CHAPTER
TEN

CARENSA, I’M SO HAPPY YOU’VE COME DOWN TO the Workshop.” Vigus Quintrel’s smile was broad and, as far as Carensa could tell, genuine. “Come in, come in. Let me show you around.”

It had been quite a while since Carensa had been down to the building Quintrel claimed as his own private Workshop. Just a handful of mages were permitted inside, and invitations to guests were few.

Quintrel had chosen a building left behind by the builders of the city long ago, the Valshoans, who had died out in centuries past. The secretive Valshoan mages had sealed their doom with their insularity, refusing to leave their mountain refuge and forbidding outsiders from visiting. By the time the Knights of Esthrane had sought sanctuary, there were only a few Valshoans left, and they had permitted the Knights to stay, just as many years later, the Knights had permitted Quintrel and his band of rogue mages to hide within Valshoa’s boundaries from the Cataclysm Quintrel had predicted.

The Cataclysm had not entirely skipped over Valshoa, but the valley’s protections were strong enough to keep the city from being completely destroyed. Many of the ancient buildings were still standing, though time and the battering of magic storms had taken a toll. Some of the grand structures were only ruins. Without the Knights in residence, Quintrel’s small group of mages were just a few dozen in a city built to hold thousands. The empty streets and lingering silence made Carensa feel as if Valshoa existed outside of time and space, cut off from everything else. The emptiness was eerie, as if they were the last survivors in the world, a possibility Quintrel had thought possible.

“I’m flattered to be invited,” Carensa said. That was true, in part. She had always wondered just what mysteries Quintrel and his senior mages explored in his Workshop. Lately, as Quintrel had become more withdrawn and snappish, and as rumors of dark endeavors had begun to circulate, Carensa had been glad her magic had not been deemed useful for Quintrel’s experiments. Now she was both curious and wary, even though Quintrel at the moment was his eccentrically charming self.

“I’ll give you the tour, and show you some of the things we’re working on. Then I’m hoping your talent with translation can help me solve a puzzle,” Quintrel said.

It would be so easy to take Quintrel at face value, Carensa knew. For a time, she had looked at him with awe and a touch of hero-worship. He had taken an interest in her as a pupil, given her hope and purpose to lift her out of the bleakness after Blaine’s exile, rescued her from the rubble after the Great Fire. She had believed him to be a great man and a mage of extraordinary power, as well as a visionary leader. Disillusionment came hard.

“I’ll certainly give it a try,” Carensa said, wary of making any promises. Quintrel of late was not the scholar she once knew. Time, ambition, and the bound divi had changed him. She hoped her venture into his private Workshop would give her some idea of just how drastic that change had been.

Half a dozen mages worked at long tables or hunched over manuscripts at carrels. Some of the mages she knew well, others she barely recognized. But she frowned as she searched the room. Initially, Quintrel’s ‘special projects’ team had numbered close to a dozen.

“Where are the others?” Carensa asked, hoping she sounded innocently curious. “Do you have other Workshops?”

Quintrel did not turn. “No other Workshops. You know how the magic’s been since it came back. Not entirely reliable. A few of our projects didn’t go as planned.”

Carensa had suspected that would be the answer. She already knew several mages had died helping Quintrel discover the secrets of the presence-crystals Dolan had taken. But Quintrel’s casual acceptance of death made her shiver. Would the old Vigus have been so nonchalant? she wondered. I didn’t think so back then. Now, I wonder.

“Take a look at this,” Quintrel said with fatherly pride. He pointed to a map in a damaged, gold-leaf frame. “What do you see?”

Carensa peered at the map. It was a little bigger than a foot square, and as she squinted to see detail, she recognized it as a map of the Valshoan mountain pass. “It’s a map of where we are,” she said, straightening.

Quintrel chuckled. “Exactly. And no matter where you are, it will be a map of that area. Not only that,” he said triumphantly, “but it will show you anyone within three leagues of your position. Possess this map, and you’ll never be lost, never be ambushed.”

Carensa nodded, genuinely impressed. “Nice. Was this something your team found, or made?”

Quintrel glowed with pride. “It’s a found object, one of the things we’ve retrieved going into the abandoned Valshoa buildings.” He shook his head. “The Knights left most of the city alone, other than to make sure it was secured from outsiders.” He swept an arm to indicate the valley, with its hundreds of structures. “Who knows what marvels are out there?”

He turned and gave Carensa a conspiratorial wink. “That’s why some of the mages will stay behind when the rest of us return to the outside. I don’t think Valshoa has given up all its wonders yet.”

In spite of herself, Carensa began to relax. Quintrel seemed much like his old self. They came to a large, open area, where several of the mages had gathered. A warding circle was drawn on the floor, and Osten, a thin, angular man dressed in mage robes, stood inside the circle holding a metallic egg-shaped artifact.

“This should be good,” Quintrel said, grinning. “Osten’s about to test the artifact. If this works, it could be quite useful—especially for a mage-assassin.”

Carensa frowned. “What does it do?”

Quintrel’s grin broadened. “It allows the holder to move from one place to another without crossing the area in between. Osten’s going to test it on a very limited scale, getting it to move him from one side of the circle to the other.”

“Is that safe?” Carensa asked. “The magic’s still brittle.”

Quintrel gave a dismissive gesture. “We have to adapt to how magic is now, at least until we’re able to re-anchor the power. It means a new kind of approach for a new type of power.”

Carensa decided against arguing. Quintrel’s exceptional mood was giving her access, and she planned to report what she discovered to Jarle and Guran. And to be honest, the potential for a magical object such as the one Quintrel described intrigued her.

“Could it take you anywhere?” she asked.

Quintrel shrugged. “We’re not entirely sure yet. The old scrolls we found seem to indicate that you have to be either within your line of sight or at least plan to end up someplace you’ve been before. This is our first test.”

Carensa gave Osten credit for bravery, given how unpredictably magic and artifacts had performed lately. The experiment could go wrong in an untold number of ways. From inside the warded circle, Osten shot the onlookers a wide grin, and Quintrel nodded for the attempt to begin.

Osten held up the metallic egg and began to chant, invoking words of power. The silvery metal began to glow, and he held it to his chest, clasped between his hands. The light grew brighter, escaping from between his fingers, and in a blinding flare, Osten disappeared.

The onlookers gasped, then cheered as Osten reappeared an instant later on the far side of the warded circle. The cheers turned to chuckles, and Carensa repressed a giggle. Osten had reappeared, but his robes had not.

Osten blushed scarlet, dropped one hand to cover his groin, and rolled his eyes good-naturedly as Quintrel released the warding. Amid the ribbing and jokes, one of the mages tossed Osten a cloak. He covered himself and then handed off the artifact, making a quick exit.

Carensa wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. By Torven’s horns! I haven’t laughed in such a very long time, she thought.

A mage handed the metallic egg back to Quintrel, who held it up, marveling at the object. “Not a bad first test,” he said proudly. “We don’t know its range yet, and obviously, the clothing piece is a problem.”

“It would pose a few difficulties to appear naked behind enemy lines,” Carensa agreed, still chuckling.

“Well, there might be something to be said for the element of surprise,” Quintrel agreed.

Carensa found herself laughing easily, falling into old patterns. The blink of yellow light at the collar of Quintrel’s shirt brought her back. The small orb Quintrel wore beneath his tunic kept him linked to the bound divi, reminding her that despite appearances, Quintrel was not himself.

She looked around, hoping and dreading to catch a glimpse of the divi orb. Carensa did not spot it in the Workshop, but that did not surprise her. Quintrel was unlikely to entrust an artifact with a hold over his soul to a place of common access, even among the privileged few who could enter the Workshop.

“This is the piece I’d like you to take a look at, Carensa,” Quintrel said, calling her attention back to the present.

Quintrel took down a scroll from one of the shelves near the back of the room and held it out to her. Carensa took it gingerly. The parchment was yellowed and very old, and she feared it might disintegrate at her touch.

“I’ve had the others take a look at it,” Quintrel said, “but they can’t read it. We think it’s an old form of Valshoan.”

Carensa carefully spread out the scroll on one of the empty worktables. “Can’t your divi read it?” she asked.

Quintrel’s hand went to the glass orb on the strap around his neck. “Divis are powerful, but not all-knowing.”

Carensa fell silent, staring at the unfamiliar words in an alphabet and script she had never seen before. She placed her hands on the manuscript, and brought the magic of her gift to the forefront. Her fingertips tingled on the old parchment, as if she could feel the ink itself, and gradually, to her sight, the script began to rearrange itself as she stared at the document, translating itself into the language she had willed her magic to use.

An essay on the techniques of transmogrification, the document began. Carensa blinked, reading slowly so as to fully understand what she saw.

Sweet Esthrane, Carensa thought. It’s a working to turn men into unnatural creatures, like the magicked monsters that came through the wild-magic storms.

She swallowed hard. There was no doubt in her mind who the target of such monsters would be, not after the last rant Vigus had gone on about Blaine McFadden.

“Any luck?” Quintrel asked, looking over her shoulder.

Carensa glanced down at the manuscript, afraid that somehow her gift might have translated it for Quintrel to see, but without her magic applied to the text, the words were as alien as before. “It’s very old,” she said. “And I’m so new with my magic. Are you sure there’s no one else who can translate it?”

Is it a test? Carensa wondered. Vigus doesn’t trust anyone these days. Maybe he’s testing my loyalty. Maybe he already knows what it says—or at least suspects—but he wants to see what I’ll do.

Quintrel shook his head. “You know you’re the only one with translation magic,” he replied. “We have some mages who have learned to read old languages by rote, or who speak other tongues, but no one who can translate a dead language without a cipher.”

Then there is no way in Raka I’ll give you the translation, Carensa decided. “I’m sorry, Vigus. I’ve tried. It just isn’t working. I guess my magic isn’t as strong as we hoped.”

For a split second, Quintrel looked like he might burst into a rage. The divi orb flared, and the light in Quintrel’s eyes was not altogether sane. He stiffened, and grew red in the face, and she feared he might lash out at her, either with magic or with his hands, which had balled into fists at his side. After a moment, he took a deep breath and allowed himself to relax.

“That’s all right, Carensa,” he said. “It is an exceptionally old piece. All magic has its limits.” He sighed, and seemed to shutter away his rage. He turned to her with a smile, only now she could see how forced and false it was.

“Would you like to see our real breakthrough?” he asked. Something about his voice made Carensa wary.

“What is it?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light. Any illusion that Vigus Quintrel was still the same man she had known before the Cataclysm was gone. She did not know this stranger, but what she had seen of him frightened her to her soul.

Quintrel led her down a hallway and into a windowless room lit by torchlight. A man Carensa had never seen before sat tied to a chair in the center of the room. On the other side of the room sat the large divi orb with its withered hand, as if it were the prisoner’s jailer. The orb glowed a sickly yellow, and Carensa wondered if it were indeed watching over the bound man.

“Who is he?” she asked, alarmed. She looked closer, but nothing about the man was familiar. He was dressed in a tunic and trews that might have been military issue but had seen a lot of wear. Nothing about him, from the cut of his clothing to the style of his shoes to the way he wore his hair, suggested that he was a mage, let alone one of Quintrel’s rogues.

“We found him exploring the cliffside near the mountain pass,” Quintrel said with a dismissive gesture. “I’ve had him truth-read. He admits he was looking for a way in. He’s not allied with any of the warlords—that had been my first concern.”

Quintrel regarded the prisoner with disdain. “He’s just a common thief. But we can’t let him leave.”

Carensa turned to look at Quintrel. “We have mages who can alter memories,” she said quietly. “Surely he could be made to forget, and left outside far from where you found him.”

Quintrel looked at her as if her remark disappointed him. “There are few of us, and many thieves. It needs to be known that people who come sniffing around for secrets don’t come back.” He looked toward the prisoner. “But he is the perfect way to test the power of the divi orb before we meet with Rostivan.”

The thief tried to rock the chair and loosen his bonds, but Carensa knew the knots were tied expertly and spelled tight. She bet he was in his early twenties, and from the look of him, he had not had a decent meal in days. His clothing was dirty and torn, and he looked terrified and defiant.

“Vigus, you’re powerful enough to be merciful,” Carensa urged.

“Mercy won’t achieve our purpose,” Quintrel replied. He walked over to the prisoner and slowly circled him. From the look on Quintrel’s face, he was enjoying the young man’s terror. Suddenly, Quintrel reached out and snatched several hairs from the man’s head, then walked toward the large divi orb.

As Carensa watched, the solid sphere around the withered hand shrank back like melting ice, and the fingers reached up to accept a few strands of the prisoner’s hair. Quintrel murmured a word under his breath, and the sphere became solid once more. Next to the large orb lay a smaller sphere on a strap, similar to the one Quintrel wore.

“The divi’s power links from the hair I’ve given to the orb, putting the wearer under my control,” Quintrel said. Unlike his own small orb, which glowed yellow, the orb in his hand pulsed a faint red. Quintrel crossed to the prisoner and tied the strap around the man’s neck, then loosed the captive’s hands with a slash of a knife through his bonds. The thief’s ankles were still tied securely to the chair. He had no hope of escape, but Carensa suspected his lot was about to go from bad to worse.

Quintrel stepped back to stand next to her. A few of the other mages had gathered behind them.

“What is that thing?” the thief shouted, pointing at the large divi orb, which was glowing a more vivid yellow. “And what have you put on me?” He grabbed the small orb with one hand and tried to yank it off, but no matter how hard he pulled, he could not break the strap, nor would the sphere allow him to lift it off over his head.

“Get this thing off me!” he yelled, tearing at it until the leather strap cut into his neck and left bloody marks. Blood pleased the divi, and the yellow glow grew brighter.

“He can’t remove it,” Quintrel remarked. “Not without my permission.” Quintrel smiled. “And now I control his every move. As I will control Rostivan. Observe.”

Quintrel murmured something under his breath. With one hand, he clasped the small orb that hung at his throat, and with his other hand, he formed a fist and brought it up sharply again and again.

With a nauseating crack of bone and a wet smack of fresh blood, the prisoner’s fist slammed into his own nose. The man howled in pain, but the fist rose again and again, flattening his nose, blackening both eyes, slamming hard enough into his own mouth to leave deep cuts from his teeth on his knuckles and loosening several teeth in the process.

“Vigus, please,” Carensa said, plucking at Quintrel’s sleeve.

“He is completely under my control,” Quintrel said, and the light that animated his eyes was cold and cruel. The prisoner continued to pummel himself, first with one fist and then the other, until his screams grew hoarse and died to a whimper. Blood flowed down his face in streams from his ruined nose, his swollen eyes, his split and torn lips.

“Under the call of the divi orb, he believes himself to be in control,” Quintrel said, narrating as if it were just another demonstration of routine magic. “So he can’t understand why his body has suddenly turned on him. He has no idea he’s being controlled.”

A shiver went down Carensa’s spine. Is your divi orb so different? she wondered. Quintrel seemed blind to the possibility that, like the prisoner, he too might be controlled by an outside force. Carensa stole a glance at the large orb. It glowed brightly, a deep, vivid yellow, as if the blood brought it alive.

“There’s nothing he won’t do,” Quintrel said. “He is powerless to resist.” Quintrel walked over to one of the worktables and picked up a slender boline knife. He took one of the prisoner’s hands, and closed the man’s torn fingers around the bone handle so that the man held the blade toward his own chest.

“Vigus, you don’t have to do this,” Carensa said, willing herself not to throw up.

“I want you all to believe in me, believe in what we can do with an army at our command,” Quintrel said, sweeping the small crowd with his gaze. He paused to wipe the blood from his hands on the prisoner’s discarded cloak.

Quintrel walked back to where the others stood. “Watch,” he said.

With that, Quintrel clenched the small orb with his right hand while his left hand made a fist and brought it sharply toward his chest.

Carensa watched in horror as the prisoner drove the thin, sharp blade deep into his own chest, staring at the knife as if some corner of his brain still fought for autonomy. Blood washed down the man’s chest, and a cold smile came to Quintrel’s lips.

“He’s mine, until the last breath,” Quintrel said, forcing the hapless thief to stab the blade again and again, hilt-deep, into his own flesh time after time.

“Sweet Charrot and Esthrane, enough!” Tenneril blurted. He was one of the mages Carensa had recognized in the outer workroom, a bookish man whose specialty was charms and talismans. Tenneril looked as if he might faint. He had gone deathly pale, and his eyes were wide and shocky. “Please, Vigus. Enough,” he begged.

Quintrel turned a cold glare on Tenneril, and the man shrank back. “You disapprove?”

Carensa had no desire to see a repeat of Quintrel’s attack on Jarle. She did not think Tenneril’s heart would take it. Recklessly, Carensa took hold of Quintrel’s bloody sleeve.

“Vigus! I think my magic broke the code,” she said, doing her best to look as excited as she could manage, when all she wanted to do was crawl into a corner and retch. “The manuscript! I think I can translate it for you.”

Quintrel hesitated, torn between his greed to know what the manuscript revealed and his desire to punish Tenneril for his outspokenness. In the end, greed won out.

“Show me,” he said in a hoarse voice, and Carensa could see the strain in Quintrel’s face as he tried to rein in his rage.

“Vigus—what do you want us to do with the body?” one of the mages asked hesitantly.

Quintrel did not turn back. “Dump it where the crows will feast on it,” he replied.

Carensa led the way out of the room, eager to leave behind the slumped form of the bloodied young thief. She heard Tenneril’s murmured thanks, and glimpsed others crowding closer against the frail, older mage, no doubt fearing that the confrontation would not be good for his heart.

She had seconds to come up with a convincing lie. I can’t give him the real translation, she thought wildly. He’ll use it to go after Blaine, and anyone else he wants to eliminate. No man deserves that kind of power, especially not the ‘thing’ that Vigus has become.

Carensa knew she would have to be careful. Vigus is clever. He’ll smell an outright lie. I’m sure he knows what the manuscript ought to contain, so I can’t tell him it’s something else. I’ll have to alter it, just enough, so that it doesn’t work.

She set her jaw, knowing there was a price to pay. I could get someone else killed, if the magic goes wrong, or if Vigus goes into a rage because it doesn’t work. By the gods! I never asked to be in this position!

Quintrel reached down the scroll once more, and again Carensa laid it out on the table. Slowly, making it seem as if the translation was coming with difficulty, Carensa worked out each word as Quintrel hung over her shoulder, giving her his full attention.

“Master Quintrel—” one of the Workshop mages called.

“Not now!” Quintrel snapped.

“But Master Quintrel—”

Quintrel rounded on the man with a snarl. “I said ‘not now’!”

Breathing hard from the exertion of restraining his temper, Quintrel turned back to Carensa. “Go on,” he urged, and the hunger in his eyes looked less than human. He had beckoned for one of the other mages to come over and write down everything Carensa said. The rest of the mages left their work and came to stand around them, except for Tenneril, who had not rejoined them.

Silently offering up a prayer to Esthrane to guide her, Carensa continued her halting ‘interpretation.’ At each instruction, she paused as if working out the wording, then read aloud the opposite of what the manuscript set forth. Worried that strictly giving the opposite of the instructions might somehow still make it work, Carensa did her best to hopelessly muddle the directions while still maintaining a ring of authenticity.

When she finished, she glanced at Quintrel, as if seeking his approval. In reality, she wanted to know whether or not he had seen through her deception. His eager expression gave her to know that he believed he had the tool he wanted.

“Excellent,” Quintrel said. “Well done, Carensa. We’ll work with this; see what we can make of it.” He beamed at her. “You’ve handed us a powerful weapon. Be proud of your gift.”

Carensa managed a smile. “I hope the Old Ones got it right,” she said. “I wish we knew more about the manuscript’s author. It would be nice to know whether it really worked as planned.”

“We’ll figure it out, I have no doubt of it,” Quintrel said, nearly ecstatic with triumph. “And if this works, we have more manuscripts for you to work with.” He went to a shelf in the corner of the room full of scrolls and an odd assortment of objects and pulled out a silver bracelet in the shape of a serpent and a bone carved with runes, along with several parchment scrolls.

“You can start with these,” Quintrel said, handing the items to Carensa. “We’ve vetted the objects—they’re safe. But we’re not sure about the full range of their uses because no one can read the manuscripts where they’ve been mentioned.” He bestowed his most charming smile. “So we’re depending on you, my dear.”

“Master Quintrel!”

They looked up to see Havilend, a rotund, older man, standing just inside the doorway to the next room. He had been the mage calling for Quintrel’s attention before, and he looked terribly upset.

“What is it, Havilend?” Quintrel snapped.

“It’s Osten. You need to come quick.”

Grudgingly, Quintrel went where Havilend beckoned, and the other mages followed. Carensa looked down at the silver bracelet in the shape of a serpent and a bone carved with runes. The day is coming when I’ll need to make a stand, Carensa thought. I can’t fight Vigus with my translation magic! But if I had a weapon or two, I might be able to stop him with the right opportunity. It’s time to start gathering what Guran and I will need when it comes time to make our stand.

She wrapped the items Quintrel had given her in her shawl, then hurried to catch up with the others. Carensa tried to peer over the mages who had crowded around the room where they had taken Osten. Worry gnawed at her. Osten had been the mage who demonstrated the translocation spell. From Havilend’s expression, something had gone wrong.

“By the gods!”

“Charrot protect us!”

“Torven keep us!”

The mages murmured protections and prayers as they crowded into the small storage room off the main workroom. Osten—or what remained of him—heaved in a gelatinous blob on the stone floor. His features were flattened and distorted, as if his skin remained whole, but there were no longer bones supporting his body.

Osten was alive, trapped in his trembling flesh, unable to do more than moan, without bones to work his jaw. His eyes darted back and forth in panic, pleading.

“I don’t think the translocation artifact worked as well as we thought it did,” one of the mages behind Carensa observed.

“We can’t just let him suffer like that!” Carensa argued.

But before she could protest, Osten’s shapeless body began to shudder violently, then started to come apart. Not in an explosion, but as if the invisible bonds that held his form together decided little by little to let go, scattering him in small, quivering bits, until he gave a final moan of agony and disassembled completely into a thick slurry on the stone floor.

Vigus never vetted the object before he gave it to Osten, Carensa thought with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The artifact Osten used was corrupted. It wouldn’t have worked for anyone. So I’d best be careful with the pieces he thought were safe to give me. But by Esthrane, I’ll find artifacts to help me bring Vigus down when the time is right. For Osten’s sake—and all the others.

Quintrel gave a frustrated snort, and turned on his heel. “Somebody get a mop and clean up the mess,” he said, striding past the astonished onlookers and out of the workroom.