this time the lover of the ogres’ magic had indeed managed the impossible.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“The Order has taken the Horn out of its dusty trunk and decided to work a miracle.”
“I see,” Valder said, chuckling skeptically. “But what has all this to do with me?”
“Oh, come now!” said Ilio, genuinely surprised. “You and I will act as reservoirs of power. Panarik and Zemmel have to draw their energy from somewhere, don’t they? We are the two fools that the Council needed to complete its blissful happiness.”
“Are we the only ones who have been summoned?”
“No,” said Ilio, stopping beside a door encrusted with bluish ogre bone. “Not the only ones. Elo and O’Kart, too.”
“What about Singalus, Artsis, and Didra? Is the performance going to take place without their participation?” Valder asked in amazement.
That would mean that only six out of nine archmagicians of the Order would be involved in this absurd attempt to restrain the Nameless One.
“Singalus is in Isilia. As for Artsis—well, you know how Zemmel feels about our friend . . .”
“The way an orc feels about a goblin,” Valder said with a dour nod. “That’s a pity; Artsis would have been useful.”
“Who are you telling? I know that. But he ‘could not be found.’ Didra’s in Zagraba, with the dark elves.”
“So six archmagicians are going to destroy the Nameless One?” Valder whispered. “Doubtful, very doubtful. Didn’t Panarik think about calling in the higher-order magicians? Or even the entire Order?”
“He did, but Zemmel convinced him that the six of us could cope.”
“The cretin!”
“Worse than that. You’ve been away for a year and a half, right?”
“Two years.”
“Well, Zemmel spent all that time poring over the books of the ogres. If you ask me, it would be a better idea to stick your head into a giant’s mouth than to read those ancient tomes. He must have completely lost his reason, if he’s decided to mess about with the prohibited shamanism of the ogres.
“By the way,” Ilio said with a smile, “before we go in, would you care to dispose of your shield? That is what I can see glittering, isn’t it?”
Valder had completely forgotten that he was still maintaining the energy of the spell that had protected him against the bad weather.
“Perhaps you ought to remove it,” Ilio suggested good-naturedly. “You know how twitchy O’Kart gets when there are inexplicable energy surges. He’s so paranoid.”
“He’s too suspicious altogether. It’s bad for the health.” Valder snorted, but he removed his defensive shield. At least, as far as Ilio could see, that was what he did. In actual fact, the magician merely “dimmed” the spell by feeding it with a subtle stream of power that only Panarik would be able to detect, and only if he deliberately searched for it. Some strange, childish caprice prompted him to resist Ilio’s friendly suggestion.
The archmagicians entered a spacious round hall illuminated by ordinary torches, in accordance with the prescriptions of the ancient statutes, reinforced by Panarik’s dislike of magical illumination, which made the master’s eyes sting and water.
The flames were burning steadily, and the pale shadows stood on the walls as still as sentries. Imperturbable. Self-assured.
Valder did not like this place—it was always too cold and unwelcoming. Emphatically official.
The walls were patterned with a large number of small lancet windows, glazed with the greenish purplish glass of the dwarves. They offered a fine view of Avendoom at night, since the tower was the highest point in the whole city, even higher than the royal palace. The immense flat mirror fused into the floor in the center of this space reflected imaginary stars and a double moon, even during the daytime. There were nine armchairs with tall backs standing around the mirror. Five of them were empty, four were occupied by archmagicians waiting with patient dignity for the late arrivals.
Ilio and Valder bowed their heads reverently as a sign of respect for their colleagues. Their colleagues replied with gracious nods. Equals greeting equals.
The magicians walked to their places, and Valder had a few seconds to examine these men he had not seen for so long.
Seated directly opposite him was Elo, a light elf with ash-gray hair cut short in the human style and protruding fangs.
Next came two empty armchairs, and then the solemn O’Kart—a short, permanently gloomy native of Filand.
O’Kart was excessively suspicious, always anticipating conspiracies against himself, and in conversation he was excessively sharp, rancorous, and intolerant. There were many who did not like him. But nonetheless, Valder had to admit that his