Knights Magi (Book 4) (14 page)

He was tired – beyond tired.  The Blue Magic spells he was using may not have tapped his physical condition, but they drained his mental energy faster than a three-mile run.  He stumbled to his room barely conscious, and then fell into bed without even taking off his boots.  He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, the sun still in the sky.

If he sought peace in slumber, he sought in vain. His dreams were anxious and vivid, filled with danger and sorrow, terror and despair, the product of too much magic and too little sleep. 

In the midst of chaotic dreams featuring Estasia, Rondal, and Master Minalan, with appearances by Lady Pentandra, Lady Alya, a cast of his friends in Sevendor and a host of ugly goblins, Tyndal restlessly endured his long, restless nap.  Eventually his busy mind quieted, but not before his own subconscious featured  some distressing scenes to torment him.  But he did not wake.

Later in the night, he wasn’t certain how long, Tyndal’s sleep was interrupted by a sudden sharp, stabbing pain in his mid-section.  He thought it was a cramp, the moment he opened his eyes, but then he realized that someone was poking him in the abdomen with something hard.  He felt a flood of energy, magical energy, pass through him.

Confused, he tried to get up –
but he couldn’t move.

Instantly terrified, he tried to move his arms and legs in the darkness, to no avail.  Whatever had poked his stomach had paralyzed him, he realized.  He could not move a muscle beyond his eyelids.  All of his voluntary muscles were dead to his control.  Only his eyes could move.

It was not a complicated spell, the part of his mind that wasn’t panicking told him.  There were five or six methods of casting it, and it was used fr everything from warmagic to surgery. He took some solace that it was likely not permanent.  His breathing wasn’t affected, nor his heartbeat. 

But why would anyone do it? 

For one brief instant he thought it was Rondal, vengefully taking action in his failing suit for Estasia.  He discarded the thought almost immediately.  This was not Rondal’s style.  So who? And why?

He felt a shadow loom over him in the darkness, and with sudden, frustrated horror he realized what was happening. 

Someone was stealing his witchstone
.

It was almost unthinkable – that shard of irionite had been around his neck or on his person constantly since he’d received it two years ago.  Having anyone else handle it felt like the deepest violation – to have them handle it
against his will
was appalling.  He struggled in vain against the spell while his assailant searched around his neck for the bag. Then he relaxed, and calmed himself.  He did not have much time, he knew.

His muscles may have been restrained by magic, but his mind was not.  Almost subconsciously he tapped into the power of his stone and cast the perception-altering spell he’d employed so frequently of late.  Suddenly his assailant slowed down significantly in front of him.

Thinking furiously, Tyndal tried to remember other spells he could do silently, without involving his body in their casting or his mouth with a mnemonic.  Most of the most useful spells in this situation were useless, as they had mnemonic components that had to be vocalized, for safety reasons.  But there were a few . . 

The first thing he did was cast a magelight over his bed.  He’d cast them so often that it took little more than a thought.  The Cat’s Eye spell required a word. The blue light was small, no larger than an egg, but he made it as brilliant as possible to expose - and possibly startle - his attacker. 

Unfortunately, whomever had the temerity to steal his stone had had the foresight to mask their face for the occasion.  More, a haze of indistinct perception hovered around the thief like a cloud of blurred vision. 

Whoever they were, Tyndal realized as he studied them, they were schooled in some shadowmagic.  Trying to determine the shape of their face, the feeling of their Shroud, even their height was almost impossible under the spell – and he did not know enough shadowmagic to cast a counterspell.  He barely knew any.

As the indistinct thief’s fingers slowly searched his person, Tyndal realized there was one more thing he could do before the thief found what he was looking for.  A marker spell.  He’d done them plenty of times before, of course, but usually they were done on an object, not a person.  Like the saddle of that Censor in Talry. 

The thief’s obscuring field kept him from casting it directly on him – or her – which kept him from hooking the spell on him - or her - but he did note the thief was wearing cunningly-crafted leather gloves that were not thus obscured.  Tyndal extended his awareness, chose the proper rune, and affixed a ‘hook’ on the right-hand glove, just as it found the bag with his witchstone tore it off of his paralyzed neck.

The perception spell turned the quick theft into a long, agonizing ordeal to live through, but Tyndal tried to use his time wisely.  He noted, for instance, that while the direct image of the thief was obscured by shadowmagic, he or she hadn’t thought to alter their actual shadow – and in the light of the magelight, the thief’s shadow stretched across the wall.  Tyndal made a mental note of how long it extended and marked the spot in his mind.

Then his perception spell came down, as did his other spells.  His irionite shard had been taken from his control as the thief slowly slid the silken pouch into a small stone box.  He could feel his link with it dim as it shut, and the thief moved further away from him.  Suddenly everything was moving fast again.

As the thief bolted for the open window, Tyndal tried one last-ditch maneuver: he used the continued if fading proximity of the witchstone for one last spell: a mind-to-mind link with the only other High Mage in town.  Rondal.

What?
the other apprentice asked, annoyed. 
Want to shout at me some more?  Too bad.  I’m studying.

I don’t want to shout at you, idiot,
someone is stealing my witchstone!

What?
repeated Rondal. 
You mean—

I mean someone crept into our room, and threw a paralyzing spell on me while I was asleep, then took my stone from around my neck.  Right now they are fleeing from the North Tower over the rooftop.  I’m still paralyzed.

I’m on my way!
Rondal said.  From the way he said it, Tyndal knew the other boy was already in motion.

That didn’t leave him a lot to do.  In fact, that left him with exactly
nothing
to do – once his link with his stone was gone, so was his ability to speak mind-to-mind.  Even his magelight flickered. 

In vain he tried to fuel it with what power he could generate on his own . . . but he had become so accustomed to using irionite that he was unable to keep it alight for more than a few moments.  Then darkness. 

Darkness and paralyzation were insidious foes in his mind.

An indeterminable amount of time later, the door to his room was thrown open, and a magelight blazed again.  This time it was Rondal’s . . . and out of the corner of his eye, he could see his fellow knight had managed to  arm himself with a sword from somewhere.

Rondal rushed over, dropping the sword with a clatter as he began to conjure the beginning of a counterspell.

“Who the hell did
you
piss off?” Rondal demanded angrily, as his spell began to sap the strength of the paralysis spell.

It was several moments before Tyndal could make his mouth move properly again, but he tried his best to answer.  “Why . . . think . . .
me?
”

“Because you piss
everyone
off, eventually,” reasoned Rondal.  “That’s the only reason why I can think that someone might steal your stone!”

Tyndal looked at him, rolling his eyes.  While that might be true, it was hardly the time or place to bring it up, not when there were better motivations close at hand.  He hated to waste energy on pointing out the obvious, but he felt compelled.  “Greed?” he managed.  He could feel tingling in his fingers and toes.

“Well, yes, I suppose we
are
both walking around with a barony’s ransom around our neck,” conceded Rondal, “but why you and not me?”

“Oppor . . . tunity,” struggled Tyndal.

“Right,” agreed Rondal.  “But . . . never mind, we can deal with that later. Let me go alert the hall steward while you recover.”  Before Tyndal could voice an objection, Rondal was gone.

While Rondal was away, Tyndal could feel the spell ebb and feeling rush back into his body, from his core out to his extremities..  Soon he was able to move his limbs and speak more clearly . 

By the time Rondal returned with the hall steward, an older student already in his nightdress, a panicked look in his eye, Tyndal was sitting upright.  At least the paralysis wasn’t more severe, he thought, though it was a minor comfort in the face of losing his irionite.  But it was a comfort. He couldn’t imagine spending any length of time like that and not going mad.

“A theft?  In the
North
Tower?” the steward was saying in disbelief.  “Never in all the years—“

“I’m not
blaming
you,” Rondal said, quickly, “or faulting your security.  I just need your help.  Care for him while I try to track the thief!” he ordered.  He gave one more assessing look at Tyndal, apparently decided he would be fine, and went out the window after the thief. 

Tyndal’s stomach leapt as he watched, anticipating disaster.  While not precisely clumsy, Rondal was far from the sturdiest when it came to footwork in the yard, and the centuries-old slate roof outside of their rooms was a treacherous landscape of broken ankles awaiting their debut. 

Idiot
, Tyndal thought to himself.  He would have told him that mind-to-mind, had he his stone.  He could still almost feel it but the sensation and awareness was already gone. 

Thankfully, so was his paralysis.  He could stand, now, and his speech was back completely.  He needed it to calm the senior student who was supposed to take care of him. The hall steward was beside himself with emotion – the two young knights magi were the most important guests his hall had had during his tenure, and the man was certain this incident would end his career. 

Tyndal tried to sooth him, as he felt the feeling come completely back to his limbs and joints, and finally persuaded him that he was sufficiently recovered that the man could summon the guard without his guest keeling over. 

When he was gone, Tyndal examined the room as carefully as he could.

Summoning magesight was
hard
– as hard as it had been before he’d gotten his witchstone.  He found himself calling upon basic spell elements that he’d been able to do automatically just this morning.  And while there was a thrill of success when the spell allowed him to see the traceries of magic in the room, the effort had also demonstrated to him just how diminished in potency he was.

The thief had come in through the window he’d left by, Tyndal could tell at once – there were remnants of a silence spell that had blocked the noise of the shutters opening.  That suggested the thief had come in already garbed in shadowmagic.  There was no signature associated with the spellwork, or at least none that Tyndal could see, but then he wasn’t a thaumaturge.

There was also no sign of a paralysis spell being cast.  That concerned him, as any spell will leave minute traces of arcane energy when it was cast . . . until he realized that the effect must have come from an artifact, not a living mage.  A wand or other device had arrested his muscles.

He was examining the wall, where he’d mentally noted the height of the shadow, when Rondal came back in through the window, a tragic look on his face.

“I followed his trail across the roof,” he explained apologetically, “but then he obscured his route and disappeared into the shadows between the towers.  I think he slid down a rope or climbed down into the courtyard.  I couldn’t even see him with magesight,” he lamented.

“He was cloaked, I think,” Tyndal said, slowly.  “Shadowmagic.  I’ve never seen it before, but I’ve heard of it.  Whoever it was, it was like my eyes couldn’t focus on them at all.”

“Shadowmagic?  Are you sure?” Rondal asked, alarmed.

“It had to be,” Tyndal insisted.  “Who do you know who does Shadowmagic?”

“No one,” Rondal admitted.  “I suppose . . . spies and thieves and assassins would use it,” he reasoned.

“Exactly,” Tyndal agreed.  “Lady Isily, one of Princess Rardine’s ladies-in-waiting, is a shadowmage,” he revealed.  “I . . . met her a few times.  At Timberwatch.”

“I remember her,” Rondal nodded, “the night we got knighted.  Uh, do you think she . . .?”

“No,” Tyndal dismissed.  “She was given a witchstone—”

“She
was?
” Rondal asked, surprised.

“Yes, she was.  I don’t think Master Min was happy about it, but it was part of the deal he cobbled together to get the army formed in Wilderhall.  But I haven’t seen her since.  Besides, she was an adept – whoever did this was sloppy.  An amateur.  An amateur who doesn’t already have a witchstone,” he reasoned.

“How do you figure?  I’m not disputing,” he added, when he saw Tyndal’s face.  “I just want to hear your reasoning.”