Arch Wizard

And her eyes had just snapped open, literally flaming in fury.

Taeauna knew just where she was and what Malraun had done to her. She also knew the blundering of his rival Doom had just freed her from Malraun's control.

Worst of all, she knew again who really held her in thrall.

Lorontar. A greater wizard than both of the Dooms working together, who had just reached out from where he'd been hiding in the depths of her mind for so long, to take over that shattered control so smoothly that Malraun the Matchless had not even paused in his snorings. Let alone noticed, even as a shadow in his ongoing happy dreams of forcing himself upon her, that anything was amiss.

She was appalled at how long ago she'd first fallen under his-by the Falcon, how subtle! — sway. Using her as his tool to influence her fellow Aumrarr, to reach out to a Shaper on Earth named Rod Everlar…

Her appalled anger awakened quiet amusement in the mind now gripping hers.

Lorontar smiled at her, in the depths of her mind. As he held her mind in a grasp so strong she could do nothing but his will. Right now he was keeping her still and silent, and hooding the fires of her anger, gently returning her eyes to their usual appearance.

Seething inwardly, Taeauna of the Aumrarr lay silent and helpless under the exhausted and obliviously snoring Malraun.

Rod had spent sleepless nights before, tossing and turning, but he'd never realized just how uncomfortable a bed could be. The cloaks, tunics, and breeches he'd heaped on the floor slid and shifted under him, repeatedly dumping his head low while his feet stayed high. Buttons, pulls, and sewn-on carry-rings galore jabbed at him bruisingly, and the gowns he'd pulled over himself demonstrated a distressing tendency to wait until he was just drifting off to sleep-and then slide, all in a heavy heap, down to bury his face and leave him fighting for air.

It was almost as if Malraun or some impish apprentice left behind by the Matchless Doom was laughing at him and casting one taunting, toying little magic after another to keep him awake, even now that a vast weariness had risen to conquer him.

He could not get to sleep, could not…

What was that?

There had been a stirring sound, or sounds, in the other room. About where the bed was.

Oh, bloody hell-another Telrorna? Did the bed magically spit undead skeletons out, or was there some sort of hidden trapdoor underneath it, that they could come up through?

He grunted his weary way to his feet, and strode unsteadily to the door, to see what was making those faint noises. Before it came for him.

Then he stopped, stared, and chuckled.

Some magic of Malraun's had failed, or faded away-and what did that mean? — and all the cloth and leather on and about the four-poster bed were melting away to nothingness, leaving only a bare bed and a bare and hairy man on it, waking bleary and bewildered.

Onthras blinked at Rod, extended a sleepy hand to point and growl, 'L-lord Archwizard? Weren't you s'posed to be-'

Just then a wave of half-seen magic rolled through the air and snatched him away, leaving the bed empty.

And taking away Rod's mirth, too.

Was Onthras dead? Or snatched away somewhere else? Or had he been some sort of illusion all along?

Rod doubted it. Yet there was no way, by the Falcon, that he was going anywhere near that bed now.

It was back to his uncomfortable heaps of clothes, and trying hard to sleep, to dream of destroying this tower behind Malraun's back.

Or so he hoped. Rod collapsed back onto the heaped garments with a sour sigh. Could anything be managed behind Malraun's back?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

'Irrance,' Lady Tesmer's voice came coldly out of the darkness, 'come back to bed. All of this lordly striding about in the darkness disturbs my slumber. And just what do you think you'll need that sword for?'

'I–I was thinking of war, and… and ruling Ironthorn,' her husband mumbled. He waved the slender naked longsword with both hands as he spoke, but he was brandishing it a little less flamboyantly than he'd been flourishing it a moment or two ago. For an instant, as it sliced empty air, it caught moonlight through the tinted window-panes, and its edge blazed up a cold bright blue. 'It… it found its way into my hand, somehow. Felt good there.'

'Time was when other things would find their ways into your hands at this time of night, and more than one of us would feel good, thereby,' Telclara Tesmer said bitingly. 'But the years have wrought changes, haven't they?'

'Clara,' her lord replied quietly, his voice a little sullen. 'I wish you wouldn't do this. I really do.'

'I wish I didn't have to do it, but if I don't, you start to swagger like a game-cock and strut around spewing nonsense. Dangerous nonsense.'

When he made no reply, she added sadly, 'One of the maids heard you talking to our warriors this evening. Calling yourself 'Lord of Ironthorn' again.'

'Well, and so I shall be!' Lord Irrance Tesmer said sharply. 'Soon, too, from what the Master gave me to understand! At long last, to rule this-'

'Irrance, the Master gave you nothing of the kind. I heard his every word, remember? Now put down that sword before you hurt yourself or break something, and get over here!'

'I-' Lord Tesmer was not a foolish man, no matter how often his wife proclaimed him so. Nor did his temper tend to ride down and trample his caution. With foes and threats he knew well, his wisdom steered his gallop time and again into prudent ways. Telclara's voice was more familiar to him than anything else, and he knew that particular tone very well.

'Yes, dear,' he replied meekly, carefully laying the sword down on the crudest and least expensive of the three seats in the room-the one she wanted replaced, the moment she found just the right chair to serve in its place-and wending his way through the concentric arcs of hanging tapestries to their great new fortress of a bed.

The bed, grandest in all Falconfar, for all he knew. It was what Telclara wanted- everything was what Telclara wanted-and towered up in the center of the room like a great Stormar temple idol. Lord Tesmer felt like a thief slinking into a castle every night. Telclara's castle.

A glow was kindling in it. When he ducked past the last tapestry, brushing aside its translucent fall of white silk, he saw his wife had awakened the light of her enchanted mirror and held it under her chin so he could see her smiling at him in welcome.

It was a kind smile, devoid of sneer or anger, but the warm affection she meant to convey was marred by the coldly steady radiance of the mirror lighting her face from below. It gave her an eerie appearance, as if some fell spirit had stolen inside his wife's body and taken it over, to use it to lure him into its clutches.

Irrance Tesmer forced a smile onto his own face and held out his hand, but was unable to keep the gesture from seeming tentative.

'Lady?' he asked gently, feeling once more the uncertain courting lad he'd been, so long ago.

Her smile widened and went tender. She beckoned him, deftly undoing the catch at the throat of her bodice so it fell open, baring her to her waist.

Lord Tesmer swallowed. By the Falcon, but she was still beautiful!

'Tel,' he whispered, daring to use the pet name he'd called her by when they were both young, as he put his arms rather gingerly around her, 'you look… look so…'

She was deftly drawing apart his night-wrap, thrusting the long robes back over his shoulders to bare him, too.