Given the continued support of the guilds, or some significant victories such as the seizure and garrisoning of western Alamie, the war could go on for years. It had taken over all their lives, and Derwyn was weary unto death of it.
Once, and only once, he had broached the subject of a negotiated peace.
His father had flown into such a rage that Derwyn never brought it up again. Still, it seemed the only sane alternative. Assuming Michael would negotiate. And knowing Michael …
well, he didn’t really know him anymore, did he?
Michael seemed to truly care about his people. Perhaps he would be willing to negotiate a treaty wherein Boeruine, Taeghas, Talinie, and Brosengae could form their separate empire, but the Michael he remembered would not give up on anything. And so it went on. And on, and on, and on …
“Milord,” said Arwyn’s chamberlain, entering the hall, “the wizard waits without and craves an audience.”
“Send him in,” Arwyn said in a sullen tone, gesturing for the servants to clear away the plates. “Perhaps he has some good news to report. I could use some for a change.”
A moment later, Callador came in, walking slowly and supporting himself with his staff. Derwyn had no idea how old Callador was, but he looked ancient. As a child, Derwyn had been afraid of him because whenever he had misbehaved, his governess had threatened to have the wizard turn him into a newt or strike him dumb or make him “feel the fires.” He had never been entirely clear on what it meant to “feel the fires,” but it had certainly sounded unpleasant. Such impressions, gained at an early age, died hard, and Derwyn still felt uneasy in the wizard’s presence.
He shifted in his chair uncomfortably as Callador approached.
He was as bald as an egg and extremely thin, so slender that it looked as if a stiff breeze would blow him over. He had no hair at all, neither beard nor eyebrows, the result of some illness he had contracted many years ago, which had also left his voice hoarse and gravelly.
Perhaps he could have cured these conditions with magic or gone to a healer, but he didn’t seem to care. He was not very much concerned with his personal appearance, as evidenced by the threadbare robes he always wore, which were a faded brown wool, coarsely woven.
Derwyn grimaced, hoping he would stop before he got too close. He smelled perpetually of garlic, and his body odor would have stunned an ox. His father, apparently sharing his olfactory sensitivities, spoke before the wizard got within a dozen yards of them.
“What news, Callador?” he said curtly.
The wizard stopped and stood, leaning on his long staff as he gazed up at the dais where they sat a6i at the long table. “I bring word from our special friend at the Imperial Cairn,” he said.
Derwyn raised his eyebrows and glanced from the wizard to his father.
“We have an informant at the palace of Anuire?” he asked with surprise.
Arwyn smiled. “It has been a fairly recent development,” he replied.
“One that has taken some time and considerable trouble to arrange.”
“And you never told me?”
His father shrugged. “There was no pressing need for you to know.”
Then, as if abruptly realizing he had indirectly spoken deprecatingly of his own son, he added, “Besides, I was not certain how reliable this source would be. Considering . . .” He let it hang. “Well, what is the report?”
“I was not given the report, milord,” Callador replied. “As usual, our friend desires to speak with you directly.” He glanced at Derwyn.
“Perhaps I should leave,” said Derwyn stiffly. He pushed back his chair and started to get up. “With your permission, Father. .
“No, stay,” said Arwyn, waving him back down.
He turned to Callador. “Proceed. I have no secrets from my son.”
You have secrets even from yourself, thought Derwyn, but he said nothing as he resumed his seat. He was highly curious as to who this source might be.
The wizard shrugged, then extended his staff and slowly outlined a circle on the floor with it, about nine feet in diameter, Derwyn guessed. It was difficult to tell, because the staff did not leave any mark upon the stone floor. However, even though the circle he’d just laboriously drawn was invisible, Callador seemed to know exactly where its boundaries
?6a
were. Having drawn it with his staff, mumbling some sort of incantation all the while, he next proceeded to remove a vial of some clear liquid, perhaps water, perhaps something more esoteric for all Derwyn knew, which he proceeded to sprinkle around the edges of the circle, again mumbling all the while. He stoppered the vial, though it was now empty, and put it away within the folds of his robes.
Then he removed a small, well-worn leather pouch tied with drawstrings.
From the pouch, he took pinches of herbs, rosemary-Derwyn recognized the bright green needles-mixed with something else. Once again, he went around the outside of the circle, sprinkling the herbs upon the floor.
Now, at least, with a faint dusting of herbs outlining the circle, its boundaries were clearly visible.
Callador took his time carefully pulling the drawstrings of the pouch closed and tying them, then put it away, reached into another hidden pocket of his robe, and took out several thick candle stubs. He placed four white candle stubs on the floor on the outside of the circle-north, east, south, and west, muttering under his breath as he did so. Finally, he reached into his robe once again and pulled out a piece of chalk.
This time, he went inside the circle and outlined it with the chalk, then drew an arcane rune inside it.
Arwyn sighed and rolled his eyes with impatience. It seemed to be taking an
