Rusgann sat Dyfrig on a bench, told him to stay there, and led her mistress to the opposite side of the chamber. “Now let’s be sure I understand what’s going on here,” she hissed. “Do you intend to tell your brother what’s happened since your supposed death?”
“I’ll say Red Ansel saved me from drowning and brought me and my beloved maid to the sea-hag’s steading to keep us safe from Conrig Wincantor, who wanted to put me under permanent house arrest in Gala so I wouldn’t make trouble. I’ll tell Liscanor that I know a terrible secret about Conrig that could cost him his Sovereignty, but I won’t reveal what it is. Not yet.”
“Any more than you’d tell me,” Rusgann grumped. “I suppose I was the pregnant one who delivered a boy-child.”
“Of course. Your hair is fair, like Dyfrig’s. It’ll work if you can keep people from questioning him. Pretend he’s sick, or numbed by the ordeal of our escape.” Maudrayne shrugged out of the damp oilskin jacket and dropped it onto the stone floor. She took a comb from her belt-purse and began to work on her snarled hair.
“What do I say about the escape?” Rusgann asked. She retrieved the discarded oilskin and hung it on a peg, then took off her own.
“More or less the exact truth. I couldn’t bear to live with the hag any longer. I planned to signal to a fisherman and bribe him to take us away. But Lukort Waterfall had already spotted me through his spyglass and come to kidnap me and hold me for ransom.”
“So we killed him, and left his son Vorgo to the sea-hag’s mercies, and we sailed away, and here we are—bashed and bloodied, but safe!” Rusgann’s plain face shone with unholy relish.
“Not really. There’s still Ansel to worry about. I’ll ask Liscanor to protect us from him, demand that we be allowed to stay here in Northkeep. But if Ansel wants to take me away, there’s nothing my brother can do. He can’t go up against the High Shaman of Tarn. He’s a brave man, but he’s afraid of Ansel. They all are.”
Rusgann put her finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down. You’ll frighten the boy.”
Dyfrig was leaning tiredly against the wall, looking very small in his oversized rain jacket. But his dark eyes were fixed on the women and he was doing his best to listen in.
“Sorcery!” Maudrayne’s tone was full of loathing. “What a curse it is! But how many people are willing to believe that? Not many, when magic can give you power over other persons, or secret knowledge that’s even more valuable. Even Ansel’s been corrupted by it! I thought he was my true friend, but all along he planned to use Dyfi and me in some bloody cosmic scheme.”
“Now, my lady, you don’t know that for sure. You might be misjudging the man.”
“We’ll find out when he walks straight through the locked gatehouse door of Northkeep.” Maudrayne gave an ugly little laugh. “And I doubt we’ll have long to wait. The sea-hag never stays entranced for longer than two days. She’ll bespeak Ansel when she wakes up and finds us gone, and he’ll know we went to Northkeep. Where else could we go?”
Rusgann frowned.“ ‘Twould be best if your brother put you aboard that fine big warship of his right away, and sent you to the High Sealord at Donorvale.
Doesn’t Lord Sernin have a passel of strong-minded wizards loyal to him? Would Ansel dare oppose all of them—and the Tarnian council of sealords as well?“
“I don’t know.” Maudrayne was thoughtful. “You’re a wise woman, Rusgann. It’s a plan worth considering. If I told Sernin the truth about Dyfrig…” And the greater truth about Conrig! “I’ll ask Liscanor to bid his windvoice bespeak Sernin at once.”
Maudrayne embraced the maid, then went to sit beside Dyfrig, trying to draw him close to her. He pushed her away. “You shouldn’t be doing that, my lady. I’m only a servant boy.”
Her face went white and she sprang to her feet. For the first time in months, she burst into tears.
Rusgann gathered her mistress into her arms and held her as she sobbed, and it was thus that Sealord Liscanor discovered them when he arrived a few minutes later.
She sipped from a cup of soothing bearberry tea and huddled near the peat fire Liscanor had kindled in the little south tower sitting room, waiting for him to return with news of the windvoiced conference with Sernin Donorvale. Rain tapped on the small glazed window. The sky was almost black.
After a brief, emotional reunion with his long-lost sister in the Peace Room, Liscanor had summoned his wife, sworn her to secrecy, and entrusted Rusgann and Dyfrig to her care. Kind Lady Freda had tried to put Maudrayne to bed as well, but she refused to rest until she had conferred with her brother. The two of them slipped up a back stairway to the secluded little tower chamber where the sealord conducted his private business. There she told him what she wanted him to know. But over an hour had gone by since he left her alone, and she was becoming very worried. What could be taking so long?
When the door finally opened and she saw his face, she knew it was nothing good.
“Come, sit here and tell me.” She poured him a cup of tea from the steaming pot on the hob.
Liscanor Northkeep had the same bright auburn hair as his sister, but otherwise they were unalike. She was beautiful and regal in demeanor, even in her torn and dirtied peasant garb, while he had a body like a barrel, arms so heavily muscled that they hunched his shoulders, and a pitted, truffle-nosed face that was almost ogrish in its spectacular homeliness. Only his voice belied his unsightly appearance: it was deep, resonant, and cultured.
“Maudie, my dear, there’s magical mischief brewing,” he said, shaking his head. “My windvoice, Kalymor, told me he’d been forbidden by the High Shaman to bespeak any message of mine to anyone. I threatened him with a beating, then with banishment, but he wouldn’t budge. He said Red Ansel would do worse to him if he disobeyed, and no other shaman in the demesne of Northkeep would transmit messages for me, either. They’re to keep silence for a tennight!”
“I suppose it was to be expected,” Maudrayne said, resigned.
But Liscanor’s sea-blue eyes glistened with triumph. “There’s more than one way to skin a hare, Sister! On the outskirts of town lives a renegade hedge-wizard called Blind Bozuk, who owes no allegiance to Ansel and his high-flown kind. He sells love-philtres and fake talismans and other rubbish to gullible souls, but he’s also a genuine wind adept.”
“I know of him. He supplied Lukort Waterfall with charms to counter the magical defenses of the sea-hag.”
“I rode out myself to this rogue’s hovel and gave him ten gold marks to bespeak a message to our uncle Sernin. While I stood there, Bozuk contacted his great and good friend Yavenis, an outcast witch of Donorvale. She supposedly delivered my message to the High Sealord in person.”
“Supposedly,” Maude said. “What was the message?”
“It was simple and discreet: ‘Come at once to Northkeep in your fastest ship, with your most trusted men.’”
“Ah. Very good.” She ventured a smile.
“We’ll set sail ourselves at once in my frigate Gayora, and rendezvous with Sernin on the high seas. Then you shall tell your two great secrets to both of us.”
“I think I must tell them to you now.” She had made the decision on the spur of the moment, prompted by a growing certainty that Ansel was going to intervene somehow, and she would never reach Donorvale. “Someone must know, in case something happens to me… and to my dear little son.”
“Son!” Liscanor exclaimed. “Great God, are you saying—”
“The fair-haired lad Dyfrig is not the child of my servant. He’s mine—the firstborn son of Conrig Wincantor and heir to the Sovereignty according to ancient Cathran law. Furthermore, this High King who has forced Tarn into vassalage reigns under false pretences. He is a man having arcane talent, ineligible to sit his throne.”
Liscanor stared at her in thunderstruck consternation, deprived of speech.
“My servant Rusgann is a witness to Dyfrig’s birth. She and many others in Gala know I was a faithful wife who never cohabited with
any man save my husband. Dyfrig is the very image of Conrig. The king’s talent will be much harder to prove, since it is extremely meager and imperceptible to the usual methods of detection. My own testimony would not suffice, and the Conjure-Queen of Moss, who also knows about it, may refuse to speak. But I suspect that Lord Stergos, Conrig’s Royal Alchymist and his brother, must know the truth as well. He is a man of scrupulous honor, who would keep Conrig’s secret only passively, by not volunteering the information. If he were put under solemn oath and questioned, he would not lie.”
The stalwart sealord’s face was ashen and he was wringing his hands like a woebegone maiden. “Oh, Maudie, this is awful news indeed! I hardly know what to say! I’m only a simple north coast sea-dog and these are state secrets of the most devastating kind—”
“Guard them with your life, then. But never hesitate to reveal them to Uncle Sernin and the Company of Equals if I cannot.” She rose from her seat. “Now we must leave Northkeep without delay. There’s more than Ansel to be concerned about. That villain Lukort Waterfall was probably planning to sell me to Conrig Wincantor. Who can say whether he told the magicker Blind Bozuk about me when he purchased charms from him?”
Liscanor looked guilty and ashamed. “God help us if I’ve placed you in danger, Sister. I never thought of such a thing when I went to the whoreson, thinking how clever I was. Forgive me!”
“Dear Liscanor, there’s nothing to forgive.” She kissed his weather-roughened cheek. “How long before we can sail?”
“Less than an hour. I’ve already given orders to prepare the ship. Her officers were all here at the feast, and her crew resides in town.”
“Then let’s fetch my son and my servant, and get on board without further delay.”
It was after midnight when they left the castle and went on foot to the berth where the frigate was tied up. Seamen and housecarls in castle livery were still carrying chests and kegs of supplies aboard, and dozens of shadowy shapes were moving on the upper decks and in the rigging. Rain slanted sharply down, blown by a chill wind. It was very dark.
Liscanor went to confer with the officer who stood at the foot of the gangplank, then quickly returned. “I’m told that the cabin being prepared for the three of you is not quite ready,” he said. “I must go aboard Gayora and do a final tour of inspection. It’s no place for you, with men rushing about on last-minute ship’s business. Why not wait in that covered area, beside the large warehouse nigh to the curtain wall? It’s dry there, and the torches give plenty of light. I’ll send one of the ship’s boys for you as soon as I can.”
He went off, cloak flapping like the wings of a very stout bat, and Maudrayne and Rusgann moved over the wet cobblestones into the sheltered place. The maidservant carried Dyfrig’s well-wrapped body over her shoulder.
“He still sleeps?” Maudrayne asked, lifting her son’s hood.
“Never woke, even when I dressed him in the new clothes Lady Freda gave us. He was too sleepy to eat much, and so was I. Can’t say I’m happy to set out to sea again on such a raw night, but it’s for the best.”
“I hope so. No sooner do we reach a place of safety, than we must leave it.” Her eyes roamed over the other vessels and small craft tied up at adjacent slips. “Lukort Waterfall’s boat Scoter is gone. My brother must have had it moved across the harbor basin to the fishermen’s wharf to divert suspicion. Still, numbers of people must have seen us bring her in besides the dockboy Eselin. One of them might have talked about us to Blind Bozuk, even if Lukort didn’t.”
“You’ve got no good reason to think Lukort told the magicker about us,” Rusgann said crossly. “Stop worrying.”
“Perhaps the hedge-wizard wouldn’t sell Lukort the special charms unless he told why he wanted them. Sneaking into the sea-hag’s steading is hardly the usual thief’s job of work! Information about me would bring a pretty sum from Conrig’s Tarnian spies. You could trust a person like Bozuk to know who they are.”
“We’ll be away from here soon, my lady. Then Bozuk’s tittle-tattle won’t be worth two groats in a dunghill.”
The sound of clopping hooves echoed among the warehouses, almost drowned out by the increasing noise from the ship. “Someone’s coming,” Maudrayne said. “There. A covered wagon drawn by two mules. Perhaps it’s the last batch of supplies that my brother’s been waiting for.”
They watched the wagon’s approach without curiosity. Then a small figure came rushing down the ship’s gangplank and trotted toward them across the wet pavement.
Rusgann heaved a sigh of satisfaction. “About time! Here’s the ship’s boy.”
He was about twelve years old, clad in oilskins, and bowed smartly from the waist. “My ladies! Sealord Liscanor bids you kindly come aboard, for we cast off immediately.”
The muleteer had drawn up a few ells away, and after setting the brake on his rig, climbed down and approached them with a casual wave of his hand. He wore a waterproof hooded longcoat slit up the back, and all that could be seen of his face was teeth gleaming in a wide grin.
“What do you want, my man?” Maudrayne asked irritably, when he blocked their way to the ship. “We have no time for you.”
“Maudie, Maudie. You have all the time in the world.”
She opened her mouth to scream for help, but no sound emerged. In fact, she was frozen to the spot in mid-gape, like some ridiculous statue. Rusgann and the ship’s boy were similarly immobilized.
Red Ansel Piken lifted Dyfrig from Rusgann’s unresisting arms, carried him to the covered wagon, and stowed him inside.
No, Maudrayne thought. No, no, no. Not after we have come so far and endured so much!
The huge castle and the rainswept dock with its flaming torches seemed to fade to a foggy blur as tears of rage and helplessness filled her eyes. She strained to cry out as Ansel returned and led Rusgann away, docile as a sheep, and assisted her into the wagon. Maudrayne was powerless against the shaman’s sorcery just as she’d always been. He’d do whatever he wanted with them. Use her and poor little Dyfrig any way he chose.
He came to her and took her arm, and she was able to walk but could not speak. Across the gleaming stones, up a short ladder, and into the back of the wagon she went. It was filled with straw and numbers of bundles. Rusgann and Dyfrig lay covered with blankets, apparently asleep. Ansel soon had her bedded down as well, then closed the tailgate, put the ladder inside, and laced shut the canvas cover.
He returned to the paralyzed ship’s boy, who was still poised in an attitude of confusion. At Ansel’s touch, the lad looked about wildly. Only gibberish came from his mouth.
“Your power of speech will return once you’re back on the ship,” the shaman said. “You’re to tell Lord Liscanor that the two women and the child are safe aboard in their cabin. You’ll remember nothing at all of me or what happened here. Now go.”
Ansel went back to the wagon and climbed into the driver’s seat. After arranging his coat to keep the worst of the rain off, he released the brake, cracked the whip over the mules, and set off for the road that led east, away from the sea and into the Stormland wilderness of Tarn.
Chapter Seven
Arise, Kilian Slackhorse. Arise and don your robes. By order of Abbas Noachil, you must leave this chamber and accompany us to a more secure accommodation.“
His second dream of Beynor had hardly faded, and he woke with difficulty. Someone was shaking his arm. He opened his eyes and saw the forbidding face of Vra-Ligorn, the Hebdomader or superintendent of discipline at Zeth Abbey. He was at first unable to stir, as sometimes happens when one is roused from deep sleep. Then the blankets were stripped away and he was hoisted to his feet. Two husky Brother Caretakers manhandled him into his clothes. Two more held heavy staves and lighted lanterns, even though they had opened the opaque drapes to allow the early-morning twilight of Solstice Day to enter his bedroom. The caretakers of the Order of Zeth wore brown robes. Although they possessed talent, it was too weak to generate important magic, s
o they devoted themselves to serving the ordained Brethren through manual labor or domestic duties.
Kilian found his voice at last. “Vra-Ligorn, where are you taking me?”
“To a cell on the sump-pit level, my lord. And you must submit to being chained while we convey you there.”
The last remnants of sleep evaporated in a burst of dismay as Kilian finally realized what was happening to him. The comfortable little apartment where he had lived for four years under open detention was to be exchanged for a windowless dungeon.
“Does Prior Waringlow know of this—this highly eccentric order?” he protested. “You know how ill Father Abbas has been. At times he even shows symptoms of dementia. I can’t believe he was in his right mind when he issued this order. I’ve done nothing to provoke such punishment—”
“Abbas Noachil is as rational as you or I,” the Hebdomader said without emotion. “The command for your close confinement came directly from High King Conrig, via the Royal Alchymist, Lord Stergos. There’s no mistake.”
“I see.” He extended his wrists for the fetters, and said not another word as they conveyed him into the bowels of the abbey, down to the third basement, where the drains from the upper floors debouched into an evil-smelling underground watercourse. There were only a handful of dismal cells down there, reserved for the most heinous sinners. Usually, no prisoner remained there long before being handed over to the secular authorities for execution.
Is this to be my fate, he wondered, only hours from the coup that was to have liberated Darasilo’s Trove, set me free, and restored my lost powers? What could have happened to make Conrig do such a thing? Had Vitubio, Felmar, and Scarth revealed their intentions through some blunder? Has my nephew Feribor implicated me in his political intrigues? Or—worst thought!—is Beynor responsible for this, playing some treacherous double game in hopes of eliminating me before I can take possession of the trove?