and Sarth stood in the shadows by the garden gate of the Temple of the Wronged Prince, wrapped in the eerie silence of the snow and the sleeping town. It seemed they were the only two people awake in the whole of Hulburg, although Geran knew that was a misleading thought. They’d seen two or three patrols of Council Guards on their way to the temple and its grounds, and avoided at least one pair of the tireless helmed warriors with the gray skin. The constructs took no notice of passersby during the day, but that didn’t mean they would ignore two armed men at an hour when no honest folk were out and about.
“I see no wardings over the garden,” Sarth said in a low voice. “However, there is a glyph upon the door, as you said. I believe I can defeat it without making much noise.”
“Good,” said Geran. He drew his sword—a fine straight long sword with a modest enchantment upon it, borrowed from Sarth’s collection since he’d left his elven blade in Thentia—and murmured the words of a spell to summon a faint veil of silvery mist around himself. The cuillen mhariel, or silversteel veil, was a potent defense against many forms of attack, including magic. “You know that you need go no farther. Once you strike a blow, you’ll lose what remains of your neutrality. Marstel’s men and Rhovann’s helmed constructs will storm your house before the day’s out.”
The tiefling shrugged. “An unfortunate loss, since I rather like the place. But I’ve made arrangements for the things I value, and have no great concern for the rest.” He hesitated just a moment, and added, “Geran … this is your chance to reconsider as well. There is no telling what sort of retaliation you may provoke.”
The swordmage shook his head. In his mind’s eye he saw the blood-splattered corridors of Lasparhall and the gray face of his uncle, dying with an assassin’s knife in his heart. He knew that nothing could undo what had been done, but at the very least he could make sure that Grigor Hulmaster’s murderers never had the chance to kill anyone else dear to him. “That may be true, but Valdarsel will have no part in it,” he said. “Come on; we’re wasting the night.”
Sarth sighed, but he turned to the gate and murmured a minor spell of opening. The bolt on the far side rasped softly as it drew back under his magic, and the wrought-iron gate swung open. Geran pushed through and hurried across the snow-covered garden beyond. Most buildings in Hulburg were made of timber on strong stone footings, but the temple was made entirely of masonry. It did have windows, but they were narrow embrasures that stood a good ten feet above the ground, like a castle’s arrow slits—far too narrow for anyone to scramble through, as Mirya had observed. He drew close to the temple’s back door, and paused when the magical glyph guarding it became visible to his eyes. He could sense the baleful curse held within its faintly glowing lines and whorls. It was nothing he would care to tamper with, but Sarth was better with such things than he was.
Sarth studied the glyph closely for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “A competent effort, but I can defeat it,” he murmured. In a low voice he began to whisper the words of a counterspell, gently gesturing with his hand as he traced the glyph’s shape in the air with a fingertip. The glyph glowed brighter, its lines blazing a brilliant emerald green before they suddenly grew dark and vanished. “It is done.”
Geran glided forward and set his hand on the handle, not without a small quiver of trepidation. Glyphs, symbols, and such things could be highly dangerous, after all, but he trusted Sarth. He opened the door as quietly as he could, and found himself looking into a stone-flagged hallway dimly lit by small oil lamps in wall sconces. Several doors opened off the hall before it turned out of sight. He slipped inside, and Sarth followed behind him, pulling the door closed after him.
“Seal the door,” Geran whispered. “No one is to get out this way.”
“We may trap ourselves,” Sarth replied. But at a nod from Geran, he whispered the words of a locking spell to hold the door against anything short of destruction by a battering ram.
Geran moved down the hall, glancing at the doors as he went. This was the weakest part