Timothy was aware of the birds before anything else. His mind was cloaked in darkness, his awareness simply shut down. It was only the singing of the birds that he noticed, somewhere beyond him. One bird in particular had a bleating, insistent call that he found aggravating. It made him frown, though the other birdsong soothed him.
A cool breeze washed over him and he heard it rustling the branches above him.
It was sort of nice.
His eyes opened to slits. He saw the trees above and the deepening blue sky beyond. The sunlight was rich and golden, and long afternoon shadows surrounded him.
Trees. Broken branches. And the sky.
Only then did he remember what had happened. An image of Leander, eyes lit with madness and cruelty, swam into his mind and Timothy felt grief and fear welling in his chest. What had happened? What had become of Leander?
Then he moved, just a small shifting of his weight, and pain shot up from his right side so sharply that it pricked tears from his eyes. Timothy groaned, taking in a deep, shuddering breath that burned in his chest. He lay still, one hand pressed against his side where the pain throbbed in his ribs. After a few moments, though, it subsided to a dull ache and he felt that he could breathe more easily. Even so it took another minute before he could muster the courage to try to move again.
Careful to use his left arm to prop himself up, trying not to strain his right side, he got onto his knees and rose to his feet. Fresh pain spiked into his side and he gritted his teeth, but it passed more quickly this time. Afraid his ribs might be broken and worried what damage a broken rib might do to his insides, he raised his shirt and carefully pressed his fingers over each rib bone. There was a massive, purple-black bruise larger than his hand with all fingers splayed. He winced despite how softly he prodded those bones, but after checking his chest, Timothy believed that though he might have cracked a rib or two, none of them were broken. There was no danger of him puncturing a lung or damaging other organs.
Growing up on the Island of Patience, climbing trees and hills and scrambling over rocks, he had once broken his left arm and twice had cracked ribs. Fingers and toes were simple enough if broken; a basic splint and the bones would heal fine. He had sprained muscles and worse. Ivar had taught him a great deal about injuries and how to treat them. There were poultices, for instance, made from simple plants and berries, that would diminish swelling and cause bruises to disappear more quickly. But the bones would have to knit on their own.
“All right,” he whispered. “I’m all right.”
Timothy drew in a long breath. The pain in his side was sharp, but bearable. He could breathe. Though it would hurt, he could also travel. And that was vital, for he had to make his way out of these woods and somehow return to Arcanum.
He glanced up again and it was as though he saw it all playing out before his eyes once more. The sky carriage, dipping lower toward the forest—thank the gods that Caiaphas had chosen that moment to descend or he would have died—then Leander shoving him out of the window to tumble end over end, striking the branches as he fell.
Timothy frowned. Caiaphas. The last thing he had seen was Leander climbing on top of the sky carriage to grapple with the navigation mage. He wondered what had happened next.
With a deep, painful breath, he surveyed the woods around him. The sun had moved through the sky, and the shadows continued to deepen. It was a simple thing to gauge direction this late in the day from the position of the sun. The sky carriage had been heading north. If Leander had done the same thing to Caiaphas as he had to Timothy, the navigation mage ought to have fallen a short distance farther north.
His heart filled with the fear of what he might find, Timothy started north, moving in among the trees. He walked as swiftly as he could without adding to his pain. The bruises would fade, the cracks would heal. At the moment, even the madness that had befallen Leander was not his first priority. No, foremost in his mind was Caiaphas.
The forest thinned and he found the going much easier. A handful of minutes after he had begun walking, however, Timothy paused. He shook his head sadly as he stared at what lay ahead . . . a clearing in the trees.
In the clearing was a sprawled figure cloaked in deep blue robes. In that great forest, Caiaphas had had the ill luck to plummet from the sky into a clearing devoid of any branches that might have broken his fall. He lay unmoving.
“Caiaphas,” Timothy said, staring into the clearing. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt a terrible grief welling up inside of him. “Caiaphas!”
One hand clamped upon his bruised side, he hurried over. Strands of long grass stuck to Caiaphas’s robes. Though he knew he would see only birds, Timothy could not help glancing up into the afternoon sky as though the sky carriage might still be there, as though he could imagine the fall of the navigation mage who had been his friend and Leander’s loyal servant. He bit his lip as he stopped beside the fallen mage. Timothy knelt gently beside the body, wincing at the pain in his side.
Caiaphas lay on his chest, legs outstretched, left arm tucked at his side. The mage’s right arm had been trapped beneath him in the fall. His head was turned to one side and his veil had been pulled away to reveal rugged, dark features. He was very still.
But not completely.
Timothy’s heart leaped as he saw that the mage was breathing. Caiaphas uttered a soft groan of discomfort.
“Hello?” the boy ventured. He reached out to touch the navigation mage’s shoulder. “Caiaphas?”
With a grunt, the mage opened his blue eyes, which glowed with the deep blue of his robes. The man’s features contorted in pain, but there was a kind of tenderness in his eyes as he gazed at Timothy.
“Well, well, my young friend,” Caiaphas rasped. He uttered a single, short, pained laugh. Then he used his left arm to prop himself up, cringing in pain as his right hung there, useless.
Timothy flinched as he saw that arm, so obviously broken. Caiaphas used his good arm to cradle the broken one against his belly, letting it rest on his lap as he sat cross-legged in front of Timothy, in no hurry to even attempt to stand up.
“I know how I survived that fall,” Caiaphas said, grimacing in pain before studying the boy more closely. “But how did you? With no magic, how did you survive?”
“I . . . well, you were flying low, just above the trees, and I hit the branches and they sort of broke my fall. And maybe my ribs. But I don’t understand. You . . . how did you . . .”
Caiaphas gestured to his useless arm with a resigned expression. “My studies were always magical navigation. That includes levitation, certainly. Unfortunately, levitating an object or even flying a sky carriage is not at all the same as levitating yourself. Particularly when one is falling from a great height. I was able to slow my fall. A mage with more general skill rather than a special vocation such as mine might have been able to suspend it entirely, to bend gravity to his desires. I did my best.”
“You broke your arm.”
With his good hand, Caiaphas slipped his veil back up over his mouth and nose, leaving again only his icy blue eyes peering over the top. “I had my fingers extended, casting and recasting the spell to prevent me from striking at full speed. It would have killed me, likely as not. I managed it, but I still had my hand out, trying to cast that spell, when the ground at last rushed up at me.”
He twitched with obvious pain as he gestured to the broken arm. “Now this. But better my arm than the rest of my bones.”
Timothy smiled and let out a long breath as he relaxed. He sat down in the long grass, though his cracked ribs made any position uncomfortable.
“That’s wonderful. Well, not that you’ve broken your arm, but . . .” He laughed.
“That we’re alive!” Caiaphas said.
The boy nodded and the two of them just reveled for a moment in their good fortune. Then, almost as though some signal bell had sounded, their smiles disappeared. They gazed at each other for several long moments. Timothy swallowed, and his sadness and worry returned.
“What happened to him?” the boy asked.
Caiaphas shook his head. “I don’t know. But that was not Leander Maddox as I have known him.”
“You think . . . you think he’s being controlled? Some dark sorcerer has got him spellbound?”
The blue eyes over that veil seemed brighter than ever. “Don’t you?”
Timothy considered it a moment, then nodded. “Of course. I can’t see any other explanation.” He looked around the clearing. There was nothing in sight but trees and the sky above. Birds still sang, but the annoying bleating of whatever winged creature had woken him before was now silent.
“We must get back to Arcanum,” Caiaphas said, his voice grave, his brows knitted intently.
“Yeah.” Timothy thought a moment, staring at the branches of the nearest trees, and then at the tall grass. He gazed intently at Caiaphas. “Yeah. First, though, let me take care of your arm.”
“I know a bit of healing magic—”
“Enough to fix this?”
“No,” Caiaphas admitted. “As a navigation mage, it was hardly my specialty. I can help it mend faster, but not instantly.”
“Then you speed the healing process as best you can, but let me put a splint on it, and we’ll fashion a sling. It will help the bone set properly and it will be less painful while we travel. We’re going to have to go quite a ways on foot.”
“Perhaps only to the nearest village,” Caiaphas suggested, beginning to rise, gritting his teeth in pain.
“Wait,” Timothy said, one hand on his shoulder. “Let’s see to that arm first. Afterward . . . the last thing I saw before Leander . . . before we fell, was some kind of town. At least I think it was a town. Terraced buildings, spread far apart from one another. Two or three hours’ walk to the north. Right in our path.”
“Yes, I saw it as well,” Caiaphas said, settling again upon the grass.
As the boy rose and started toward the trees to find straight, thick branches for a splint, the navigation mage called after him. Timothy turned to face him.
“If I must endure this trial,” Caiaphas said, “I’m glad to be in your company.”
Timothy smiled. “Thank you,” he said. And for the first time since he had awoken in pain and confusion, he felt hopeful.
* * *
The sky over Arcanum was gray with clouds, only a few patches of blue sky showing through. A light rain fell. In the Grandmaster’s study on the floating fortress of SkyHaven, Cassandra Nicodemus was curled into a comfortable chair, legs drawn up beneath her, writing in her personal journal. The patter of raindrops on the honey-colored spell-glass in the octagonal window behind her chair was a comfort to her. It went perfectly with the cup of tea that rested on the small table beside her.
Cassandra rested her pen in the cradle of her open journal and reached out to take a sip of tea. The rain had put a chill in the air and the tea was pleasantly warm as it went down her throat. She set the cup down and looked at the journal again.
. . . I must put aside thoughts of Timothy, along with all other distractions, she wrote. If I am to be Grandmaster one day, I must immerse myself in Parliamentary procedure and the business of the Order of Alhazred. Professor Maddox is a good man, a powerful mage, and wise, but this was not a role he had ever desired. One day, when he sees I am ready, he will likely cede the position to me, and rightfully so. If I can make up for the evils that my grandfather perpetrated upon the Order and the Parliament, that is what I must do.
And yet . . . can’t I do all of these things and still have room in my thoughts for Timothy? I’d never speak of such things to him, but the boy fascinates me.
I miss him.
* * *
Once again she picked up her teacup. As she brought it to her lips, her eyes still on those words in her journal, the air was filled with a loud cawing, a cry of alarm. The noise startled her, and Cassandra fumbled the cup. It dropped from her fingers.
“Stop,” she said, pointing at it.
The teacup froze in midair, as did the spray of liquid that spilled from it. Gently, the cup settled onto the floor and the spilled tea poured back into it. Even as this bit of magic concluded, Cassandra rose from her chair and started for the study door.
She threw it open.
“Caw! Caw!!” cried Edgar. The rook fluttered his black wings as he slowed, then circled above her head in the high-ceilinged corridor. “The courtyard! Come to the courtyard, and hurry! Leander’s back. Something awful has happened.”
The bird cawed loudly again and started back along the corridor.
“Wait! Edgar, stop! What is—”
But the panicked rook did not slow down. In an eyeblink, he had turned a corner, perhaps on his way to alert Ivar or Sheridan. Cassandra glanced down at herself. She was dressed casually in a magenta tunic and loose pants, hardly appropriate for a grandmaster. But Edgar was not the sort to panic unnecessarily.
Brow furrowed in worry, she hurried along the corridor, up a narrow back stairwell to the main hallway of that level of SkyHaven, and then down the massive central staircase that led to the receiving hall and the doors out to the courtyard.
The windows showed the gray skies. The patter of raindrops had quickened and grown louder, the storm no longer gentle. When she pulled the doors open, several acolytes in service to the Grandmaster were rushing across the foyer toward her, accompanied by Dorian, a Healer new to SkyHaven’s staff. The Healer was pale, nervous.
“What is . . . ,” she began.
But she had pulled the doors open and Cassandra saw motion now, out in the rain. Though the sun was still out, somewhere above, the storm had cloaked the land with gray darkness. In the gloom she saw figures moving around a sky carriage that had landed in the courtyard, a crash landing if the dirt and grass that had been pushed ahead of it was any indication. One of the figures, ramrod straight and barking orders that were mostly lost in the wind that now whipped the rain into her face, was almost assuredly Carlyle. Tall and thin and authoritative, it could be no other.
Another, standing nearby the carriage with arms crossed as though on guard, she was certain was Ivar.
“Oh, dear! Oh, no, Professor Maddox,” came a familiar voice from behind her. The words were followed by a toot of steam.
Cassandra held her breath as she turned and saw Sheridan striding across the foyer with Edgar perched on his shoulder. Another gasp of steam escaped the valve at the side of his metal head. Then the acolytes and the Healer were there and she was blocking their way, blocking the door. She spun and gazed out into the storm again.
“Leander?” she whispered.
Barely aware of her feet moving beneath her, she rushed out into the storm. The wind first fluttered her hair around her head, but quickly the rain slicked it across her forehead and down the back of her neck. She ignored the rain, the wind, the storm.
Her bare feet slid on the grass, sinking into the sodden earth. The girl rushed to the carriage, pushing past Carlyle. He shouted something at her, but Cassandra could not hear him. It was not the wind that deafened her to his words, but the thumping of her heart in her ears. If SkyHaven was in chaos like this, if Edgar was panicked and a Healer had been summoned . . .
The carriage was canted over to one side. Cassandra grabbed the door, which hung open, and peered inside. The rain pelted her now and had begun to puddle on the floor of the carriage. Her breath caught in her throat.
Grandmaster Maddox lay sprawled across one of the seats in the carriage. There was a long cut on his left cheek and blood wept from it, staining his robe. The flesh around his right eye was bruised and swollen. But it was not merely the signs of violence that were so disturbing. The mage was sickly.
He was also alone.
“Leander!” Cassandra said, raising a hand to cover her mouth, hiding the “o” of shock formed by her lips. “What . . . oh, gods, what’s happened? Are you all right? And what . . . where’s Timothy?”
The question sounded almost like an admission to her, but she pushed away any embarrassment she might have felt. Cassandra was acutely aware that she was not acting like a grandmaster. Not at all. She was acting like precisely what she was: a teenage girl with no experience dealing with a real crisis.
That was going to have to change.
Taking a deep breath, she ducked and stepped halfway into the carriage. She took Leander’s hand, trying to soothe him. His gaze drifted, as though he was not entirely aware of his surroundings.
“Leander,” she said, more calmly. “Tell me what happened.”
The massive mage focused on her. “Attacked,” he said, licking his lips to moisten them. “I fell ill. Caiaphas was conveying us home. Timothy and me . . .” He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and let it out. “They came . . . out of nowhere. Couldn’t see much. The carriage was rocking, under attack. I . . . I fought.”
Leander Maddox seemed to shrink, then. He shook his shaggy mane and would not meet her eyes. “I fought them. When I . . . I suppose I drove them off. But then I was alone, and still ill. Injured. I almost did not make it back.”
Cassandra stared at him. She saw his eyes glaze again, and his head bobbed as though he might pass out. Then Carlyle was pulling her away from the carriage, moving her to make room for the Healer and the Alhazred mages. They would take care of him, certainly. The Grandmaster would be well again in no time. They would carry him inside, bathe him in magic that would heal his cuts and bruises and likely his illness as well, whatever strange ailment it might be.
The Grandmaster would be fine.
“But . . . what of Timothy? And Caiaphas?” she called through the whistling winds and the pelting rain.
A gentle but firm hand grasped her arm and she turned to find herself face-to-face with Ivar. The Asura’s stony features were grimmer than ever. His eyes were warm, though, and filled with a gravity that made her bite her lip and shake her head in denial.
“The Grandmaster returned alone.”
* * *
The afternoon shadows had grown even longer as Timothy and Caiaphas trekked northward through the great forest. The land was fairly flat in this region and the trees tall enough that it was easy to walk beneath them without being obstructed by branches. In truth, if it had not been for their circumstances the journey would have been peaceful, even pleasant. Certainly the landscape was beautiful. But Timothy had to constantly grit his teeth against the pain in his side where his ribs were cracked. Several times an hour he had to stop to simply clutch his side and try to steady his breathing, letting the pain wash over him.
Despite his broken arm, Caiaphas had an easier time. Or would have, if he had been used to exercise. The navigation mage was reliant upon his sky carriage. He was not in poor physical condition, but during the third hour of walking, he had needed to sit for a time to recover. When they began their trek again, the going was slower.
Timothy had made him a splint out of branches and twined grass, and a sling from a portion of the mage’s robe that the boy had torn off and tied round Caiaphas’s neck. It was crude, but it would do the job. The break must have hurt, but Timothy figured at least it wasn’t going to stop him from traveling.
The eastern horizon had begun to darken to a deeper, evening blue, when they at last emerged from the trees.
“Amazing,” Timothy said, forgetting for a moment the pain of his cracked ribs.
Caiaphas came to stand beside him. “Indeed,” he said, voice hushed.
The land sloped away gently down into a valley whose grass was as green as nature had ever created. A narrow, winding river flowed through the valley, turning lazily in among seven massive structures, those same terraced buildings Timothy had seen from the air many miles away. They were all the same color, a rich, earthen clay hue, with four sides, each of which was terraced, as though it was a staircase built for giants.
Timothy gazed with fascination upon this village—though “village” seemed a poor word for the river valley. There were no outbuildings. None at all. No huts or houses, no towers or shops. Only those seven terraced pyramids that shot up from the ground as though they had grown there, bursting from the earth. They were strange, but somehow beautiful in the ethereal light of dusk.
Atop each of those pyramids was that glittering light Timothy had seen before, even more obvious now that the daylight was fading into night. The western sky was still light, but fading, and yet sunlight gleamed from the peak of each building.
“How do we do this?” Timothy asked. “We don’t know anything about them. Can we just knock on the door and ask for help? I mean, if there even is a door.”
Caiaphas gazed at him, eyes gleaming magically above his veil. “The days of barbaric tribes of mages are long over. But not all guilds are friendly to Parliament. If we avoid politics, we should be received with courtesy, if nothing else. And, frankly, we have little choice. Despite what magic I know, I’ve few skills that would help us survive alone in the wilderness.”
Timothy smiled. “I’ve had plenty of experience. I could get by.”
The navigation mage was thoughtful. “Come to that, I imagine you could. But just the same, let’s see if they’ve got a sky carriage we can borrow.”
The boy grinned and they started down that gentle slope together, walking into the valley. To the east, where the river ran its curving course toward the forest, there were fields of various crops. Timothy had seen farms from the air and pictures in books, but he had never seen crops growing up close save for those in the small solarium at SkyHaven, where certain herbs and fruits were grown. To the west they caught sight of the first people in this strange community, a group of children swimming in the river. Timothy shivered at the sight of them. The water must have been chilly today, but there were perhaps two dozen boys and girls of varying ages splashing in the water, the golden light of sunset glinting on the river. Laughter echoed along the valley.
An unfamiliar sadness touched Timothy. He longed to join them. But other duties beckoned and he wondered if there would ever be a time when he might be as carefree as he had once been.
“There. Amongst the buildings,” Caiaphas said.
Timothy looked and saw that there were adults strolling along a serpentine path that followed the twists of the river. They wore long, rather plain robes that reached nearly to the ground, most in muted colors, the same earthen shade of the buildings. Those terraced pyramids seemed to have been arranged carefully, one at each bend of the river, with four on the north bank and three on the south. Timothy saw that there were at least four places where small bridges spanned the water. And around the base of each building were gardens full of flowers whose colors seemed vibrant even as the daylight waned.
“It’s so peaceful,” Caiaphas said. “Nothing like Arcanum.”
“You would have liked the island where I grew up,” Timothy replied.
By then they had crossed half the distance between the forest’s edge and the nearest pyramid, the grass rustling in the evening breeze, and they had been noticed. Many of the people wandering the paths and gardens of the village stopped to stare at them. Even the laughter of the children abruptly stopped, and when Timothy looked over he saw that they had stopped swimming, some climbing out of the water for a better view. There were several boys taller than he was, led by a girl with dark hair and even darker skin, who started away from the river, crossing the valley floor toward them.
At this, a mage left the path and intercepted the children. His head was cleanly shaved, though he had a beard and mustache that were neatly trimmed. His long robe was gray as stone, drab and featureless, and he seemed almost unwilling to look at Timothy and Caiaphas as they approached. The sound of the river was like music, but the mage’s voice disrupted it. With an outstretched arm, he commanded the children to go back to the river’s edge and they obeyed with obvious reluctance.
“Guess they’re not used to strangers,” Timothy said.
Caiaphas grunted in agreement. “We may have to alter our expectations of hospitality.”
But by then they had nearly reached the mage who had left the path. Timothy took a moment to glance up at the terraced pyramid as they approached. It seemed somehow smaller than he imagined now that he was nearly upon it, but the one impression that did not go away was the idea that it had sprung from the earth not unlike the crops in the eastern fields. He turned to glance at the nearest pyramid, across the river, and a spike of pain shot through his side. Wincing, he put his hand over it again. Pressure on the cracked ribs hurt the bruised area, but that was superficial. On the inside, the pressure relieved some of the pain.
“Good evening,” Caiaphas said as they neared the mage, whose eyes seemed in the dusky light to be the same stone gray as his robe. “Kind thoughts on this day.”
The mage regarded them carefully. Timothy paused, perhaps twenty feet from the man, and Caiaphas glanced at him a moment before he halted as well. They were a ragged pair, no question. Timothy’s tunic was torn from catching on branches during his fall. He knew he was bruised, and though his injury was not visible, his constant wincing and the way he held his ribs would have made it obvious. Caiaphas still wore the veil of his vocation but his robes were also torn, including an entire swath that had been torn away to fashion his sling.
Still, after a moment, the stony-eyed mage smiled at them. “On this and all days,” he said, offering the traditional response. “What brings you here, travelers? We see sky carriages often enough, but rarely received visitors.”
“Our Grandmaster—” Timothy began.
“Has summoned us back to Arcanum,” Caiaphas interrupted, shooting a meaningful glance at Timothy. “Unfortunately I am not always as cautious navigating as I ought to be. I’m afraid our sky carriage was ruined. We were fortunate enough to emerge with so few injuries.”
Timothy saw the way the man’s gray eyes narrowed as he listened, trying to find the truth in Caiaphas’s tale. The mage was suspicious of them, unsure whether to believe them. Caiaphas was being cautious, but Timothy suspected the man would have treated any outsider the same way.
He glanced past the gray mage. Others had clustered on the path, watching them parley. Within the terraced pyramid, windows had begun to glimmer with illumination. He had seen little light beyond that spell-glass before, but now the structures began to come alive with warmth.
“Do you admire the ziggurats?” the gray mage asked.
“Is that what they’re called?” Timothy replied. “Yes. They’re amazing. And lit up like that . . . they’re beautiful.”
Those stony eyes regarded him for a moment, then he looked at Caiaphas again. He had not responded to the navigation mage’s story and he deliberated for several moments longer.
“We haven’t a sky carriage, I fear,” the mage said at last. “We do not believe in the artifice of such travel.”
Timothy’s shoulders sank in disappointment and he winced with fresh pain from his side.
“However,” the gray mage went on, “evening is upon us, and the Children of Karthagia would not turn away those in need. You are injured and, I wager, hungry as well.” He smiled. “Come. We will try to heal and refresh you so that in the morning we may set you on your path with good wishes.”
Caiaphas bowed.
Timothy attempted to follow suit, but hissed in pain and could only manage a sort of nod of his head. For the first time Timothy saw sympathy in the mage’s eyes, and much of his anxiety about this place dispersed. They would be safe here, he felt. For the night, at least.