was actually seeing it. But the mages chanted louder, more insistently-and it clotted somehow, becoming more definite if no more solid.
The disk darkened, as though reflecting a place more dimly lit than the cellar. Stars glittered in a stripe down its center. The borders were the facades of buildings rising toward the sky.
A shadow leaped, or conceivably flew, across the open space between them.
After a few heartbeats it sprang again, exactly as before. Then a third time and a fourth. But it was so tiny and fleeting that even repeated viewings didn’t enable Gaedynn to determine anything more about it.
Then, however, by almost infinitesimal degrees, it started slowing down. At the same time, and just as gradually, it grew larger. Closer. Before, the magic had in effect put Gaedynn on the street, where Medrash had stood in actuality. Now it was like he was rising into the air.
“They’re doing it,” Khouryn whispered.
Then Medrash grunted and lurched like someone had struck him a blow. A white crack zigzagged through the mirror’s darkness.
After a moment the jagged line disappeared, like the wizards’ chant had repaired the damage. But now the shadow wasn’t drawing any closer, or making its jump any more slowly either. And Medrash was shaking.
“I don’t like this,” Balasar said.
More cracks stabbed across the mirror. The wizards chanted louder still and spun their instruments through circular figures. The wands and other talismans left trails of sparks and shimmers in the air.
The cracks kept disappearing. But they lasted longer than they had before. Then a gash split the scaly hide on Medrash’s forearm. Blood welled forth. An expanding stain on the front of his tunic revealed that something had slashed his chest as well.
“Stop!” Balasar shouted.
The mages kept on reciting. A forked cut burst open among the white studs on Medrash’s face.
“I’ve seen this before,” said Gaedynn, springing to his feet. “The wizards can’t stop. They’re in a trance. But if we get Medrash out of the pentagram, that should halt the ritual.”
“Then come on,” Balasar said.
The three observers strode in among the wizards. If any of the mages even noticed, Gaedynn couldn’t tell it.
But Medrash did. He turned his reptilian head so the yellow eyes under the protruding brow could regard them. Praise be to the Great Archer for that, anyway.
“Go to the stairs,” said Balasar, raising his voice to make himself heard above the chanting.
“No,” Medrash said. “I can do this, and it’s my duty.”
“You can’t and it isn’t.” Balasar turned to Gaedynn and Khouryn. “We’ll have to move him.”
“Fine,” said the dwarf. He grabbed Medrash’s forearm. Gaedynn and Balasar took hold of him as well, and they started to manhandle him away from the spot where Jhesrhi had put him.
Medrash resisted, but more feebly than Gaedynn expected of such a hulking warrior. It was like he was partly entranced himself, or dividing his attention between struggling with his would-be rescuers and reliving the instant when he’d glimpsed the murderer.
Unfortunately, the magic resisted on his behalf. The air seemed to thicken around them until it was like they were trying to walk while submerged in mud. Even Khouryn, the strongest soldier in the Brotherhood, had trouble making headway. Meanwhile, Medrash’s hide split and split again, up and down the length of his body, until it seemed likely he’d bleed to death before they hauled him to safety.
As he shoved and dragged, Gaedynn caught glimpses of Jhesrhi and Aoth, oblivious to the struggle, prisoners of their own conjuration. For an instant it reminded him of the day his father’s warriors came to deliver him to the elves. He’d promised himself he’d be brave, but he was only seven. When the time arrived, he begged to be spared, but his parents and everyone else he loved and trusted simply stood and stared.
Khouryn let go of Medrash and, his hands red with the Tymantheran’s blood, snatched the urgrosh from his back. He chopped at one of the glowing blue lines composing the figure. The edge sheared deep into the earthen floor beneath. But when he yanked the weapon free, Gaedynn saw that enchanted though it was, it had failed to cleave something made of intangible light.
Balasar spewed frost at the same patch of floor. Dragon breath was inherently magical, so Gaedynn supposed dragonborn breath must be also, but it too failed to mar the pattern.
Still, he thought Khouryn’s idea was a good one. Spoil the figure involved in raising a supernatural effect and you generally ended said effect, even if the tactic had failed dismally in Thay.
Even indoors, even in relaxed circumstances, Gaedynn usually carried a few arrows riding in a slim doeskin quiver on his belt. He felt incomplete without them. And by good fortune, he currently had one of the special shafts Jhesrhi had enchanted for him. He snatched it out and stabbed the head into one of the luminous green handprints.
The charge of countermagic in the narrow arrowhead sent nullification surging outward in all directions, an expanding ring that wiped the figure of light away. The floating mirror vanished too, and Medrash’s skin stopped splitting. The wizards’ chant stumbled to a halt. The cellar seemed profoundly silent without it.
Until Medrash drew a deep breath. “I don’t know whether to thank you or rebuke you.”
“Thank them,” said Aoth. He let his spear drop to hang casually in his grasp. A blue-green glow faded from the head. “That was completely out of control.”
“And heal yourself,” said Balasar. “You’re bleeding all over everything.”
“What just happened?” Gaedynn asked. “Is the murderer in the room? Did he subvert the magic?”
Jhesrhi brushed a stray strand of blonde hair away from her golden eyes. “I don’t think so. It seems to me that he has a powerful ward in place to keep anyone from using divination against him.” She glanced around at her fellow mages. “Do you agree?”
All speaking more or less at the same time, they indicated that they did.
“So what does that mean?” Gaedynn asked. “The killer is a wizard unknown to us or the authorities? Someone who never had his hands tattooed?”
“Maybe,” said Aoth, “or he could be a practitioner of divine magic.”
“That sounds promising,” Khouryn growled, returning his axe to its harness. “I can just see a bunch of Chessentan mages trying to pin the murders on a Chessentan holy man.”
“There are other possibilities,” Jhesrhi said. “Maybe the killer simply possesses a formidable talisman or receives aid from a supernatural entity. Or is a supernatural entity himself.”
“In other words,” Gaedynn said, “finding out about this defense doesn’t point us at any one suspect or group of suspects. So we still need magic to track the whoreson down. Now that you know about the ward, can you punch through it?”
“I’m game to try,” Medrash said. Gaedynn saw that some of the dragonborn’s wounds looked halfway healed, and the rest had at least stopped bleeding.
Aoth smiled crookedly. “Considering that we damn near killed you, I don’t know whether to praise your courage or doubt your good sense. But I have no idea how to get around that ward. Does anybody else?”
“I wouldn’t want to try to improvise a method,” Oraxes said. “Next time it could be me getting sliced to pieces.”
“But given time and study,” said the elderly witch, “we may well find the key.”
“How much time?” asked Aoth.
She shrugged her bony shoulders. “A couple of tendays. Perhaps a month.”
“I have eight days left. That’s the bargain I made with the war hero.”
“So where does that leave us?” Khouryn asked. “We just keep patrolling and hope to catch the killer at his work?”
“No.” Gaedynn picked at a tacky splotch of blood on his sleeve. Futilely; the garment was rather obviously ruined unless he could persuade Jhesrhi to remove the stains with magic. “That hasn’t worked any better than the ritual. For whatever reason, we aren’t able to stalk or track this particular beast. But there’s another way to hunt. You set out bait and wait for the animal to come to you.”
“Interesting,” said Medrash. “But is it practical in this situation? The Green Hand doesn’t kill any particular sort of person-”
“Rumor has it,” Oraxes said, “that he kills people who have a particularly strong hatred of mages.
