Wrath of a Mad God Read Free Page A

untroubled, looking like a grandparent waiting patiently for a child to awaken from an illness.
    Miranda blinked, then croaked, “How long?”
    “One afternoon, last night, and all this morning. How are you?”
    Miranda sat up, gingerly, and discovered that she was wearing a simple white linen shift. Alenca smiled, “I trust you don’t object to our having cleaned you up. You were in quite a state when you appeared before us.”
    Miranda swung her legs out of bed and carefully stood up. Her cleaned, pressed robes waited for her on a divan in front of a window overlooking the lake. The afternoon sun sparkled off the water. Unmindful of the old man watching her, she slipped off the shift and put on her robes. “What about the Dasati?” she asked, inspecting herself in the small mirror on the wall.
    “He is still unconscious, and it appears, dying.”
    “Really?” said Miranda. “I didn’t think his injuries that severe.” She looked at the old magician. “I need to see him and we need to call as many members as you can to the Assembly.”
    “Already done,” said the old man with a chuckle. “Word of the captive quickly spread and only those members too ill to travel are absent.”
    “Wyntakata?” asked Miranda.
    “Missing, of course.” He waved Miranda through the portal to the hallway and followed her, falling into step beside her.
    “We assume he is either dead or had some hand in this.”
    “He’s not Wyntakata,” said Miranda. “He’s Leso Varen, the necromancer.”
    “Ah,” said the old man. “That explains a great deal.” He sighed as they rounded a corner. “It’s a pity, really. I was fond of Wyntakata, though he tended to ramble when he spoke. But he was clever and always good company.”
    Miranda found it difficult to separate the host from the parasite that occupied it, but realized the old man was sincere in his regret. “I’m sorry you lost a friend,” she said, “but I fear we may lose a great many friends before this business is over.”
    She stopped at a large intersection and glanced at her companion, who indicated they should turn down a long corridor. “We have the Dasati in a warded room.”
    “Good,” said Miranda.
    Two grey-robed apprentice magicians stood guard at thedoor. Inside the room a pair of Great Ones stood beside the figure of the Dasati Deathpriest.
    One, a man named Hostan, greeted Miranda while the other kept watch over the unconscious figure on the sleeping pallet. “Cubai and I are convinced something is very wrong with this…man.”
    The magician inspecting the Deathpriest nodded. “He has not shown any signs of reviving, and his breathing appears to be more labored. If he were human I would say he has a fever.” He shook his head in dismay. “But with this creature, I don’t have a remote idea what to look for.”
    Cubai was a magician who was far more curious about healing arts than most Black Robes, since it tended to be the province of healers of the Lesser Path of magic and clerics of certain orders. Miranda thought him an ideal choice to be watching over the Deathpriest.
    Miranda said, “While a prisoner, I deduced some things about these creatures.
    “The Dasati are not that different from humans, at least in the sense that elves, dwarves, and goblins are similar: roughly humanlike in form, standing upright on two legs, eyes in the front of a recognizable face, all the rest you can see, and I know they have two genders, male and female, the women bearing their young within their bodies. I gleaned that much while being closely examined by the Deathpriests. I can’t speak their language, but I did pick up a word or two along the way and now have some sense of what they presume about humans.”
    She turned as a handful of magicians came into the room after word had spread she was up and with the Deathpriest. She raised her voice so all could hear. “They are physically stronger than us by a significant margin. I judge it to be a quality of