Moira paused at the branching of the corridor and summoned up her courage.
Well, she thought, soonest stated soonest done. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and strode off down the hall toward the apartment she shared with Wiz.
As she made her way down the hall, a figure in a hooded cloak hurried by her. She nodded and half-voiced a greeting out of habit, but the hooded one ignored her. As he twisted to pass her she saw that it was the apprentice who had insulted Wiz on the drill ground.
If she had been less distracted, Moira might have wondered what an apprentice was doing in a wing reserved for wizards. Or why he was wearing a cloak with the hood up indoors. But she had more important things on her mind. She paused outside the door to their apartment, took a deep breath, wiped a sweaty palm on her skirt and opened the door.
The room was deserted. The little red dragon raised its head inquiringly as she came in, but there was no sign of Wiz.
Just like him! Moira thought. She was all steeled for what must be said and he wasn’t here. She plopped down in her chair, determined to wait for him to come back.
Around the corner, Pryddian leaned against the wall, shaking and cursing inwardly. She saw me! He ground his teeth. The bitch saw me! True, she had not seen him come out of their apartment, but she had seen him in a hall where he had no business being. Once the Sparrow returned and missed the searching spell, it would take no great leap to trace the deed to him.
Even if the Sparrow noticed nothing amiss, it meant his foray was useless. As soon as he started using the knowledge he had stolen, the hedge witch would remember his presence and it would be obvious to everyone what he must have done. For all his daring and cunning, he was blocked before he could even begin. Pryddian turned his face to the wall and beat his fist against he stone in frustration.
Then he dropped his hand and gained control of himself. Perhaps he was not so blocked after all. If he used the Sparrow’s magic anywhere in the North he would be detected as a thief. But there were other magics—and other places.
He let out a long, deep breath and straightened up. It was not the path he would have chosen, but there was a way still open to him.
Bal-Simba looked up at the knock upon his study door. He wasn’t surprised to see Moira standing there.
“Merry met, Lady,” he said, leaning back in his oversize chair. “Come in.”
“Merry met, Lord. Where is Wiz?” The words tumbled out almost as a single sentence.
“I sent him on an errand,” Bal-Simba told her. “It seemed expedient.”
“I heard something . . . Lord, did he really threaten magic against someone?”
Bal-Simba nodded and Moira closed her eyes in pain. “Lord, we have got to help him. We must!”
The giant wizard shook his head. “Neither of us has the skill, Lady. We are mere novices at this new magic and Wiz needs the help of the Mighty of his own world to do what needs to be done.”
“Lord,” she said formally. “I ask it of you and the Council that you do whatever is within your power to aid Wiz.”
Bal-Simba smiled, showing his pointed teeth. “Willingly granted Lady, but what would you of us?”
“I have been thinking about this,” Moira said. She stopped, gathering herself. Bal-Simba waited. The candles gave a bayberry tang to the air and the evening breeze made them flicker and the shadows dance on the wall.
“Lord,” the redhaired witch said slowly, “we promised we would not Summon anyone hither, did we not?”
Bal-Simba looked at her narrowly. “That we did. A most solemn promise.”
“So it was,” Moira agreed. “But I do not recall ever promising not to ask others to help us.”
“Eh?”
“Suppose we did not Summon another to us,” she went on. “Suppose instead we used a Great Summoning to send someone to Wiz’s people to appeal for their aid? Would the Council approve, do you think?”