The door was opened. The courtier bowed and gestured Forterren forward. The Guildmaster stepped within the chamber; as he crossed the threshold, he felt the first pulse of magic. His mage sense opened immediately, sensing the change.
A magical cord of glittering gold with sparks of red surrounded the woman who held the door open. The cord spiraled around her, like a tangle of wool from a child’s knitting. Below that level of binding, a web of golden netting sank into her skin, deep and confining. The end of the bond cord trailed behind her, leading directly to the woman on the throne.
Forterran’s gorge rose but he managed to keep his face still and his reactions to himself. The room seemed to dim around him until all he could see were the cords, tainted and sealed with the blood of an innocent life.
The other three women who stood behind Satia’s throne were similarly wrapped in the same golden and blood red net.
He almost couldn’t think, overwhelmed by the hate and loathing he felt. But he could not afford outrage here.
A corner of his mind noted that Satia was supposed to have five attendants. Where was the fifth?
“Ah, Guildmaster,” the King’s voice cut through his thoughts.
Forterran could not let himself be distracted during this audience, even by this horror. Clearly, the bonds had been set long ago, maybe even at birth. None in the Guild would use such blood magic, and not on new-born babes. Which meant that Satia’s family had had those resources some twenty-odd years ago.
Something he refused to acknowledge as fear stirred within him.
One of the women shifted position slightly, revealing the fifth cord, stretched out behind the Queen. So there was another.
Forterran dimmed his mage sight and walked forward as slowly as he could. The room was close, with the smell of ginger in the air…and sickness. Queen Satia lay side-ways on a lounge, looking pasty and bloated and very pregnant. King Xyrath was pacing, as he was wont to do. Another man stood at Satia’s feet. Forterran took a moment to place him. Lord Marshal Tarwain, if memory served. Looking decidedly put out.
Xyrath was the picture of royalty, his golden head of hair gleaming under his crown. He probably wore it to bed, Forterran thought sourly, but in truth, he knew he was envious of that head of hair. Unlike his own wisps.
Pity they couldn’t get that spell to work.
Forterran reached the appropriate distance from the throne and bowed as low as he could manage, leaning on his cane. His chains sagged forward, swinging freely. That he also managed to display his gouty foot was rather well done, to his way of thinking.
“Your majesties,” he said, keeping his head down.
“Rise, Guildmaster,” Xyrath commanded.
“You finally come, in answer to our summons,” Queen Satia snapped, her voice as peevish as her face.
“Forgive my infirmities, Your Majesty,” Forterran rose slowly and sighed regretfully over his physical failings.
King Xyrath winced at the sight of his foot. One of the Bondmaidens whispered in the Queen’s ear as she offered a cup of tea. Forterran thought he heard the word ‘chair’. But from the Queen’s lovely scowl, that was not to be.
Instead, she waved the girl away and fixed her beady eye on Forterran’s person. “So, where in this Guild contract does it state that a Chained Mage can claim an apprentice against her father’s will?”
Ah. Forterran plastered a puzzled look on his face, strengthened the spell on his person, and resigned himself to an unpleasant afternoon.
The only warningHalithe had was when Ritathan suddenly lifted his head, with an odd, sardonic smile.
She turned in her chair, the bowl of water sloshing in her hands, as the door opened. A large, thick-waisted, older man walked in, candlelight bouncing off his bald head with its wisps of white hair. “Had to have a tower room, didn’t you?” he wheezed as he closed the door.
“Apprentice Halithe, may I introduce my old friend, Guildmaster Forterran?” Ritathan said.
Halithe caught her breath at that, and swiftly rose to her feet, keeping the bowl steady.
“Don’t ‘old friend’ me,” Forterran growled as he settled his girth in the other chair. He eased a disgusting-looking foot out sideways, avoiding the desk. Halithe wrinkled her nose; it looked painful.
“Apprentice?” Forterran continued. “By what right? By written agreement? By consent of her family? By consent of the Guild?”
Ritathan gestured toward the scorch marks on his desk.
Forterran hummed, then looked at Halithe. “Your work, chit?”
Her anger rose and the water in the bowl sloshed a bit. But she controlled herself and set her face. “Yes, Guildmaster.”
