Silver Dragon Codex (15 page)

y name is Ebano Bakr Sayf al-Din ibn Ceham, prince of Sayf, a people who once belonged to the tribe known as Khur. Now, the Sayf are dead, buried in the deep deserts of our homeland. I have traveled many lands and seen many wonders, praise Keja who united us, and curse his seven sons. The truth has been revealed to me, my family taken from me, and I have nothing left in this world except the fire of life and the water of forgiveness. Thus I move in honesty. Thus I act with integrity. Thus I kill without malice. Hear my sole prayer, noble gods: grant me an honorable death. Alak-al-saham-din-al-bhar, may the blessings of the gods be upon the world
.

Ebano folded his arms together, watching as the ringmaster led the others away toward the wagons. Their slow language sounded of drool and slick stones, and too
often it bored him beyond hope of understanding. This was not important. The mage in the robes of death—he, and only he—could free the lady dragon from her curse. That was important.

He had never before met a true wizard in these cold lands. Ebano thought at first that they did not exist, that these strange Westerners could not grasp the difficult arcane studies needed to master the powers of the arcane. Then this “Palanthas wizard” arrived, dressed all in white. He looked like a mourner at a funeral, forbidden to wear color or go out for seventy days—ten days for each of Keja’s gods-cursed sons, as tradition dictated.

Then he had seen the man in white robes, and at last, Ebano understood. To become a wizard here was to commit oneself to death alone. No wonder the crowds stared at Ebano for even the simplest of tricks. They assumed that he, too, was death-touched like their own spell-casters.

I must find him, and I must face him, Ebano thought. He made the sign of blessing before his eyes. One of the contortionists waved back at him, and Ebano smiled. As usual, these primitives did not understand. No matter. The gods would judge them, heretics and heathens alike.

Ebano’s eyes narrowed as he strode through the narrow causeways, ignoring the roar of the crowd seeping through the thick canvas of the big top. I will face him,
this western wizard who threatens the dragon girl, and I will make him undo what he has done.

The fluttering canvas of the big tent drew his mind back to other days. He remembered raw sand beneath his crunching boots, the whinny and storm of horses, ready to race against the sandstorms of the desert and win. These things, simple memories, came back to him when he least deserved their comfort but most needed it. Blessing the hand of Keja and the gods, Ebano paused to bow and touch his forehead, lips, and heart in supplication. If his family’s souls were with him, then he could not fail, no matter if he lived or died.

It was easy to find the wizard, even in this sea of tents haphazardly thrown together. They looked like desert flotsam at a stagnant oasis. The ringmaster was a man consumed with the sin of Hachakee, Keja’s fourth son, who bore the curse of pride. Worver would keep the death wizard close.
There
. Beside the ringmaster’s magnificently painted wagon stood another, smaller and less ornate. Worver was forcing the wizard into small quarters, cramped and uncolored, to humble him. Ebano felt his lip curl. These people know no end of insults to their betters, he thought. This death wizard must be strong indeed to accept such affronts. Challenging him will be honorable. I hope he dies well, or kills me with swiftness.

Ebano knocked upon the door of the wizard’s dwelling, amused as always at the strange custom of rapping one’s knuckles on stiff, heavy wood. Someone inside gave a customary greeting, one which Ebano recognized needed no reply. Was he to go inside, then? The mesmerist closed his eyes, praying to Keja for patience, and knocked again.

This time, the death wizard pulled the door open and faced him, white funeral robes swirling in the wake of the heavy wooden door. He stared at Ebano as if expecting a message. Of course, Ebano thought. He does not know who I am, or how to respect me, because I do not wear the deathly white robes. I must educate him. A small thing to do for an honorable opponent.

“May the peace of Keja, blessed is his name, be upon you.” Ebano bowed, once more making the gesture of blessing—forehead, lips, and heart. The traditional words of challenge in his native tongue came to him easily, even after so many years. “I am Ebano Bakr Sayf al-Din ibn Ceham, prince of Sayf, master of the arcane arts, and I challenge you to a formal duel. My honor has been tarnished, and your blood must wash it clean.”

The death wizard said something incomprehensible, furrowing his brow. Alas, the man did not know a civilized tongue. Ebano tried again, using the simple words in their language that he had been taught, to better communicate
with these foreigners. “This one is Ebano,” he said, using their awful-sounding language. “Fight.” There. That should be straightforward enough.

“Fight?” The walker of death tried to look behind Ebano, searching for something that was not there. Ebano was not fooled.

“Fight.” He considered, and then remembered one of the formal phrases that the ringmaster had taught him to impress the crowd. He babbled it carefully, remembering the syllables by heart without knowing their meaning. He was moderately sure that one could be a threat, as most of the people who heard it during his act would stare at him afterwards, wide-eyed and pale faced.

The death wizard only looked more confused. He said something in his thick tongue, but the only words that Ebano caught were “Worver,” “time,” and “dragon.”

Dragon! Yes, the dragon, Ebano nodded enthusiastically. This all comes down to her, he thought. My honor, my shameful past, the deaths of my family—here and now, I can redeem them all!

He readied himself for the first rush of magic, the flow of adrenalin and combat, but the death wizard pushed right past him and out into the courtyard, where he stood with his hands on his hips, looking around. He turned back to Ebano and gestured impatiently.

Idiot. Ebano ground his teeth in frustration. This time, the death wizard would not mistake Ebano’s meaning. The prince of Sayf strode out to meet him, scooped up a handful of dust, and blew it straight into the bearded mage’s face.

So, too, will you become dust
.

May the peace of Keja be upon both of our souls
.

He followed that up with a punch, knocking the white-garbed wizard backward.

While the other wizard was spluttering to regain his footing, Ebano began to summon the power of his art.
Dark and fell tide, rise at my call! I summon the spirit of Fin-Maskar, the seventh son of Keja, whose sin was wrath
.

Fire exploded around Ebano’s hand, lighting the dark-skinned mesmerist in flickering splendor. His enemy’s eyes widened, and Mysos managed to chant a few words that quickly raised a shield of energy between them as Ebano’s flame roared down. The shield held, and fire licked out all along the ground, spilling over the sides, ripping in a hiss through the air from Ebano’s raised hand.

The instant that the fire stopped, the death mage was ready with retaliation. Bolts of energy flew forth from his outspread fingers as the shield moved aside. They uncoiled in arcing white stripes of light, launched directly toward Ebano’s purple eyes. Before they could strike him, Ebano waved his hand, clearing the air of energy as if he were
swatting flies. Each of the wizard’s bolts struck lightly against Ebano’s fingers. They hissed like hot irons plunged into snow and vanished.

Facing his opponent with more respect, the man in mourning robes squared off and studied Ebano. He said something in their thick language that sounded aggressive, and Ebano smiled. “Let action, not words, dictate our understanding.” Never before had the words of Keja felt so appropriate, even if the wizard in white robes made a confused squawk in response. Ebano began the spell again, gathering energy like the reins of a desert horse, feeling it slip through his fingers as he wove and tugged, drawing each thread into a cloak of power. With a spin, Ebano released it, watching it coalesce into silvery mist that hurtled through the air to a spot just above the other wizard’s head. It exploded like fireworks, sending a shower of sparks raining through the air.

The mage rolled, getting dust all over his white robes, but he was too slow. Wherever the sparks touched—his clothing, the grass—stone grew like a crust. Struggling against the enchantment, the other man coiled his magic, lashing out at the charm again and again until the stone began to shatter. Despite Ebano’s hope that it would overcome the wizard, he broke free, slapping his hand against the ground in a violent display. The earth broke
open and a crack raced toward Ebano, forcing him to use his levitation trick to jump away before he was consumed by the earth.

By now, they’d drawn a crowd. Several of the performers had spilled out the back of the big top, staring in shock and awe at the open displays of sorcery erupting in the rear clearing. Two of the trapeze artists huddled in one another’s arms, squealing as sparks from Ebano’s spell blew too near. The mesmerist straightened his shoulders, throwing his head high. Fear or admiration? It did not matter. In this moment, he was once again a prince defending his honor, protecting his people from their enemies. This was the purpose Keja had given to his life, the purpose he had lost, when—

“Mysos!” one of the bystanders screamed in fear. Yes, that was the name of the western wizard in his white mourning robes. The ringmaster had said it in his wagon before they left, when they were pleading with the wizard for Belen’s life—the same way that his wife had pleaded for their daughter’s.

Ebano twitched aside, letting a bolt of crackling, arcing electricity course past him to strike the ringmaster’s wagon. There was a snapping of wood and a terrible smell of ozone, and when the smoke cleared, a black, charred scar ran all along the wagon’s brightly painted side. He
smiled serenely. The wizards here were far less talented than those he served with when he fought under Salah-Khan, when the Khur tribe sought to unify with the rest of those in the deep deserts.

“You face Ebano Bakr Sayf al-Din ibn Ceham! It was I who carried the banner of my tribe. I who led the charge of my people’s mounts into battle, I who defeated and conquered others in the name of Khurdish unity! You cannot stand against me, dealer of death!” Sadly, it was obvious that the Westerner had no understanding of the boast. The man reached to draw some other spell material from his belt and stared at Ebano most absurdly. Ridiculous primitives!

Ebano tried again, stiffening and raising his hand with a flourish. “Hear me, you pale and unsightly blemish on the face of the gods’ land! You face a true mage! I have fought beneath the claws of a dragon! I feared him not, and I do not fear you!”

The crowd made squawks of fear and anticipation. Perhaps one among them had enough command of civilized languages to recognize the wonders and marvels of a good boast in combat—or perhaps they were simply impressed by the magic flying about in the clearing. Whatever it was that made their eyes widen, Ebano welcomed it. This, indeed, would be a good place to die.

“Daddy!”

The cry came from one of the children clustered in the rapidly growing audience, the circus visitors unsure if this was part of the show. The cry turned Ebano’s head instinctively, and an old memory flashed before his eyes.

Mysos spun, his white robes swirling out like the mad dances performed by dervishes in the deep desert, his hands snapping out, thrusting a ball of dark, crackling energy toward Ebano. It tracked his movement, making it impossible for him to dodge it or knock it aside. He would have to face the magic directly and control it before it could detonate.

Without flinching, Ebano stretched out his hands and caught the whirling ball of darkness. He spun it though his own magical control, swirling it around and around between his hands. It was no mean feat, and Ebano could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead as he shifted and spun the magic, twisting it into a tighter ball, refusing to allow it to untangle. Mysos stared at him openly, trying to concentrate on the spell and regain control, but Ebano was too strong. Their wills clashed, pushing against one another, fighting for supremacy, until at last Ebano gained enough ground to hurl the ball of darkness into the broken crevice at his feet. It plunged downward several feet, unraveling as it did. Ebano lunged aside, desperate to get out of the way before the magic was fully activated.