Free The Windrose Chronicles 3 - Dog Wizard by Barbara Hambly

“Isn't it sufficient that you've poured enough phylax down my throat to fail every novice in the Citadel in their exams?”
    “No,” the Lady said coldly. “It is not sufficient. There were those on the Council who voted against your being brought here at all; those who argued that you cannot be trusted with power, as you have shown by your actions again and again. Phylax wears off in three days. All you need to do is go over the Citadel wall—and believe me, we have all heard of your escapes from the Silent Tower—and you would once again become a dog wizard meddling in affairs which do not and should not concern you, bringing the wrath of the Witchfinders yet more fiercely upon every mageborn soul in the land.”
    “And if I won't be a dog wizard in your pay,” Antryg said mildly, “you'd rather I wasn't in anyone else's?”
    Color flooded to the Lady's silky cheeks. Before she could reply, Nandiharrow interjected gently, “The Regent hates us solely for what we are, Antryg. You're right—we were lucky to have escaped with banishment. We exist, to an extent, upon his sufferance, perhaps not for our lives, but for our peace: the peace to study, the peace to train others in the use of their true arts. The Council trained you in the proper use of your powers in exchange for vows not to meddle, and you have broken your vows, not once but over and over again. Surely you must concede our point?”
    “I do concede it.” Antryg sank back into Daurannon's chair, glanced from the big, gray-haired man's kindly face to his mutilated hands, and rubbed at the ache that never left his own twisted fingers. “And I was minding my own business—well, pretty much so—in Los Angeles. But you're asking me to do a job, and if there is something badly amiss with the Void—and abominations prowling about the Vaults are a fairly telling clue—I may need my powers on rather short notice.”
    As he spoke his eyes traveled from face to face, seeking a way out: Phormion still twisting her hands under Bentick's worried sidelong glance, Nandiharrow solid and grave as an oak, and Issay Bel-Caire like a sun-bleached bundle of weeds. His eyes touched Daurannon's and met there only opaque coldness and mistrust. At the head of the table Aunt Min snored gently. “I shouldn't care to have to reconvene this Council at three o'clock some morning in the face of an unexpected onslaught of fire-breathing caterpillars.”
    “He's right.” Seldes Katne got to her feet, her round, potatolike face set in an expression of consternation. “Surely it would be a great mistake to take from him the very powers for which he was brought here.”
    “He was brought here for his knowledge and his experience.” The Lady's gaze rested impersonally for a moment on the stout librarian, then moved to Antryg again. “You may call upon any member of the Council for assistance at any time.”
    “Oh, I'm sure I can.” Antryg drained his tea and studied the pattern of the leaves at the bottom of the cup. A house-ambition; fire—chaos and change; the rose that foretold a death; and everywhere the little three-legged track of danger. “The thing is, I'm not entirely convinced that it isn't some member of the Council who's responsible for all of this.”
    Had she still been the daughter of the Earl Maritime and not a mage theoretically equal with her brothers and sisters on the Council, Lady Rosamund would have snapped How dare you? and rung for a lackey to have him thrashed. As it was she only tightened her lips, but the unspoken words sparked in her eyes like pitch in a burning log.
    “There are members of the Council who are not entirely convinced that it isn't you who is in some way responsible for all of this, Antryg Windrose,” she said quietly. “And may I remind you,” she added, her voice sinking still further, as if she and he were the only two in the windowless, light-flooded marble chamber, “that you do not have a choice.”
    “Antryg ... ”
    He