The Magicians of Night - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,107

though there was no one in the yard but the stablemaster and he was fussing lovingly over the colt’s feet. “Now, I know you—and in fact anyone who knows you can attest that you haven’t had your soul stolen, or your will taken over, by wizards...”

“That’s ridiculous”

He put a finger to her lips. “They do it, my lady,” he said softly. “They do it. We’re only just finding out how frequently. And they turn such people into their servants, to get them still other slaves.”

For a moment she could only stand openmouthed with shock at the enormity of this lie. The sheer scope of it took her breath away almost as much as the fact that it was coming to her from Marc, Marc who had always been cheerfully friendly to the wizards at her father’s court, who had bought Mhorvianne only knew how many love philters from Jaldis and Rhion over the years... “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard!”

He bit his lip, hesitating for a long moment—Tally felt almost that he was waiting for the groom to get out of earshot before he spoke again. “I see I’m going to have to tell you,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to, because I know you liked old Jaldis and Rhion, and I swear to you I’ve never heard a thing against either one of them, even if they did... Well, everyone says their disappearance was opportune.”

He lifted his hand to silence her as she opened her mouth again, but the gesture was needless—Tally was outraged beyond speech.

He went on, “They arrested a conspiracy of wizards the night you left Bragenmere, in your father’s very palace, in Jaldis’ rooms. I’d like to assume that with his disappearance they were trying to take your father’s library for whatever knowledge it contained, and not that Jaldis himself had summoned them.”

Tally closed her mouth, stood for a time looking up into the handsome, healthy tanned face bent so gravely above her own. All these endless summer months she had suspected something had happened after her departure, though out here in the deeps of Marc’s countrified fief there had been no way of knowing for certain, and she had feared to write to anyone she knew at court. Damson’s words to her before she had left had frightened her; she knew how easily letters could be intercepted and read. So she had waited, knowing that if Rhion had indeed been brought back with the turning of the summer-tide she would eventually hear of it... someone would get word to her...

And so she had waited, through the nerve-racking weeks.

Marc went on in almost a whisper, “So you see, they have this information from the wizards themselves. From their confessions.”

“Under torture.” Her heart was beating heavily, hurtingly in her chest. Shavus... she thought. The old man was vain, arrogant, maddening, but never did he deserve that. The Serpentlady, Harospix... Dear Goddess, did the Gray Lady get away safety? Did Gyzan?

Marc nodded. “Of course. The things they’ve confessed to aren’t anything you would learn of without torture. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”

Of course, she thought bitterly. I chose Marc for my husband partly because he was easily led—because he’d believe what I told him and not ask questions. Why be surprised that I’m not the only one he’ll believe?

“And Father let them?” Her mouth felt dry. She remembered her father and the gruff old Archmage dueling with the salt spoons.

“Your father’s been very ill,” Marc said. “You know that, Damson’s been writing all his letters for him, with only his signature... but yes, his signature was on the orders. He must protect his realm—and not only his own realm, but humankind.”

Tally was silent. A part of her felt very still and cool, detachedly contemplating pieces of a puzzle fitting together. She didn’t even feel anger—at Damson, or at Marc—only a sort of clarity, as if she were seeing them for the first time in decent lighting. For no reason, she remembered the tiny, crystalline clinking of her sister’s lace spindles and the breath of incense that moved about the shrine of the Veiled God. A cold mountain wind breathed down across the stable yard, stirring her heavy skirts and making the feathers of her shawl ripple in the light like a meadow of iridescent, red-bronze grass.

But part of her remembered Gyzan, Shavus, and the other mages who’d been in Jaldis’ tower that night, remembered Jaldis’ sunken, empty eyepits and limping step, and she