hidden—at least for now. Later would take care of itself.
Only one other could ever have told the story. Erina. His slim, tall, lovely Erina of the smooth, dark skin, and the long, dark hair, and the sad, dark destiny. His witch from Minnow Island. She could have told the story; she had been the cause, she had done it—stealing his magic forever. From before the time his ancestor became the Count of Dashforth, the family had been wizards. Now, thanks to Erina, he was wizard no more. Erina the enchantress, Erina the thief. She could have told the story of how he had left her to marry the bejeweled bitch. She could have told how she, Erina, had robbed him of magic in revenge. She could have told it all, if she were alive, but four lead balls in the back of her head had guaranteed her silence. Foolish, sentimental Erina; she shouldn't have taken his magic and then left him alive. Or maybe she had done the smart thing after all; perhaps hers was the best revenge.
Count Dashif, who would never be called Dashif the Luckless, entered the palace of the Levar, to wait once more upon his master. The Regent, Dashif hoped, had luck enough for them both.
If not, the gods help Liavek.
•
One carefully measured powder charge, a bit of wadding, and a lead ball, rammed in tightly enough but not too tightly. Repeat for the second barrel. A little powder in the touchhole, and the spark from the flint would ignite the charge. He admired the beauty of the weapons once more.
Dashif was a fair swordsman, but sorcerers fought from a distance, and one must respond from a distance to match them. He took out a polishing cloth, and—
"Good afternoon, Count Dashif." He looked up, saw the lanky figure of Pitullio in front of him, and nodded. Pitullio continued, "His Scarlet Eminence would like me to fill you in on the background, then he'll see you himself."
Dashif nodded once more and put the pistol back into his belt. From His Eminence's waiting area, Dashif followed Pitullio into the latter's small, comfortable office. Pitullio flopped himself into a chair and heaved a sigh. "He's in one of those moods today, Count Dashif. Better tread lightly."
"I always do, Pitullio. What have you to tell me?"
"I have to give you a history lesson," he said, "though Rikiki alone knows why."
"Let's have it, then."
Pitullio stretched out and locked his hands behind his head. "You two are just the same. Always in such a bloody hurry." He sighed. "All right. What do you know of the Gold Priesthood, the Seekers of the Light?"
"They were destroyed about seventeen or eighteen years ago, just after the destruction of the Blue Priesthood."
"Do you know who destroyed them, or how?"
"No," lied Dashif.
"We did." Pitullio waited before continuing, but if he had expected some reaction he was disappointed. "They had gained a great deal of influence by then, and Those In Power decided they had to go."
"How?"
Pitullio chuckled. "The Gold high priests all had overlapping Times of Power each year. Do you know what that means?"
"Go on."
"Having one's Time of Power at the appropriate time of year was a requirement for the high priesthood. That way, the high priests could unite to bind their magic into their altar. I take it you are familiar with the binding of magic, as distinct from investiture?"
"Theoretically," said Dashif, carefully keeping his voice neutral.
"Whereas, in a normal binding, anyone may use a bound object, but only for a particular task, the Gold priests wanted to bind their altar with the power of their entire high priesthood, so that one particular person, the high priest, could use it for any task."
"How?"
"It took the Gold priests a long time to build up a sufficient number of high priests. This gave us time to plant an agent among them. At the moment of binding, our agent twisted the spell in such a way that no one would be able to use the bound power. It's still there, locked up in the altar, but they can't touch it."
"I see. And the
Only one other could ever have told the story. Erina. His slim, tall, lovely Erina of the smooth, dark skin, and the long, dark hair, and the sad, dark destiny. His witch from Minnow Island. She could have told the story; she had been the cause, she had done it—stealing his magic forever. From before the time his ancestor became the Count of Dashforth, the family had been wizards. Now, thanks to Erina, he was wizard no more. Erina the enchantress, Erina the thief. She could have told the story of how he had left her to marry the bejeweled bitch. She could have told how she, Erina, had robbed him of magic in revenge. She could have told it all, if she were alive, but four lead balls in the back of her head had guaranteed her silence. Foolish, sentimental Erina; she shouldn't have taken his magic and then left him alive. Or maybe she had done the smart thing after all; perhaps hers was the best revenge.
Count Dashif, who would never be called Dashif the Luckless, entered the palace of the Levar, to wait once more upon his master. The Regent, Dashif hoped, had luck enough for them both.
If not, the gods help Liavek.
•
One carefully measured powder charge, a bit of wadding, and a lead ball, rammed in tightly enough but not too tightly. Repeat for the second barrel. A little powder in the touchhole, and the spark from the flint would ignite the charge. He admired the beauty of the weapons once more.
Dashif was a fair swordsman, but sorcerers fought from a distance, and one must respond from a distance to match them. He took out a polishing cloth, and—
"Good afternoon, Count Dashif." He looked up, saw the lanky figure of Pitullio in front of him, and nodded. Pitullio continued, "His Scarlet Eminence would like me to fill you in on the background, then he'll see you himself."
Dashif nodded once more and put the pistol back into his belt. From His Eminence's waiting area, Dashif followed Pitullio into the latter's small, comfortable office. Pitullio flopped himself into a chair and heaved a sigh. "He's in one of those moods today, Count Dashif. Better tread lightly."
"I always do, Pitullio. What have you to tell me?"
"I have to give you a history lesson," he said, "though Rikiki alone knows why."
"Let's have it, then."
Pitullio stretched out and locked his hands behind his head. "You two are just the same. Always in such a bloody hurry." He sighed. "All right. What do you know of the Gold Priesthood, the Seekers of the Light?"
"They were destroyed about seventeen or eighteen years ago, just after the destruction of the Blue Priesthood."
"Do you know who destroyed them, or how?"
"No," lied Dashif.
"We did." Pitullio waited before continuing, but if he had expected some reaction he was disappointed. "They had gained a great deal of influence by then, and Those In Power decided they had to go."
"How?"
Pitullio chuckled. "The Gold high priests all had overlapping Times of Power each year. Do you know what that means?"
"Go on."
"Having one's Time of Power at the appropriate time of year was a requirement for the high priesthood. That way, the high priests could unite to bind their magic into their altar. I take it you are familiar with the binding of magic, as distinct from investiture?"
"Theoretically," said Dashif, carefully keeping his voice neutral.
"Whereas, in a normal binding, anyone may use a bound object, but only for a particular task, the Gold priests wanted to bind their altar with the power of their entire high priesthood, so that one particular person, the high priest, could use it for any task."
"How?"
"It took the Gold priests a long time to build up a sufficient number of high priests. This gave us time to plant an agent among them. At the moment of binding, our agent twisted the spell in such a way that no one would be able to use the bound power. It's still there, locked up in the altar, but they can't touch it."
"I see. And the
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