Read Online The Windrose Chronicles 1 - The Silent Tower by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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Caris, she had remained in the denser shadows at the edges of the room. Now she came forward, her thick face congealing with suspicion. “What purposes?”
“What purposes did you have in mind?” Antryg dug a long loop of string from beneath the general litter on the table; the multiple shadows of the candle flame danced over his long, bony fingers as he began constructing a cat's cradle.
The Bishop's wary glance slid from him to the Archmage. “To bring abominations into this world?”
Salteris looked up sharply. “Abominations?”
“Had you not heard of them, my lord Archmage?” Her gruff voice grew silky. “All this summer there has been a murmuring among the villages of strange things seen and heard and felt. In Voronwe in the south a man was seen to go into his own house in daylight and was found there an hour later, torn to pieces; in Skepcraw west of here there has been something like a sickness, where the hay has been left to rot in the fields while the people of the town huddle weeping in the Church or else drink in the tavern, not troubling to feed either themselves or their stock. We have sent out the Witchfinders, but they have found nothing . . . .”
Salteris frowned. “I had heard rumor of this. But it has nothing to do with Thirle's murder or the opening of the Void.”
“Hasn't it?” the Bishop asked.
“I scarcely find it surprising that you've found nothing,” Antryg remarked, most of his attention still absorbed by the patterns of the string between his hands. “Old Sergius Peelbone, your Witchfinder Extraordinary, is looking for someone rather than something— if he can't try it for witchcraft and burn it, it doesn't exist. Besides, Nandiharrow and the others at the House of the Mages would have known if unauthorized power were being worked in the land—and in any case, there are sufficient evils and wonders in this world, without importing them from others. Could I trouble you . . . ?” He held out his entangled hands to her and waggled his thumb illustratively.
Irritated, she yanked the string from his fingers and hurled it to the floor. “You are frivolous!”
“Of course I'm frivolous,” he replied mildly. “You yourself must know how boring gravity is to oneself and everyone else. And I really haven't much opportunity to be anything else, have I?” He bent to pick up the string, and the Bishop, goaded, seized him by the shoulder and thrust him back into his chair.
“I warn you,” she said grimly. “I can have you . . .”
“You can not!” cut in Salteris sharply. “He is the Church's prisoner, but his person is under the jurisdiction of the Council of Wizards to which he made his vows.”
“Vows that he foreswore!”
“Does a priest who sins pass from the governance and judgment of the Church?” Salteris demanded. For an instant their gazes locked. The wizard was like an old, white fox, slender and sharp as a knife blade against the Bishop's pig-like bulk. But like a pig, Caris knew, the Bishop was more intelligent and more dangerous than she seemed; here in the Tower, Salteris, like Antryg, was at her mercy.
“A priest's sins concern a priest alone,” the Bishop said softly. “A wizard who foreswears his vows not to meddle in the affairs of humankind endangers not only all those he touches, but all those he encourages to follow his example. He can not only be a danger, but he can teach others to be a danger, and if we cannot trust the mageborn to govern their own . . .”
“Can you not?” Salteris replied in a voice equally low. Deep amber glints shone catlike in his eyes as they bored into hers. “Were it not for the mageborn on the Council, it would be Suraklin who rules this city, and not yourself.”
“Suraklin was defeated by the army led by the Prince.”
“Without us, his precious army would not so much as have found the Citadel. Suraklin would have led them like sheep through the hills and, in the end, summoned the elemental forces of the
“What purposes did you have in mind?” Antryg dug a long loop of string from beneath the general litter on the table; the multiple shadows of the candle flame danced over his long, bony fingers as he began constructing a cat's cradle.
The Bishop's wary glance slid from him to the Archmage. “To bring abominations into this world?”
Salteris looked up sharply. “Abominations?”
“Had you not heard of them, my lord Archmage?” Her gruff voice grew silky. “All this summer there has been a murmuring among the villages of strange things seen and heard and felt. In Voronwe in the south a man was seen to go into his own house in daylight and was found there an hour later, torn to pieces; in Skepcraw west of here there has been something like a sickness, where the hay has been left to rot in the fields while the people of the town huddle weeping in the Church or else drink in the tavern, not troubling to feed either themselves or their stock. We have sent out the Witchfinders, but they have found nothing . . . .”
Salteris frowned. “I had heard rumor of this. But it has nothing to do with Thirle's murder or the opening of the Void.”
“Hasn't it?” the Bishop asked.
“I scarcely find it surprising that you've found nothing,” Antryg remarked, most of his attention still absorbed by the patterns of the string between his hands. “Old Sergius Peelbone, your Witchfinder Extraordinary, is looking for someone rather than something— if he can't try it for witchcraft and burn it, it doesn't exist. Besides, Nandiharrow and the others at the House of the Mages would have known if unauthorized power were being worked in the land—and in any case, there are sufficient evils and wonders in this world, without importing them from others. Could I trouble you . . . ?” He held out his entangled hands to her and waggled his thumb illustratively.
Irritated, she yanked the string from his fingers and hurled it to the floor. “You are frivolous!”
“Of course I'm frivolous,” he replied mildly. “You yourself must know how boring gravity is to oneself and everyone else. And I really haven't much opportunity to be anything else, have I?” He bent to pick up the string, and the Bishop, goaded, seized him by the shoulder and thrust him back into his chair.
“I warn you,” she said grimly. “I can have you . . .”
“You can not!” cut in Salteris sharply. “He is the Church's prisoner, but his person is under the jurisdiction of the Council of Wizards to which he made his vows.”
“Vows that he foreswore!”
“Does a priest who sins pass from the governance and judgment of the Church?” Salteris demanded. For an instant their gazes locked. The wizard was like an old, white fox, slender and sharp as a knife blade against the Bishop's pig-like bulk. But like a pig, Caris knew, the Bishop was more intelligent and more dangerous than she seemed; here in the Tower, Salteris, like Antryg, was at her mercy.
“A priest's sins concern a priest alone,” the Bishop said softly. “A wizard who foreswears his vows not to meddle in the affairs of humankind endangers not only all those he touches, but all those he encourages to follow his example. He can not only be a danger, but he can teach others to be a danger, and if we cannot trust the mageborn to govern their own . . .”
“Can you not?” Salteris replied in a voice equally low. Deep amber glints shone catlike in his eyes as they bored into hers. “Were it not for the mageborn on the Council, it would be Suraklin who rules this city, and not yourself.”
“Suraklin was defeated by the army led by the Prince.”
“Without us, his precious army would not so much as have found the Citadel. Suraklin would have led them like sheep through the hills and, in the end, summoned the elemental forces of the
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