The Amber Enchantress

TWELVE TILE EMPORIUM

They found Faenaeyon crammed into a stall at the back of the emporium. He sat with his knees pulled to his chest, staring blankly at the cracked flagstones of the floor. One hand incessantly searched along his belt for his missing purses, and his haggard face was twisted into a scowl. With a long line of drool dripping from his pointed chin, he mumbled incoherent phrases and seemed completely oblivious to what was happening around him.

Clearly, the elf was in no shape to attempt escape, but the emporium agents had restrained him the same way as every other slave in the market. Around his neck, the chief wore a collar of coarse black rope. Spliced into this was a cord running a few feet back to the wall, where the other end was attached to a bone ring set between the stone blocks. From her own days in bondage, when she had slept with a similar rope around her neck, Sadira knew that even Magnus could not have snapped it. Nor could the line be easily cut, for it was braided from the hair of giants. The resulting cord was so tough and resilient that even steel blades would, be dulled on it.

“I hope you’re alert enough to know how being tethered feels,” Sadira whispered, looking away from her father’s pen.

Even had he been lucid, the sorceress doubted that her father would have recognized her. She had used henna root to dye her hair swarthy red, the bark of an ashbush to darken her skin, and black kohl to decorate her eyelids. She had also exchanged her customary blue smock for a green sarami.

As Sadira and Raka moved down the aisle, she paused several times in front of other slaves, as though evaluating their suitability for her home. The Slave Emporium of the Shom Merchant House was larger and more crowded than any Sadira had ever seen. It was a single cavernous gallery, lit by huge windows and buzzing with the drone of hundreds of bickering buyers and sales agents. The chamber’s ceiling was high and shadowy, supported by hundreds of double-stacked arches and marble columns. These pillars were almost hidden beneath the lush climbing vines loaded with aromatic blossoms.

Beneath each row of arches ran a wide aisle, flanked on either side by stalls barely large enough to hold the men and women lying in them. Along the back of the pens stood the high brick walls to which the slave ropes were attached.

As they reach the end of the aisle, Raka asked, “Is that the elf you seek?”

Sadira nodded, then led the way around the pillar so entwined with vines that its stone surface was not visible. “I saw no sign of templars or royal guards,” she said.

“Nevertheless, they are here,” the youth answered. “One of our agents tried to buy him this morning, but the price was outrageous. House Shom does not wish to sell this particular elf-no doubt because Dhojakt has concluded that he is your guide. The prince is using him as bait.”

They passed a bony old man watering the gallery’s vines from a huge bucket. He kept his eyes focused on his work, paying no attention to pleas for water coming from his fellow slaves.

“You’re right, of course,” Sadira answered, casting a wary eye toward the crowd ahead. For all she knew, half the sarami-clad women in it were templars, and the agents wearing the tabards of House Shom could just as readily have been royal guards. “It’d be too simple if all we had to do was buy him back.”

They made their way up the aisle, to where Magnus and Huyar were studying the gangling arms and square heads of two tareks. Though the windsinger had used his magic to heal the injury he had suffered during yesterday’s battle, he seemed tired and could not quite keep his massive body from swaying as he stood waiting. He wore a dark burnoose with the hood pulled over his head. The robe did little to hide his immense size, but at least it concealed the burn marks on his chest.

“Did you find him?” asked Huyar, who had not bothered with a disguise. If Dhojakt’s agents were present, they would not be able to tell him from a warrior of any other tribe. “Has he recovered from his stupor?”

“We found him, but he’s still sick,” Sadira said. “Our agreement stands?”

“Of course,” the elf answered. “Provided Faenaeyon returns to his senses and tells us where to find the Pristine Tower.”

Sadira did not expect Huyar to keep his word, of course. The warrior would say anything to recover his father, but she knew he would not absolve her of Gaefal’s death so easily. The sorceress was also so keenly aware that once Faenaeyon returned to the tribe and was given the antidote, the final decision about going to the tower would rest in his hands.

Still, Huyar’s promise and the fact that Sadira was the one who had rescued him could only help persuade the chief to take her to the Pristine Tower. He could still refuse-but the sorceress would deal with that possibility when it occurred. For now, what was important was rescuing the elf.

Sadira was more worried about the motives of Rhayn and Magnus for helping her. They were both cunning enough to realize that she intended to use the antidote to clear the chief’s mind, yet they had agreed to her bargain as readily as anyone else. Perhaps, as Rhayn had claimed to her all along, they had no wish to see Faenaeyon come to any physical harm. Or perhaps they had a different scheme-such as using the wine they had secreted away to poison him again.

Whatever their plan, the sorceress did not want to concern herself with it. As long as the Sun Runners took her to the Pristine Tower, she did not care what happened to Faenaeyon-at least that was what she told herself.

Sadira turned to Raka. “The Alliance is ready to help?”

Before the youth could answer, a tremendous crash sounded from the other end of the emporium. Terrified screams echoed down the aisles. When Sadira looked toward the noise, she saw a plume of dust rising form a pile of debris that had once been an arch. Next to it stood the stump of a marble pillar, its clinging vines still smoking from the effects of a fire-based spell.

Raka smiled at Sadira. “The Alliance is already testing our enemy’s response.”

The gallery filled with alarmed cries and more than a few buyers moved to leave. A handful of Shom agents joined the stream, ignoring the pleas of the slaves they were leaving behind. Most vendors, however, remained at their posts, reassuring their shocked customers that it was much wiser to remain where they were and finish the deal. Those with exceptionally nervous patrons even managed to turn the event into a negotiation advantage, grabbing the arms of their frightened clients and making it clear they would not let go until a bargain had been struck.

A handful of guards bearing shields with House Shom’s triple dragonfly rushed toward the collapsed arch, but no one else. “If Dhojakt’s templars are here, they aren’t showing themselves,” Raka observed. “Tell me when you’re ready for the next move.”

Sadira looked to Huyar. “After today, I suspect House Shom will want to avenge itself on Faenaeyon’s tribe,” she said. “I hope you’re right about how easy it will be to recover your kanks and leave the city.”

“I didn’t say they would be our own kanks we recovered,” he answered. “As for leaving the city, our warriors should have left at dawn. When we meet Rhayn, she’ll tell us where the tribe is gathering.” He gave Magnus a spiteful glance, then added, “Unless she’s decided it would be easier to name herself chief by abandoning us here.”

The windsinger scowled. “You know better,” he snapped. “Faenaeyon’s warriors would never stand for such a thing.”

“Go on, Huyar,” Sadira said, motioning him toward the door.

The elf did not obey. “I should stay with you,” he said. “Faenaeyon is my father-”

“Someone must wait at the door, to keep a watch in case Dhojakt is setting up an ambush outside,” Sadira said. “And only an elf will look natural loitering out there. They’ll think you’re trying to pick pockets.”

“If you insist,” Huyar agreed. “But I warn you, if something happens to Faenaeyon-”

“He’ll be no worse off than now,” Magnus snapped, shoving the elf toward the exit.

Huyar glared at the windsinger, then turned and stalked off.

Raka left next, saying, “When you hear thunder, you’ll know we’ve attacked. Wait a few moments after that before freeing your elf. Meet me in Sage’s Square at first light, and I’ll sneak you all out of the city.”

After the youth disappeared around the corner, Magnus and Sadira lingered in front of the tareks, waiting for the diversion to begin. Soon, the sorceress noticed a house agent moving toward them. She signaled her disinterest in bargaining by taking Magnus’s arm and guiding him up the aisle. “While we’re waiting for Raka, answer a question I’ve been curious about.”

“If it’s in my power,” the windsinger promised.

“Why are you so close to Rhayn?” Sadira asked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re in love with her.”

“Do you think I can’t love because I’m of the New Races?” the windsinger demanded, an angry glimmer in his black eyes.

“I don’t doubt you can,” Sadira answered. “It was Rhayn I referred to. Elves are the ones who can’t love.”

Magnus flattened his ears. “Why would you think that?”

“Look at Faenaeyon,” Sadira said. “My mother loved him until she died, yet he abandoned her into slavery.”

“You’re confusing love with responsibility,” Magnus said.

“They’re the same,” Sadira objected. “When I love a man, I care about what happens to him.”

“Care, perhaps,” the windsinger allowed. “But you don’t trap him by taking over his life. When elves love, they do it freely-with no obligations and no promises. That way, everyone can do as they choose.”

“My mother did not choose bondage!” Sadira hissed.

“She didn’t choose freedom either,” the windsinger countered. “She could have escaped-or died trying.”

“She had a child to think of!” the sorceress growled.

“Which explains why she chose to stay,” Magnus replied. “You can’t blame Faenaeyon for that. He may have loved your mother as much as he ever loved anyone-but that doesn’t mean he could have taken her with him.”

A deafening boom shook the emporium, then echoed through the gallery like a peal of thunder. Hundreds of bats dropped from their hiding places among the ceiling rafters and swooped toward the windows in black streams, their screeches barely distinguishable from the astonished cries of the throng below. Before the first of the swarm had reached its goal, the air began to sizzle and roar with the sound of a dozen different spells all being cast at once. Bolts of lightning and sprays of orange flame erupted from the main entrance, blasting pillars into bits and washing down the aisles in fiery torrents.

“Death to the slave merchants!” cried a man’s angry voice.

“Death to the slave buyers!” added a woman.

Panicked screeches and cries of terror rang throughout the gallery. Frightened agents and buyers rushed toward Sadira and Magnus in a mad tide, those in the rear trampling those in the front. From behind them blared a clap of thunder, and, for the briefest moment, their pumping legs were silhouetted by white light. In the next instant, a swath of singed bodies fell to the floor, leaving a long, smoking furrow in the center of the crowd. At the other end stood a veiled sorcerer, the tips of his fingers glowing pinkish white.

“Slaves, rise against your masters!” cried Raka’s voice. The young sorcerer spread the fingers of his hand as he prepared another spell. “The time has come to free yourselves!”

In response to the youth’s cry, many slaves tried to slip their black collars over their heads, and others tugged at the greasy ropes securing them to the walls. When they could not work themselves free, Raka created a shimmering sword of golden energy and began cutting their bonds. These people immediately launched themselves at those who had imprisoned them, wrapping the ends of their slave lines around the throats of nearby merchants.

The traders who escaped the angry slaves only ran faster. Magnus placed his bulk in the center of the aisle, forcing the mob to part and flow around him. Pressing herself against the windsinger’s back, Sadira yelled, “Quite the diversion!”

“I should have known they’d do something like this,” the windsinger answered. “The Nibenese Alliance will use any excuse to attack the slave traders.”

Sadira heard the agonized scream of a Shom agent who had just run past her. She spun around and saw a stolen dagger in the hands of the bony slave who had been watering vines earlier. He was using the weapon to hack at the agent’s flabby neck.

As the fat man fell, the slave raised his blade and rushed Sadira. The sorceress sidestepped his clumsy charge, throwing her foot out to catch his ankle and bringing the back of her fist down between his shoulder blades. The old man fell to the floor, then Sadira planted a foot on the wrist of his weapon arm. She reached down and pulled the dirk from his hand.

“Not bad,” Magnus said.

“Rikus taught me,” she replied, stepping away with the knife in her hand.

The man rolled over, cringing and covering his head. A terrified eye, yellow with jaundice, peered out from the crook of his elbow, but the slave did not cry out or beg for mercy.

“We’re on your side,” “Sadira said.

The sorceress reached down and pulled the old man to his feet, then looked around to see if Dhojakt’s followers had shown themselves. Here and there, a few women were calmly watching the revolt from the safety of an empty slave pen, but they had not yet done anything to reveal themselves as templars. Sadira thrust the dagger into the slave’s hand, then pushed him toward the exit. “You don’t have much time. Make good use of it.”

The slave toothless mouth fell open. He gave Sadira a quick bow, then turned to lash out at a woman wearing a silk sarami and a copper bracelet. A long arc of blood shot from the wound, spattering Magnus’s knobby face.

Wiping the sticky fluid away from his eye, Magnus asked, “Did you have to return the knife?”

“If you’d ever been a slave, you wouldn’t ask that question,” Sadira said.

Without waiting for a reply, she took the windsinger by the arm and led him down the aisle. Behind them, the sounds of the battle grew louder and more tumultuous.

When they neared the pillar at the end, a pair of Nibenese templars rushed around the corner, throwing off their saramis and calling upon their sorcerer-king for magic. They stopped two paces into the corridor, and one dropped something on the floor. There was a small pop, and the smell of sulfur came to Sadira’s nose.

A tiny sphere of fire appeared on the ground, quickly growing to the size of a kank. The woman threw her palms out before her as though pushing the flaming ball. It rolled down the aisle, picking up speed and size with each revolution. As the fiery globe passed, it left nothing behind save the blackened vines, charred bodies, and scorched flagstones.

Sadira reached into the satchel containing her spell components, but Magnus caught her hand. “No,” he whispered. “We’re here to get Faenaeyon-not to kill templars.”

The sorceress withdrew her hand, then watched as the two women walked past, following their ball down the corridor. Though her every instinct cried out for her to jump into the battle, she knew the windsinger was right.

About halfway down the corridor, the ball exploded into a fiery spray, then vanished in a puff of black smoke. Blocking the aisle stood a transparent wall of force, and through its shimmering surface Sadira could see Raka turning to flee.

“I think the time’s come to get Faenaeyon,” Sadira said.

As she spoke, the second templar flung her hand at the arc above Raka’s head. A blue stone streaked from the woman’s hand and struck the span squarely in the center. The stones vanished in a cascade of sparks, then the ceiling collapsed, showering the aisle below with stone debris.

Magnus shook his head and looked away. “What a waste,” he commented sadly. “Now how will we find our way out of the city?”

“Perhaps the Alliance will send someone else,” Sadira said, watching as a pair of slaves fell to their knees and began to claw at the rubble. “Besides, Raka might still be alive.”

The windsinger shook his head. “How can you think that?”

Sadira considered taking the time to defend the slaves, but noticed that the young sorcerer’s quivering force barrier still stood. It would prevent the templars from advancing any farther, at least for a short time.

“Let’s get what we came for,” Magnus said, pulling the sorceress around the corner.

Here, the situation was even more confused than where they had just come from. Dozens of men and women dressed in silken saramis cowered in the center of the aisle, just out of the reach of the poor wretches still bound to the wall. Scattered among the stalls were the bodies of those who had not been so careful, buyers and merchants with, puffy, purple-tinged faces, swollen blue lips, and glazed eyes rolled back in their sockets. Often, the greasy cords that had strangled them were still looped tight around their necks, with the dazed, expressionless faces of their executioners hovering above their shoulders.

Halfway down, the aisle, a magical rampart of golden light blocked the corridor. A dozen men carrying shields with House Shom’s insignia stood before the barrier, waiting for three bare-breasted templars to dispel the wall. Through the shimmering barricade, Sadira could see the form of an elderly sorcerer staggering toward the exit.

Magus went to Faenaeyon’s stall and grabbed the slave’s line. The windsinger gave the cord a mighty jerk, but neither the black line nor the stone ring holding it gave way. He pulled the rope taut, then opened his mouth and struck a deep, rumbling note that made the floor quiver. Where the stone ring was attached, the wall shuddered visibly, and the sorceress expected the bricks to shatter at any moment.

Down the aisle, the templars and guards turned at the sound of Magnus’s voice. Seeing what was about to happen, they abandoned their pursuit of the sorcerer and charged toward Faenaeyon.

Sadira quickly summoned energy for a spell. “Magnus hurry!”

The windsinger glanced down the aisle, then twisted his lumpy lips into a scowl and stopped singing. Still holding the slave line with one hand, he formed the other into a massive fist and smashed it into the wall.

The bricks disintegrated into a spray of jagged shards, and the ring popped free. Magnus threw Faenaeyon over his shoulder, then groaned in pain and shook the fist he had used to smash the wall. Sadira waved him toward the next aisle and followed after him, moving backwards so she could keep watch on the approaching Nibenese.

The guards were swinging their curved blades to and fro, frantically trying to clear a path through the men and women cowering before them. They succeeded only in filling the aisle with mutilated pedestrians too stunned and frightened to crawl out of the way.

One of the templars stopped and called upon her king’s magic. A glowing red stone streaked from her hand, striking Magnus square in the back. The rock glanced off his hide, taking with it a swath of skin and filling the air with the stench of scorched leather. The windsinger crashed to the floor in a bellowing heap, sending Faenaeyon rolling toward the emporium’s back wall.

“Magnus!” Sadira screamed, “Get up!”

He did not answer, but the sorceress did not take her eyes off her enemies long enough to look in his direction. Instead, as a second templar pointed a long-nailed finger at her, Sadira flung a tiny shard if crystal high into the air and whispered her incantation.

After reaching the top of its arc, the shard did not fall. Instead, it hovered in the air for an instant, then exploded into a glittering disk of solid crystal. Though Sadira knew the wafer to be no thicker than a finger, it was impossible to tell by looking at it. The circle seemed infinitely deep, and filled with sheets of gemlike color: emerald, amethyst, even flashes of diamond.

When the templar’s spell struck the other side, it flared white, then divided into dazzling waves of yellow, red, and blue. Each blast of color shot off in a different direction, then quickly slowed to a stop and hung trapped within the radiant depths of the disk.

The sorceress traced a circle in the air. Spinning in a crazy maelstrom of color, the crystal flew down the corridor, absorbing everything it touched. Within moments, it was filled with the distorted, inert figures of those who had been standing in the aisle: slave buyers, house agents, guards, and the three Nibenese templars.

Sadira turned toward Magnus and saw the windsinger struggling to his knees. But, as she moved to help him, something came scraping over the wall to which Faenaeyon had been attached. She spun around and saw Dhojakt’s figure appearing at the top, his eyes burning with a hateful gleam.

Sadira began summoning energy for another spell. At the same time, Dhojakt motioned at the floor upon which she stood, closing his fist and raising it upward as of drawing something from the earth. With a series of sharp bangs, the flagstones beneath her feet cracked apart, and a gaping hole opened. The sorceress cried out in alarm and stepped away, still holding her palm downward.

A cilops crawled from the fissure, swinging its oval head from side to side and flailing its antennae about wildly. Its compound eye quickly fell on Sadira, and the beast opened its three sets of pincers. Blasting her with its musty breath, it shot forward.

The sorceress leaped into an empty slave pen, but was no match for the beast’s speed. Catching her around the thigh, the thing lifted her into the air. A stream of hot blood spilled down her leg, and she felt the numbing sting of venom entering her veins.

“Magnus!” she yelled, panicked by the thought of being poisoned. “Help me!”

“Don’t look to your big companion,” scoffed Dhojakt. “He was what he came for, and now he’s gone.”

The sorceress glanced at the rear wall of the emporium. As the prince claimed, neither Magnus nor Faenaeyon were anywhere to be seen. Cursing the windsinger for being so fast to leave, Sadira plunged a hand into her satchel and withdrew the first thing he touched, a wad of soot-covered hemp. She almost put it back, for it was an ingredient to a spell that she could cast only on herself. Then an idea occurred to her, and the sorceress thrust her fingers down to the cilop’s pincers. She slapped the hemp onto the thing’s head, then grabbed an antenna and spoke her incantation.

The cilops turned as black as Dhojakt’s eyes and faded to an insubstantial silhouette. Sadira slipped from between its pincers and dropped to the floor. The shadowy beast tried to attack again, but its mandibles passed through the sorceress without effect. Ignoring the impotent attacker, Sadira ripped a strip or cloth from her sarami and made a tourniquet around her savaged thigh. The bandage would prevent the poison from traveling to the rest of her body, at least for a few minutes.

“Your king didn’t say you’d be so difficult to kill,” Dhojakt observed, his segmented body slinking over the wall.

“You’re doing this for Tithian?” Sadira gasped. She tied off her bandage and placed her hands on the flagstones as if to push herself to her feet. Instead of trying to rise, however, she drew the energy for another spell. With her palm touching the floor directly, there would be not be even the faintest shimmer of energy to betray what she was doing.

“I do not serve that fool,” Dhojakt hissed. “I have cause of my own to end your life.”

“Which is?” Sadira asked.

Instead of answering, Dhojakt began to descend, his cilops body slinking slowly over the wall.

Sadira had begun to tingle with magical energy, but not nearly enough to stop the prince. If she hoped overcome whatever had protected him from her spells yesterday, she would need much more power. The sorceress kept her hand open and turned toward the floor. Vines began to drop from their pillars, withered and brown. She did not stop, even after they had crumbled to ash, leaving the soil beneath the emporium as lifeless as its flagstone floor.

The stream died away. Sadira feared no more energy would come, then she felt another source yielding its life. It came from outside the emporium, flowing into her body more slowly, as if the plants were reluctant to yield it. The sorceress realized that the force had to be coming from Sage’s Square, where the magnificent agafari trees grew.

“No!” Dhojakt yelled, starting across the aisle. “You must not defile my father’s grove!”

Sadira clenched her teeth and pulled as hard as she could. At the same time, she reached for her spell ingredients with her free hand. For an instant, it seemed the agafari grove would not yield its life to her summons-then she felt as if a thundercloud had opened. Magical energy flooded into her in such a rush that the sorceress’s muscles began to burn and quiver from head to foot. She closed her hand, but the flow continued against her will, streaming into her body and making it impossible to control her own limbs.

As Dhojakt came nearer, the prince’s nostrils flared angrily, and Sadira heard the hiss of his breath rushing in and out of the cavernous openings. The skin around his nose was cracked and inflamed, probably from the trap Raka had laid for him yesterday.

The prince extended the bony mandibles from beneath his lips, then grabbed Sadira by the shoulders and drew her close. The sorceress felt energy streaming from her body into his, and control of her muscles returned to her.

“I had intended to kill you mercifully,” the prince spat. “But now it is necessary to punish you.”

Sadira pinched a nugget of crystallized acid between her fingers. The oils of her skin triggered an instantaneous reaction, causing her to grimace as the vitriolic stuff ate at her flesh.

“Don’t waste your effort,” Dhojakt snarled, turning his head so that his mandibles could pierce her throat. “Your spells won’t hurt me.”

“This one will!”

Sadira pulled the crystal from her satchel and thrust it deep into one of Dhojakt’s nostrils. As she spoke her incantation, a cloud of brown vapor billowed from his nose. The prince screamed in agony, then flung the sorceress away.

Sadira slammed into the back wall of the slave pen so hard that it felt as though she would knock it over. Pain raged over her body, and she barely kept her head from slamming into the bricks. Still, she felt as if she were going to fall unconscious. Her vision narrowed to a dark tunnel, and Dhojakt’s agonized howls began to grow distant.

The sorceress shook her head and fought to keep her eyes open. If she allowed herself to fall unconscious, she would awake in the custody of Nibenese templars-if she awoke at all. Sadira focused all her thoughts on the throbbing agony in her skull, clinging to the pain like a falling man to a rope.

Finally, Dhojakt’s cries began to grow more distinct. Farther away, the sorceress could hear the sporadic explosions and hisses of magical combat. She clung to these sounds, using them to guide her back to reality.

Sadira’s vision slowly returned to normal, then the sorceress struggled to her feet. The leg that the cilops had savaged had exploded into numb, fiery pain. A wave of nausea rolled through Sadira’s stomach, her joints began to ache, and she broke into a cold sweat. The cilops poison, she knew, was taking effect.

Across the aisle, Dhojakt lay crumpled on the floor, his many legs twitching in agony and his torso writhing about madly. He held his hands over his face and howled for help in a pained, inhuman voice.

Sadira could hardly believe he was still alive. The spell she had used had been the most powerful she knew, capable of killing an entire company of soldiers in a single instant. That the prince had survived seemed totally inconceivable, for instead of spreading the acid fog over several acres, she had concentrated it inside his breathing passages. By now, there should have been nothing left of his head except a puddle of brown ooze.

Sadira briefly considered trying to kill him again, but could not think how to do it. Even if she had possessed a weapon, Dhojakt was as invulnerable to blades as he was to magic. As for another spell, if the death fog had not destroyed him, she did not know what could. The sorceress decided that her wisest course of action was to leave before someone came to help the prince.

As Sadira turned toward the back of the aisle, she saw a stocky figure standing there, surveying the scene. Since his face was concealed by a white scarf, the sorceress felt safe in assuming that he was a member of the Veiled Alliance.

“You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you,” she said, limping toward him. Instead of moving to help her, the man fled around the corner.

“Come back!” Sadira yelled, following the veiled figure.

By the time she stepped around the end pillar, the man was nowhere in sight. However, Magnus stood only a short distance up the debris-covered aisle. The windsinger was picking his way through a pile of guards that he had, apparently, finished killing just a few moments earlier. Across his shoulders lay Faenaeyon, staring blankly at the floor.

“Magnus, wait!” Sadira yelled, almost stumbling as a wave of dizziness overcame her. “I need your art!”

The windsinger paused long enough to twist around and glance at her. “Hurry.” He turned forward again and stumbled down the rubble-strewn aisle at his best pace. “I’ll meet you by the door.”

The sorceress took a small length of twine and formed a miniature leash, then raised it in Magnus’s direction and cast another spell. The windsinger stopped in midstride, one three-toed foot hovering several inches off the floor.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Sadira growled. “I said wait!”