The warrior band of Somarus, which was often augmented by men loyal to the outland robber-barons, ventured into the Elderwold only rarely. Most of their raids and skirmishes took place much further to the northwest, where they preyed on caravans of Tarnian and Cathran merchants traveling the Wold Road during the warm months of the year. During winter, they holed up in the castles of the prince’s secret sympathizers. Somarus had only lately brought his core group of men into the Lady Lakes country, after one of Beynor’s dream-visitations promised that a climactic event of surpassing importance would likely take place round about the Summer Solstice. The prince had told no one about Fring’s hint of the proposed assassination, and so the captive Green Woman’s styling of him as “king” both puzzled and intrigued him.
The force in the camp was small but well equipped, and included not quite threescore mounted warriors, eleven landless knights, four barons who had been outlawed and stripped of their fiefs by King Honigalus for crimes against the Crown, and a flock of servants, shield-bearers, and itinerant wizards. All save the knights and nobles were accommodated in twenty tents, set up in two lines and separated by a wide aisle of trampled ground. The larger pavilions of the prince and his officers had been erected across the brook in an area of scattered trees, while the horses were picketed downstream, where abundant grass grew. This early in the morning, a multitude of cook fires sent up plumes of smoke as breakfast was prepared.
Preceded by Tesk, Prince Somarus went to the pavilion of Baron Cuva, the highest-ranking of his followers, where a murmuring crowd had gathered in a rough circle. At the wizard’s cry of “Make way!” the throng parted, and the prince passed through to find Cuva seated on a folding stool, a quizzical expression on his hawkish face. Three glowering wizards and two huge warriors with drawn swords stood in front of the baron, guarding a small figure.
Cuva rose as Somarus approached, offering his own seat to the prince with a gracious gesture. “Highness, a most unusual capt—uh—visitor has asked to see you. I’m not sure I got her name right. Was it Sithalooy Cray?”
“Call me Cray,” the Green Woman said.
The voice was surprisingly low and resonant for one who stood less than five feet tall. Her aspect was completely human, save for the vivid emerald hue of her somewhat overlarge eyes. It was impossible to tell her age. Her unlined face was deeply sun-tanned, and her neatly plaited hair was dull silver, streaked with primrose-yellow. She wore a calf-length moss-green gown having a divided skirt. Her boots were deerskin, and her hooded cloak of mingled shades of grey, brown, and black almost perfectly mimicked tree bark. A bulging purse embroidered with colored thread hung from her belt, along with a little gold-hilted dagger in a skin sheath.
As Somarus sat down on the stool and regarded her with what he hoped was appropriate aloofness, she stepped forward a few paces. One of the warriors guarding her lifted a restraining hand, but she gave a negligent wave and the gigantic man froze like a statue. Cries of consternation came from the gathering.
“Let her be,” Somarus said. “You may come closer, Cray.”
“Are you King Somarus of Didion?”
He said, “Not yet.”
The little woman gave him a casual bob of her head and smiled. “You will be king… after the drownings.”
More astonished exclamations from the crowd.
“Be silent!” the prince said. Then to Cray: “Did you come here to tell me that?”
“No. I was sent by the Source, commanded by him to accompany you on your journey to the wide river.”
“Is that so! Well, I’ve never heard of this Source, so why should I do as he says?”
“Because you want very much to be king.”
“And your Source would forestall me if I declined to obey? Or you would?” The questions were asked without heat.
“We have no wish to do so. Only take me with you and all will go well. I’ll be no trouble. I eat very little and I can ride pillion behind one of your men if you can’t spare me a palfrey. If need be, I’ll protect you from your foes”—she shot a sly glance at the still-motionless warrior—“more adroitly than your pack of hedge-wizards.”
The affronted magickers fixed her with venomous glares.
Somarus threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I believe you could!… What else do you want of me, Mistress Cray?”
“A cup of ale would be lovely,” she said. “I’ve come a long way. There was wildfire in the wold and I had to go around it.”
Somarus rose to his feet, still grinning. “Come and have breakfast. I’d like to talk more with you. Like most human beings, I’ve never seen one of your race before. I was told you had green skin and pointed ears and leaves instead of hair, and that your women—uh—bewitched luckless fellows who lost their way in the Elderwold.”
“We used to do that in days gone by,” she said demurely, “but not so much of late. Tastes change.”
Someone sniggered nervously.
Somarus swept his gaze around the hovering group of nobles, warriors, and wizards. “All of you, get back to your duties! Baron Cuva, I’ll ride out this morning for Castlemont with you and a party of ten knights. Light armor and weaponry, surcoats and banners with the Boarsden blazon for disguise, everyone looking spruce and stalwart. Find a suitable mount for Mistress Cray.” He looked down at her. “Shall we go to my pavilion?”
“In a moment.” She went to the paralyzed man and spoke a word softly.
The warrior straightened, sheathed his sword, and walked off dazedly after the others. “I hope his friends don’t tease him too badly,” Cray said.
“He’s big enough to take care of himself. Come along now. I’m famished.” She stood before the prince, staring at his right shoulder with a little frown. “Oh, my. You missed one.” She reached up and touched a damp lock of his curling hair. There was a sizzling snap and Somarus smelled a whiff of smoke. “That’s taken care of the creeping little whoreson! Now you look much more like a king.”
The ferry put into eleven lakeside towns and villages before reaching the end of the line at the city of Elktor, and at each stop people got off and on, while crewmen unloaded and loaded cargo at tedious length. The clouds had lowered steadily throughout the day; and by late afternoon, when the knoll crowned by Elktor Castle finally came into view of the passengers, rain was falling and the dramatic mountains above the walled lakeside city were wreathed in eerie swags of mist.
Felmar and Scarth had secured inside seats on the boat early on, so they had a fairly comfortable trip, even though the benches were hard and the cabin atmosphere fuggy with the odor of unwashed humanity. Their quarrel-and-snivel act, performed regularly, kept most of the other passengers at bay, although one garrulous old biddy insisted on sharing memories of her own catastrophic pregnancies with the bogus mother-to-be.
Most of the time the two fugitives slept. So when they finally disembarked at Elktor Quay they were ready to set out for Roaring Gorge as soon as they could purchase suitable clothing and equipment and secure horses. It was only the fifth hour after noon, but their hopes of a speedy getaway were deflated almost at once when a one-eyed dockside loafer informed them that most of the shops and market stalls had shut down early because of inclement weather and a dearth of customers.
“As for horses,” the fellow continued with lugubrious relish, “ye won’t have an easy time gettin‘ anything first-rate. Town’s all skimble-skamble, with a grand hunt on for a pair of scoundrelly Zeth Brothers who set Gala Palace on fire and like to killed the High King’s brother. Word came to Count Ollie late yesterday to beat the bushes for ’em hereabouts, and his captains have commandeered damn near every sound nag in the city to mount search parties. Maybe ye could hire a wagon—”
Felmar uttered a falsetto squall. “No, no, the track to Mother’s croft is too steep for wheels. We need horses to get there. Hoddo, do something! We can’t keep standing here in the rain!”
Scarth patted his mate’s hand and said, “Now, now, Ju
by. Calm down, lambykin, or you’ll drop that babe of your’n afore its time.”
The idler screwed up his face in an orgy of concentration. “Lemme think now. There might be one place still with a mount or two left to sell. If I could just recall…”
Scarth gave a grunt of disgust and pulled a silver penny from his belt-wallet. “Does this jog your memory?”
The one-eyed man smirked. “No—but add another and the name’s bound to come to mind.”
Without a word, Scarth pressed two coins into the dirty outstretched palm.
“Bo Hern’s stable. Follow the Quay Road a quarter league to the north edge of town, nigh unto the Mountain Gate. Old Bo sells donkeys and mules. Good for ridin‘ in rough country. And he has saddles and tack, too.” The rascal tugged his forelock. “Luck to ye, master and mistress.”
“Is there an inn or cookshop near the stable where we might get something to eat?” Scarth asked.
“Bo’s wife can fix you up. Otherwise there’s the Rusty Gudgeon tavern acrost the way—but some say they use cat meat in their pasties.” The one-eyed man ambled off, ignoring the rain.
“I vote for Bo’s place,” Felmar said. “We can’t hang about here any longer.”
Scarth hoisted the bundle to his shoulder and they set off along the waterfront. “Mules aren’t a bad idea, Fel, They’re not fast, but a good one is more reliable on a bad track than a horse. Our map shows that it’s fifteen leagues or so to the gorge mouth, and most of the way is twistier than earthworm guts. Then almost an equal distance to the cave, over a miserable sheep trail. We’re in for a rotten time of it if we press on. Maybe we should stop at the stable for the night and start out early tomorrow.”
“No,” said Felmar emphatically. “We’re well rested. All we need is a meal and some food and drink to take with us. And I’ve got to shed this wicker birdcage tied to my belly! I’ll keep the rest of the woman’s garb till we’re well away from the city, but there’s no way I can ride wearing this futterin‘ thing.”
“It’s raining harder,” Scarth said. “We could at least wait a few hours to see if it stops.”
“We’ve got to move on. I don’t like the feel of this town. There are alchymists up in Elktor Castle and other windvoices prowling about with the searchers. I can sense them! Thus far, our spell of couverture is holding firm, but something’s not right. I almost feel as though we’ve been overseen. Right through the bloody cover.”
“I won’t say you’re imagining things,” said Scarth, “since you’ve got more talent than I do. But if the Brethren did have a windeye on us, Lord Elktor’s guardsmen would have met us at the ferry dock and clapped us in irons.”
“The windwatching—if that’s what it was—wasn’t done Zeth-style.” Fel-mar was silent for a few minutes. They splashed on through spreading puddles, paying no attention to the occasional beggar who whined from a doorway. Most of those walking along the quay were seamen, some with giggling doxies on their arms. Half a block ahead, a hanging sign with a lion’s head designated a good-sized inn. Unattached sailors were heading towards it like iron filings to a magnet, but the two disguised Brothers tramped on past, steeling themselves against the scent of brown ale and roasting mutton. It was not a place where poor countryfolk, such as they were supposed to be, would be welcomed.
“There’s another strange thing,” Felmar said, after a time.
“What?”
“While I was sleeping off and on in the ferry, I had the most unsettling dreams. About the things we took from the Royal Alchymist’s crypt. Noises would wake me up, but when I slept again the same dream always returned. This happened three, maybe four times.”
Scarth stopped short with his mouth open in dismay. A single drop of rain hung at the tip of his long nose. “You know what? I had strange dreams, too. I’d forgotten. I only remember bits and pieces, but I think I dreamed of Lord Kilian. Something about him frightened me, but I can’t for the life of me think what.”
Felmar tugged his friend’s arm. “Keep walking… I dreamed that when we finally brought these moonstones and books to him, he laughed like a fiend and called us idiots for never suspecting how valuable the things are, for not realizing that we could have used them to become the most powerful sorcerers in the world!”
“I don’t remember anything like that. But I think I do recall Lord Kilian laughing at me.”
“Think about it, Scarth. We agreed to risk our lives stealing this mysterious collection of arcana for him. He told us the sigils predated Bazekoy’s invasion, that they were ancient magical tools able to conjure the power of the Beaconfolk, and only Beynor of Moss could bring them to life. He said that Beynor had sworn an unbreakable oath, promising to share the activated stones with him and us. Kilian claimed he had a foolproof way to prevent Beynor from playing us false. But what if his talk of the Mossland conjurer was only a red herring, intended to distract us from the truth?”
“What truth?”
“It stands to reason that Kilian didn’t know how to conjure these moonstones while he lived in Gala Palace and kept them hidden. But what if he’s since learned how to do so, perhaps by studying some long-forgotten materials in the abbey? He’s had access to the great library throughout his four-year confinement. What if the method for activating the sigils is contained in the two books that were in the cabinet with them? They’re written in a strange language, you know.”
“Do you mean that Kilian might have been unable to read the books before—but now he can?”
Felmar shook his head uncertainly. “My dream seemed to hint at something else. I can’t remember what. All I’m really sure of is that we’ve both been deceived. I’m starting to suspect that if we give these things meekly over to Kilian, he won’t bother sharing them with us. In fact, we may be lucky to escape with our lives!”
Scarth’s heavy jaw hardened in growing anger. “Brother, if I hadn’t had my own dreams about Kilian, I’d deny your conclusion with my dying breath. He had me completely persuaded. But now… I think you may be right about the danger. I feel like a fool.”
“I was taken in, too,” Felmar muttered, “as well as poor dead Vitubio. Even wearing the iron gammadion, Kilian Blackhorse is a consummate wizard. He converted Prior Waringlow, the greatest intellect in the abbey, to his cause. It’s no wonder we were taken in.”
They walked in silence for some time. There were fewer people on the streets as the rain intensified and the air grew more chilly. The small shops, brothels, and drinking establishments were thinning out as they neared the great wall at the northern end of the city, giving way to shuttered wool warehouses, empty and deserted at this time of year. When a sheltered alcove presented itself, Felmar discarded his artificial pregnancy, wrapping the arcana that had been concealed inside the basketry in his apron and tucking the bundle securely under his arm.
While the smaller man was rearranging his cloak, Scarth said, “Have you any notion what we should do now? I’m damned if I’ll simply keep heading for that cave in the gorge where Kilian’s waiting.”
They began to walk again. Felmar said, “I’m trying to think. We’ve got to get up into the mountains quickly, that’s for certain. The masses of rock will help foil windsearchers—whoever they may be. North of the city, the road forks. To the left is the steep shepherd’s path that we were supposed to follow to Roaring Gorge. To the right is a better track that leads eastward to Beorbrook Hold and the Great North Road. It winds through desolate moors and foothills, but avoids the most rugged part of the mountains.”
“You think we ought go that way?” Scarth was dubious.
“Only for a short distance, until we find a suitable place to go to ground. You and I must do some heavy thinking about our future.”
“Look there.” Scarth pointed ahead. “It’s the wall and the northern city gate. We’re almost to Bo Hern’s stable. I hope to God the goodwife’s willing to feed us. All this scary talk’s made me peckish.”
Felmar chuckled. “If we’re go
ing to die tonight, let’s hope we can at least do it with full stomachs.”
“You don’t think we’ve much of a chance then?”
“I’m not so sure about that. You know, Scarth, we were so busy fleeing King Conrig’s men that we never had a chance to look closely at the things we stole. I think it’s high time we did, don’t you?”
Chapter Eleven
The abrupt blast of powerful wind came out of nowhere, just as Kilian was congratulating himself on having successfully guided the cattle-boat single-handedly to the mouth of Roaring Gorge. Earlier, the unsuspecting skipper had told him about the tricky route through the gravel bars at the lake-head, and how important it was to stay in the middle of the channel.
In a light, fair breeze, Kilian had navigated well enough. But the sudden freakish blast turned the boat toward the shallows. The keel grated alarmingly on loose stones, and the five horses began to squeal with fright and pull against their ties.
He tried to correct the course with a quick thrust of the rudder and a tug on the lugsail brace, but he’d misjudged the potential contrariness of the clumsy boat in a strong wind. It yawed, charged toward the opposite side of the channel, struck a submerged rock, and slewed about wildly. The sail flapped like thunder, the deck tilted, and two of the horses were thrown down.
“Futterin‘ hell!” the alchymist cursed. The damned wind might capsize them unless—
He seized a small axe from a bracket on the side of the cockpit, clambered onto the angled deck, clawed his way toward the mast, and severed the halyard ropes. The lugsail, yard, and rigging tumbled down, causing further panic among the horses, but at least the wind no long threatened to push them over and the deck came level again. Avoiding flying hooves, he made his way to the bow and heaved out both anchors. One of the chains went taut and the boat swung about. With a piercing squawk, the hull came free of the rock and scraped along more gently into gravelly shoals before grounding in about three feet of water. As suddenly as it had risen, the gale fell off.