Read Online The Windrose Chronicles 1 - The Silent Tower by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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earth to swallow them up. By our dead that day, by this . . .” With a swift move Salteris flung back the long sleeve of his robe. Age-whitened scars blotched his arms, beginning like a sleeve, four inches below his elbow and, Caris knew, covering half his chest. “. . . I have earned the right to say what shall be done with a man who has taken Council vows.”
He turned suddenly back to where Antryg was calmly drinking his tea and taking no further interest in the discussion of those by whose whim he would live or die. “Antryg,” he said. “Has there been movement through the Void in these last weeks?”
“There must have been, mustn't there, if you've seen an intruder,” Antryg said reasonably. He swirled his cup in his hand and gazed down into its dregs. “Do you realize the spells on this tower affect even the tealeaves?”
“I think you're lying,” the Archmage said softly.
Antryg raised his head, startled. “I swear to you I haven't gotten a decent reading in seven years.”
Salteris rested his slender hands among the junk on the table and looked for a long moment down into the madman's wide, bespectacled, gray eyes. “I think you're lying, Antryg,” he repeated. “I don't know why . . .”
“Don't you?” Their gazes held, Salteris' wary and speculative, Antryg's, suddenly stripped of the mask of amiable lunacy, vulnerable and very frightened. The Archmage's glance slid to the Bishop, then away, and something relaxed in the set of his mouth. He straightened up and stood for a moment looking down at the seated man. Light from the candles in their holder, clotted with stalactites of years' worth of dribbled wax, glinted on the round lenses of Antryg's spectacles and caught like droplets of yellow sunlight in the crystal of his earrings.
Then abruptly Antryg got to his feet. “Well, it's been very pleasant chatting with you, but I'm sure we all have things to do.” With manic briskness he collected teapot and cups, stacked them neatly in one corner of the table, and piled papers on top of them. “Herthe, why don't you put a division of your guards at the Archmage's disposal? I'm sure they'll come in handy. Salteris . . .” He looked away from the Bishop's goggling indignation to his former master, and the madness died again from his eyes. In a sober voice he said, “I think the first place you should look should be Suraklin's Citadel. You know as well as I do that it was built on a node of the lines. If there is some sort of power abroad in the land, signs of it will show up there.”
Salteris nodded. “I think so, too.”
For a moment the two wizards faced one another; in the silence between them, Caris was again made conscious of how quiet the Tower was. No sound penetrated from the outside, save a soft, plaintive moaning of wind in the complex ventilation; no light, no warmth, no change. Antryg was not a young man, but he was not old, and Caris was aware that mages could live to fantastic ages. Was this room and the one above it all the world he could look forward to for the next fifty years? In spite of himself, in spite of what he now knew about Antryg, he felt again a stab of pity for that tall scarecrow, with his mad, mild eyes.
Salteris said, “Thank you, Antryg. I shall be back to see you, before I leave Kymil.”
Antryg smiled like a mad elf. “I shall see what I can do about getting us caviar by then. Come any day—I'm generally at home between two and four.” He thought about it for a moment, then added, “And at any other time, of course.”
“Are you?” asked Salteris, in a voice so low that Caris, startled, was barely sure he heard the words. Then the old man turned and, followed by the Bishop and his sasennan, descended the blackness of the narrow stair to the guardroom below.
It wasn't until they were again on the ancient road, shadowed now by the gray, unseasonable clouds that were riding up from the river to cover the town with the soft smell of coming rain, that
He turned suddenly back to where Antryg was calmly drinking his tea and taking no further interest in the discussion of those by whose whim he would live or die. “Antryg,” he said. “Has there been movement through the Void in these last weeks?”
“There must have been, mustn't there, if you've seen an intruder,” Antryg said reasonably. He swirled his cup in his hand and gazed down into its dregs. “Do you realize the spells on this tower affect even the tealeaves?”
“I think you're lying,” the Archmage said softly.
Antryg raised his head, startled. “I swear to you I haven't gotten a decent reading in seven years.”
Salteris rested his slender hands among the junk on the table and looked for a long moment down into the madman's wide, bespectacled, gray eyes. “I think you're lying, Antryg,” he repeated. “I don't know why . . .”
“Don't you?” Their gazes held, Salteris' wary and speculative, Antryg's, suddenly stripped of the mask of amiable lunacy, vulnerable and very frightened. The Archmage's glance slid to the Bishop, then away, and something relaxed in the set of his mouth. He straightened up and stood for a moment looking down at the seated man. Light from the candles in their holder, clotted with stalactites of years' worth of dribbled wax, glinted on the round lenses of Antryg's spectacles and caught like droplets of yellow sunlight in the crystal of his earrings.
Then abruptly Antryg got to his feet. “Well, it's been very pleasant chatting with you, but I'm sure we all have things to do.” With manic briskness he collected teapot and cups, stacked them neatly in one corner of the table, and piled papers on top of them. “Herthe, why don't you put a division of your guards at the Archmage's disposal? I'm sure they'll come in handy. Salteris . . .” He looked away from the Bishop's goggling indignation to his former master, and the madness died again from his eyes. In a sober voice he said, “I think the first place you should look should be Suraklin's Citadel. You know as well as I do that it was built on a node of the lines. If there is some sort of power abroad in the land, signs of it will show up there.”
Salteris nodded. “I think so, too.”
For a moment the two wizards faced one another; in the silence between them, Caris was again made conscious of how quiet the Tower was. No sound penetrated from the outside, save a soft, plaintive moaning of wind in the complex ventilation; no light, no warmth, no change. Antryg was not a young man, but he was not old, and Caris was aware that mages could live to fantastic ages. Was this room and the one above it all the world he could look forward to for the next fifty years? In spite of himself, in spite of what he now knew about Antryg, he felt again a stab of pity for that tall scarecrow, with his mad, mild eyes.
Salteris said, “Thank you, Antryg. I shall be back to see you, before I leave Kymil.”
Antryg smiled like a mad elf. “I shall see what I can do about getting us caviar by then. Come any day—I'm generally at home between two and four.” He thought about it for a moment, then added, “And at any other time, of course.”
“Are you?” asked Salteris, in a voice so low that Caris, startled, was barely sure he heard the words. Then the old man turned and, followed by the Bishop and his sasennan, descended the blackness of the narrow stair to the guardroom below.
It wasn't until they were again on the ancient road, shadowed now by the gray, unseasonable clouds that were riding up from the river to cover the town with the soft smell of coming rain, that
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