“He’s too suspicious altogether. It’s bad for the health.” Valder snorted, but he removed his defensive shield. At least, as far as Ilio could see, that was what he did. In actual fact, the magician merely “dimmed” the spell by feeding it with a subtle stream of power that only Panarik would be able to detect, and only if he deliberately searched for it. Some strange, childish caprice prompted him to resist Ilio’s friendly suggestion.
The archmagicians entered a spacious round hall illuminated by ordinary torches, in accordance with the prescriptions of the ancient statutes, reinforced by Panarik’s dislike of magical illumination, which made the master’s eyes sting and water.
The flames were burning steadily, and the pale shadows stood on the walls as still as sentries. Imperturbable. Self-assured.
Valder did not like this place—it was always too cold and unwelcoming. Emphatically official.
The walls were patterned with a large number of small lancet windows, glazed with the greenish purplish glass of the dwarves. They offered a fine view of Avendoom at night, since the tower was the highest point in the whole city, even higher than the royal palace. The immense flat mirror fused into the floor in the center of this space reflected imaginary stars and a double moon, even during the daytime. There were nine armchairs with tall backs standing around the mirror. Five of them were empty, four were occupied by archmagicians waiting with patient dignity for the late arrivals.
Ilio and Valder bowed their heads reverently as a sign of respect for their colleagues. Their colleagues replied with gracious nods. Equals greeting equals.
The magicians walked to their places, and Valder had a few seconds to examine these men he had not seen for so long.
Seated directly opposite him was Elo, a light elf with ash-gray hair cut short in the human style and protruding fangs.
Next came two empty armchairs, and then the solemn O’Kart—a short, permanently gloomy native of Filand.
O’Kart was excessively suspicious, always anticipating conspiracies against himself, and in conversation he was excessively sharp, rancorous, and intolerant. There were many who did not like him. But nonetheless, Valder had to admit that his antagonist was a talented magician.
Seated alongside Valder’s adversary was a gaunt individual with gray eyes, a smiling face, and a snub nose. His rather pleasant appearance was spoiled by the bloodless lips and the slim, dry hands with bony fingers.
Archmagician Zemmel was the oldest member present at the Council. His passion was the ogres’ books on shamanism, especially if they dealt with their forbidden battle magic—the Kronk-a- Mor.
Valder did not approve at all of the idea of using the Rainbow Horn to destroy the Nameless One. Hitherto this artifact had only been capable of containing the wizard within the Desolate Lands. What had changed now? How could the Council have agreed to such a risky undertaking without lengthy preparations?
“Glad to see you, my pupil,” said Panarik.
The Master of the Order of Valiostr was the most important and influential figure after the king. At seventy years of age he barely looked fifty.
“And I am glad to see you, my master.”
“Have you been informed what is happening here?”
“Yes, Ilio has informed me. But I cannot see any point in all this.”
“The point is to destroy the Nameless One forever,” Zemmel said severely, looking up from his book.
“At this very moment? This very night?”
“And what do you find so unsuitable about this night?” Elo asked, his fangs flashing.
“Well, if nothing else, the fact that there are only six of us instead of nine.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to strain yourself,” Zemmel said with a smile.
“That’s excellent. But I still don’t understand what all the haste is about. The Council is not full. Three members are absent.”
“Not all of us are required. Six is enough.”
“Perhaps so. But why are you so certain that we shall succeed in doing what other magicians of the Order have been unable to do in several centuries?” Valder asked, trying to speak in a calm and friendly manner, although he was very tired after his journey.
“I have been thinking the same thing,” said O’Kart, unexpectedly supporting Valder.
“The magicians of the past did not know what I know,” Zemmel declared weightily. “They did not make the effort to read several important books. It is all here,” he said, slapping the spine of his book with one hand. “The Kronk-a-Mor that protects the Nameless One so securely can be broken by using the Rainbow Horn.”
“But let us not forget,” Valder objected, “that the Horn, like the Kronk-a-Mor, was created by ogres, and we do not know what to expect from it if we start using the artifact at its full power. We still do not know if it is light or evil!”
“What incredible nonsense!” Zemmel snorted in annoyance. He opened the chest standing beside him and took out the magical relic.
