The wind huffed. The sister was lying. It’d run over the cruel one after the duel, and he’d lain crumpled on the floor like a dead man for the entirety of the fighting.
But the Bard nodded. “Wolfgang broke trust. He entered the null as a paladin knowing he was heir. I believe this is against the rules?—”
“It’s not,” the man said.
“It will be if we add a retroactive clause,” the Clark said. “Add to that the interrupted duel and my son as the only survivor?—”
“Yet he’s back,” the trickster said. “The null came back. Stepped right out of the pool and promised to kill us all. He’s not null anymore. Or did you miss the fire and the ceiling caving in? He’s a conjurer, and he’s alive.”
“If that’s even him,” the Clark said. “It could be illusion. Darin’s. Jacob’s?—”
“My son is dead,” the man said, and the wind moaned, stirring up the bone dust. It nudged at the man. It wanted to leave the catacomb. It wanted to rush free of this bone and death place.
The man’s voice wasn’t melodic like it used to be. It was mournful like the wind pulling fog over the city. If they left the catacombs, the wind could take the man to the river and let him dive under the water with the cormorants. Perhaps that would remind the man how to laugh.
“If not illusion,” the Clark continued, “then it isn’t man. It isn’t conjurer. It’s an aberration. I call a quorum. I call to acknowledge Primus Clark as winner of the Crown of Illusions.”
The trickster began to laugh. It was a slow, quiet laugh that grew louder until it was echoing off the bone and waking the hungry thing that slept in the walls.
The wind sighed as the hungry thing scratched and sniffed and sent out a questioning moan.
“You’re asking for us to make war on the crown?” the man asked.
“I’m asking you to war for the crown,” the Clark said, his hissing voice melding with the creature’s questing hiss.
“It chose the Smith,” the man said. “We all saw it.” He turned to the cruel one. “Place it on your head at your own peril.”
“We saw nothing,” the cruel one said. “We saw chaos and blood. We saw illusion. We saw solange destroy. The null never wore the crown—it merely floated above him. And what was that? Take note, Ward. It was a mind trick—one your family is known for. Were you trying to prevent me from my rightful place? Bitter that your own son failed to complete his task when you so easily completed your own with Wolfgang’s death? You know.” The cruel one hit his chest with his fist. “You know the crown is mine. It was never placed on the null’s head. It was never declared. He did not win our duel. He died. He died a weak, cowardly null.”
“You’re a fool,” the man said. “You’re a slave to your own greed, and you don’t even realize it.”
The wind shoved at the man. Why was he taunting a room full of conjurers when he was alone? Did he think he could stand against them all? Or did he want to never leave this horrible, stagnant, bone-dry tomb?
The parchment and snake scented Clark turned to the Bard. “If you vote yea, I will give Luvic my daughter in marriage. I will give you South America. I will give you the catacombs of Antarctica.”
The Bard smiled. His face was brushed with illusion, so the wind wasn’t certain if it was a true smile or not, but all the same, he smiled.
The wind sniffed the trickster. He was back to lounging against the wall, his legs crossed, his hands in his pockets, the half-smile on his lips. When the cruel one’s sister snarled at him, he lifted his eyebrows. The wind didn’t know what the expression meant. The sister looked like a black cat with its back arched, hissing and angry. But the trickster? He looked amused. The wind would believe it, except his muscles were iron-tight, and his heartbeat was racing wildly. It was a raging, caged rhythm.
The wind patted his shoulder. He shrugged the wind off.
Then the Bard gave a swift, showy gesture, worthy of a king on Shakespeare’s stage. “I say yea. I stand with the Clarks. We make war on the Smiths to retrieve the crown.” He turned to the trickster and narrowed his eyes.
The trickster casually pushed off the wall and stepped forward. He smiled at the conjurers, the Clarks, and the man. “I say yea. I stand with my principal, who stands with the Clarks. We make war on the Smiths to retrieve the crown.”
The sister unfolded an old, yellowed parchment that smelled of musty rooms and deep tombs. “Seal it with your blood,” she said. She spread it over the broken stones, and the Bard and the trickster signed their names and cut their fingers to seal their promises with blood.
The Clarks, the father, the cruel one, and the sister signed their names beneath it.
“And you, Philoneas? What is your decision?” the Clark asked.
The wind nudged him. Say no. Say no and leave. Go find sunshine and cormorants bursting from the river. Go find air and ringing church bells. Say no.
“If I say yea, what will you give me?” the man asked.
The Clark edged closer to the man, smiling greedily. “I will give you access to Alexandria’s lost library. Haven’t you wanted that for a century now?”
The man’s expression softened. A light smile touched his face. “I have.”
