The Unwelcome Warlock

a pair of gargoyles on one gray stone mansion were watching them, their carved heads turning to follow the two warlocks as they flew past.

Someone had probably paid a lot of money to get those things animated, Sterren thought.

“It should be right...” Vond muttered. “Right about... Yes! Right about there.” He pointed.

Sterren didn’t bother to look; after all, they would be there in a moment. Sure enough, he hardly even had time to get his feet under him and brace himself before he hit the ground — or rather, the pavement — on what he assumed was High Street.

It hadn’t been paved when he last saw it, Sterren was fairly sure, but now it was paved in good red brick, with a broad carriageway in the center, and raised walks on either side, with deep gutters separating the walks from the carriageway. Sterren stumbled as his feet hit the bricks, and he went down on one knee, scraping a hole in his black woolen breeches. His luggage thumped loudly to the street behind him.

The one consolation was that the street was virtually empty, so almost no one had seen his awkward landing. Vond had paid no attention, and the only other potential witnesses were people going about their business on Merchant Street at the end of the block, and a couple strolling High Street two blocks to the east. None of them seemed to take any particular notice of the two warlocks, any more than the guard on the wall had.

When he had gotten himself upright again Sterren turned to find Vond staring at a huge house on the south side of the street. A spiked iron fence and a small dooryard separated it from the street, but it was plainly visible — in fact, it dominated their view. It was immense, four stories high and very wide, with several broad, many-paned windows and a big white door set into an ornate facade of red brick and black stone.

“That’s it,” Vond said. “Warlock House.”

“It’s big,” Sterren remarked.

“I think that’s fitting. After all, I gave up my palace back in Semma to come here; did you think I’d settle for some ordinary little hovel?”

“I had no idea what to expect, your Majesty.” He looked at the house — the mansion, really — and allowed himself a frown. This did not look like a place where the present owners would be happy to hand it over to Vond.

But if it belonged to the Council of Warlocks, and there were no other warlocks left...

The gate swung out of Vond’s way, but he stopped on the doorstep and knocked, rather than simply walking in. Sterren hurried to catch up to him, leaving his baggage on the street.

They both stood and waited for a long moment, but no one answered. Sterren was uncomfortably aware that they were clearly visible to anyone on High Street or Merchant Street who cared to look. As the wait grew, Sterren remarked, “I’d expect a place like this to have a staff ready for guests at all times.”

Vond shook his head. “They don’t have any servants,” he said. “I’m told they did once, but whenever I was here, everything was done by magic.” He glanced up and down the street, then said, “I think we’ve waited long enough.” He gestured, and the door unlocked itself and swung open.

Sterren hesitated, but Vond walked calmly in, and after a glance around at the nearly-deserted street, Sterren followed him.

The entrance hall was quite impressive, with twelve-foot ceilings, white pilasters, and polished wainscoting, but the lamps in the brass sconces were unlit, and there was an indefinable air of neglect. To the left was a grand parlor, to the right a few closed doors, and ahead a majestic staircase led to the upper floors.

And they could hear voices from somewhere upstairs. “We should have knocked louder,” Sterren said.

Vond did not bother to reply, but began drifting up the stairs, his feet a few inches above the treads. Sterren hurried to follow, and by the time they were halfway up he started to make out what the voices were saying. They were arguing.

“...isn’t any Council, Zallin! There aren’t any more warlocks, so how can there be a council?”

“We need to stay organized,” the other voice insisted. “If we ever hope to get our magic back, we’ll need to work together.”

“We aren’t going to get our magic back,” the first voice said, and Sterren could hear disdain in the speaker’s every word. “Ithinia said...”

“Ithinia doesn’t know everything!” the second voice interrupted. “She has no authority over us. We aren’t wizards, we’re warlocks!”

“We aren’t anything, Zallin. We used to be warlocks. We aren’t now.”

“I won’t accept that!”

“Hai!” Vond called.

The debaters suddenly fell silent, and a moment later a head appeared, leaning over a railing. “May I help you?” The voice was the one that had refused to accept his loss of magic, and Sterren noticed that the man’s eyes were different colors. He had never seen that before, and wondered whether one of them might be glass, or whether a spell of some sort had gone wrong.

“I’m looking for the former chairman,” Vond replied.

A second head appeared. “Which one?”

Vond smiled. “Whoever the current claimant is.”

The two exchanged glances. “Why?” the second man asked.

“Because I believe that I am now Chairman of the Council of Warlocks, by default.”

“By what right?” the first man demanded. “I was chosen to succeed Abdaran.”

Vond lifted himself straight up from the stair until he was standing in mid-air, level with the other two, leaving Sterren behind.

“But I,” he said, “am still a warlock. I do not believe either of you can make that claim.”

“Emperor Vond?” the second man asked.

The first man was standing with his jaw hanging open in astonishment; at the other’s words he snapped his mouth shut. “Vond?” he said.

“Yes,” Vond said. “I am Vond, emperor of Semma, Ksinallion, and Ophkar, lord of the southern lands, and the last warlock in the World. That fellow below me is my chancellor, Sterren of Semma. Who are you?”

“My name is Hanner,” the second man replied. “I saw you in Aldagmor, though I don’t suppose you noticed me in that crowd.”

“I’m Zallin, Chairman of the Council of Warlocks,” the other said defiantly.

“I think not,” Vond said, and Zallin was flung backward, to slam against a wall. Sterren winced at the sound of the impact, and hurried up the stairs.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Hanner said.

“I was making a point,” Vond replied calmly. “A warlock could have resisted.”

“You know perfectly well that there are no more warlocks except yourself,” Hanner said.

Sterren admired the man’s courage — he did not seem the least bit intimidated by Zallin’s experience — and wondered how he could be so certain that Vond was the only one of his kind. What did he know about Vond?

“You’re sure of that?” Vond asked. He jerked a thumb at Zallin. “He apparently wasn’t.”

“Unless you’ve made more in the past few days, yes, I’m sure of it,” Hanner replied. “I told you, I saw you in Aldagmor — you were the only one of the Called who still had any magic, and everyone I’ve spoken to since assures me that there are no others, that you’re one of a kind.”

Vond glanced at Sterren. “Some people,” he said, “may be stating their own beliefs as facts. To tell the truth, I don’t know whether there are still any other warlocks out there.” He gestured to take in the entire World outside the house. “Not every warlock was Called, and there may be others with my abilities. But I think it’s fairly safe to say I’m by far the most powerful, which is why I have chosen to declare myself Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”