Tyron laid his hand against the heavy iron-reinforced door high in Andreus’s tower and shut his eyes. He felt the ward-spell waiting: not one but two spells.
His heart beating fast, he whispered his ward-change spell.
“ ... Nafat,” he finished. Andreus’s first ward disintegrated.
Tyron scanned and listened. No sign of roaming sentries on the long stair below. He turned back to the door, his eyes half shut. He could “see” the nature of the second ward — enough like the first to fool someone careless. It was also more lethal.
Swiftly Tyron broke that, too, then lifted the door latch and went in. Noiselessly he closed the door behind him.
Relief! He had picked the right tower — he recognized this room from the time he and Connor were prisoners of Andreus. These were the Sorcerer-King’s personal chambers. There would be more traps awaiting him, most likely, but at least he was probably safe from roaming guards. Tyron knew that Andreus would not like his minions making free with his private rooms in his absence.
Tyron stood on a plush rug of deep blue and scanned the room more carefully. The carved furniture, the hanging tapestries were the same. On a pedestal between two windows stood the great scry-stone, colors winking in mesmerizing patterns deep inside. The stone made Tyron’s skin crawl. A lot of evil magic had been bound to the stone to make its reach more powerful. Tyron turned his shoulder, fighting off the temptation to look into it.
Instead, he pulled from his pocket a tiny rock, which he flipped ahead. It bounced across the rug and stopped against the far door.
No illusions, then. Hands outstretched to feel the warning buzz of magic, he stepped once, twice, then reached the worn stone beyond the rug.
He felt strong magic guarding the far door before he even neared it. This time it took four ward-breakers before the door was safe. The effort he expended left him feeling drained and sick. Thirst made him dizzy. All the streams around Edrann had been tainted, and he had not been able to get near the municipal wells, which were guarded at all times.
He flexed his hands, then opened the inner door. His bones still ached from the deadly chill high above the clouds. But he was grateful to Orin and her gryph friend. Perhaps he could finish this dreadful task after all.
Then do it.
He drew in a deep breath, smelled a trace of some unpleasant incense, and sneezed as he stepped into the second room. The air was still and dusty. Since he was in the highest tower, he felt it was safe to unlatch a window, just enough to let in some fresh air. Then he looked around.
The round room held three free-standing bookcases packed with books ranging from ancient-looking and crumbling to newly bound. Behind one of the bookcases was a small Destination. On a worktable sat a worn map with cryptic markings on it in a slanted hand, in a language he did not recognize. Next to the map lay vials and jars of oddments used in magic. Against the far wall was a narrow bed, and next to it a wardrobe of fabulous wood carved by an artist.
Next to that, a huge silver ewer with a silver cup beside it. The ewer was filled with water.
Tyron was only half-aware of his feet moving — suddenly he was standing over the ewer, his tongue moving dryly in his mouth.
Andreus brings in fresh water by magic, he thought, angered. Outside the city, Andreus’s people made do with the bitter runoff from the barren mountains, but their King probably transferred to high peaks in free countries and helped himself to the springs there.
Tyron felt for wards... Nothing. The water was safe.
Ignoring the silver cup, he unslung his pack and pulled out his own cup. He dipped it into the water, hesitated, then drank. The water was shockingly cold and tasted slightly flat, as if it had been standing there a time. But it was good.
Feeling immeasurably better, he turned his attention to the books.
A ward-spell protected the bookcase. He removed it.
Then, one by one, he took the books down and leafed through them. Mostly histories, some in languages he did not know. He worked until the last of the daylight faded. Then he created the tiniest witch-light, barely enough to see by, lest the light glow in the windows and alert the sentries on the walls below.
Where were the magic books?
Tired, hungry, Tyron grew impatient. Book after book — until he pulled down one slim one, bound in some kind of pale reptile skin. Looking at the first few pages, he saw with sick horror that the words were written in a clotty darkish brown ink: blood.
Too late, he felt the magic of a ward, and a stone-spell closed around him.