The Keeper of the Mist (27 page)

Keri got to her feet, never taking her eyes from the sorcerer's face. Lucas stepped up beside her, standing at her left hand; Lord Osman moved up on her right. At first Keri was glad they were both here, so that she and Tassel were not facing this alone; and then she was sorry they were here and in danger. She wished she thought either of them or any of them or all of them together might possibly be a match for Magister Eroniel, but she was not that foolish. Once she was on her feet, she stood very still.

Magister Eroniel was smiling. He was more beautiful than ever. His gray eyes seemed filled with light, as bright as molten silver; the cold northern light seemed to cling to him and trail behind the movement of his hand. At first, Keri thought he must be pulling magic out of the air and the light, as the sorcerers of Eschalion were said to do.

Then she realized that this was her own magic, the magic of Nimmira, which she had brought here to this place and delivered right into the sorcerer's hands. She had lost her magic, she no longer served to root it to her land, so she had lost it and Magister Eroniel was taking it. She knew of no way to stop him. She had thought she was already as frightened as it was possible to be, but she learned now that there was no limit to her terror.

Eroniel Kaskarian wore white, all white: a wide-sleeved white shirt, a long silvery-white vest, a flowing white cloak trimmed with soft white fur, white slippers with silver stitching. His long silver-gilt hair was loose except for a narrow braid on the left side of his face, but the weight that swung at the end of that braid was not the black Wyvern of Eschalion, but a silver teardrop that gathered more and more light until it glowed with its own radiance. The tiny crystals in his ears glimmered with light also, but now there were more of them—five crystal-and-silver earrings along the curve of his left ear, and three in a triangle in his right—but what that meant, Keri could not guess.

She knew at once that she had made a mistake in not using the last seconds in which she still held the magic of Nimmira to…do something. Anything. She should have found either a way to escape or a way to fight Magister Eroniel. She should have tried to use her magic to find Cort, and she had not even thought of it. She had no idea how she could have done any of those things, but she knew she should at least have
tried.
Now it was too late. She had no magic left. Magister Eroniel had it all. No wonder the Wyvern sorcerer was smiling.

Keri turned her head back toward Brann, though she didn't know what she meant to say or do. But she saw that whatever had happened since Brann had tried to kidnap her, it had left its mark on her confident, superior oldest half brother. She could see that he was actually trying to occupy as little space as he could. He might have chosen to come here, he might have deliberately come to Eschalion to find Magister Eroniel, but once he was here, she thought, he had become—what? A prisoner? A victim?

Because he had not kidnapped her and handed her over to the sorcerer himself. Keri shook away the pity that had stirred in her heart and turned back to the sorcerer.

Magister Eroniel was paying no attention to Brann at all. He was looking straight at Keri, and his smile was the smile of a deadly predator who knows his prey cannot get away. She discovered she was terrified of him. She had always been terrified of him, but she had not realized it until now.

Keri took one step forward. It was as though she had to shove through thickening air just to move. She felt heavy and slow, but at the same time…thin, somehow, as though there were actually less of her than there had been. Tassel edged back, hiding from the sorcerer's gaze, and Keri didn't blame her. Lucas leaned on his staff, his player's mask of insouciance recovered as though he had never lost it. Lord Osman didn't have a staff, but he wasn't trying to pretend insouciance: he was tight-mouthed and angry. In a moment, he was going to say something violent to the sorcerer and then Magister Eroniel would kill him. Or kill them all. Or do something else terrible.

It would be her fault, because she was the one who had worked so hard to make Lord Osman help them. He had meant to do it, and now he was here with them, but not like she had intended. Everything had gone wrong, she had not even had a chance to try to make it go right, and everything was lost, and maybe there never had been anything she could do, but she might have told Lord Osman this morning to take his people and go away, and then at least they would be clear of…whatever would happen now.

Then Lucas shifted his weight, and Keri realized that, worse than Lord Osman drawing the sorcerer's attention, Lucas might at any moment say something outrageous. Then Magister Eroniel might kill
him
before Keri had even gotten used to having brothers at all.

But what he said was, “It's a bit hard to hold, isn't it? Like trying to hold on to mist.”

At once Keri realized what Lucas meant, and that he was right. Magister Eroniel was glowing, his silver pendant was glowing, all his crystal earrings were glowing, not because he had taken the magic of Nimmira for his own, but because he was
trying
to take it. It was not easy for him to hold; it was struggling to radiate away, into the air. It was struggling to go back where it belonged—to her or, more likely, to Nimmira. But he was holding it, somehow. Most of it, at least. Too much of it.

Magister Eroniel turned, his expression cold, toward Lucas. To distract him, Keri said, not to the sorcerer but to Brann, “What did he promise you? That he would make you Lord? That he would put all the magic of Nimmira in
you
? And you believed him, and tried to deliver me to him, and when that didn't work, you showed him the player's gate so he could cross directly from this place to Glassforge, is that right? Really, Brann, how
could
you do it? Couldn't you see he always meant to take everything for Eschalion? Look what he did to Yllien!”

Brann, his face set, gave a tiny jerk of his head sideways, as though he wanted to shake his head but was afraid to move; as though he wanted to deny this but was afraid to say so. Not that he could deny it anyway. It was all too obviously true.

It didn't make a practical difference one way or the other, but it
was
all his fault, far more than hers, and she wasn't going to forgive him just because he had found out much too late that he had made a very bad mistake. And she wanted the sorcerer focused on him and not on Lucas. Brann deserved whatever the sorcerer would do to him, but Lucas didn't.

“But your brother can indeed be Lord of your little land,” murmured Magister Eroniel. “Now that I have taken its magic, I care not what man claims what title. I will take everything that interests me, all that I desire, and I shall not let it go.” He stroked the silver pendant with a pleased air, regarding Keri with exactly the cool satisfaction of a man who has bargained to buy a horse or heifer and has come away with the better part of the deal. He went on, “Any man—or any girl—may claim whatever trivial title is desired in these little lands that pretend they may do as they please. And it matters not. Only titles granted from the amber throne of Eschalion are worthy of regard.”

Keri lifted her chin. “Really? What title do
you
expect to be granted for claiming Nimmira for your King?”

“Ah.” With the tip of a finger, Eroniel Kaskarian traced the line of five glittering earrings in his left ear. “I misspoke. The titles one claims for oneself are superior to all others. And why should I not claim what title pleases me? My mother was Liranarre Kaskarian, eldest daughter of Asteriarre Kaskarian, who was the eldest daughter of Liraniel Kaskarian. Kaskarian is the superior line. Mirtaelior has long withered as Aranaon Mirtaelior has turned inward toward his own dreams. Kaskarian will do far better for Eschalion….”

Oh, this is wonderful,
thought Keri. So Magister Eroniel wanted to throw down his own King and seize the throne of Eschalion: she didn't know why she was surprised. She was surprised that he thought he could use the magic of Nimmira to do it…but not that surprised. After all, Nimmira had slipped Aranaon Mirtaelior's notice for hundreds of years. The magic that could do that was nothing to despise.

Probably the Wyvern King would notice them now, though. He must have noticed Nimmira already—unless he hadn't. Keri didn't understand all that about him turning inward toward his dreams. But he would certainly notice when Magister Eroniel moved to depose him. Probably the sorcerers of Eschalion would wind up battling over Nimmira until it was ground to barren dust. What would it matter to any of them, as long as they could take its magic for their own?

No wonder Brann and the Wyvern sorcerer had worked together. They were much alike in at least this way: they both believed they had a right to whatever power they could seize and hold.

Aloud, she interrupted coldly, “Well, I closed the gap. Even without Cort, at least I managed that. So you can't reach through it again, either.” She had done that much, if nothing else. She had been stupid enough to let herself fall through the gap, surely the only Lady of Nimmira who had ever left her land by
accident.
Someone like Domeric would certainly have had the strength and sheer physical competence to close the player's crack without falling through it, but at least she had gotten it closed. She was grimly glad of it. She declared, “You won't be able to hold our magic. It's not meant for you. It will leak away from you soon enough.” She wished she believed this, but she tried to sound confident anyway. “If you keep me prisoner here, then the magic will just go to Domeric, I expect. He's still right there in Nimmira. Whatever you do, he'll protect Nimmira and our people. He'll never yield a yard of land or a tithe of grain or so much as a single calf or child, not to you or to your King. If anything happens to me, you still won't have gained anything, because he'll become Lord, and then the magic of Nimmira will go to him even faster.”

She found that, despite everything and all her disagreements with her brother, she really did trust Domeric to resist Eroniel and the Wyvern King with all his strength. She honestly did trust that he would never give up. She didn't know how he could possibly prepare for war with Eschalion, but she was glad he was in Nimmira, glad he was there to pick up the magic if it did come to him. Though she wished she could be
sure
the succession would indeed pass to him. It was so easy to imagine worse things happening, even if the sorcerer couldn't hold the magic of Nimmira. Like the magic simply dispersing into the woodlands and farms and air of Eschalion, gone from her own land forever. Maybe she had lost it for good when she'd fallen through the gap into Eschalion. Maybe she'd lost everything right then, spilled all the magic of Nimmira out into the air, irrecoverable.

Even if the magic did go to Domeric and her brother gained that encompassing awareness of Nimmira, Keri had no idea what he could do about Eroniel Kaskarian. If she had known what to do about the Wyvern sorcerer, she would have done it herself, and then none of them would be standing here shivering in the cold air. But maybe Domeric would be cleverer than she had been. Or, more likely, Linnet. Linnet might be clever enough to think of something useful.

But Keri thought the Wyvern sorcerer actually did seem faintly disconcerted by her defiance. Even so, he only said softly, “Yet the magic I took from your Doorkeeper, I still hold. Soon I will open any door I please into and within your little country. Now I hold yours. It is…unusual. Unruly. But I shall come to understand it, and then I will do as I please. But your remaining brother may claim what title and what little magic is left to him, if he wishes. It matters not.”

“Where
is
Cort?” Keri demanded. “What have you done with him? Is he—” But she was afraid to ask,
Is he still alive?
She was afraid of what answer Magister Eroniel might give to that question.

The sorcerer lifted one eyebrow. “The sons of farmers and peasants do not interest me.”