Count Scar - SA (42 page)

And he'd been right! The instant my ghostly fingers contacted the conviare, I felt its lines of powerful magic resonating like the strings of a plucked lute. After what seemed hours with no
sensation but that deathly cold, it was like a sudden shock. Within seconds, those vibrations had penetrated the whole of my spectral form. It was almost as if I and the conviare had fused.

I felt an incredible sense of exhilaration, as if no feat of magic was beyond me now. Power, the feeling—the certainty—of enormous power, was within my grasp. Not the vast but always elusive
power of faith, continually undercut by my own failings and shortcomings or the doubts created by the evil and injustice that were everywhere in the world, but the sure power of magic when one
is working it at the highest level.

And then I remembered the face of the Master of our Order and his calm old voice speaking of how the True Faith had never allowed even him to suppose he was or could be perfect. My sanity
returned and I offered up a brief but fervent prayer in thanks for deliverance from a terrible temptation. And to think the Magus de Cuza had created this thing and wielded it for years! With his
skill, he would have been able to experience something very close to this sensation even in the flesh—no wonder he'd had the pride of Lucifer.

Well, I was no Magus, nor even a senior Magian of my own Order, just plain Brother Melchior. But the conviare would not care about that. I would not have to be entirely perfect, only to do one
bit of work perfectly, and it would serve me as efficiently as it had ever served its great and wicked creator.

Keeping one vaporous hand on the conviare, I reached out my other hand and rested one ghostly finger on top of the tripod from which the finding knife was suspended, linking them. As soon as
this link was established, the finding knife began to vibrate at the end of its thread. Fixing my second vision on the conviare, I looked deeper and deeper into it until I located the two intricate
knots centered within its lines of magic which the masters had already identified at the Mother House. Having glimpsed the object itself within the last few minutes, I recognized right away the
smaller pattern as the magical signature of the lesser battle telesma. So the other had to represent the great one.

It was unbelievably intricate, the most complex magic pattern I had ever encountered. Under normal circumstances, no responsible Magian would have dreamed of attempting to do anything
with such a powerful object without taking at least a week to analyze it first. But I hadn't that luxury. Offering up another quick prayer, I allowed the simulacrum of that pattern to flow directly
through my spectral body to the finding knife.

The knife swung at the end of its cord, spun wildly within the tripod, then froze in the air as firmly as if it had stuck in some solid object, pointing at a downward angle. As soon as the knife
stopped moving, every speck of copper dust in the mistletoe came streaming down its blade and off its tip into the dark air. The bright flakes hung suspended for a few seconds, tracing a line
straight from the knife to a spot intersecting the floor of the room, then sifted slowly down onto the stones.

But the potent line of magic they had indicated was now as clear to my second eye as if it had been traced in fire. Removing my ghost hands from both the conviare and the tripod, I set my spectral
form in motion and swiftly followed mat line down into the floor and out through the lower wall of the tower to the courtyard, and from there straight down through the flagstones toward a
point directly under the great keep itself.

Some sixty feet beneath the emergency storage room below the keep, in a narrow chamber that appeared to have been hewn into the solid rock, I found the great battle telesma of the Magus de Cuza
lying on the rotted remains of a satin cushion.

It was a beautiful and sinister object, a squat crown wrought to suggest the form of a crouching scorpion. I had no need to touch it with my spectral hand to perceive the intricate network of lines
of magic spun both through and all around it. The intricacy and pure elegance of the pattern at the telesma's center left me stunned with admiration; monster though he had been, the old magus
had wrought an object of absolute genius in this creation. It was charged with enormous power too, almost glowing from the slow buildup of latent magic force over the half century it had lain
waiting here in the dark. If this thing could be brought to the surface in its present condition, the count and I would have a weapon that could smash anything.

The question was: how? A melted spot on the rocky roof of the chamber showed how the great telesma had descended; presumably the Magus had used mostly the power of the lesser battle telesma,
along with a little of its own, to send it down and seal it here. While it clearly contained enough stored power to make the trip if I were to summon it to the surface now through the conviare, it
might arrive too drained to use immediately for the purposes I required. And I rather suspected the two Perfected Magians would be disinclined to allow me the hours or days it would take to
charge the great telesma with magic once more. But I must find a way, and quickly too; I could feel the cold increasing rapidly now, an indication that the integrity of my spectral form was
beginning to fray.

Suddenly the answer came to me—or at least an answer. One I did not like at all. My mind raced, but nothing else seemed likely to work. Unless, of course, Count Caloran had managed to get the
gates open within the last few minutes. Swiftly I retraced the line of magic connecting the great telesma to the conviare, sweeping upward through solid rock and then foundation stones into the
little rear exercise yard. I heard yells and the sounds of running feet, and hope flared briefly. Then I saw a skeletal apparition with eyes of fire riding above the keep in the empty air and realized
there was no sign of any real fighting, no clash of arms or shouts as the duke's men rushed in through opened gates to overwhelm the demoralized, outnumbered defenders and make them
prisoners. Evidently, it was all still up to me.

By the time I reached the tower room, everything was beginning to grow blurry to my second vision. Only a few minutes remained to reenter my fleshly body. But as soon as I did this, any decent
finding spell aimed at locating the magic-worker within the castle would begin to track me down. Moreover, all the magic movements that had seemed so effortless while I was discorporate meant
that my fleshly self was going to awake with a crushing load of physical fatigue, like a man who had run for many miles. I was cold, so cold, but I forced myself to ignore this until I had gone
carefully in my mind over the sequence of acts required to perform what I must do, as well as working out what actions I could take in response to each foreseeable move by my opposition. As soon
as I had done this, I summoned all my resolution and collapsed back into my own body.

2

2

My first breath brought searing pain, worse even than the cold had been. My limbs seemed made of stone, my head far too heavy to lift, my whole body wracked by the worst mage-sickness I had
ever experienced. Had I presented myself to the Brother Infirmerian in either the Mother House or the Priory in such a condition, he would at once have ordered me to bed for a week. But no one
here was likely to show that kind of concern for my well-being. Somehow or other I made it to my feet, kicking over the tripod with its finding knife in the process. I let it lie; I could return for it
later if I should happen to survive. It took two tries of my clumsy, shaking fingers to work the conviare off my belt, make the necessary passes over it, and hang it about my neck. Once it was in
place with my cassock closed over it, I was able to reach out and tap the great telesma to gain the power necessary to support my sagging body.

The stairs seemed to spiral to the moon, but I made the climb somehow, one weary step at a time. A fallen cup and some dice lay scattered down the steps by the tower door; apparently one of my
apparitions had visited the guardroom above while I'd been off in spectral form searching for the great telesma. I had come along the wall from the right, the shortest route to the main castle, and
the temptation to return the same way was urgent in my weakness. But this seemed too risky, since the Magians might well have discovered how we had entered and be waiting on the terrace, so I
stepped out onto the ramparts and turned the other way.

Within ten paces I saw three men with drawn swords coming slowly back along the rampart and froze until I remembered that I was still wearing the cloak of shadows. Sure enough, the guards
walked right past me, staring up at the tower with nervous eyes. As soon as they disappeared inside, I resumed my dragging pace along the wall.

Reaching the lookout post at the northeast angle of the wall, I turned to start along the north rampart toward the main part of the castle, praying that I be allowed to reach it without meeting
any obstacles beyond my own weariness. But that was not to be. A dozen men in chain mail were coming along the rampart with swords in their hands. At their head was the Perfected Magian
with the bruised face, and in his hand he held a speculum. I turned the other way, only to see the second Magian already at the base of the tower I had just left; the three dicing guards had just
emerged to join him. He had the lesser telesma upon his chest and a finding knife in his hand. "It appears our friend Melchior has been here recently!" he called across in his Nabarrese accent to his
bruised friend.

"Ah, then he must still be very close despite the phantasms he has somehow been creating everywhere but here. Couldn't you bring any more men?"

"No, Lord Gavain insisted on keeping the rest at the front; he fears an attack may come soon. Melchior did not enter alone; a man has been found lying bound and gagged in the kitchen, and
Raymbaud is missing entirely." My spirits lifted as I heard this; evidently Count Caloran was still free, and busy creating helpful diversions. Had any more men come with the Magians, the
chance of succeeding in my plan would have been far poorer.

"That's bad. If the castle has been penetrated by warriors, too, we have to find this infidel Magian quickly." The bruised fellow twisted the speculum in his hand and sent a shaft of moonlight
toward me. I ducked into the little guardroom that stood at one side of the lookout post, but a hint of my form must have been momentarily revealed. "There! He is there, at the watchpost on the
corner of the wall!"

I had wanted to meet them; it was necessary for my plan. But it was the wrong Magian who was closest to me at the present moment. Perhaps I could confuse them briefly, and tempt the man I
wanted to come nearer.

Reaching into my cassock, I pulled out the little sack containing the second telesma of apparitions and flung it out onto the stone floor of the lookout post. A pair of bat-winged demons eight feet
high appeared with hideous howls and began to stalk along the ramparts toward the two groups of Perfected. "Hah, look!" called the Nabarrese Magian to his friend. "You are deceived. It is only
more of his apparitions."

"I am not so sure," the bruised one yelled back. "We had better go forward and—ooof!" Ill as I felt, I had to smile at the expression my second eye revealed on his face as the demon on his rampart
reached out and knocked him down. The telesma I had attached to the rat could generate only illusions, but this one's productions were capable of assuming a brief substantiality. The soldiers
behind the fallen Magian began to edge back along the wall, except for one young fellow who lunged forward with his sword. The demon caught the blade in its hard hand and snapped it like a
stick, started to reach out for the man himself—then vanished in a blaze of fire. Casting my second vision the other way, I saw its counterpart also flare up into nothingness. On the breast of the
Nabarrese Magian, the dark obsidian tiles of the lesser telesma glowed for a moment longer, then went black again. But my ruse had caused the fellow to move closer to me.

"He's here, I tell you, and now we're going to take him!" shouted the now twice-bruised Magian, scrambling to his feet and waving to his warriors to follow. But the Nabarrese one called, "Wait,
let me talk to him. Magian Melchior, I know you are near us now. And I know you are watching us with your second vision even though you are not where we can see you. Listen to me."

My body felt worse now than it had that winter seven years ago when a bad coughing sickness had swept the whole of the southern mountains, prostrating much of the population and carrying
off many of the aged and infirm, including a number of the senior brothers, and

my arrow wound had begun to throb again. But my mind felt quite clear. I did not want to hear this man's words: dreaded them, in fact. But the longer I could keep them talking, the closer I
could draw them, the more likely it was that I could succeed in the only plan that seemed likely to work. Summoning all my resolution, I took a phial in each hand, walked out into the open, took
a fedcvw steps along the parapet in his direction, and slipped the cloak of shadows from my shoulders. "Speak if you like, but don't come too near," I rasped in a voice that scarcely sounded like
mine even in my own ears. "We of the Order take an oath not to use magic to attack the unoffending, but force is allowed if our lives or those we are sworn to protect are threatened. What do you
want?"

"You; I want you!" He took several steps toward me, smiling as if he had just caught sight of a long-absent friend. "Why should you resist us in this way? We are your brother Magians! You are
a Magian of great skill and talent, as my friend there"—gesturing toward the bruised fellow with the angry face—"knows to his cost. Why should a man of your powers place yourself at the
service of noble fools, whose only power flows from the fact that they have persuaded even greater fools to serve them with their swords? And why should you obey those apostate Magians who
have presumed to name their infidel Order for the Three Kings, and use its hierarchy to keep younger and more talented men subject to themselves? Why serve anyone else, when you are already
master of great powers of your own, including powers that require no assistance from knights or soldiers? Are you not better than your count or your duke? Come join us, and we shall take you
to our own Maguses, who will show you how to gain still greater powers and teach you how to perfect yourself, until in the end you will not need to bow to the judgment of any other man."