groves. In Palanthas, one couldn’t take three steps without becoming overwhelmed by mindless terror. Even doughty Solamnic Knights fled, screaming of claws in the earth and faces in the trees. In Daltigoth, the whispering of the wind through the branches lulled folk’s wits, plunging them into deep slumber. When they woke, they found themselves lying just outside the forest’s edge. In Losarcum, the exotic scents that hung within the grove drove men mad with passion, muddying their wits with illusions of their hearts’ greatest desires, then leading them away from Tower, back out of the grove again.
The grove in Istar clouded the mind, too, but in a different way. Those who entered disappeared without a trace-sometimes for hours, sometimes days. They always emerged again, but when they did they had no idea what had happened to them or even why they had entered in the first place … only a deep certainty that they did not want to return.
Cathan regarded the grove with narrowed eyes as he approached, the clack of his armored boots against the cobbles unnaturally loud in his ears. His hand kept straying to Ebonbane’s hilt. That, he knew, was pointless. Whatever lurked within the sorcerers’ wood, no mere sword would help against it.
He’d been hoping the wizards’ envoy would be waiting for him outside the grove, but there was no sign of her. By the time he reached the trees, his whole body was tingling with apprehension. He stopped, close enough that had the idea not horrified him so, he could have reached up and plucked the fruit from the olives’ boughs. He tried peering through the grove, but it was too dense.
“H-hello?” he asked. “Is any-”
It happened so swiftly, he had no time to react. At the sound of his voice, the trees before him drew apart, creaking like a hundred drawn bows. The ones behind them did the same an eye blink later, and so on, deeper and deeper, the grove splitting like cloth tearing in two. The rip revealed a path of dark, moist earth, leading all the way through to the sparkling stone of the Tower.
Cathan shuddered, remembering what the magical lips had said.
“Bloody right, I won’t,” he muttered.
He was nearly a third of the way through when he felt the first urge. It wasn’t very strong, but it still unsettled him, for he knew it didn’t come from his own mind. It only dwelt there, a tiny breath of a voice, whispering in his ear.
He bit his tongue, trying to ignore the strange voice. His task was simple. All he had to do was walk from one end of the path to the other, find the sorceress, then go back. Leave the path? He chuckled. Why? What possible reason-
For an instant, his body tried to disobey him, twisting sharply to the left. His feet took two steps off the path, into the trees. With a gasp, Cathan caught a trunk at the trail’s edge to steady himself, then stood still, breathing hard. He was halfway there now. Surely he could make it the rest of the way. Carefully, he pushed himself back onto the path, then began to edge forward again.
“No!” he shouted, pushing back against the voice. “Damn you-”
Snarling, he threw himself into a run, hurling himself toward the Tower. He squeezed his eyes shut, beating his knuckles against the sides of his head. He would
“Shut up!” he shouted. “Stop it! Shut up shut up shut-”
A branch cracked under his foot.
He stopped, his heart lurching. There were no branches on the path. His mouth tasting like it was full of copper coins, he cracked his eyes open and groaned. He was surrounded by olive trees.
Whipping around, he saw where he had stepped off the path, arrowing through the wood, maybe a dozen steps behind him. Spitting an oath, he started back.
Even as he moved, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Something had invaded his mind, a presence like the edge of some great shadow, darkening his thoughts. Each step was harder than the last, as if someone had tied weights to his feet … weights that grew steadily heavier as he went. Tears made trails of frustration on his cheeks.
“No,” he groaned.
He tried to lunge forward, but the magic had caught hold of him. His knees buckled, and then he was falling … falling …
“Blast,” Leciane muttered, watching the knight go down.
She’d been watching him, marking his progress along the path, and had realized he was in trouble the first time he hesitated. The magic had fought him harder than she’d expected. It could be like that-often, the grove seemed to have a mind of its own. It particularly went after folk who had little love for sorcery. Which, she thought with a smirk, was just about everyone these days.
She glanced around. There were no other mages outside the Tower. The others who dwelt there had remained within, in case their presence made the Kingpriest’s man even more nervous. They would be watching, though, through windows and scrying glasses.
Some would be amused at the knight’s fate. She scowled, wondering if the Black Robes might have added power to its enchantment. They would rejoice in having bested one of the Kingpriest’s men.
Leciane wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. Rolling up her sleeves, she hurried down the path, to where the knight had blundered off into the brush. Taking a deep breath, she wove her fingers in the air, tracing a complicated pattern that ended with a sharp forward shove, aimed at the trees.
“
The olives resisted, like a child refusing to give up a plaything. Delving deeper, she tightened her grip on the magic that coursed through her and shoved a second time. This time, motes of silver-blue light swept out from her palms in waves. When the pulse of power reached the trees, they shuddered aside. She could feel the grove’s resentment as it pulled back from the knight.
“You shouldn’t have taken him in the first place,” she snapped, hurrying down the new path.
He lay on his side, curled in a ball, eyes clenched shut. His whole body was shivering.
Dropping to one knee, Leciane leaned over him. “Enough. Wake up.”
“Gng,” he replied, curling up tighter.
“I said wake up,” she insisted, grabbing his shoulder to shake him.
At her touch, he sucked in a deep breath, and his eyes flew open. Leciane stumbled back, nearly falling. They were empty, pupilless. Confusion creased his face. The grove had done its work. He had forgotten why he was here.
“Well, well,” she said. “Cathan Twice-Born.”
“What… what in the Abyss-” he sputtered.
Smiling, she offered him her hand. “Come on, get up. Let’s get you out of here, and I’ll explain everything.”
CHAPTER 7
Cathan followed the strange woman out of the wood, questions roiling in his mind. Who was she? What was he doing here, at the Tower of High Sorcery?
“I’m Leciane do Cirica,” she explained once they were beyond the olives, back in the square that surrounded the Tower. “The order’s new envoy. Unless I’m mistaken, you came here on behalf of your Kingpriest.”
That sounded right, more or less. He could recall parts, dimly. Magical lips in the floor.
