hand.
Atop the vials lay a scrap of parchment bearing the words: “Rivior, these are the last. With these, my debt is discharged. Look to see me no more.” The message was signed with an elaborate rune.
“Never seen it before,” Jhessail said, “but it takes no learning to know ’tis a wizard’s sigil.” Martess nodded.
“So these are-or were-potions,” Pennae said. “Magic quaffs.”
“But drinking them does what?” Martess asked.
“And are they all the same,” Jhessail put in, “or is that mark the mage who made them?”
“Or the smith who made the vials,” Pennae pointed out.
The three women stared at each other. There were shrugs ere they turned with one accord to look at Doust.
“He’s dying,” Semoor said bleakly, on his knees beside his wounded friend, “so pour one of those down his throat. You can’t hurt him more.”
Pennae took up a vial, sliced the wax with her dagger, teased forth the cork stopper, and sniffed the open top. Then she cradled Doust’s head and put the vial to his lips, her thumb ready to become a stopper if he choked or spat.
Doust swallowed it down and his eyes flickered. Then he looked up at them, brightening visibly. “Pain going,” he gasped. “Just like that.”
Pennae nodded. “Clear, colorless, and no stink to it that I could smell. Sparkled, going into him.” Doust was looking stronger, and his face was less pale. “Taste?” she asked him.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he jested feebly. “Cool, tingling… hard to find words… like swallowing a cool breeze.”
“Good,” Pennae said, letting his head fall back onto the jack. She looked at Semoor. “Watch him. If anything goes bad-he starts to turn to stone or grow scales or something-shout out quick!”
Sliding the case shut, she took it up and hurried back down the passage to Bey, Jhessail and Martess right behind her.
The warrior looked dead, but his mouth was open. She sat on his stomach and poured the potion down his throat, slapping her hand over his face to keep the potion inside him if he coughed-and he did-then pulled the crossbow bolt out of his innards.
He bucked and tried to roar, under her, but Pennae rode him firmly back to sprawled ease, then left him to race on to the last fallen Sword.
Agannor’s slow, feeble spasms became a convulsive heave upward when the potion slid down his throat-then his twisted face smoothed out and he looked at her.
“Healing quaff,” he said happily. “You never forget the taste. A priest of Tempus fed me one, once; cost me all the coins I had.” He relaxed with a gusty sigh. “My thanks!”
“Six left,” Pennae said, rising. She thrust the case into Jhessail’s arms. “These’d cost us hundreds of lions each at a temple. So don’t drop it.”
The flame-haired mageling looked down at Agannor. “So they’re all going to be… all right again?”
Pennae spread her hands. “If the gods will.”
“Ah,” Semoor muttered, helping Doust to sit up, “but what if the gods won’t?”
Halfway down the passage, Bey was already reeling to his feet, leaning on the wall and managing a smile.
Florin said, “I think we’ve done enough strolling around the Halls this day.”
Bey gave him a twisted grin. “I’ve certainly lost the stomach for it!”
“You,” Pennae said severely, “can be wounded again, know you!”
“Indeed,” Islif agreed, then said to Florin, “We all want to get outside again, but not to swallow crossbow bolts doing it.” She looked at the mages. “Remind me what spells you have.”
“A magic missile and something that helps me strike true,” Martess replied.
“Batt-ah, a magic missile,” Jhessail added.
“So you can do harm to quite a few crossbowmen, but you have to be able to see them-and they’ll take one look at either of you, waving your hands and chanting, and know just where to send their bolts.”
There were nods all around as Florin started to usher them back down the passage, to bring them all together. Doust was on his feet again, walking almost normally, and the Swords grinned at each other. Through the open doorway, unheeded, green slime dripped dismally.
“We need shields. Shields that can stop crossbow bolts at close range,” Islif said. “Those strongchests, back in the bunkroom?”
Pennae shook her head. “Far too rotten. Those bolts can go right through good armor-” She waved at Bey, who gave her a rueful grin “-so wood that crumbles when I touch it isn’t going to stop them much more than a tightframe of stretched silk would.”
“Well, that’s cheerful to hear,” Semoor said. “So are we going to crawl out on our bellies after dark and hope they can’t hit what they can’t see?”
Islif gave him a thoughtful look. “Chancy-but our best chance, I think. Sometimes, Stoop, you do seem to have wits. For a few moments, once or twice a tenday.”
“They’re out there, somewhere, braving danger-tasting adventure! While I-whom the king- the king! — wanted to accompany them-sit here, chafing in idleness!”
Narantha slammed down her tallglass with such force that the stem burst right up through the bowl, leaving her holding only shards amid a flood of fine wine.
Tessaril Winter set down her own glass and made a swift gesture-and the shards were gone from Narantha’s bloodied fingertips, whisked away through the air trailed by droplets of blood and wine. “ ’Tis a good thing I put out the second best glasses, I see.”
Narantha Crownsilver glared at her. “You’re enjoying this! You’re chuckling up your sleeve, like all the other wizards in this realm! Delighted to deny nobles their rights, hiding behind royal orders you refuse to share with us- orders that in this instance I know are false! I heard the Dragon’s reply to me! I know what was in his eyes, his voice! He’ll not be pleased when I tell him of this-that his own Lady Lord of Eveningstar defies his royal will to play Vangerdahast’s little games, one more time! I am a Crownsilver, and far from the least regarded of those who bear that proud name-”
“True,” Tessaril agreed, her face unreadable.
Narantha seethed, raising her hands into claws, but swept on. “And as such have every right to ride where I will, do as I will, and consort with whomever I will, so long as I do no treason and break not the decrees of the king! Not of Vangerdahast, not of you or any other jumped-up courtier! You have no right to hold me, you have no right to arrest me if I march right out of here now-as I’ve done no treason and intend none, and His Majesty knows it-and-and-”
“I’m afraid I do have that right,” Tessaril replied, “and that duty. Please calm yourself and hear me, Narantha-”
“Calm myself? Calm myself? Why should I? How can I calm myself when my freedom is snatched from me unlawfully, my rights of birth are denied and dismissed, my-”
“Good manners quite desert you.” Tessaril rose, in a shifting of skirts-and this was the first time Narantha had seen her in anything but breeches and boots topped by more mens’ garb-and crossed the room in two smooth strides.
Face paling with rage, Narantha darted her hand to the tiny dagger at her belt, but Tessaril deftly captured her wrists and stood over her, saying as gently as before, “Lass, lass, don’t you see how much I want to give in to you? I, too, have known love-”
“Love? Think you I’m in love with that forester? That my heart and loins rule me? Wench, you try me sorely!” Narantha spat. “ ’Tis of my needs I speak! My hunger for adventure, my first chance to do anything in my life that strays in the slightest from my father’s firm hand and my mother’s constant spiteful spying! My-my-”
Words failed her, and she burst into tears of rage, struggling against Tessaril’s strength with snarls and sobs and finally wild tugs and kicks.
Tessaril avoided her sallies with deft ease, saying flatly, “Don’t make me spell-sleep you, Narantha. I will if I must. Yet know this: I will not budge. Save your curses and kicks for a time when they’ll achieve something-if ever
