Tiny bells can ring clear and wide,
In the sacred silence of great temples.
Small stones can disturb the still mirrors,
Of calm and windless lakes.
Thus, the purer and stronger the light,
The deeper and darker the shadow.
—Prayers At Midnight, Keldon Ghant
Vorik dor-Galyn finally found the cluster of shabby workshops, but they seemed much further back along the steep-sided dale of the Kala than the clerk Jumil had suggested. A steady trickle of cityfolk passed along the walkways still, yet Vorik had doffed his mask, relying for concealment on his cloak and cowl and the foliage-muted light of mid-afternoon.
The workshops were part of a long, low rough-tooled building divided into small, open sections where the likes of farriers, fletchers and weavers plied their trade. He approached the dank, shaded end of it and leaned against the corner post. The nearest of the workshops was empty and disused and although it was where he had to go he had to wait for a pause in the flow of passers-by. Before long the visible path either direction became deserted so he swiftly made for the rear of the vacant workshop where he used a crude key to open a rickety door. Beyond it was a dark narrow room reeking of mould. From an inner pocket he took a velvet pouch and tipped out a bright, glowing gem hung on a long chain. Wrapping it around one wrist, Vorik could see that a layer of broken detritus covered the floor so with careful footing he picked his way to the end of the room where a tall cupboard stood against the outer wall. A second key, smaller and finer than the first, opened its heavy door to reveal an empty interior with only a few wooden hooks still fixed to the back at head height. He reached in and twisted the hook furthest to the right, whereupon the back of the cupboard split down the middle and swung inwards, opening on a dim passage.
A wave of stone-cold air brushed Vorik’s face as he clambered through, then closed first the cupboard door followed by the secret doors. Turning, he held up the light-gem to illuminate his surroundings — the passage had been hewn through the solid rock in a manner which all the surfaces uneven yet oddly free of roughness or sharp protrusions. The cold rock was so undulantly smooth to the touch that he wonder if the action of running water could have been the cause. Then he noticed something embedded in the rock, irregularities that looked like teeth. But even as he fingered them in the light of the gem, a voice came from further along the passage:
“Don’t loiter, Vorik! — you know how I hate to be kept waiting!”
He jerked upright in surprise, uttering an oath under his breath. It was Jumil, sounding close enough to be just past the first curve of the passageway before him. But when he hurried round it there was no-one to be seen, just more tunnel sloping gently downwards into darkness.
He must have dashed on ahead of me, Vorik thought. What fool’s game is this?
Vorik felt his anger rise as he hastened along the tunnel. Ever since those cursed Watchers snatched Ondene away last night his temper had been on a short leash, and up until recently he would have been unconcerned about expressing his anger before Jumil, or even berating him on occasion. But almost a week ago, after not hearing from him for two days, Vorik received a message ordering him to find four willing men among the city’s dregs and bring them that night to a safe house by the West Wharfs. This he duly did, arriving with the new recruits in a cart. The house was a primitive dwelling, little more than a single, packed-earth floor room with a scullery and pantry in an alcove and a couple of smoky lamps hanging from the two supporting posts. Jumil was waiting within, and he locked the front and only door when they were all inside. Vorik had been in the mood to deliver a stinging rebuke to him but held his tongue when he saw the sheathed broadsword hanging on the man’s hip.
Jumil had then directed the men to sit in four chairs already arranged in a square in the centre of the room. What happened next seared itself into Vorik’s memories.
Jumil had regarded them one by one, then announced that he only had need of three of them, pointing them out. The fourth he approached, laid a hand on his shoulder and asked him to say something about his family. A strange light entered the seated man’s eyes as he began to gibber on about parents and cousins, yet Vorik had thought nothing of it. For the next moment or two.
The clerk Jumil had listened to this prattle, nodding at this point or that, then calmly drew forth his sword and hacked off the man’s leg. Vorik had cursed in shock, as did the other three men, yet their companion still gabbled on and on as if nothing had happened. There was blood, yet only a steady trickle, and the words kept coming even as Jumil lopped off the other leg and both arms until he was standing in a welter of gore with the still-living torso sat on a red-drenched chair, still talking. Silence came with the final blow, after which Jumil promised the other three, pale and quivering with fear as they were, that there would be great rewards for obedience and loyalty.
Then he told them to await his orders and dismissed them. All three were near rigid with terror as they quickly left: Vorik, on the other hand, had a stronger disposition towards carnage, having served with the Imperial army in eastern Honjir, teaching bloody lessons to Carver trespassers. But the sight of this made him realise that something fundamental in Jumil had changed, for the bloody performance had been as much for his benefit as for the three new hirelings. And Vorik had more knowledge than they of the great powers Jumil had at his disposal, powers that Vorik often dreamed of possessing.
It was this ambition that had drawn Jumil to him some months previously, leading firstly to the Revelation Initiation, a sorcerous ritual which made manifest the powers of Shadow, drawn from the Lord of Twilight himself who had yet endured. Although much diminished, he was still at one with the Wellsource which enable him to conduct his stratagems from a refuge hidden beyond the many veils of the Void. Secondly came his ordination as Master of the Flock which brought with it the responsibility for recruiting Nightkin and the promise of power.
All of this trailed through Vorik’s thoughts as he hurried and stumbled along the strange tunnel which wound this way and that, steadily descending into the cold bedrock beneath Sejeend. After a time the tunnel turned and opened out to a low chamber lit by torched jutting from sockets in the walls.
“At last. Your sense of urgency leaves a great deal to be desired.”
Jumil was over at the far wall, garbed in his customary long black robes. Next to him, standing with face to the wall, was a naked man, his arms and leg trembling, his head covered with a hood.
“I came with all speed, honoured one,” Vorik said carefully, as if his anger was an obstruction he had to speak around. “But I did not realise how long the passage was…”
Jumil waved aside his excuses. “No matter — you are here, thus we can begin. From my own discernings, these Watcher fools are holding council at this very moment…” He smiled. “Which is the best moment in which to serve our notice.”
“How can I serve you in this?” Vorik said.
“This tactic requires me to carry out two strenuous incantations,” Jumil said, studying the wall nearby. “And even thought we have a sacrifical source, the effort shall still render me near helpless at the conclusion. At that point, I need you to carry me from this place along that passage —” He indicated a second dark entrance which had escaped Vorik’s attention, “— to the ancient chamber of wards where you will place me on the floor by the face of the Great Shadow.” He glanced at Vorik. “Is that clear? Have you any doubts about your task?”
Vorik felt the heat of his anger at this patronising prod. “No doubts, master,” he with forced calmness. “I understand — completely.”
Jumil regarded him with amusement for a moment then turned to the wall and the other man. “Good, then let us proceed.”
The naked, hooded man had made neither sound nor motion during all of this and remained so as Jumil laid one hand on the dark grey rock and began to recite some kind of spell. Vorik felt a chill go through him as the sorcerer crooned strings of syllables in some ancient tongue from before the fall of Jagreag. Then bright threads began to appear on Jumil’s bare upper arm, weaving along towards the wrist like burning veins. Across the back of his hand they writhed, growing brighter as they entwined about his fingers, and from where his fingertips were pressed against the rock the threads continued to spread.
“The call shall be uttered,” Jumil muttered, “and the call shall be heard. Even that Calabos and his vermin will hear but only he will know what it means.”
“What does it mean...ah, master?”
Jumil glanced at him for one tense moment, then gave a wintry smile. “You know the fiction that the self-deluders of this empire tell themselves about the downfall of the Prince of Dusk…”
“Yes,” Vorik said, unsure of where this was leading. “The final battle in the depths of the Void, Tauric the First vanquishing our Lord….”
“Just so, but it was a banishing not a vanquishing. The history tellers weave an elaborate web of fancy, but they know nothing of the Broken, the servants of the Great Shadow. Well, soon the lies will snap and shatter like the 300-year old mask that they are...ah, at last the rock is ready.”
The burning threads had crept across the wall, criss-crossing in a patternless way until a section of the stone surface resembled a strange, random mosaic. Jumil let his hand fall limply to his side, then raised the other to pull away the naked man’s hood. Vorik narrowed his eyes, recognising one of the original four men that he had recruited several days ago.
“Behold, my conduit, my channel to the bones, the very viscera of this land!” With one hand, Jumil pushed the middle of the man’s back. “Go forth now, enter that splintered embrace.”
Arms at his side, the man stepped forward and into the rock wall of the chamber. Vorik stared, transfixed. Bright-edged fragments of the surface shifted, eased aside as if they rested upon some thick, malleable substance. Soon Jumil’s servant — or sacrifice — was halfway into the wall, one leg and both arms sunken to the elbows. The other leg was swallowed, then the buttock and lower back, followed by one shoulder and the next...then Jumil muttered something in a low voice and the man’s progress ceased.
Vorik watched, fear warring with his hunger for power such as this. Jumil spared him a brief glance, exertion plain in his face as a roseate radiance began to leak from his eyes and mouth.
“Remember,” he said. “Carry me to the chamber of the wards and place me by Great Shadow’s face.”
“It shall be done, master,” Vorik said.
Jumil nodded sharply then turned to face the fall with the naked man’s still visible shoulderblades, neck and back of his skull. He began a low, droning chant that grew in urgency as the strange glow in his eyes and mouth became brighter. Soon they were hot, luminous nodes of golden fire and Jumil’s swaying stance and clenched fists betrayed the great strain he was under.
Then the chanting rose in pitch and culminated in an unintelligible, two-syllable word. In that instant the glow of the chambers torches dwindled to nothing as the fires in Jumil’s face leaped forth to lance into the back of the trapped man’s head. The floor of the chamber shook and a grating, roaring sound came from all around, slowly resolving into a deep booming voice which made the dust on the floor crawl and the air in Vorik’s chest resonate horribly.
Terror gripped Vorik as that awful voice spoke on and on without cease in raw bass tones that reverberated around the chamber. But he was not to unnerved that he was unable to discern the manner of that mighty utterance. There was pain and there was unshakeable resolve, but above all there was an insistent, pitiless beckoning, a relentless exhortation to something out there in the night….
Here, it seemed to say, Here is the place. Come to us!
* * *
There were eight people in the common room of the Watchers’ lodge, six of whom had just recently arrived amid early evening rain. Coats and cloaks lay draped over chairs brought closer to the hearth’s fire while their owners reclined on divans near the heat, or otherwise sat or stood.
The other two present were Tashil and the fugitive Corlek Ondene. On rising that morning Tashil had received a message from one of the guards explaining that Calabos left earlier on urgent business and would return in the evening. The poet had also requested that she keep Ondene as mollified as possible since the guard were under orders to prevent him from leaving the lodge in case he was still being hunted.
This did not prove an easy task, resulting in three angry outbursts and one struggle with the guards down in the main hall. Tashil tried to explain that this confinement was for his protection — which was confirmed later by one of the lodge messengers who said that posters bearing Ondene’s face and a 50-regal reward had been put up in the markets and squares ‘by order of the Iron Guard’.
Ondene’s response was to become cold and withdrawn, and he was now sitting alone in the window seat across the common room, alternately reading a book on Roharkan history and staring morosely out at the pouring rain. Tashil had decided that was tolerable enough for her to leave him be and devote herself to her fellow Watchers who had arrived following a mindspeak message from Calabos asking them to gather in advance of his arrival.
The senior Watchers were a disparate group, their manner of attire as varied as their origins. Like Sounek, for example, a tall, well-kempt man who affected the air of Khatrisian aristocrat when in truth he came from a humble Tymoran family. At the other extreme was Dardan, a wiry, craggy-featured man in his middle years whom Tashil knew to be the estranged scion of an old Cabringan noble house, yet his garments sometimes resembled those of a gamekeeper or a travelling artisan.
As Tashil’s gaze came to rest on Dardan she was surprised to find him watching her in turn. He gave a wry grin and came over to where he stood at the end of the mantelpiece, out of the fire’s hot glow. Tashil felt a sting of embarassment, wondering if he was going to remonstrate her. Dardan was highly-respected within the Order of Watchers and was effectively Calabos’ second-in-command.
“So — which of us do you find the most intriguing?” Dardan said a quiet, amused voice.
“I couldn’t possibly single out any one person from this honourable gathering, ser,” Tashil replied. “Think of the consequences…”
“Quite right,” saidd a stalwart, red-faced mage called Chellour who sat before the fire with a heap of parchments in his lap. “I would find it most upsetting were I to be ranked lower than, say, Dybel….”
Dybel, a tall, lantern-jawed man sitting on a stool on the other side of the fire from Tashil, smiled and shook his head. “Be careful what you wish for, my friend…”
Hearing this, Dardan shrugged. “Then perhaps we need another focus for our curiosity, like yonder brooding student of the rain,” he said, tilting his head in Ondene’s direction.
Tashil had prepared for this. “Oh, that’s Stom — he’s just a guest of Calabos who’s been retoring some old statuettes.”
Dardan’s smile was accompanied by a dry chuckle.
“No need to play parlour games, lass. I recognised the notorious Captain Ondene the moment I entered the room.”
“Is that really him?” said Inryk, an edgy, untidy-looking man who turned in his armchair to peer across the room. “He doesn’t seem very dangerous—”
There was a muffled thud as Ondene suddenly closed his book and glared round at him.
“I have been considered sufficiently dangerous to have been hired by a number of southern lordlings and castle princes in recent years, ser,” he said darkly. “If it’s any of your business.”
Oblivious, Inryk shook his head. “But I don’t see how that’s relevant to why the city knotmen have been putting up posters about him…”
“You should pay more attention to the gossip about the nobility, Inryk,” said the sixth mage, Countess Ayoni, an elegant, mature, dark-haired woman. “You see, the former Ondene estates were gifted to House dor-Galyn, and they have a son with a captaincy in the Iron Guard.” She regarded Corlek dispassionately. “Who knows that Baron Ondene’s last surviving son is in Sejeend, thus…”
Corlek Ondene’s only response was a brief nod, as if to confirm her summary, but Inryk was not satisfied.
“That’s all very well, but how does he come to be here?”
Eyes turned towards Tashil but before she could even begin to frame an account of last night’s events, there was the sound of a door opening and closing in the antechamber beyond the arched entryway, and footsteps crossing the wooden floor.
“Ah, Calabos at last,” said Sounek. “Now we’ll have some answers.”
But it was not Calabos but another taller man who stepped through the arch, stooping slightly as he did so. Clad in a long, powder blue coat of austere cut and a plain grey skullcap, his very presence silenced the entire room. His hair was short and as silvergrey as his well-trimmed moustache and beard which, in his weathered and bony face, gave a strong impression of authority and intellect. His eyes were a pale blue, somewhere between ice and ash, and held no pity.
“Good,” hs said in a level, slightly harsh voice. “Everyone is here, everyone except the poet.”
Startled at this intrusion by a complete stranger, Tashil wondered why the other mages looked tense and guarded, saying nothing as they watched the newcomer who returned their collective gaze with a disdainful smile. But before she could ask his name, Sounek spoke from his chair.
“This is a private meeting, ser,” he said. “It appears that you have entered the wrong house.”
“No, Sounek, I am in the right place,” the man answered.
“I fear that you’ve mistaken me, ser — I am Ven Hortis, a master of antiquities from Scarbarig -”
“Sounek of Tymora,” the man went one. “Born to a family of barrelmakers, ran away at age eleven, studied at the Green Hall in Tobrosa, admitted to the Order of Mages 31 years ago by my predecessor, renounced the Order eight years to become a Watcher….”
“You’ve worn out your welcome, Tangaroth,” Chellour said angrily.
Tangaroth? Tashil thought in amazement. The Archmage? Here?
“Aah, Nyls Chellour, youngest son of an Adnagauri pickpocket, made a ward of the House of Guilds, trained as a scribe and illustrator until a mage brother at the Earthmother temple saw his potential and helped him become an initiate. Admitted to the Order of Mages 25 years ago but left 14 years later…”
He surveyed them. “I know each and every one of you, what you were and what you think you are, even your rash young guest over there…”
“No, you don’t, Tangaroth,” said a familiar voice from beyond the arched entrance. “You may know details of their lives, but you do not know them as I do…”
Tashil felt a rush of relief as Calabos, looking spry and alert, entered the room, shrugged off his damp cloak and slung it over an empty highbacked chair before turning to confront the unwelcome visitor. The two men faced each other for a drawn-out moment before Calabos addressed the Archmage.
“So why are you here, Tangaroth?” he said. “To merely dispense threats and the crown’s unique menace, or was there ome other reason?”
“You and your Watchers are only just tolerated, Calabos,” the Archmage said. “Keep that in mind. Renegades, outcasts, and the offspring of enemies -” He shot a glance at Tashil with that. “Only your marginal usefulness has saved you from the dungeons thus far.”
Tashil felt a strange hollowness, a mingling of panic and anger at the Archmage’s cruel jibe. Some of the others got to their feet and Dardan clenched his fists as he took a step towards the Archmage. But Calabos halted him with a raised hand and a tight smile.
“That was a mean blow, Tangaroth,” he said. “And not worthy of your office. You must know that all of us here have vowed to protect the interests of the empire and its people — that is why the Watchers exist.”
Tangaroth sneered. “You seem to have forgotten why the Mage Order exits, then...but in any case, when Ilgarion and his court take up the reins of power he will learn of you and wonder why all of you are not under my direct control and guidance” He shrugged. “I doubt that any record of past achievements will stand between you and incarceration at his majesty’s pleasure.”
“Unless?” Calabos said.
“Unless the Watchers perform a service vital to the sanctity of the realm.”
Everyone’s eyes were on Calabos. Tashil stared at the old man’s face, wishing and hoping that he would turn down this blatant coercion but to her dismay he frowned and gave a smal nod.
“Go on,” he said.
The Archmage looked satisfied. “It has come to the notice of the High Minister of Night as well as myself that the Great Carver Pilgrimage to the Isle of Besdarok will be used as a veil for the assembly of an army of northern Carver zealots which will then attack Sejeend. At the same time, other Carver wreckers will attempt to sow confusion in the city with burnings, assassinations and the like. It will be the Watchers’ task to spy on the few prominent Carver priestholds and their sympathisers in Sejeend, find out who is party to the plot and ascertain its details.”
Calabos regarded him pensively. “And may I ask what the Order of Mages will be doing in the meantime?”
“Working closely with the High Lord Marshall and his commanders to counter the threat from the north,” Tangaroth said. “Pre-emptively, if necessary.”
Tashil felt so full of outrage at this that she teetered on the brink of shouting in his face. ‘Norther Carver zealots’ could only mean the Mogaun tribes, but the only true zealots among the tribes were the fanatical Oathtakers and they accounted for only a small minority with numbers that scarcely constituted an army. In any case, it would be sheer madness to mount an attack on a city like Sejeend…
Then Sounek caught her eye and raised a cautionary finger, to which she gave a slight nod and held back, listening.
“A most singular strategy, Archmage,” Calabos was saying. “Very well, then — you can be assured that we will carry out this investigation for you on the understanding that our integrity and independence will remain as it was under Magramon.”
“So it shall be,” Tangaroth said. “But before you begin, it might be wise to escort your hotheaded guest out of the city — who knows what harm might befall him were he to stray out into the streets.”
“Yes...quite…”
Calabos suddenly paused, swayed on the spot then reached out to the padded back of a divan to steady himself. “Can you hear….a voice….calling….”
Then Tashil could hear something but only in her mind, a low, rumbling voice speaking a continuous string of syllables. And even as she became aware of the sound, it grew louder and louder in her head. In the next moment, Calabos let out a strangled cry and keeled over to sprawl on the floor.
But the terrible roaring went on, even as the others stumbled forward to Calabos’ aid, all of them similarly affected by the monstrous torrent of noise. It was now so loud that it seemed to fill her head to bursting and sent her senses reeling. She could hear nothing else and the mere act of trying to walk over to Calabos’ motionless form was like crossing a tightrope above an abyss. And still the brutal, demanding bellow raged on within her skull but now she could discern divisions, a feral shriek, an incoherent droning moan, and over it all vast words surging through like waves of oceanic thunder….
Finally it abated, faded to a murmur and whispered away to nothing with surprising swiftness. Relief was stark on every face around her, and Tangaroth was crouching by an unconscious Calabos with fingers pressed against the side of his neck.
“Unharmed,” the Archmage said, getting shakily to his feet. “When he awakes, impress upon him the gravity of this new...incident.” He looked at them all. “I’m sure that he will have recognised that as a spell of dark provenance.”
“It was an invocation,” Dardan said sourly.
“Yes, but of a kind known as a calling,” Tangaroth said. “It is supposed to draw powerful spirits and other things to the vicinity of the caller. If this was perpetrated by Carver zealots then your task may just have become a little more arduous that I originally anticipated.”
The Archmage had regained his composure and once more carried an air of haughty disdain.
“When Calabos sufficiently revives, have him contact me with mindspeech,” he said. “But before that comes about, you yourselves might consider sending forth a search party, for I fear that your caged bird has flown!”
With a quiet, malicious laugh, he turned and left by the archway, while Tashil whirled round and cursed at what she saw. One of the windows stood open and a book lay on the chair nearby, but Captain Corlek Ondene was utterly gone.