“What?” Chentelle asked, surprised. “Why not?”

  The sailor met her question with a gaze full of sorrow and grief. “Captain Rone swore to carry your quest over the Great Sea and back, enchantress. Well, we’re back. You need horses now, not sailors. And we have our own duties.” He reached out and grabbed his cousin’s hand. “When the Otan Stin left Inarr, she had a complement of twenty-three. A good ship, a good crew, both now swallowed by the Great Sea. Families need to be told; debts need to be paid. That was the captain’s job. Now it’s ours.”

  Raw emotion poured through Chentelle’s Gift: pain, loss, love, guilt. They swept around her, carrying her forward. She crashed into Zubec, and clenched her arms around his chest. Her body shook, and tears ran freely down her face.

  They stood together, locked in embrace, rocking with a shared feeling, until the storm passed.

  Zubec stepped back and bowed, kissing Chentelle’s hand. “I thank you, Chentelle. Once again, you bring relief from the darkness. I’d wish the blessings of the Creator upon you, but He has obviously anticipated my request.”

  He turned to Father Marcus. “I’ll send the horses and your personal effects to the Collegium, along with the bill.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus said. “And thank you for your service. The Creator truly smiled upon us when he guided us into your hands. Now, we should be on our way. Wait—where is A’stoc?”

  “Here.” The wizard stepped onto the deck. In the weeks since they had left Kennaru he had taken to wearing loose trousers and open shirts, but now he had once again donned his apprentice’s robes. The light blue cloth hung in ragged tatters around his arms and shoulders, and only a rope belt seemed to be keeping it from disintegrating altogether. “If we are going to meet with the council, I thought that I should dress appropriately.” Then, without waiting for comment, A’stoc stalked down the gangway and headed toward the city. The company scrambled quickly after, following the wizard into the streets of Tel Adartak.

  Chentelle felt a surge of joy as soon as her feet hit the dock. No axe had ever bitten into this wood. Her toes tingled with renewed feeling, and it took all her self-control to keep from skipping.

  A’stoc led them rapidly through a sparsely populated maze of unpaved streets and alleyways. Then they emerged suddenly onto a wide cobblestone thoroughfare. Humans and elves bustled to and fro on either side, while a wide center lane of gray stones seemed reserved for carriages and carts. Shops and inns lined the avenue, selling all manner of goods and services. A thousand odors filled the air, some familiar, some tantalizing, and some that caught bitterly in Chentelle’s throat.

  The road took them to the base of the hill from which the Collegium rose. As they grew close, the traffic thinned and the shops disappeared. When they entered the shadow of the city above, a chill shiver ran down Chentelle’s spine. The street was still straight and true, but it seemed suddenly desolate and abandoned.

  “What happened here?” she asked A’stoc.

  He paused and pointed to the barren ground beside the road. “The light of the suns never shines here. No rain ever falls on this earth. It is said that the shadow of a wizard is cold, and a wise man lives not within its reach.”

  They followed the road until it passed through an open archway into the base of Tel Adartak-Skysoar. A metal tube hung from a pole near the entrance. A’stoc stroked the cylinder with one finger, and a clear tone rang out strongly.

  “Who comes?” came a rasp of challenge from the passage. Then a withered old human shuffled toward them from the darkness. His beard hung well past his belt, and he was bent and gnarled with age, but he walked without staff or cane. His right hand was stretched out before him, and a clear crystal sphere rested in its palm. He wore robes similar to A’stoc’s, but beige and in far better condition.

  A’stoc stepped forward. “An initiate of the first rank, accepted into service and confirmed before the council.”

  “Eh?” the man said, waving the crystal in the air. “Then what is the nature of magic?”

  “Earthpower is the raw state of magic,” A’stoc answered, “molded by the minds of men. Fluid is the nature of power. Who shapes it, commands it. Who falters, is commanded by it.”

  “Ah! It is you. Well met, A’stoc, Bearer of the Tree. It is long since you have honored us with your knowledge. Enter and be welcome; you have been missed.”

  “Wizard A’truen.” A’stoc reached out to clap the old man on the shoulder. “It is good to see you well—and still quizzing initiates on the concepts!”

  “Of course,” A’truen said. “I’m nowhere near ready to retire. There’s a century or two left in these old bones, never you doubt it. Now, remember your manners and introduce me to your companions.”

  “Yes, wizard,” A’stoc said solemnly.

  One by one he presented the company to the gatekeeper. The old man’s eyes were heavily clouded, and he squinted horribly in the dim light. But he seemed to see them all clearly enough through some property of the crystal sphere.

  “Quite a collection,” he said. “A strange group indeed, if I may say so. But we are honored; it is not every day that the High Bishop of Norivika comes to the Collegium, nor every century either. Enter, all of you, and be welcome. The council will surely be eager to meet with you.”

  “As we are eager to see them,” Father Marcus said. “But tell me, please, did the Lore Books arrive safely?”

  “Lore Books?” A’truen asked. “What Lore Books?”

  A stricken look came over the High Bishop’s face. “By the Creator, have they been lost? What could have happened?”

  “Wizard A’truen.” A’stoc’s voice took on a quiet edge. “You are the gatekeeper. Try to remember, has a special shipment of any kind arrived from the Holy Land?”

  “Of course,” the old man answered. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. Nearly six weeks ago, it came as a caravan of trade goods, but any fool could see that was a disguise. The Legionnaires who posed as guards would turn it over to none but the council itself.”

  “There is your answer.” A’stoc turned to face the High Bishop. “The council has kept the Lore for themselves.”

  “But why?” asked Father Marcus. “Why would they keep the books from display?”

  “Because they are fools!” A’stoc slammed the earth with his Staff. “Nothing has changed. They are paranoid children, still bound by the fears that doomed their masters.”

  “You are wrong,” A’truen said evenly. “Things are not as they were when you left. I do not know what Lore you speak of, but if the council withholds it then I am sure they have a good reason.”

  A’stoc stared at the old wizard, amazement and disgust warring on his face. “Have you gone senile, old man? Those books hold all the Lore of my master, A’pon Boemarre, all the Lore that was lost after the war. The Dark One lives! Ill-creatures are loose in the Realm, and those covetous idiots you call a council choose to hoard the knowledge which might save us!”

  “The Lore of A’pon Boemarre! Truly, this is a great gift.” He pointed a crooked finger at A’stoc’s face. “To that list of characteristics you bemoan as immutable, young man, you might add your own temperament. Now, if you can control yourself for a few moments, I’ll take you to see the council. Then maybe we can straighten this out.”

  Without waiting for a response, he turned around and shuffled through the archway. The adartak here was not clear like that of the Cathedral of Light, but milky and laced with other elements. It bent and refracted the evening light, cloaking the corridor in misty gray shadows. They passed underneath a huge block of crystal that hovered above the tunnel, suspended by no visible support. In front of them, a heavy iron slab covered with glowing runes and symbols completely blocked the passage.

  A’truen spoke softly on liquid syllables and tapped his sphere three times against the door. Then he blew softly, as if extinguishing a tiny flame. The door swirled and vanished like smoke from a dying candle.

  The old wizard took them into a large, five-sided hall. Shafts of glowing crystal protruded from the ceiling, bathing the chamber in light. The floor was polished marble and covered with mystical wards. They entered from the center of one wall. Twin stairwells occupied the corners on either side, but A’truen ignored these and led them forward. As they moved into the center of the room, the iron door slammed into being once more.

  Chentelle’s feelings were mixed. The evidences of powerful magic both excited and alarmed her. So much power, to be used for good or ill: how could anyone guarantee that it would not be abused?

  The corner directly across from the door was filled by a wide circular shaft. A’truen crossed to the shaft and stopped. He whispered into his crystal, and then touched the sphere to the adartak shaft. A flicker of light shot upward, disappearing through the ceiling.

  Almost immediately, a steady breeze blew from the hollow tube. Soon after, a circular wooden platform drifted down to them. Two men stood on the disk. The older of them wore robes of deep brown and carried an oaken staff in the crook of his arm. The younger wore robes of light blue, the same color as A’stoc’s. His staff was joined to the surface of the platform, and he was chanting steadily.

  “Up you go,” A’truen said after the disk settled lightly on the floor. “The council will be expecting you.”

  A’stoc exchanged a quick bow with the gatekeeper, and they boarded the platform. The brown-robed wizard nodded, and the apprentice resumed his chanting. The disk fluttered beneath their feet, then rose into the air.

  “This is incredible,” Chentelle said. There was hardly a cubit’s leeway between the wood and the crystal walls, but they floated up smoothly. “Are there ever any accidents?”

  “Rarely,” the wizard replied. “And almost never unless an initiate is in control.” He smiled briefly. “Or is not in control.”

  She glanced nervously at the apprentice, whose face was tense with strain.

  “Do not let him frighten you,” A’stoc said. “There are safeguards in place. We are perfectly safe.”

  Chentelle turned to the wizard, who shrugged and smiled cheerfully.

  Suddenly the platform faltered and began to shake. It lurched suddenly and bumped into the wall. The apprentice cried out and lost his chant. Sweat poured from his forehead, and the staff trembled in his hands.

  “Concentrate!” the Wood Lore wizard said. “There is no weight; there is only the mind.”

  “I—can’t…” the apprentice gasped.

  The wizard tapped the platform with his staff. Immediately, the tremors ceased. Staff and disk melded into one whole, and the wizard hummed softly. Once again, they started to float steadily upward.

  The apprentice pulled his staff free of the wood and sank to his knees.

  “Do not despair.” The words came from the wizard, chanted in the tune and rhythm of his spell. “This is an unusually heavy load. You performed splendidly. In time, it will become easier.”

  The platform slowed to a halt near the top of the shaft. A small circular chamber opened before them. The walls and ceilings were milky-white crystal with hints of blue hovering like sky behind the clouds. The floor was adartak as well, but it was highly polished and glowed with soft silver light. Marble columns rose to the ceiling at regular intervals, marking the boundaries to four connecting passages.

  They stepped into the room, and the platform continued its ascent without them. The brown-robed wizard waved farewell, staying with the platform and the apprentice.

  Father Marcus turned to A’stoc. “Which one leads to the council?”

  “All of them,” the wizard answered. “But I—” He cut off suddenly, staring past the priest’s shoulder.

  A lone figure walked toward them, strolling down one of the corridors. He wore a robe of royal blue, trimmed with gold and shimmering like fine silk. He had lean, angular features, and his jet-black hair and beard were meticulously trimmed. He stopped a few paces away, glaring at A’stoc with dark eyes. “So, it is indeed the apprentice A’stoc. I thought that I sensed the presence of our master’s weapon.”

  A’stoc drew himself to his full height. His mouth curled in disgust. “It has been long years since we served the same master, A’valman. Perhaps you remember the occasion of our parting. It was the day you betrayed your father’s trust, the day he banished you from his service.”

  A hard breath hissed between A’valman’s lips. “I see that time has not dulled the barbs of your tongue, nor has it taught you wisdom in where to apply them. But then, recognizing the wisdom of another was never a trait your master valued. How nice that such folly lives on in his chosen successor. I am certain that he would be pleased.”

  “How sad,” A’stoc sneered. “All these years and still you are not worshiped for your sagacity. And you wear blue! I am shocked. I expected the purple at least, if not the key. Can it be that your fellows, too, share the folly of not endorsing your brilliance?”

  A’valman smiled and bowed mockingly. “Ignorance will ever be heard. The council knows you are here. Report to the chamber immediately.” He spun about sharply and returned the way he came.

  “Who was that?” Chentelle asked.

  She received no answer. A’stoc was already striding forward, choosing the passage opposite the one A’valman had taken. He took them through a series of winding passages before coming at last to a spiral stairway. They climbed upward and emerged into an open courtyard.

  A blanket of thick grass covered the ground, crisscrossed by a meandering stone walkway. Trees and hedges had been planted in seemingly random patterns and locations. Three sides of the park were surrounded by tall buildings and towers, gracefully sculpted from marble and granite. The fourth was bounded by the high wall which ringed the upper city. A’stoc led them through the park, heading back in the direction from which they had come. He was obviously choosing a circuitous route to the council hall.

  They passed through an archway that seemed carved from solid mist and turned immediately onto a small side street. The evening light was fading, but enough remained to mark their party for something strange and exotic. Men and women stopped their business to follow the party with their eyes, and curious whispers followed them. Chentelle was surprised to note that most of the people they saw seemed like ordinary townsfolk. Only a few wore the colored robes of the Collegium.

  A’stoc pushed through an iridescent gate and came to a halt in a neatly kept garden. A domed tower loomed before them, easily the tallest building in the city. “Wait here. I will see the council alone.”

  “No!” Chentelle protested. “Don’t go alone. There’s something strange happening here. I don’t trust them.”

  “She is correct.” Father Marcus laid a hand gently on the wizard’s shoulder. “I am certain that the council remains our ally, but until we understand the situation more fully, caution is warranted.”

  “I agree,” Dacius said. “You should not go without protection.”

  A’stoc laughed. “Lord Gemine, inside that building are the greatest mages left to the Realm. If they wish me harm, then your sword will make little difference in the issue.”

  Dacius stiffened, but Father Marcus stepped in before he could answer.

  “Nevertheless, I, too, have reason to address the council. I will go with you.”

  “And I,” Chentelle said. “You may need me to keep you from getting into trouble.”

  Sulmar stepped forward beside his mistress, saying all that he needed to with his posture.

  A’stoc stared at them angrily. Then his eyes focused briefly on Chentelle, and their hue seemed to shift. “All right, all right.” He tossed his arms in disgust. “We four, but no more. The rest stay here.”

  Father Marcus unslung the small pack from his shoulder and handed it to Gorin. “Keep this for me, brother. I will return for it shortly.”

  The goblin did not need to ask what was in the pack. They all knew what it contained: the Sphere of Ohnn.

  A’stoc led the way into the tower. They passed through an antechamber decorated with murals drawn from the elven histories. Double doors of gilded iron dominated the far wall. Two men wearing beige robes flanked the doors. As the party approached, each man made a sharp motion with one hand. The doors swung open noiselessly. They were expected.

  They entered a small amphitheater, though it could have doubled as an arena. Five high walls surrounded them, surmounted by tiers of long benches. In the center of the room was a plain stone table, flanked by three wooden chairs. Beyond that, nestled into the apex of the pentagon, a C-shaped table rose above them on a marble pedestal. Five high-backed chairs faced the table. Four of them were occupied.

  On one end sat an elven woman with silver hair bound in an intricate braid. Beside her was a dwarf wearing a headdress of twined gold and rubies. The center chair held a balding human; a simple wooden key hung from a leatherbark thong around his neck. The fourth chair was empty, and the fifth held A’valman.

  The wizard smiled at the shock on A’stoc’s face. “As you can see, we have altered the colors since your last visit. The council wears blue, now, to remind us of humility.”

  “Order.” The human in the center chair rose to his feet. “I am A’rullen, First Chair of the Collegium. We extend welcome to the Bearer of the Thunderwood and his companions.” He turned to Father Marcus and bowed deeply. “And we are honored to receive the High Bishop of Norivika. I regret only that we did not have the notice to prepare a fitting reception. Please, be seated. I will send for another chair.”

  “That will not be necessary.” A’stoc placed one foot on a chair and stepped onto the stone table. He planted the Staff by his side and glared at the council, his eyes now on a level with theirs.

  Chentelle hesitated. She turned to Father Marcus, but the priest seemed as taken aback as herself. She shrugged. The table was large enough. She climbed up and took a place next to the wizard.

  The High Bishop smiled and pulled one of the chairs to the side of the table. He sat down casually, as if settling into his favorite reading lounge. Sulmar remained standing on the floor, ready to catch Chentelle if she fell.