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Authors: Barbara Hambly
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visible; the darkness was alive with their scurryings and shriekings, like foul ghosts. I slew one creature which came at me.” She shook her head; her brows, still auburn though her hair had lost its color years ago, pinched together, with pain or memory or the attempt to make sense of something incompletely recalled.
“I heard ... voices. I think voices ... ” She raised a small, slim-fingered hand briefly to her temple and shook her head again. “A great voice called something which I have forgotten. There was a sound like the beating of wings, like wind in the reed beds along the river. I turned and there was a Gate, a Gate such as we had opened in the Void when we went into that other world to take you prisoner for your sins, Antryg Windrose. But the Gate was moving.”
“Moving?” Antryg said, startled. “But they don't move. They open and close, and when they do, they seem to be coming toward one, or going away.”
“No,” she insisted quietly, “it was not like that.” In her sleeves her hands were never still, scratching, searching, like mice in a sack. “I have seen Gates now. Seen them in the Vaults, some of them little, holes only. This one ... it rushed toward me like a runaway cart in a city street. In the black maw of it, I saw moving lights, moving shapes ... voices. It came at me like an ocean wave which curls down over the head, like a mouth opening to swallow ... ”
Her huge eyes snapped shut, and she turned her face away. Bentick's nervous white hand reached out to touch her wrist, and she flinched, startled, as if struck.
“I have searched the Library for any information concerning the Void,” Seldes Katne said, after a time of silence. The diffuse, even light of magic that filled the windowless chamber did little to improve her round, heavy face, plain as a boiled potato; the tight braid of her hair, which lay across the black of her robe, was the color of fading iron, streaked with ashy gray. “I was in Angelshand when the manifestations started. There were riots in the dockside quarters; I think if the Regent hadn't banished all the wizards from every city in the realm we probably would have been torched out by the mob.”
“Banished you?” Antryg's eyebrows shot up with comic surprise.
“From every city in the Realm,” Nandiharrow said, with a touch of bitterness in his deep, slow voice. “Every worker of magic, even some of the dog wizards.”
“Good Heavens, Pharos must be mellowing! A few years ago he would have arrested every wizard in sight and thrown the lot to the Inquisition. I'm pleased everyone got off so easily.”
“He would not dare ... ” Lady Rosamund began indignantly.
“You don't think so? I can't imagine you know him better than I do, but ... Ah, thank you.” A tall, rawboned, red-haired girl of about Joanna's age appeared at his elbow with a lacquered tray bearing teapot and cup, which she proceeded almost to spill over him. He caught the edge of the tray neatly, glanced at the chalk stains on her uncallused fingers, the shape and quality of the narrow ruffle of white shift collar visible above the edge of her gray Junior's robe, and the dried leaves adhering to the mud of her shoes. "Kyra, isn't it? My temporary roommate at the Pepper-Grinder?
“Chamomile,” he added, pouring out the tea. “Pothatch remembered, bless his rotund little heart. Q'iin, did you ever succeed in making a cleanser for wounds from chamomile and fairy-paintbrush? I was saving fairy-paintbrush for you in Los Angeles—it grows there under another name—but ... ”
“If we
might return to the matter at hand!” Bentick's rather high voice cut in like chipped obsidian, and a muscle twitched in his long, clean-shaven jaw.
“Terribly sorry.” Antryg gave him his daft smile. “Would you care for tea? Kyra, my darling, we seem to be short of cups.”
“Here,” offered the Archmage, unexpectedly coming to life enough to dig into her workbasket and produce a
“I heard ... voices. I think voices ... ” She raised a small, slim-fingered hand briefly to her temple and shook her head again. “A great voice called something which I have forgotten. There was a sound like the beating of wings, like wind in the reed beds along the river. I turned and there was a Gate, a Gate such as we had opened in the Void when we went into that other world to take you prisoner for your sins, Antryg Windrose. But the Gate was moving.”
“Moving?” Antryg said, startled. “But they don't move. They open and close, and when they do, they seem to be coming toward one, or going away.”
“No,” she insisted quietly, “it was not like that.” In her sleeves her hands were never still, scratching, searching, like mice in a sack. “I have seen Gates now. Seen them in the Vaults, some of them little, holes only. This one ... it rushed toward me like a runaway cart in a city street. In the black maw of it, I saw moving lights, moving shapes ... voices. It came at me like an ocean wave which curls down over the head, like a mouth opening to swallow ... ”
Her huge eyes snapped shut, and she turned her face away. Bentick's nervous white hand reached out to touch her wrist, and she flinched, startled, as if struck.
“I have searched the Library for any information concerning the Void,” Seldes Katne said, after a time of silence. The diffuse, even light of magic that filled the windowless chamber did little to improve her round, heavy face, plain as a boiled potato; the tight braid of her hair, which lay across the black of her robe, was the color of fading iron, streaked with ashy gray. “I was in Angelshand when the manifestations started. There were riots in the dockside quarters; I think if the Regent hadn't banished all the wizards from every city in the realm we probably would have been torched out by the mob.”
“Banished you?” Antryg's eyebrows shot up with comic surprise.
“From every city in the Realm,” Nandiharrow said, with a touch of bitterness in his deep, slow voice. “Every worker of magic, even some of the dog wizards.”
“Good Heavens, Pharos must be mellowing! A few years ago he would have arrested every wizard in sight and thrown the lot to the Inquisition. I'm pleased everyone got off so easily.”
“He would not dare ... ” Lady Rosamund began indignantly.
“You don't think so? I can't imagine you know him better than I do, but ... Ah, thank you.” A tall, rawboned, red-haired girl of about Joanna's age appeared at his elbow with a lacquered tray bearing teapot and cup, which she proceeded almost to spill over him. He caught the edge of the tray neatly, glanced at the chalk stains on her uncallused fingers, the shape and quality of the narrow ruffle of white shift collar visible above the edge of her gray Junior's robe, and the dried leaves adhering to the mud of her shoes. "Kyra, isn't it? My temporary roommate at the Pepper-Grinder?
“Chamomile,” he added, pouring out the tea. “Pothatch remembered, bless his rotund little heart. Q'iin, did you ever succeed in making a cleanser for wounds from chamomile and fairy-paintbrush? I was saving fairy-paintbrush for you in Los Angeles—it grows there under another name—but ... ”
“If we
might return to the matter at hand!” Bentick's rather high voice cut in like chipped obsidian, and a muscle twitched in his long, clean-shaven jaw.
“Terribly sorry.” Antryg gave him his daft smile. “Would you care for tea? Kyra, my darling, we seem to be short of cups.”
“Here,” offered the Archmage, unexpectedly coming to life enough to dig into her workbasket and produce a
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