The Matholych flowed down the link, dark and searing, and it pulled at Eltiron like thousands of hooks ripping at his flesh. The pain of the white power from the Tower of Judgment intensified, and Eltiron screamed aloud as the two forces met within him. They were too strong to bear, and too different; the clash between them was like ice water thrown on molten lead, exploding into burning droplets of intense pain that faded slowly into nothingness. They were too different . . . and suddenly, through the haze of pain, Eltiron knew.
The red mist was no living creature. It was power, raw power, collected over the centuries into a huge, mindless mass that had no purpose except to absorb more power. But the core of it, the beginning of it, shaped all the power it absorbed, and that core was the exact opposite of the power within the Tower of Judgment. The Matholych had begun as the power Galerinth had taken from the Tower of Judgment and the other towers he had built, the power he had feared would be used for evil.
The revelation hit Eltiron all at once, but he was too mired in pain to use it. Then a bit of knowledge came out of nowhere, and he shoved the Matholych back along the link, out of his mind, and held it there. His head cleared, and he realized that it was Carachel’s information he had used, and that the makeshift mental barrier would not last long. He dismissed the thought and looked around, trying to decide what to do.
The Matholych was a dense red pillar in the center of the courtyard. Jermain stood, sword in hand, staring at it, and Eltiron realized that it had been only a moment or two since Ranlyn and Carachel had been swallowed by the red mist. Amberglas stood in front of Jermain, calmly casting spell after spell, though her face showed signs of strain. She seemed to find it easier to hold the Matholych now, and Eltiron remembered that the mist grew weaker as it absorbed magic.
He raised a hand, then hesitated, undecided. He thought he knew enough, now, to force the Matholych back to the wastelands, but the ghost of Carachel’s voice in his mind demanded more. Banishing the Matholych was only a temporary solution, though it might last for years; the red mist would return again and again unless, somehow, it could be destroyed. Eltiron could think of only one way to do that—rejoining its power to the towers where it had begun. And to do that he would have to let both powers meet inside himself again. Another man, a true sorcerer, might be able to find a different means of accomplishing the joining, but Eltiron had only borrowed knowledge to use, and this was the only way for him.
The memory of the pain held him back. He stood motionless for a long moment, feeling afraid and very much alone. He thought briefly and wistfully of Crystalorn; then he took a deep breath and drew with all his strength on the white-hot power of the Tower of Judgment.
His hands rose in a strange, half-familiar gesture as the power flooded him, and through the rising pain he felt a series of brief shocks as the power of the other towers linked with the Tower of Judgment. He struggled to control them while he groped for the remains of the channel Carachel had made in his mind, the channel that led now to the Matholych. He found it, and with the last of his willpower he opened it and pulled the Matholych into himself.
Pain exploded in sharp, spinning bursts of agony, like wheels of red-hot daggers. Mindless with agony, he tried to make it stop, but it was too late. He had no control over the forces he had unleashed. The two powers clashed and spun and battered, exploded into searing shards that bored tunnels through his mind, and slowly, too slowly, died.
The Matholych thinned and faded and vanished, and Eltiron felt the magic the Matholych had stolen flowing through the towers, back into the land from which it had come. As it did, the towers began to disintegrate. He wanted to shout a warning, but he had no strength left. His efforts had left him drained, and he felt himself topple. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness were the stone blocks of the Tower of Judgment, falling all around him.
CHAPTER 23
W
hen the Tower of Judgment began to collapse, Jermain had just enough time to pull Amberglas out of the path of the falling stones. He ducked his head and covered it with his good arm until the sound of the collapse ceased, then looked up. A low mound of rubble and a cloud of dust were all that remained of the Tower of Judgment. Of Eltiron there was no sign.
Without giving the dust time to settle, Jermain started forward. Choking and cursing, he made his way across the pile, toward the place where he had last seen Eltiron. He was dimly aware that there was not as much wreckage as there should have been, but he did not stop to think about it. He found the spot at last, and began to dig.
The huge stone blocks of the tower had crumbled into fragments; most of them were fist sized, and the largest was perhaps twice the size of a man’s head. His injured shoulder hampered his efforts, but Vandaris joined him almost immediately, followed by four of the castle guards, and after some digging they reached Eltiron. Jermain looked him over quickly with a soldier’s impersonal expertise, then lifted him carefully out of the rubble and carried him to a clear patch of ground just beyond. As he laid Eltiron down, someone beside him said, “Is Eltiron—is he dead?”
Jermain looked up and saw Crystalorn watching him; her face was white and anxious, but he had no time for reassurances. “He’s alive, barely,” he said sharply. “Find a healer.”
Crystalorn nodded and ran off. She returned with Darinhal, the castle physician, and with some relief Jermain turned the unconscious Eltiron over to him. He left Crystalorn trying to peer over the healer’s shoulder without getting in his way, and walked slowly back toward the place where the Tower of Judgment had stood. The initial shock of events was beginning to wear off, but he still felt stunned by the speed with which everything had happened.
Vandaris was standing beside the rubble, directing a group of soldiers and servants who were busily clearing the stones away. When she saw Jermain approaching, she waved to them to continue and came to meet him. She looked sharply at his face, then asked, “Eltiron?”
“Alive. Darinhal’s with him. What’s all this?”
“There were at least four people inside the tower when it came down,” Vandaris replied.
“Four!” Jermain stared at the mound of stones. “I don’t think you have much chance of finding them alive.”
“Someone has to try. Besides, it keeps people from asking questions I don’t have answers for.”
Jermain looked at the remains of the tower again and shuddered. “Vandaris, what could have done this?”
“That’s one of the questions I was hoping no one would ask yet. But as long as you have, let’s see if we can get an answer.”
Without waiting for Jermain to reply, Vandaris turned and walked toward the castle wall. Jermain followed. The section of wall that the Matholych had touched was broken apart, and Jermain saw Amberglas sitting on one of the stone blocks. She looked up as they approached, and Jermain was appalled by the lines of exhaustion in her face.
“All right, Amberglas, what happened?” Vandaris demanded, waving at the remains of the Tower of Judgment.
“I won’t know until I’ve talked to King Eltiron. I believe he was responsible.”
“
Eltiron
did that?”
Amberglas nodded tiredly. Vandaris studied her for a moment, then shook her head. “You need rest, and you’ll be no help here until you get it. You’d better go inside; I’ll send someone if you’re needed.”
Amberglas nodded again. She rose with difficulty and started toward the main part of the castle. Vandaris watched her with a frown until a shout from one of the men on the rubble heap distracted her.
Jermain and Vandaris went over to see what the problem was; when they arrived, the white-faced guard simply pointed to the patch of rubble he had been clearing. There were two figures still partly buried beneath the stones, their skins dry and so badly shrunken that there were long, red streaks where they had split open. One of the figures was facedown, and a ring of flesh on the third finger of its outflung hand was charred and blackened.
“Ranlyn,” Jermain murmured, “and Carachel.”
“What should I
do
with ’em?” the guard asked.
“Find someone with a stronger stomach than yours and have him bury them,” Vandaris said.
The guard gulped and nodded. Vandaris turned away, but Jermain remained standing beside the bodies. He made a silent farewell to the man who had been his friend, and tried not to think of the man who had become his enemy. He felt numb and drained. For the first time in years, he did not know where he would go now or what he would do next. He did not care.
Jermain slept for the rest of the day, except when one of the healers stopped in his rooms to change the bandages on his shoulder. The following morning, one of them told him he should stay in bed for another day. His thoughts had an uncomfortable tendency to run over the less pleasant scenes of the previous day again and again, and he blamed himself for Ranlyn’s death. He had no doubt of Ranlyn’s reasons; the nomad had decided that Amberglas alone could handle the Matholych if it were weakened sufficiently, and the obvious way to weaken it was to feed it power. Carachel’s power. But if Jermain had not suggested throwing Carachel to the Matholych, Ranlyn might not have done it.
By midafternoon Jermain could stand it no longer, and he insisted on getting up. It was not so much that he felt well as that he had to get out of the room. His first act was to check on Eltiron. To his surprise, a young girl was standing by the King’s chamber door, refusing admittance to everyone.
“Nobody gets in,” she informed him. “His Majesty isn’t ready for visitors yet, or that’s what the healer said.”
“Then Eltiron will live?”
“Far as I know.” She looked curiously at the sling he wore around his left arm and her eyes narrowed. “Who’re you? Were you in that fight with the wizard and that pink thing yesterday?”
“I was. My name’s Jermain Trevannon.”
“Oh! Vandi wants to see you. I’m Tarilane,” the girl added as an afterthought.
So this was Vandaris’s daughter! Jermain studied her for a moment. Too soon to say how she’d turn out, but he doubted that she’d ever be very tall. And she was younger than he’d expected. With Vandaris training her, though, she had an excellent chance of becoming a first-class swordswoman. Jermain bowed. “Thank you for the information, Your Highness.”
“What? Oh, because Vandi’s my mother. You’d better not let her hear you call me that, though; she doesn’t like it.”
“I see. Where will I find her?”
“She’s down in the Great Hall with Crystalorn—I mean, with the Princess Crystalorn.” Tarilane leaned forward confidentially. “She’s not in a very good mood.”
“Oh?”
“About a dozen lords came to see her this morning, and she had to be polite to them.”
Jermain could not suppress a chuckle. “I think I understand.”
“And that’s not all.” Tarilane grinned, suddenly, giving her a strong resemblance to a delighted imp. “After the lords left, Crystalorn tried to show her how to use one of those magic fire-starting sticks Amberglas made, and it exploded.”
“Very disconcerting. Was anyone hurt?”
“Of course not; it was mostly just sparks. Amberglas says it’s because Eltiron, I mean King Eltiron, let the magic out of the pink thing. She says it’s going to be a lot easier to work magic in Sevairn and Mournwal and Gramwood now, and maybe in all of the Seven Kingdoms. She promised to teach me how to do it when I’m finished learning swordcraft from Vandi.”
“I wish you well with it. Now I had better go to Vandaris, before she becomes even more, ah, irritable.” Jermain bowed again, and took his leave. The discussion made him uncomfortably aware of how many changes there had been in Leshiya in the past months, and how many more could be expected in the near future. He tried to imagine Sevairn full of people like Amberglas and Carachel, and shuddered. Then he shrugged the thought away and went to find Vandaris.
“Trevannon! About time you got here,” Vandaris greeted as he entered the hall. She was seated behind a long table with papers; Crystalorn occupied the chair next to her. “You in any shape to work yet?”
“It depends on the work,” Jermain replied, indicating his sling. “It’ll be a while before I’m ready for swordplay again.”
“Did I say anything about swords, turtle wit? I need some advice about people, and you know a lot more about Sevairn’s nobles than I do, even if you haven’t been around for a while.”
“If I can help, I will.” Jermain found Vandaris’s manner more irritating than usual, but anything was better than lying in his room, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Ranlyn and Carachel. “What is it you want?”
Vandaris shoved some of the litter aside and picked up a thin stack of papers that had been underneath them. “This used to be Terrel Lassond’s; it’s his list of nobles he thought would support him. I need to know which ones knew what they were doing and which ones were just being stupid. Particularly stupid, that is; if you try to point out every idiot at court we’ll be here for weeks.”
“And you’re willing to trust my judgment?” After the mistakes he’d made recently, Jermain wasn’t sure that he wanted anyone relying on him. Especially not for something like this.
Vandaris gave him a sharp look, then shook her head. “I said I wanted advice, not decrees. Eltiron will have to make the final decisions about who’ll stay at court and who won’t. But it’ll be easier if he has some idea who the real traitors and potential traitors are.”
“All right, then.” Jermain took the list and sat down across from Vindaris. He skimmed it rapidly, then went through it a second time more slowly. On this third pass, he read name by name, marking as he went and occasionally stopping to consider for a long time before he went on to the next name.
When he finished, he had divided the list into three parts: those he was sure had cooperated wholeheartedly with Terrel, those he was equally sure had merely been dupes, and a smaller group of which he was uncertain. Then he and Vandaris discussed each of the names on the “doubtful” list, while Crystalorn listened intently.