Free Dark Magic by Angus Wells Page A

apprehend you and deliver you to Nhur-jabal. Anomius launches a plot against you.”
    He paused dramatically, sipping ale, and Calandryll said, “Why do you tell us this?”
    “Because we who name ourselves the Tyrant’s sorcerers are pledged to serve all Kandahar,” Menelian replied, “and Anomius serves only himself. I received word from certain of my colleagues of his desire to take you; and at the same time, word that those of the inner circle, who are far mightier than I, have seen such stirrings in the occult fundus as must override our immediate loyalties to Xenomenus.”
    “Sorcerers’ riddles,” Bracht said dubiously.
    “No!” Menelian shook his head. “Warning and aid. The Tyrant sees only the immediate advantage—victory over Sathoman—and to that end will listen to Anomius, who seeks to take you for personal revenge.”
    “Why?” Calandryll asked, wanting for reasons he could not yet define to trust the sorcerer, but not yet sure he should.
    “Because he believes you have obtained some book of gramaryes as can render him supreme,” Menelian returned.
    “That was a gambit to escape Sathoman ek’Hennem,” Calandryll said carefully. “No more.”
    “Much more, I think,” said Menelian. “I think you went to Tezin-dar to find the Arcanum.”
    Calandryll’s platter hit the floor, what little food was left spilling unnoticed over the polished planks. Menelian gestured, so that the spillage was flung into the fire, where woodsmoke became mingled with the perfume of almonds.
    “Anomius does not yet know that,” he said earnestly. “But whatever tale you spun him, his ambition prompts him to believe you sought a tome that would reveal such ancient spells as must make him master of all Kandahar. He’d have it, and his revenge, too. He’s crazed, but like some beast with a taste for human flesh—cunning and dangerous.”
    “And you know its true meaning?”
    Calandryll stared at the sorcerer. Menelian nodded. “The masters of the inner circle discerned the true import of your quest,” he said solemnly. “Once they had probed Anomius and thought on what you did.” He looked to Tekkan then, his expression curious. “Did the holy men of Vanu not realize that what they divined must likely be known to others?”
    Tekkan shrugged. “I am not of that circle. I do only what they said I should.”
    “Which was to hunt down the seekers of the Arcanum and bring the book to Vanu that it might be destroyed?” asked Menelian.
    Tekkan nodded. “How do you know that?” he asked.
    Menelian smiled a shade ruefully and answered, “Vanu folk wandering so far south? It needed only an educated guess to reach that conclusion—but heed me, for as I said, we’ve little time. I’ll tell you all I know and you may judge then whether or not you’ll trust me.”
    He looked them each in the eyes, his own no longer amused, but filled with a fervent seriousness that spoke of honesty; and more than a little trepidation.
    “The existence of the Arcanum was—indeed, still is—a close-kept secret. Had we Tyrant’s sorcerers believed we might find and destroy it, we should have ventured to Gessyth long past; but Tezin-dar was a legend and all the prophecies concerning that fabled city confirmed that only those chosen by the gods might survive the journey. Sometime past those of the inner circle sensed such flux in the occult fundus as suggested some stratagem was afoot concerning the book, but not the where or how of it. With so little knowledge, we could not act, only await events. But then Anomius was taken and the outlines of his ambition and his belief became clear—we learned that he had encountered a young man come out of Lysse and a warrior of Cuan na’For, bound for Gessyth in search of what he believed was a grimoire of supreme power. Though he had not, the masters of the inner circle guessed this must be the Arcanum, but from what Anomius revealed, it seemed neither possessed such knowledge as would