Using a damp cloth and a pan of warm water, Timothy quickly washed the accumulated grime and dirt of his journey from his face and body. He wished he could have taken time to relax, to catch his breath, but that was a luxury that would be denied him until Leander was apprehended and Ivar’s whereabouts were discovered.
He was drying his face and upper body with a towel when there came a gentle knock upon his door. Caught up in thoughts of what had transpired since he’d first left for Tora’nah, he absently walked over and opened the door to his chamber.
Cassandra stood on the threshold, red hair wild and unkempt. “Oh my,” she said at the sight of him, averting her eyes.
It took him a moment, but then he looked down and realized that he was still exposed from the waist up. “Sorry,” he said, turning but leaving the door open so that she could enter. He retrieved a fresh tunic from his chest of drawers. “Guess I’m a little distracted. I was running through everything in my head and trying to put the pieces together, make some sense out of it all.”
“That’s all right,” Cassandra replied. She had entered his room behind him but still appeared a bit flustered, a pink blush spreading across her normally pale cheeks. “Would you like me to have the kitchen prepare something for you to eat?” she asked. “You must be famished after your travels.”
“No, thank you.” He slipped the cream-colored tunic over his head. “With Ivar missing and Leander on the loose, I don’t really have much of an appetite.”
She nodded, and now that he was fully clothed, made eye contact with him. “Does it hurt?”
He had no idea what she was talking about. “Excuse me? Does what hurt?”
Cassandra again averted her eyes, the rosy heat returning to her cheeks. “When I first saw you . . . without your tunic . . . well, your side appeared badly bruised.”
He’d been so caught up in the whirlwind of his adventure that he’d practically forgotten about his injuries. The scratches on his face no longer stung, though the skin on his cheek was strangely tight. Carefully, he pressed a hand to his side. It hurt like blazes.
“As a matter of fact, it does hurt. Thanks for reminding me.”
They both chuckled softly, and their eyes met. He felt the warmth begin to rise to his own face as an awkward silence crept into the room.
“So,” Timothy said abruptly, “can you tell me where Ivar was last seen?”
“In his illness, Leander talked of stumbling upon something terrible here in SkyHaven while doing research on Tora’nah,” Cassandra explained. “Ivar was going to try to retrace Leander’s footsteps.”
“Then we should do the same,” Timothy said, feeling the pull of exhaustion but shrugging it off. There would be time to rest later. He made a move to leave.
“I have already dispatched acolytes to search SkyHaven. Edgar, Sheridan, and Caiaphas have also gone to search. I thought that perhaps as his friend, the rook might have an advantage on other searchers. We can only hope.”
“Probably so. Edgar is cleverer than anyone gives him credit for,” Timothy said, striding toward the door. “Well, let’s go join them.”
Cassandra looked at him gravely, brow furrowing. “As Grandmaster, I feel that it is in your best interest to rest.”
“Rest? You’re joking. I can’t rest now.”
“You’ve been through a harrowing ordeal,” she continued firmly. “It would be wise for you to renew your strength before again throwing yourself into danger.”
Timothy turned away from her to open his door. “I appreciate your concern, but I just can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
“Please, Tim,” she pleaded. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Timothy looked back into the girl’s stunning green eyes; eyes that now shimmered with emotion.
“I’ve thought once that something terrible had happened to you,” she continued. “I don’t want to feel that way again.”
Timothy was stunned by her admission, not sure how to respond. Then the opportunity to speak had passed, for they were interrupted by another voice.
“That’s simply precious. It appears that our little Grandmaster in training has been smitten by you, lad.”
Timothy and Cassandra moved back to back, to fight together against any attack that might come. They stared around the room, but there was no sign of any intruder. Only that voice that seemed to come from all of the shadows at once. And he knew that voice. But there was something about it that made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.
“Leander?” Timothy called, moving farther into the room.
Cassandra grabbed his arm, attempting to stop him. “Careful, Timothy,” she cautioned. “Remember, he isn’t in his right mind.”
Gently, the boy removed her hand and inched closer to his sleeping area. Dusk was gradually approaching, and his room was now draped in growing shadows. The corners were pitch-black.
“I must say. You do make a handsome couple.”
Timothy stared into the inky gloom, trying to find the source of his friend’s distorted voice. “Leander, we know there’s something wrong. Let us help you.”
And there came the laugh, low and rumbling, like the growl of some ferocious animal. “I don’t need any more of your help, boy,” said the voice scornfully. “You’ve done more than enough already.”
Leander exploded from a pool of shadow, a glinting dagger clutched in one of his meaty hands.
“Timothy, watch out!” Cassandra cried.
“Silence, girl!” Leander roared, even as a blast of magic erupted from his free hand.
Cassandra was unable to conjure a defensive ward in time. The spell struck her, bruise-purple energy crackling in the air as it slammed into her and knocked her to the floor.
Timothy lunged at Leander and spun the burly mage around to face him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing your death won’t fix,” Leander growled. He raised the dagger with a twisted smile and a demonic twinkle in his eye, and brought it down in a swift arc.
Timothy knocked the attack away with a blow of his forearm, one of the earliest moves that Ivar had taught him. He darted past Leander and out of his reach.
“Stand still, monster,” Leander cried. “The blight of you must be removed from the world if it is ever to return to its former state of glory.”
Again Timothy evaded the deadly blade, the archmage’s disturbing words reverberating through his mind. This man had become his mentor, like a second father to him. But this was not the Leander he knew. It was as if someone else were speaking with Leander’s voice, someone who did not appreciate the unmagician’s introduction to the world.
He didn’t want to hurt his friend, but at the same time he couldn’t risk being stabbed, either. Once again relying upon his Asura training, Timothy moved in close enough for Leander to attack him again. This time, however, the boy grabbed the mage’s wrist and pulled it toward him, forcing the hand with the dagger over his right shoulder and using Leander’s own momentum to get in closer. He turned sideways at the same time, all of it one smooth motion, and hooked his left foot behind Leander’s ankle. Timothy got a fistful of the mage’s dark green robes and forced him backward, tripping him and driving him to the floor.
Leander struck the floor hard, knocking the wind out of him, and for a brief moment, Timothy could have sworn he saw a flicker of new awareness in his eyes. But then the hatred returned.
“Damn you!” the mage screamed, thrashing about.
“Please stay down, Leander,” Timothy begged, prepared to keep the former Grandmaster incapacitated on the floor at any cost.
A moan from across the room distracted him. Cassandra had pushed herself up onto her knees and was slowly rising to her feet.
“Ah yes, the girl,” Leander sneered.
“No!” Timothy shouted.
But he was too late. Tendrils of solid shadow erupted from the mage’s hand, entangling the still recovering girl in wisps of inky black. Cassandra gasped helplessly as the tentacles squeezed her, stealing away her breath. Her eyes went wide with surprise and pain.
Timothy moved to touch the mage, to lay a hand upon him and disrupt the flow of magic.
“Come no closer, or she dies,” Leander commanded. “Her delicate frame will be snapped in two before your wretched curse can stop me.”
Timothy stood above the man, fists clenched in anger and helplessness. “You’re not Leander,” he said through gritted teeth.
The man on the floor looked up at him and smiled evilly. “Are you so certain?” he asked. “So positive that I could not have seen the error of my ways and finally realized what an abhorrence you are?”
The boy slowly shook his head, fighting to keep his anger in check. There was far too much at stake to let Leander—or whatever it was lying upon the floor—taunt him into doing something foolish.
“You’re not he.”
Leander flipped the knife blade in his free hand, offering the boy the pommel of his weapon. “Take it,” he said.
Timothy hesitated momentarily, but did what was asked of him.
“Excellent,” the archmage hissed, his other hand still crackling with the power of the black magic. “Now I want you to listen very carefully. I want you to take that blade and plunge it into your heart.”
Timothy reacted as if struck. “I will not!”
Leander manipulated the magic holding Cassandra, and the girl began to scream. “You have no choice. Either do as I tell you, or the object of your affection perishes quite horribly.”
He knew he could never live with himself if he was responsible for Cassandra’s death. Hefting the blade, Timothy brought the tip to his chest.
“Very good,” the archmage cooed. “Now, plunge the knife into your heart.”
Timothy stood, knife poised to strike at his own chest. His mind raced, searching for options, but he could think of no course of action that could guarantee his own life and the safety of Cassandra Nicodemus. The blade shook as he hesitated, frantic to find any other way out of his predicament.
“Do as I say, boy, or the girl dies!” Leander spat, scrambling to his feet with anticipation.
Drawing back his hand, Timothy closed his eyes and prepared to drive the blade home.
“Yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss,” Leander hissed like some great reptilian beast, eyes glistening as he licked his lips expectantly.
The door to his room exploded inward with a thunderous crash and Carlyle stood on the threshold, magic crackling from his outstretched hands.
“Out of the way, boy!” Carlyle bellowed, a spell flying from his fingers in blades of golden light that severed the tentacles of shadow holding Cassandra. “There are creatures most foul to be dealt with this day!”
Leander screamed as though the magic that he wielded was somehow a part him, and the attack had wounded him. The archmage staggered back and then turned to escape as he had entered, through the shadows.
“You are going nowhere,” Carlyle said. He raised his hands to reveal blazing spheres of magical illumination that spun on his upturned palms. He hurled them upon the floor and their brightness dispelled the shadows in the room, stealing away Leander’s magical escape route.
Timothy ran to check on Cassandra, watching in awe as the fussy little man, the annoyingly proper assistant, cast a spell of enough force to shake the very walls of the bed chamber. A blue light sparked in the center of the room and then blossomed like a flower, growing in an eyeblink to extraordinary size and swallowing Leander Maddox in its petals.
“Are you all right?” Timothy asked, helping Cassandra to rise.
She nodded, giving him a brief smile, and he felt his heart skip a beat. It was almost as if she had worked some kind of magic upon him, but of course he knew that was impossible.
“I must look a fright,” she said, attempting to fix her hair.
“You look perfect,” he said, and smiled.
The two joined Carlyle, who was maintaining the integrity of the magical prison that now held their friend. The former Grandmaster bellowed like some wild beast, striking at the bubble, trying to break free.
“Not too close, now, Timothy Cade,” Carlyle cautioned, not wanting the boy’s negating power to interfere with his magic.
Timothy stepped back, stunned by the man’s ability. “How did you . . . I never would have thought . . .”
“Have I surprised you, Timothy? I may be merely an assistant now,” Carlyle said, manipulating the magical sphere around Leander so that it began to constrict, “but long ago I was something more.”
Leander shrieked and cursed as his prison limited his movement.
“You were a combat mage?” Cassandra asked.
“They were difficult times that I would prefer to forget,” Carlyle said gravely. “But when called upon, the memories return. And my training will be a part of me forever.”
The magical entrapment around Leander continued to constrict until it clung to him, totally immobilizing him.
“What has happened to him?” Timothy asked, filled with fear as he looked upon his friend, growling on the floor, trying to free himself.
“This is merely the shell of Professor Maddox,” Carlyle explained.
Cassandra left Timothy’s side for a closer look. “He’s been behaving so strangely, so erratic, that we were all afraid something was wrong with his mind. But Leander is possessed!”
“What do you mean?” Timothy demanded.
“Mistress Cassandra is correct. Something dark and terrible is inside his body even now, and his soul has been at war with it. Even as it has tried to control him, he has been fighting back. I was a blind fool not to see it sooner, but this kind of magic—only the darkest of wizards ever dared to summon creatures to possess their enemies.”
“Who could do such a thing?” Timothy asked.
Carlyle balled one of his hands into a fist and slowly turned it in a circle. “That is something I intend to find out,” he said, and he began to murmur a spell in a tongue that Timothy did not recognize.
The boy watched, horrified, as Leander began to thrash upon the ground, screaming as if in excruciating agony. “Stop!” Timothy cried, almost running forward but managing to stop himself.
“It is a spell of eviction,” Carlyle stated. “It is not your friend that cries out, but the enemy that hides within.”
With those words, the possessed screamed all the louder, his mouth opening wider and wider as he shrieked. Then the unthinkable happened. Something stirred in the darkness of Leander’s throat, something that was now emerging into the light.
Cassandra gasped, returning to Timothy’s side. “What is it?” she asked in a breathless whisper.
Timothy wasn’t sure, at first. He could only watch in disgust as the creature that had possessed Leander slowly drew itself up and out from the archmage’s mouth, scrambling to crouch upon his chest.
“Grooak!” said the beast. Its dark brown skin was slimy and covered with warts, its sacklike throat expanding and contracting as it squatted there.
“This is the thing that possessed Leander? The evil that has been controlling him?” Cassandra asked.
“Yes,” Carlyle replied. “Implanted there by its master. It may not speak, but its evil has been manipulating Leander’s actions for some time.”
“But this is no monster or demon. It’s . . . it’s just a mudtoad,” Timothy said with confusion and revulsion.
“No. Not just anything, Timothy,” Carlyle agreed. “If I’m not mistaken, there was once an extremely powerful mage who had a fondness for these grotesque creatures, used them as his familiars and harbingers, as his lackeys.”
Timothy felt an icy chill run up and down his spine. “Let me guess,” he said, fearing for a moment that the name would become stuck in his throat and choke him.
“Alhazred.”
* * *
“It’s useless!” Edgar squawked, fluttering his wings in frustration.
He was perched atop a wooden chest in the last of the document storage chambers that had yet to be searched. They had been at it for hours, and had come no closer to discovering Ivar’s whereabouts.
“Now, now, Edgar,” Sheridan consoled. “That’s not the attitude of one who has recently brought our beloved master back from the wilderness, is it?”
The bird sighed, shaking his head from side to side. “When you put it like that, you’d think we’d have no problem finding Ivar,” he croaked.
A group of acolytes stood in the doorway but made no effort to help them. Cassandra had given them all a task—to retrace Ivar’s footsteps—but that was not as simple as it sounded. He was an Asura, and that meant he was very good at doing things without being seen.
“Are you sure none of you saw any trace of him?” Edgar asked.
The acolytes said nothing, some averting their eyes.
“Didn’t think so,” Edgar grumbled beneath his breath. No matter how hard they tried to fit in, they were still outsiders to the people of SkyHaven. He had to wonder if there would ever come a day when they would be accepted.
Sheridan clanked to the center of the room, segmented hands upon his hips. “If I were an Asura warrior, where would I be?” he asked aloud, a burst of steam hissing in release from the valve atop his metal head as his body slowly spun in a full 360-degree circle.
“You think the guy would have had the common decency to leave us a few clues,” Edgar crowed in annoyance.
“Perhaps he did and we simply cannot see them,” the mechanical man said, reaching up to his circular yellow eyes. “I haven’t used this function in quite some time—since leaving Patience, in fact—but it might prove useful.”
Edgar watched as Sheridan massaged the sides of his head with his fingers. The mechanical man’s eyes suddenly rotated backward to expose another set, this pair apparently made from thick pieces of glass.
“What’s the story with the new peepers?” Edgar asked curiously.
The acolytes watched, fascinated, from the entryway.
“This is special glass that magnifies,” the mechanical man explained. “Timothy thought they might help me to locate hidden veins of Vulcanite, or assist him with some of the more delicate aspects of his inventing.”
There was a bit of a commotion near the door, and Edgar looked to see Caiaphas coming into the room. He was wearing new robes of sky blue, replacing the torn and dirty clothes he had worn upon his return from the wild.
“My apologies for the delay,” he said with a slight bow. “After dining and cleaning up, I’m afraid I dozed off for a few minutes.”
“No problem, Caiaphas,” Edgar said. “You earned a little nap for helping to keep our Timothy safe.”
The navigation mage bowed again. “It was my pleasure—though Timothy kept me safe, more often than not. We survived together.”
“That certainly sounds like him,” Sheridan said, bending forward slightly to survey the room with his new eyes. “But now our concern must be on locating our other wayward friend.”
“You have had no luck, then?” Caiaphas asked, stepping into the room to assist them.
“Not yet,” Edgar answered grimly. “I think Grimshaw’s got to know something about it, though. If we don’t find something soon, we may have to beat the truth out of him.”
“That would make us as cruel as he is,” Sheridan said.
Caiaphas grunted softly. “I could live with that.”
Edgar would have replied, but then he noticed that the acolytes had stopped in the doorway and now simply stood there, not helping at all. The rook clacked his beak in annoyance and tilted his head to stare at them.
“Don’t worry about a thing, guys,” he squawked. “We got everything under control here.”
He was not sure if Caiaphas’s presence moved them, or if his jibes had finally hit home, but some of the Alhazred acolytes came into the room and began to help in the search for clues.
“There has to be something,” Sheridan muttered, scrutinizing every inch of the storage room.
It wasn’t long before everybody was searching—all the acolytes putting aside their prejudices and fears to help—but they still came up with no sign of Ivar’s presence. Edgar was about to call a halt to the search and suggest that they move on to the storage chambers on the southern side of the floating estate, when the unexpected happened.
“Excuse me,” said one of the acolytes, a short, chubby man with a wild head of curly black hair. He was squatting down at the far end of the chamber before a large bookcase, and seemed to be looking at something on the floor.
Sheridan quickly clomped across the room, scattering acolytes as he moved with great haste. “Yes?” the mechanical man asked eagerly.
“Look,” the acolyte said, moving some dust around on the floor with a fat finger.
“Yeah, it’s a real mess in here,” Edgar commented. “What this place needs is a good dusting.”
“No,” said the acolyte. “Here, the dust has been disturbed. And it looks like the stone has been scraped.”
Sheridan bent at the waist for a closer look. The familiar, still atop his shoulder, listened to the whirring of the mechanics inside his head as he examined the spot of floor.
“I do believe he’s right,” Sheridan said, a hint of excitement in his voice. He turned his attention to the bookcase pushed up against the wall. “It appears this bookcase has been moved away from the wall and then pushed back again—and recently.”
The chubby acolyte jumped to his feet, staring in amazement at the bookcase. He grabbed it and pulled . . . and it swung open.
“There was a lock here, but a spell has been used to force it open,” he said.
“Great,” Edgar croaked, eyeing the storage unit. “Maybe we’re on the right track after all.” The rook fluttered his wings. “Ready to go, Sheridan?”
“Quite ready,” the mechanical man answered, flexing his arms.
There was a doorway behind the case, leading to a set of stone stairs descending into a sea of darkness.
Sheridan moved closer to the doorway, reaching up to click the buttons on the side of his head that would return his eyes to their normal setting. The glow from the twin orbs illuminated the descending staircase, but only a little way before the light was swallowed up by the darkness.
“Do you think Ivar is down there?” the mechanical man asked.
“I’d bet my tailfeathers on it.”
“Then we go down.”
“No,” Edgar said. “Cassandra was very specific about what we are to do if we find anything of importance. You guys stay here,” he said, lifting off from his perch and flying toward the exit. “She is going to want to see this for herself.”