Rivven said no. That was the basis of lichdom, a path that Ariakas would never accept. Even if it meant living forever, Ariakas would not agree to become one of the undead. No, Cazuvel would need to accomplish something similar without necromancy, and therefore, he came up with the idea of the painting.
It was, in a way, sympathetic magic. Essentially, a painting of Ariakas could be created, as exact a likeness as possible. A powerful link would exist between the painting and the subject of the portrait, one that defied death. In the event of his untimely end, the painting would serve as the means of bringing him back, the template for his resurrection.
The accuracy of the image was crucial, but the composition of the oils, the tinctures, even the canvas and frame were also critical. Ariakas would need to surrender some of his blood, and at least pose for the portrait. Painting him from memory would never work. Rivven thought she could arrange all of that, but she wanted Cazuvel to test the process first.
Rivven needed a test subject, somebody to be painted, somebody for whom the possibility of death was imminent. She could simply have chosen some peasant or minor soldier from the Red Wing, but she had a much better idea.
In the weeks before the initial invasion of Nordmaar, the first region to experience the true power of the newly organized dragonarmies, Phair Caron had held numerous strategic meetings with her highmasters, with her fellow highlords, and with Ariakas himself. Nordmaar was ideal because it was close enough to Neraka and Kern, where the armies were based, and it represented the nearest free, independent kingdom. Success in Nordmaar meant success elsewhere in Krynn. In a way, Nordmaar was the prototype for the rest of the war.
The half-elf approached Phair Caron with a plan. Rivven knew an important nobleman in the region, a man with the ear of the king. He was a Solamnic exile, and he kept many secrets. If she could get to him, he could provide valuable information that would benefit the invasion. The highlord agreed to her plan, and the red dragonarmy sat poised to overwhelm Nordmaar’s borders, contingent on Rivven’s intrigues.
Rivven knew at the time that the nobleman, Baron Gilbert Glayward, had a daughter who was stricken with a fatal malady. She told him she had a means of saving the girl’s life, but it would require his cooperation. The daughter was a natural beauty, his only child; convincing him to betray the king proved easier than she had thought.
Unfortunately, the experiment failed. The daughter died prematurely, and the painting …
Pushing away those thoughts of the past, Rivven rushed through the tall, arched doors into the administration wing within the khan’s palace. Servants ran back and forth, mostly getting out of the high-master’s way. She passed a series of open doors, each leading into a room full of scribes, factors, and bureaucrats keeping track of her finances, her taxes, and more. Her destination was the large and opulent chamber at the rear of the wing.
“Aubec,” she said, nodding at her aide-de-camp. He stood, waiting, beside the enormous table covered in maps and plans. “What news?”
“All is in readiness for the chariot races tomorrow, Excellency,” the aide said, bowing. “Local warlords, all of whom have paid their taxes in the last week, have their retinues and are on the way. The people of Wulfgar are ablaze with gossip over their favorites in the arena. Your masters of horse and your marshals of arms have selected the best of the best, and-”
Rivven waved her hand. “It all sounds good,” she said. “Cear and I are looking forward to it.”
Aubec bowed again and cleared his throat.
Rivven looked up from the table, absentmindedly shuffling papers about. “Yes?”
“Forgive my impertinent observation, but you seem more than a little preoccupied, my lady.”
“Oh, yes. Well. It’s Cazuvel.”
“The Black Robe?”
“Yes. Or whoever he is, yes.”
Aubec hesitated as a scribe ran in, handed something to him, and ran out. He made a notation on his tablet and looked up again at the highmaster.
“You suspect he might be some kind of imposter, my lady?”
“I
“I can assure you, Excellency, Nordmaar is securely in your hands, even now.”
“That’s what it looks like. But I have mercenaries flying in behind enemy lines on the backs of mythical beasts, fake wizards conjuring up who knows what, and gnomes acting very ungnomelike. Even the baron’s ugly servant is causing problems when she knows better.”
Aubec shrugged. “I regret I can do no more to help.”
Rivven exhaled. “At least you’re doing what I ask you to do. Thank you, Aubec. You’re dismissed.”
The aide-de-camp slipped out of the room, closing the door behind himself. Rivven snapped her fingers and the many lamps and braziers that lit the room burned down to a low smolder, leaving only a single bright candle burning nearby.
Rivven lifted a large dish full of water onto the table and began reciting the necessary incantations to still the water’s surface and send forth a summons of communication. She wasn’t sure she would get an answer and was, therefore, surprised when the wizard Cazuvel’s face-the imposter’s face-appeared in the water.
“Sending a sellsword to do your dirty work, High-master?” The mage sneered, lips curled back.
“Did I? Probably just an afterthought.” She studied the face in the water critically, smiling thinly.
“Unlikely,” Cazuvel said. “Vanderjack has been the only thing on your mind for over a week. Did you think you could eliminate two threats at the same time this way? Are you that naïve?”
“You’re one to make accusations of naïveté, wizard,” she said. “I know now you’re not the real Cazuvel. I’m going to find you, and when I do, I’ll cut off your hands and feed them to my sivaks.”
“Oh, but you are blind, Highmaster! You are too wrapped up in your own ambition. If you weren’t so preoccupied, you might have seen the clues years ago, Rivven Cairn.”
How odd, Rivven thought. He’s actually gloating. Not only gloating, leaking useful information. Imposter though he was, he had Cazuvel’s insecurity mimicked almost perfectly.
“You’re just one man, wizard. I have the resources of an entire wing of the red dragonarmy at my disposal. I only need to speak the word, and a flight of dragons and draconians will fall upon you and tear you apart.”
The wizard laughed; his laughter shook the surface of the water, causing ripples that distorted the wizard’s image. “I think it will not be that easy. Perhaps your own mistakes will fall upon you and tear you apart.”
“Is that a threat, wizard? I’m the one who contacted you.”
“Yes, Highmaster. And you will note that I still answered.”
Astonished at his bravado, Rivven ran several responses through her head, readying at least one of them, but before she could say a word to that effect, the water erupted in her face. A thin, bleach-white fist thrust up through the scrying dish and into her jaw, sending her spinning backward into a row of chairs, trailed by a spray of blood.
The voice of Cazuvel called out from the water. “I am the greater sorcerer! I am the true heir to the power of the Abyss! You are nothing! Prepare yourself for your doom, Highmaster!”
Her mouth formed a tight line as Rivven stood and lashed out at the upstart. Fiery magic rose rapidly to the surface of her conscious mind. A blast of white-hot flame incinerated the dish, the water boiling instantly away into vapor, the papers and maps and the table itself bursting into flame. Only then did she collapse back into the broken chairs and, somewhat ruefully, nurse her split lip.
When Aubec and the other servants raced in, Rivven had already placed the helm back on her head and was on her feet. The table was still on fire. The servants dragged flammable objects and materials away from the scene of destruction. Rivven simply stood to one side and watched, collecting herself and her thoughts.
“My lady?” asked Aubec without raising his voice. She admired that calm quality about him.
“Yes, Aubec.”
“Shall I fetch a new table?”
“Yes, Aubec.”
Rivven sighed. Either the wizard masquerading as the real Cazuvel was more powerful than she realized or he was more than just a wizard. If not a wizard, then what was he?
