wondering if they still engaged in “practicing spell-casting in an emergency”—i.e., while falling-down drunk—as he and Daurannon had done on several memorable instances. Save for an occasional murmur from outside, and the soft, patient rhythm of someone in the Cat Lair playing beginners' scales on a harp, the round stone house was quiet.
“I'm sorry,” Seldes Katne said as the daylight began to fade. “I thought that because this house is on the main Vorplek Energy Line I'd have a little more chance at this, but that doesn't seem to be the case.” She put the crystal from her and did not meet his eyes; Antryg leaned across the table and put his big, bony hand over her fleshy, age-spotted one.
“What's more likely is that she's being kept somewhere that's spelled against observation.” Seldes Katne's crystal, he recalled from somewhere, had belonged to the wizard Gantre Silvas two hundred years ago—the slip of rune-inscribed silver around its base had been added by that mage to increase its receptive powers. “God knows there are any number of places in the Citadel itself where she could be kept a prisoner unknown to anyone—any of the guest quarters above the Great Assembly Hall, or the attics above those, the clock-tower, one of the treasury rooms, the old South Hall. There must be a hundred places here where no one ever goes, and that,” he added quietly, his voice sinking as he turned his eyes toward the window again, where he could see the Conservatory flash like an absurd diamond on the Library's granite flank, “isn't even counting the Vaults. And I'm very much afraid that that's where she is.”
“It would make sense,” the librarian agreed. Then she frowned again, her heavy brows pulling down over her nose once more. “But ... that's where the disturbance is centered. That's where the Moving Gate is.”
“It's more than that,” Antryg said, getting nervously to his feet and beginning to pace, his movements restlessly graceful in his sweeping coat, like some bizarre wading bird. “Most people believe that the labyrinth in the Vaults was dug as a defense—a place where, in the event of catastrophe, the wizards might hide. But the Citadel lies on the node of four energy-tracks, at least one of them—the Vorplek Line, which runs through the Library as you know—extremely powerful. And while in the west, mounds at the nodes of such lines were frequently built with collecting chambers underneath them to hold and channel the traveling energies of the leys, in the east and north they used mazes.”
“I've heard that theory,” Seldes Katne acknowledged, sitting up a little in her chair and putting back her braid, which had strayed forward over her shoulder again. “But no one has ever proven that the mazes worked.”
“Perhaps because we have no idea how they worked.” Antryg leaned on the windowsill again, gazing out into the tangle of vines below. There was a murmur of voices from the windows of the Cat Lair, and someone else took the harp, calling the huge black-and-orange butterflies that had been feeding from the starlike blooms of the honeysweet to swirl upward into a drunken, dancing cloud.
Antryg fell silent a moment, listening to the sheer, glittering mastery of the music; Seldes Katne said softly, “That will be Brighthand—Zake Thwacker, Otaro's pupil. He has ... great skill.”
He glanced back at her downcast dark eyes, the sudden pinch of her thin lips. After her failure to scry Joanna's image in the white crystal, she could not bring herself to say, He has true magic. But the lightness, the delicate strength of the music, ignited the air above the butterfly jungle between the two houses; had he not been afraid of what was happening in the Vaults, afraid that Joanna might be imprisoned down there, Antryg could have easily slipped under the spell of it himself and spent the rest of the evening dreaming on the windowsill, until the last light faded from the northern
“I'm sorry,” Seldes Katne said as the daylight began to fade. “I thought that because this house is on the main Vorplek Energy Line I'd have a little more chance at this, but that doesn't seem to be the case.” She put the crystal from her and did not meet his eyes; Antryg leaned across the table and put his big, bony hand over her fleshy, age-spotted one.
“What's more likely is that she's being kept somewhere that's spelled against observation.” Seldes Katne's crystal, he recalled from somewhere, had belonged to the wizard Gantre Silvas two hundred years ago—the slip of rune-inscribed silver around its base had been added by that mage to increase its receptive powers. “God knows there are any number of places in the Citadel itself where she could be kept a prisoner unknown to anyone—any of the guest quarters above the Great Assembly Hall, or the attics above those, the clock-tower, one of the treasury rooms, the old South Hall. There must be a hundred places here where no one ever goes, and that,” he added quietly, his voice sinking as he turned his eyes toward the window again, where he could see the Conservatory flash like an absurd diamond on the Library's granite flank, “isn't even counting the Vaults. And I'm very much afraid that that's where she is.”
“It would make sense,” the librarian agreed. Then she frowned again, her heavy brows pulling down over her nose once more. “But ... that's where the disturbance is centered. That's where the Moving Gate is.”
“It's more than that,” Antryg said, getting nervously to his feet and beginning to pace, his movements restlessly graceful in his sweeping coat, like some bizarre wading bird. “Most people believe that the labyrinth in the Vaults was dug as a defense—a place where, in the event of catastrophe, the wizards might hide. But the Citadel lies on the node of four energy-tracks, at least one of them—the Vorplek Line, which runs through the Library as you know—extremely powerful. And while in the west, mounds at the nodes of such lines were frequently built with collecting chambers underneath them to hold and channel the traveling energies of the leys, in the east and north they used mazes.”
“I've heard that theory,” Seldes Katne acknowledged, sitting up a little in her chair and putting back her braid, which had strayed forward over her shoulder again. “But no one has ever proven that the mazes worked.”
“Perhaps because we have no idea how they worked.” Antryg leaned on the windowsill again, gazing out into the tangle of vines below. There was a murmur of voices from the windows of the Cat Lair, and someone else took the harp, calling the huge black-and-orange butterflies that had been feeding from the starlike blooms of the honeysweet to swirl upward into a drunken, dancing cloud.
Antryg fell silent a moment, listening to the sheer, glittering mastery of the music; Seldes Katne said softly, “That will be Brighthand—Zake Thwacker, Otaro's pupil. He has ... great skill.”
He glanced back at her downcast dark eyes, the sudden pinch of her thin lips. After her failure to scry Joanna's image in the white crystal, she could not bring herself to say, He has true magic. But the lightness, the delicate strength of the music, ignited the air above the butterfly jungle between the two houses; had he not been afraid of what was happening in the Vaults, afraid that Joanna might be imprisoned down there, Antryg could have easily slipped under the spell of it himself and spent the rest of the evening dreaming on the windowsill, until the last light faded from the northern
Similar Books
