone else, she would call it hope. The promise of the Lore Books called to him, drove him forward. Determination burned like molten steel in his soul. But even here, he was plagued by doubt, by fatalism, by the deep fear that his quest was doomed to failure.

  Chentelle glanced at the books scattered across the table. The Lore they held was so different from her own Gift. Her talent worked in harmony with nature, finding the delicate balance of Creation and working with those rhythms. But the wizard’s way was more cold, more calculating. The High Lore taught its practitioners to exert their will on Creation, reshaping it to their own desires. It was a strange philosophy, but she struggled to understand it.

  “What were you studying?” she asked.

  A’stoc gestured to the book she had taken from him. “That volume deals with some of the finer points of Wood Lore. It is number five in a set of twelve. Master A’pon taught me some of the Lore in this collection, but there are so many useful spells and experiments that he never shared. Given a decade or more, I could barely scratch the surface. If only he had told me of this library.” He dropped his eyes and shook his head sadly. “Was I really so untrustworthy?”

  Chentelle felt the pain of his question. “No,” she said softly. “It’s as you told me. The old Masters were afraid of their secrets being betrayed by necromancers. It wasn’t just you. A’pon Boemarre was afraid to trust anyone with this Lore.”

  A’stoc nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are right, enchantress. Why else would he lock the books in the deepest basement of the holiest building in all the Realm?”

  “Where they would be secure from all discovery,” Chentelle said. “But you were able to overcome the spell on the door.”

  “Not me, the Staff. The Staff’s magic was used to power the warding spell. When the two came in contact again, the Staff was activated and the power of the old spell was freed. All I had to do, all I could do, was redirect the power to another use.”

  Chentelle glanced pointedly at the empty doorway. “Well, to me it looked as if you dipped your hand into somebody else’s magepool.”

  A’stoc stared at Chentelle with a look of astonishment on his face. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

  It was a good laugh, one Chentelle was surprised to realize she had never heard before. There was fatigue in the sound, but the mirth was genuine, open. It pulled at her, coaxing her to join in the merriment. So she did. It felt good to share an honest emotion with the taciturn wizard. It felt right. The song of their laughter rang perfectly in the harmony of this place.

  The mirth faded away gently, naturally, leaving an easy smile on A’stoc’s face. “Well put, enchantress. An apt analogy, indeed.”

  The mage swallowed a few more bites of stew. Then he looked up and adopted a more serious tone. “Chentelle, I want to thank you. I would never have come here if it had not been for your persistence. I admire your courage and your determination.” He lowered his head quickly, almost before he had finished speaking, as if he were ashamed to admit his gratitude.

  “Thank you for those kind words. You are most welcome to any help I may have given you.”

  “You are as gracious as you are—” A’stoc turned away, not finishing. He mopped up the last of his stew with a bit of bread and popped it in his mouth. Then he washed it down with the last of the water. Finally, he turned back to Chentelle. “There, I am finished. May I return to my book, now, mistress elf?”