Page 38 of Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles 1)

Nicci grimaced at the suggestion, while Bannon nodded with grave dedication to his new assignment.

Without further farewell, the wizard strode off into the slatted lines of aspens, following the crest of the ridge and marking the distance to the sentinel tower. He hurried out of sight because he didn’t want Nicci or Bannon to change their minds and insist on joining him. “I am still a wizard, damn the spirits!” he muttered. The Han was still within him, even though it now felt less like a loyal pet and more like a rabid dog chained to a post. But at least he had his sword and his fighting skills, and he had a thousand years of knowledge to draw upon. He could handle a simple scouting expedition by himself.

The line of the undulating hills guided him down a slope following a drainage, then up around to another high point. He caught a glimpse of the tower, which still seemed miles away, but he didn’t let himself grow discouraged. He would achieve his goal, find the tower, and learn what he could. This was all unexplored territory, and he was the first roving D’Haran ambassador to behold it, in the name of Lord Richard Rahl.

His legs ached as he bushwhacked over the rough terrain. He paused to marvel at a series of arcane symbols he found carved into the bark of a large fallen aspen—ancient and unreadable letter scars that had swelled and blurred with age as the tree grew. The symbols were not in any language he knew, not High D’Haran, not any of the old spell languages from the scrolls and books he had studied in Tanimura. The markings reminded him that he was indeed in a place far from his knowledge.…

When he was miles away from his companions, all alone in the wilderness and supposedly safe, Nathan let himself fully consider how his circumstances had changed since he and Nicci had left their lives back in D’Hara. Yes, he was certainly in fine shape for a man his age: well muscled, physically fit, active, nimble. And very good with his sword, even if he did say so himself. But his magic had gone astray, and that bothered him in ways he could not articulate—and Nathan Rahl considered himself a very articulate man.

He could never forget the horror of the backlash when he had tried to heal the wounded man in Renda Bay, how the magic had dodged and twisted when he tried to use it. He was afraid of what other consequences he might endure. Whenever he had tried to reach for it, struggling for some touch, some grasp, he had felt only a hint, an echo … then a sting. He didn’t want to be around his friends in case some monstrous backlash might occur. But he needed to learn more about his condition.

Now, he decided to take his chance. Out here in the forest, walking along the wooded ridges, far from anyone else, Nathan decided to experiment.

Considering his options, he decided not to dabble with any fire spell, because it could so easily erupt into a great conflagration that he wouldn’t be able to extinguish. Like Nicci, though, he had easily been able to manipulate air, nudge breezes, and twist the wind. Maybe he could try that.

Nathan looked around himself at the forest of dizzyingly similar aspen trunks, all the rounded leaves knit together in a crown. Winds rippled through the branches overhead.

What did he have to lose? He reached inside himself, searched for his Han, tried to pull just enough that he could create a puff of air, a bit of wind, to stir the twigs and leaves. A gentle little twirl …

At first nothing happened, but he strained harder, reached deeper, released his Han, pushed it, to create just an outflowing breeze, a gentle gust.

The leaves did stir, and suddenly the air sucked toward him. The wind swirled and twisted, wound up as a cyclone. Nathan had intended only to nudge, but the air whooshed around him in a roar and rushed upward, like a hurricane blow.

He struggled, grabbed at nothing with his hands, tried to pull it in, reining back his power—but the wind only increased as the magic fought against him. Branches overhead snapped. A thick aspen bough broke in half and came crashing to the forest floor not far from him. Leaves were torn asunder, thrown apart like green confetti in the air. The storm kept building, pushing branches, thrashing like a furious seizure.

“Stop! Dear spirits, stop!” Nathan tried to center his Han, reaching for some inner valve to turn it off, to calm himself, and finally the wind died down, the storm abated, and he was left standing there, panting hard.

His white hair was tangled, whipped around his head. Nathan steadied himself against a sturdy aspen trunk. That was not at all what he had intended! And it was an even more ominous hint of the dangerous consequences he might face if he tried to use his magic. Most of the time he couldn’t find the gift at all, but when he did try to work a spell, he had no idea what might actually happen.

Certainly not what he wanted to happen.

He was glad that Nicci and Bannon hadn’t seen this. He couldn’t be responsible for what might occur if he blundered again. His throat was dry, and he gradually caught his breath. “Quite extraordinary,” he said, “but not something I would like to do again. Not until I understand this more.”

* * *

An hour later, another high clearing showed him that he had covered half the distance to the watchtower, and he picked up his pace. It was already past noon, and he wanted to see the view, take his notes, and make his way back to the main trail—and a comfortable village, he hoped—before nightfall.

And, no, he would not dabble with magic again.

The sentinel tower sat on top of a rocky bluff dotted with stubby bristlecones that grew among large talus boulders. The nearer side of the outcropping was a sheer, impassable cliff, so Nathan worked his way around to the bluff’s more accommodating side, where he discovered a worn path wide enough for three men to walk abreast … or for warhorses to gallop up the slope.

The breezes increased as Nathan broke out of the forest and climbed into the open area around the base of the watchtower. The stone structure was far more imposing than he had first thought, rising high into the open sky. The looming tower was octagonal, its flat sides constructed of enormous quarried blocks. Such a mammoth project would have required either an inexhaustible supply of labor or powerful magic to cut and assemble the blocks like this.

He stopped to catch his breath as he looked across the open terrain. From this high citadel, sentinels would have been able to keep watch for miles in all directions. He wondered if this place had perhaps been built by Emperor Kurgan during the Midwar, and he imagined General Utros himself climbing to this summit from which he could survey the lands he had just conquered.

Nathan heard only an oppressive silence that pressed down around him. He craned his neck to get a view of the top of the single structure, he saw large lookout windows, some of them with the glass intact, while others were shattered. Several of the crenellations had fallen, and large blocks lay strewn around the base like enormous toys.

Nathan called, “Hello, is anyone there?” Any watchers would have seen him approach for the last hour, and a lone man would have been completely vulnerable as he ascended the wide path to the summit. If someone meant to attack him, they had certainly had ample opportunity. He wanted at least to begin the conversation under the auspices of friendship. “Hello?” he called again, but heard only the muttering

whispers of wind in and out of the broken windows. Not even birds had taken up residence there.

Despite his uneasiness, Nathan felt the reassuring presence of his sword. He would not try to use magic again, but he reminded himself that he wasn’t helpless if he encountered some threat. He stepped up to the broken tower entrance, where a massive wooden door had fallen off its hinges and lay collapsed just inside the main entry. He braced himself, inhaling deeply. He had promised his companions that he could do this, and he could hardly walk all this way and then be afraid to climb up to see the view.

“I come in peace!” he shouted at the top of his voice, then muttered to himself, “At least until you make me change my mind.”

He stepped over the fallen door and passed under the archway to see another set of doors, iron bars, a portcullis—all of which had been torn asunder and destroyed. The iron bars were uprooted from where they had been seated in the blocks, twisted as if by some supreme force.

Inside the main chamber, wide stone stairs ascended the side wall, running in an octagonal spiral up the interior faces. Five ancient skeletons in long-rotted armor lay broken on the central floor, as if they had fallen off the stairs from a great height.

Though he couldn’t find his Han, didn’t dare try to summon it, he could sense a power inside this watchtower, a throbbing energy as if this structure had been bombarded by the magic of an attacking sorcerer … or maybe it had been saturated with magic by the defenders who tried to save it.

Nathan climbed the stairs and found himself out of breath. Though he was a fit man with travel-conditioned muscles, he was still a thousand years old.

The whistling breezes grew louder as he reached the pinnacle of the watchtower, a wide, empty lookout chamber with an iron-reinforced wooden floor. The ancient planks were petrified. Although parts of the outer walls had broken, the damage did not seem to be due to age. In fact, instead of merely crumbling and falling downward, as would have been caused by gravity, the missing stone blocks had been flung far from the base of the tower … as if blasted outward.

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