Nightseer

"Keleios, Keleios!"



The smoke-hazed air clogged her throat. She huddled on the floor, letting the smoke rise to the ceiling, trying to breathe. Pieces of the floor erupted in flame. Shelves crashed, crumpling in flames to meet the floor.



The voice called urgently, "Keleios, hear me!"



The heat seared her skin, too near. Her eyes teared, and breath was agony.



A cool wind brushed her cheek, a slim white hand reaching out to her. She grasped the hand as the roof groaned and began to bend fire-eaten beams to the floor.



Cool thoughts came to her. "Not real, it is not real. Vision cannot harm you. You are safe."



Keleios stood in the fire and did not burn. A vision -- now she remembered. This had not come to pass yet and could not truly harm.



The spectacle began to fade. The fire was a dim orange mist. A last wisp of acrid smoke, a flash of burning, and it was gone.



Keleios found herself lying in the dark; strong arms pinned her against a cloth-covered chest. The cloth was silk and black as darkness. Only one person in the entire keep would be so blatant as to wear the color of Loth, god of bloodshed: Lothor. Lothor the Black Healer. Keleios wanted to move away from his touch, but she shivered in reaction to vision, so cold. She was so tired, and yet the dream remained. She could not afford another vision like that.



She struggled away from the restraining arms, still shaking. Keleios crawled to the end of the shelf row; she didn't have strength to go further. Her arms encircled her knees in an effort to stop shivering. A flexing of right arm and left calf showed that both daggers were still in place. A red witchlight sprang to life over the man's shoulder and cast his high-boned face in crimson relief.



"Don't you ever sleep, Lothor?" she asked.



"Not often," he said without a trace of a smile. "When you can walk, I will help you to your destination."



Keleios opened her mouth, ready to say, "But I don't need help." Truth was truth, but why did it have to be him? "It was you calling me. How did you know what to do? I thought prophecy was rare in Lolth."



"My brother was a visionary. I am accustomed to assassination attempts in Lolth, but not here in Zeln's school."



"What do you mean assassination attempt?"



He made a sharp sound, half-laugh, half-snort. "Still don't trust me? Well, Keleios, someone put a binding spell on you, and I had to break it to free you from your vision. If it had been I that wanted you dead, I could have stood and watched."



Keleios leaned against the books and closed her eyes for a moment. "Thank you for saving me."



"It was my . . . pleasure." And the last word rolled off his tongue full of obscene suggestion.



She opened her eyes and stared at him. He came closer; the red witchlight gave fiery highlights to the fur at his throat.



"Why do you do that?"



"Do what?" His face didn't achieve innocence, but he looked puzzled.



Keleios shook her head. "It doesn't matter." She stood, forcing herself not to cling to the shelves. "I believe we can go now."



He made no protest, did not try to question her further. He knew the sound in her voice and it meant that the subject had been changed. It irritated her that Lothor could read her so well.



He had spent the last three months learning about her. He had questioned everyone who would talk to him and had made every effort to court her properly. Keleios wished him gone.



She staggered, and he caught her, his arm like iron under her hand. Keleios looked up at him. He was impossibly tall for a Varellian, but then he was half-human. Under the dark silk of a black healer prince were broad shoulders and a body too slender for a human of the same height and girth. Black fur edged his collar and decorated the hem of his jerkin, which fell just above his knees. The only color was the glimpse of red on red-patterned silk that told the color of his doublet, hidden under all that blackness. His hair fell straight and thick, baby fine, past his shoulders. It was the color of fresh-fallen snow. His skin was frost, and his eyes were the silver of old ice in the winter sun. He was an ice elf stretched out of shape, but still showing why they were considered one of the most beautiful of races.



Of course, the word elf was an insult to a Varellian. Keleios had never understood why, but the white elves considered themselves better than that. Calling a Varellian an elf to his or her face could get a person killed. Lothor knew nothing of being a Varellian. He would not know ice elf was an insult. Blood alone didn't make one an elf of any kind.



She looked down and felt a blush creep up her face. She had been staring at him.



He laughed, a rich throaty sound that threw his pale face into friendly lines. Keleios tried to pull away but he held her and said, "I am sorry, but it is so seldom that you show interest. For weeks I have waited. Your favorite color is green. Your best sorceries are those dealing with fire and cold. Even though you can do many things with a flexing of mind, you prefer to use herb- witchery. You like the slow building of power. You feel more in control that way." His arms wrapped across her back, and she glared at him. "I have studied you like a rare book. I know you, but you ignore me. Tonight you felt the drawing of my body as I feel yours."



Anger lent her strength, and she pulled away from him, enchanted might against enchanted might. "What do you want, black healer?"



"You, to be my wife."



"I am not ready to give you an answer."



His silver eyes traced her body, and he said, "You should decide soon," He stepped close and stared down at her. " Royal marriages are so often a matter of borders, especially when the two countries in question . . . touch."



"Don't threaten me, or pressure me." She swayed, putting a hand in front of her face. The power was back, nagging, tricking. She smiled at him, unpleasantly, and reached a hand to caress his face.



The touch of the leather glove made him jump back. Fear showed for a moment. Then a sickly smile crossed his lips. "You wouldn't dare."



"Tonight, Lothor, I might," She walked past him and scooped up her enchanted pouch from where it had fallen.



"I have something for that pouch of yours."



Keleios turned reluctantly. He held out a thick black book. It was surrounded by dark flames. The first creepings of returned power strengthened at the sight of that book.



"Do you make a habit of overhearing other people's conversations?"



"Yes." He smiled and extended his arm. His fingers were like white roots against the black covers, as if when she reached to take it, the hand would come with it like a parasite, drawing strength.



He stood patiently as if he could stand offering her evil forever. The red glow of his sorcery turned his white hair to blood, and she touched the dagger in its arm sheath for reassurance.



She went to him.



Her hand closed on the binding, and it sent a shock through the leather glove, a burning over the mark on her palm. She knew this book, or one like it. A pale shadow of it had resided on the Grey Isle. Six years ago that slim copy, a bare handful of this book's worth, had been used against Belor and her. It had conjured demons and opened the way to the pit. Harque the Witch had valued it above all other powers. Yet, her prophecy told her this one must be guarded. Those who come after could do great harm with it. The enchanted pouch quenched the black flames, and the book slid from sight. The burning in her hand did not stop, and she rubbed it against her leg. She had a strong desire to uncover her hand and rub the pain. There was a need to feel cool air on it. There was a great sense of lightness to her taking the book, but it was dangerous. It was peril in a way she could not define.



As if aware of the dark volume passing through her hands a cry came from nearby. "Keleios!"



She stepped from between the shelves, and she could feel Lothor following close behind. A circle of flame licked and wavered, casting orange shadows on the shelves. Glimpsed between the flames was Belor. Her last thoughts had been to keep him safe, but the flames had been so close. He was imprisoned, but not harmed, safe from her vision, but trapped.



Lothor spoke quietly. "He doesn't look happy."



"The vision came without proper warning. I was afraid I would harm him by accident."



"I suppose he's safe enough, but he isn't going to be pleased with you."



A shiver ran up her spine, and her left hand demanded attention. "He isn't happy, but if I free him now, he'll ask questions, waste time with concern and answers, and apologies." There wasn't time for all that, and Keleios turned and walked down the main aisle. Belor did not yell after her; perhaps he could not see through the flames.



Lothor followed witchlight bobbing ahead of them like a bloated will o' wisp.



When they stood in the open hallway, she turned to him. "I thank you for your help, but I am feeling much better now. My destination lies only a few steps away."



"I am not so easily dismissed. You are still weak. I will see you through the door."



"I do not need your protection, Prince Lothor."



"But I have already protected all your prophecies tonight."



"All my prophecies?"



"I was prophet keeper tonight."



Anger and something close to fear flashed through her. "You do not belong to this school. You are only a guest, albeit a long-staying one."



He smiled, and his silver eyes glittered. "I have been here so long, I have been granted privileges."



The power was returning. Her skin crawled with it, and a tic began in her left cheek. She wanted to be rid of him and his cursed question. So easy -- just say it was accidental, too much power and one veiled insult too many. Keleios shook her head to clear such thoughts away. It was the sorcery talking; it wanted use. The dream was urgent, and something had to give soon.



She clenched her fists and spoke carefully. "Are you here merely to torment or is there a purpose to it?"



"I have had but one purpose since I arrived." He moved beside her smoothly, with a fencer's grace. His silver eyes met hers, and she would not look away. "Will you marry me?"



"I have told you many times that you must be patient."



"I have been patient. I believe that you would answer no if I were not a prince and heir to a throne. It is not polite to refuse a prince hurriedly." Anger showed on his face. His whiteness flushed slightly, eyes sparking.



"If you believe that is your answer, then go, leave me in peace." She turned from him.



He called after her, "You will not be rid of me that easily, Keleios Nightseer."



She stopped, trying to breathe through the power. It choked her, demanding to be freed. He would choose to use a demon-got name, reminding her that he had ties with them, too. She dared not move, only breathe in and out.



He stepped round her and brought her left hand upward. His angry eyes watched hers, saw the struggle in them. He turned it palm upward and kissed the leather glove softly. "My poor little enchanter, half-good and half-bad, how confusing."



"Lothor, please."



"We could end it now. Fight, and you would be rid of me."



She stared at him, the magic pulsing close. "You would give me such a way out?"



"I, yes; my father who sent me, no." He touched her shoulder, and an answering sorcery welled in his fingers. "I would spare us both an unhappy marriage if I were allowed to." His hand fell to his side. "But I am not my master."



"Everyone should be their own master at least part of the time, Lothor." She walked around him, breathing carefully through the magic that threatened to spill over. Tiny bits of magic flitted through the hallway.



She stood in front of Master Poula's door, but before she could speak, a voice called, "Come in, dear."



Keleios pushed the door inward with magic and stepped into the dark room like a storm about to break.



The room was as dark as the tower had been. Rushes squeaked underfoot, each step pressing the strewing herbs to fragrance. The pine scent of rosemary, spearmint, peppermint, and some fruit mint, perhaps apple, filled the air. Mint and rosemary were old favorites of Master Poula's. The smells calmed Keleios. No lights and the soothing spell upon the floor showed Poula had been prepared for a dream-heavy Keleios. She too was a prophet, if only of cards.



The master sat very still at a small round table. It was formed of ash and dark with polish. It was mildly enchanted to strengthen her card prophecies and her healing teas. She wore a loose belted robe that Keleios had seen before. It was deep forest green with white edging it round. Herbs were embroidered on the white border, but there was nothing of magic in it, not even for an herb-witch. It was just a pretty robe.



In the gloom Poula's face bore terrible scars: one eye nearly shut with scar tissue, the other an empty blackness. Her long brown hair, turning grey, was unbound. The smooth blank mask that she usually wore lay beside her on the table. Keleios was privileged to be one of a handful who ever saw her unmasked.



She was blind, but through the enchanted necklace that she wore objects were outlined with color like auras. It was a singular joy to Poula that Keleios did not need lights. Even though it did not hide her scars from the half-elven, Poula was more comfortable in the dark.



Once, a much younger Keleios had asked how she came to have those scars. It was of endless debate among the apprentices and journeymen, of what she hid and why, and how. Poula looked past the child and seemed to be looking at other things, then said, "Once I was young and foolish. I was challenged by a sorceress and I met her in the arena. I could have killed her. She lay at my feet and could not move but I worshipped Mother Blessen and gave mercy." She turned her blind eyes to Keleios and said, "But she was evil, and because I left her alive, she did this to me."



As far as Keleios knew, she was the only apprentice to be honored with the story, and she told no one. It was this story that had given Keleios the courage, or the fear, to kill in the arena. Two challenges, two deaths, both as a journeyman. No one had challenged her since she returned from her quest and became a master. There had been one challenge after she was stripped of her master's rank, but official rank or not, she had been a master, and the sorcerer had died.



"Come in, child. I have a cup of tea ready for you."



"Master Poula, I have come to prophesy."



"I am aware of that. The tea will help you control your powers. Bits of magic, like colored fireflies, dance round you. Drink, then prophesy."



Keleios held out her hand; the cup and saucer flew to her. The movement was too fast, and the amber-green liquid spilled over the rim. "Loth's blood, can I do nothing right tonight?"



"Be eased, child; the tea will remove the last lingering touches of the spell that nearly killed you twice tonight."



The cup was delicate white with sprigs of blue lavender painted on its side. Its curved handle fit her fingers nicely, small. She took a deep breath of the tea's steam. Peppermint, so strong that it made one think of summer and fresh-crushed leaves. The fruity fragrance of camomile, like faint summer apples. Keleios raised the gilt edge to her mouth and sipped the liquid. It was hot, but not scalding, and it carried magic. There was the faint sweetness of lavender flowers, the familiar fragrant valerian root, fennel, and milfoil. Keleios knew the spell well. Each draught hardened her calm; each drop chased back one of the flitting spells. When it was finished, she levitated it carefully back to the table and sat it next to the small round teapot.



"Do you feel better?"



"Much, thank you, master."



She chuckled. "That's what I'm here for." She settled back in her chair and did not offer one to Keleios -- she knew better. "Well, child, tell your dream."



Keleios stood and stared at the darkened walls. Deep breaths for control, channel the power, and she touched the steel calm that held the dream back. The steel split, and the dream came free like a butterfly winter long imprisoned.



"And the dream ended." She blinked, slumping and drawing in a deep shuddering breath. When she looked up, Poula still sat unmoved. "Master, what are we to do?"



"Come, child, sit and have a second cup of tea while we think."



Keleios sat gratefully. If it were not for the spell in the tea, she would be good only for sleep now. She poured a second cup and asked, "Poula?"



"No, thank you, the spell is all for you." The herb-witch sat very still and said, "You are prophet; this message was yours. What do you say about it?"



Keleios took a sip of tea and spoke carefully. "It is frightfully clear, Poula. The great blackness, whether a hole or a window, is my symbol for death. I am sure of one death: Feltan's."



"I sorrow with you, Keleios. Will you tell him?"



"How do you tell an eight-year-old boy that you have seen his death?"



"Then you won't tell him?"



"I don't know yet. I brought him here to the school so he could train. He had already attracted a familiar. You know how rare that is in an untrained herb-witch."



Poula nodded. "He has great potential."



"I brought him here, perhaps to his death."



"You cannot think that way."



Keleios stared at the tabletop. "But I do think that way."



"I cannot offer you comfort, Keleios. I have seen death in the cards before. It is not an easy or simple thing to know what to do with the knowledge."



Keleios nodded and sipped her tea, thinking.



"And the rest of the dream?" Poula asked.



Keleios took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The keep walls will be breached. Whether by magic or force of arms, I am not sure. Fidelis the Witch will aid the treachery that allows us to fall. As she aided it tonight."



Poula stared at her and said nothing.



Keleios said, "You know as well as I that it had to be Fidelis. No other herb-witch in the school could have done such a spell. Except for you, of course."



"You have never liked Fidelis."



Keleios wasn't sure that it was a question, but she answered it. "No, I don't approve of black magic. I believe there are some spells that are not meant to be used."



"Then why are they in the tomes? Someone had to create them."



"I know, I know. It is the same old argument."



'You and she have shared a room for over two years."



"And I appreciate you fighting for me. It would have been worse somehow to go back to the journeymen dorms."



"I knew it would be." Poula paused, blind eyes staring at her own folded hands. "Has it occurred to you that the binding spell might have been a personal attempt on your life."



"No, I believe it was to keep the prophecy a secret."



"And the phantasm's purpose?"



"The same . . . to keep the news of the keep's impending doom secret"



"Do you really think that Alys could have hidden from a phantasm?"



"She must have!"



"Not if a spell of binding was placed on her first. It would have tied her to the first dream that came along."



"But to what purpose?"



"Keleios."



"So I would save her? But that makes no sense. Surely the phantasm would finish off most prophets."



"Yes, but you are here, alive, sane. And you closed the tower to the phantasm -- no easy feat."



"You're saying that tonight was meant for me, the only sorcerous dreamer in the keep, the only one with a chance of escaping the phantasm."



"Yes, my dear."



"So Fidelis planned to kill me and keep the dream secret one way or another. Even if it meant killing Alys in the process."



"Perhaps there was another reason for her to make sure of your death."



"What do you know that I don't?"



"She worships Mother Bane, Keleios, and it would not be against her vows to kill you. Especially if it were her questing debt."



"Her questing debt? Who would waste their questing task on my death?"



"Fidelis quested with Harque the Witch."



Keleios slumped back in her chair and just stared, "How could Zeln and you have allowed that? Harque is mad, a danger, and you sent a journeyman to quest with her."



"Fidelis requested it. And Harque was herb-witch, shadow priest, and prophet. It is a rare combination, and it matched Fidelis."



"Fidelis is also an illusionist."



"Be reasonable, Keleios. Perfect matches are hard to find."



Harque -- the name took her back to being five years old and to her mother's murder. "She haunts me like some spectre. I had my old nightmare tonight, with her chasing me through the halls."



"Do you still hold to the vow you made so long ago?"



"Yes, Poula." She smiled, and her brown-gold eyes darkened as she spoke. "We must all have goals. My first was to be a full journeyman. My second was to kill Harque. I accomplished the first and failed the second, six years ago."



"Both you and Belor nearly died in that attempt."



Keleios waved it away as if of no importance. "Belor knew as well as I what we attempted; we took our chances." She turned nearly black eyes to Poula. "Belor wanted to feed her to the pit as she had done to us."



"But you said no. Why?"



"I want to watch the light die in her eyes the way it died in my mother's eyes. Do you know that the only recognizable part, at the end, were her eyes? My mother's brown eyes, lost in a face that was decaying away. The running sores had become bloated, splitting flesh; she was eaten alive. And for eighteen years Harque has taunted my nightmares. 'Where is the fair Elwine the Gentle? Where did she go?' and that insane laughter." Keleios shook her head and sat up very straight. Her hands gripped the chair arms, and the wood began to protest. Keleios stopped herself and gripped her hands together in her lap. "I will see her die at my hand."



Poula asked quietly, "The same way your mother died?"



Keleios flexed her left hand, touching leather glove to her cheek. "No, I've thought about it, but no. Steel would be a preference."



"Hatred is self-destructive."



"Yes, but someone needs to destroy her. She was crazier six years ago than eighteen years ago. Harque must be stopped. I see no reason why I can't be the one to stop her."



"And you wonder why she wants your death from a safe distance."



"Poula, we escaped with demon aid and luck. The gods were with us. She could have killed us easily and quickly days before. Why should she fear me enough to waste her questing task on me? For that matter, why not challenge me to the arena?"



Poula sighed. "I don't know, child. Perhaps it was losing to your mother all those years ago that frightened her. Or your escaping from the pit with that mark on you."



Keleios stared at the hand, rubbing it behind the leather.



"Perhaps she fears ending as Elwine did."



"That I can believe. She has always feared her own methods of punishment. Harque sent us down in the pit to die, but we surfaced and gained power, of a sort. Power that she was too terrified to try." Keleios searched the herb-witch's face carefully. "Poula, why did you put Fidelis and me in the same room?"



She gave a rich throaty laugh, and Keleios always imagined the face that went with that laugh. It was young and full with sparkling eyes, and desirable, and gone. "Child, it was the only open room. We meant to change it when the next teacher left, but you did not complain, nor did she."



"That's why you questioned me off and on about how we got along?"



"Yes, we did not know Fidelis meant you harm. And who else would we put with her, evil that she is? Jodda, a white healer, no. Allanna, she refused to be housed with a commoner. But you, you would keep her in her place and" -- Poula hesitated and then continued softly -- "and being already demon marked, evil was not unknown to you."



"But now she's trying to kill me."



"I believe so."



"Should I challenge her to the arena, get it out in the open?"



"No, don't challenge her."



"Why not?"



The blind eyes stared at her. "Because I fear for you. Fidelis knows your reputation and has even seen you fight. She is illusionist and one of the most powerful herb-witches I have ever trained."



"You expect me to go back to my room, knowing she may try to kill me again."



Poula nodded. "We need proof to take before council."



Keleios said nothing, but all knew that Poula was sand-shy. She was like Zeln. She preferred to work out problems in the legal system rather than on the sands of the arena. If they and some others had their way, the challenge system would be abolished, and murder would be murder.



"Guard yourself well, though."



"Without letting her catch on."



"Preferably."



"There is an old warding on my bed, from practice sorceries. I'll activate it. If anyone disrupts my sleep, it will shriek to wake the dead. If Fidelis asks, I'll tell her I was curious to see if it was still working."



"Your sorcerous wards are unusually long lived, perhaps because you are also an enchanter."



Keleios shrugged. "I don't question it. I just use it." She sipped the cooling tea. "I would invoke prophet's right and have the wards up. Seal the keep off for three days, and the danger will be passed."



"And?"



"And I had a vision in the library. The books were burning, except for ones I saved. I believe this school, this keep, will burn." Keleios held the thin china cup in her hands as if it had no handle and stared at the tea, breathing in the fumes of strength and calm.



Poula said, "I will contact one of the master sorcerers and have her raise the shielding. Now what else can we do to protect the school?"



"Send for Master Zeln and the rest. Alert Carrick to double the watch. Have someone watch Fidelis. I believe she is the key." Keleios spread her hands on the tabletop. "But none of it may help. In fact it may harm."



Poula nodded.



That was the crux of prophecy of any kind. What one saw was valid for the future but would one's actions prevent it or cause it? "Right or wrong, Poula, we must do something."



"Agreed. I will alert Zeln and the others using the communications tower. No other magic messages are allowed into Nesbit's castle."



Keleios laughed. "The High Councilman of Astrantha is very afraid of assassination and plotting behind his back."



"Is he still with your sister Methia?" Poula asked.



Keleios flinched and could not hide it. "He no longer visits my sister or their child."



"Did he truly challenge you to the sands?"



Keleios nodded. "On the day I leave this school as a master sorcerer, he plans to kill me."



"'What did you do to him, Keleios?"



She stared at Poula. "I, what did I do to him? Poula, he treated my sister worse than the lowest whore."



"Did you bring this to his attention, my hot-tempered journeyman?"



Keleios almost smiled. "Yes. I shoved a knife between his ribs during one of those silly Meltaanian duels."



"If I remember correctly, it is considered bad manners to kill someone during one of those silly Meltaanian duels."



"He didn't die."



"Why do I believe it wasn't for lack of trying on your part?"



Keleios shrugged. "Our host, Duke Cartlon, had a very good white healer."



"What am I to do with you?"



Keleios grinned and changed the subject. "Nesbit believes that the only reason Zeln is allowing Astranthian peasants into the school is to become High Councilman."



Poula said, "We know Zeln. He wishes to prove that the peasants are human and have rights. To do that, they must have magic. This year will prove him right as three peasants graduate. What changes will that make in Astrantha?"



Keleios answered, curious about the new line of questioning. "The peasants will all be able to vote in the next council elections," Keleios stared at her. "He wouldn't dare. He wouldn't dare attack a keep in his own country."



"Frightened men do many foolish things."



"Not even Nesbit would do that."



"Do you think it an accident that we have only a handful of masters left here? Zeln left me in charge. We have one master enchanter, one master conjuror, one master illusionist, and two master sorcerers. Fidelis is a master of both illusion and herb-witchery, but if she will betray us, I doubt we can depend upon her help. The rest are in Altmirth, attending this impromptu council meeting. Zeln did not want to take so many from the school, but it is only for two more days. If I were attacking this keep, it would be before they returned."



"Then sometime between now and day after tomorrow."



Another thought came to Poula, "Were Zeln and the others under attack in your dream?"



"No, come to that they weren't in my dream at all. If my dream were true, they are safe."



"Do you think your dream could be clouded?"



"The Lady of Shadows had her minions in the tower tonight. It is possible, but I don't think so."



"We will warn them anyway."



"If you can get a private message to them."



Poula laughed. "That has not been an easy thing with Nesbit's spies, but I have managed."



"I'll bet you have." Keleios stretched her shoulders and back. She was beginning to feel like sleeping. "The strength spell seems to be wearing off. I feel tired." She stood and pushed the chair under the table.



"It was of limited use. I only knew you were coming an hour before you came. I didn't have time for anything fancier."



Keleios smiled and stretched again. "It was fancy enough. I'll bid you good dreams and pleasant prophecies."



"And to you. Warn Carrick or his lieutenant before you go to bed, if you would."



"Done, but first I must take care of something."



Poula's eyes widened. "What sort of something?"



Keleios grinned. "Let us say that Belor will not be happy with me."



Poula laughed again. "You have no idea how to be boring, do you?"



Keleios made no answer but left the room to the sound of Poula's laughter. The torchlit hall seemed very bright. And the silence of the sleeping keep pressed very close.



She reentered the library corridor. The flames were a beacon down the narrow way. Belor was no longer visible, and as she neared the circle, Keleios wondered if he had escaped somehow. If he had gone to all that trouble, how angry would he be?



She approached as close as the heat would allow and peered over. Belor the Dreammaker sat, ankles tucked under, one elbow propped on his right knee. His tunic lay crumpled beside him. The hilt of his sword and the metal fittings on his sheath glimmered in the firelight. A sheen of sweat glistened on his back and shoulders. Keleios raised her hands upward and drew inward. The reverse of spells always felt strange, as if you were trying to breathe air you'd already used. The flames hesitated and paled until they were colorless as melted glass. With a rush the fire vanished.



It left them in a velvet darkness with the scattered glow of books only emphasizing it. Keleios called a witchlight to her hand and set it shining above them. It was white light, so Belor could see normally, a peace offering. The night had been busy and the effort brought a bead of sweat to her forehead. She could feel the energy draining away.



Keleios found herself looking into a pair of hostile eyes. She stepped close and offered a hand; Belor stared at it coldly. He rose in a single motion, using only his legs. His pale blue eyes had turned nearly grey, a very bad sign.



"Belor, please, I had no choice."



He said nothing, having discovered long ago that silence made her more uncomfortable than accusations.



"I was afraid I would harm you. You know that," She picked up his fallen tunic and said, "Here, let me wipe your back. I am sorry I was gone so long."



He turned without a word, and she tried to soak the sweat from his back.



Belor took the robe from her and mopped his chest. "I was worried about you," he said without meeting her eyes. 'I've never seen you so close to losing control of a vision before. What happened? I heard you screaming and a man yelling your name."



She smiled. As long as he was willing to talk, he wasn't that mad. "I'll tell you all on the way to alert the guard."



He shook the robe out and held it gingerly in his right hand. "Alert them to what?"



"I'll tell you that on the way."



She spoke quietly as they turned down the west corridor. The white witchlight floated steadily some eight inches above Keleios' left shoulder. She told him everything except that she carried the book commonly known as The Book of Demons. Over the centuries since its creation it had gone by many names: Black Death, Pit Opener, Demon Summoner.



Belpr stopped her before they came to the outer hall, gripping her arm loosely. His eyes grew distant. "You're lying, hiding something."



She could have broken his grip, but there would have been no purpose to it. "Belor, I carry another book."



His hand dropped to his side. "The Book of Demons."



"Yes."



"Why, in the name of Cia, why?"



"I can't leave it behind to be found by whoever. It's too dangerous to be floating free."



"And it's safe with you carrying it?" He stared at the floor and took a deep breath. "Keleios, you and I are contaminated. You endanger yourself by carrying that thing. It has a mind of its own, as most of the books of power do."



"You don't need to lecture me on enchanted times."



"No, but on common sense, yes. Get rid of it, please."



"I can't. It won't burn. Someone will find it. Someone searches for it, and they must not have it."



"Searches for it? It's common knowledge it's here."



"But with restrictive spells lacing it. It can't be taken out as long as this keep stands. And it is stunted in power until the sorceries and herbs binding it are broken. Belor, if the keep falls, it is free. You know what it can do."



"Carry it, if you must, but I'm not finished arguing against it."



"I know." They stepped out into the torchlit hall and Keleios extinguished the witchlight thankfully. A keep guard stood at attention at the door to the teleportation room. It was a permanent spell enabling the nonmagic soldiers to come and go to the outer wall. Keleios recognized the guard in his gold and black livery. Bundie was a tall Calthuian, young and overly ambitious but good with a weapon. He put his hand on his sword hilt and said, "Keleios, Belor, what keeps you up so late?"



"Prophecy, Bundie."



One pale brown eyebrow raised, "Oh, grim news?"



"Grim enough for the guard to be doubled. The wards should go up soon. The keep is to be sealed for three days, starting tonight."



"What did you see?"



"Death." At his grim expression she smiled. "But I think it can be fought with steel as well as magic."



He grinned. "Then we will be ready. Carrick runs the best-trained guards on the island, and who has more magic than Zeln's school?"



Keleios did not disillusion him but agreed, "Pass word along."



She turned to go and Bundie called, "I'll see you the practice grounds tomorrow morning, prophet."



It was a sly insult. Carrick, the weapons master, had often said, "Spellcasters are poor swordsmen and prophets worst of all, because most of them are mad."



Keleios ignored the insult, almost. "I'll be there, Bundie, and you had better watch your back."



He laughed. "With you and the illusionist around, always."



They paced the silent halls and felt the magic seep from under the doors. The very stones seemed to breathe spells. She knew the feeling was caused from lack of sleep and too much magic but everything was hushed, as if the world held its breath.



Belor spoke in a whisper. "What is wrong tonight?"



"You feel it also."



He nodded.



She whispered back, "The gods walk among us. It's a bad sign."



They stood in front of her room.



"I don't feel their presence. I know I'm only an illusionist and not a sorcerer, but my magic sense isn't that blunt."



"It was just an expression, you know. When things go really wrong, the gods are abroad."



He let it go at that, stifling a yawn, "Fair dreaming, Keleios, and be careful."



"And to you. And I will be careful."



She watched him go until he vanished round the corner. She shivered as from a sudden chill. Keleios wasn't sure what had made her speak of the gods, but the words had rung in the air like a bell. Prophecy spoken in jest, perhaps. She knew the gods could hide their presence if it suited their needs. She whispered into the magic-laden air, "The gods walk among us. It is a bad sign."