The horses calmed, and so did the alchymist. Amazingly, none of the animals had been injured by the falling yard. The ones that had lost their footing rose amidst the tangle of canvas and rope and stood trembling and blowing. Several pieces of baggage had tumbled from the cabin roof onto the deck, but the four Brothers sleeping up there appeared to be safe. With groans and a few muttered oaths, they threw off the pieces of tarred cloth that had sheltered them from the elements and stared wide-eyed at Kilian.
“Stop gawking,” he ordered. “Pull yourselves together, get down here on deck, and give me a hand with this mess. We’ve arrived.”
“What happened?” Raldo mumbled in bewilderment. The impact had rolled him like a human ball, crushing him against the row of saddles.
“Why are we still so far out in the water?” Niavar wanted to know. “I thought the skipper was going to bring the boat close to shore.”
“Where is the skipper?” Cleaton asked. “And the rest of the crew?”
Young Garon surveyed the bleak panorama of encompassing cliffs, the Whitewater of the Elk River rushing from the gorge mouth, the stony beach, and the weeping grey sky. He knew very well that their vessel had gone aground and was unlikely to move again, and even entertained suspicions about the missing boatmen. Shaking his head, he silently started down the ladder. After a few minutes, the others followed. Raldo came last, after pulling his jerkin closed and buttoning it. He never noticed that the iron gammadion and chain had fallen from his pocket and draped itself inconspicuously around one of the roof stanchions.
“I regret to tell you that our crew deserted us during the night,” Kilian said.
Three of the Brothers reacted with astonishment. “But why would they do that?” Niavar asked.
Kilian said, “Late yesterday, the captain attempted to back out of our agreement to land in the vicinity of Roaring Gorge. He claimed it was too hazardous and told me he intended to put in at Elktor Quay instead. Its lights were visible in the mist by then, over on the eastern shore. Naturally I told him it was out of the question. He demanded a huge sum of money to fulfill his part of the bargain. I realize now that he was all but asking me to purchase his boat outright. When he remained adamant, I finally agreed and turned over to him almost all of the gold I received from Queen Cataldis. Then I settled down in the cockpit with him to make certain that he kept his promise. Unfortunately, I fell asleep. When I woke, I discovered that the tiller was lashed and the captain and his men were missing. They seem to have gone away in those two coracles that were fastened on either side of the deckhouse. We were only a league or two away from land.”
Garon regarded the alchymist with frank incredulity. “And so you just carried on through the night, sailing the boat slick as a whistle all by yourself?”
“No.” Kilian’s patrician face was like granite. He stepped close to the young Brother so that their eyes locked, and forced him against the rail. “I muddled through with considerable incompetence, if you must know. Even though I’d done my best to learn how the boat was driven, I ultimately made a hash of matters and piled us up on a gravel bar. But we’re alive, our horses have survived, the boat doesn’t seem to be sinking, and all of our equipment is safe. We’ll have to wade ashore, but at least we’re on the proper side of the Elk River. Your sheep path should be somewhere up that steep slope to the right.”
He stepped back, to Garon’s evident relief. “Yes, I suppose it is. We’ll find a way to it somehow. Maybe by backtracking down the shore.”
The alchymist nodded, satisfied that he was once again in control. “I don’t know the hour, but it can’t be too late in the day. It looks like the rain will continue, so we may not reach the cave before owl-light. But let’s give it our best try. Before we disembark, we’ll feed the horses and ourselves. Raldo, will you please build a fire in the deckhouse stove?”
“Certainly, Lord Kilian,” said the fat man. In a half daze, he shuffled into the cabin, wondering whether the horrifying events he had witnessed earlier might have been some sort of nightmare.
Then he saw rusty spots still staining the damp floor around the woodrack.
He stood immobile, feeling the pulse pound in his temples, unable to breathe, unable to take his eyes from the telltale stains. They were more brownish than scarlet, and might have been caused by anything. Very probably the other Brothers would never even notice them. If he pointed them out, who would believe his explanation?
Repressing a shudder, he stacked a few bits of kindling in the stove’s fire-box, struck a light with his talent, and watched while the little flames reluctantly took hold.
Sir Gavlok Whitfell was a man of unusually sensitive temperament, and he was becoming deeply concerned about Deveron Austrey. The party had just ridden out of the lakeside village of Badgerhead, about fifty leagues south of Elktor, where the road made a wide detour inland in order to avoid a great swamp. All of the members of the group were still tired, having eked out only four hours’ sleep; but Deveron seemed hovering on the brink of collapse.
The second time that his friend nearly fell out of the saddle, Gavlok took hold of his bridle and slowed both horses, telling the others to ride on ahead. When they were beyond hearing, he said, “Deveron, I know that something’s very wrong with you. You’re in much worse shape than the rest of us, for no reason that I can fathom. Have you taken sick? If so, we’ll turn back and find you a bed in the last village—”
Snudge took a deep breath. He could no longer avoid the issue. If the two of them were to ride in close company for weeks, on a quest involving heavy use of his talent, Gavlok would have to be informed of the toll that even ordinary magic could take upon the human mind and body.
“All right, I’ll confess. Vra-Mattis will have to know, too, I suppose. I was foolish to think I could keep it hidden.”
“For the love of God, man—what is it?” The young knight’s lean features were drawn with anxiety.
Snudge spoke in a low, hurried monotone. “The moonstone named Concealer isn’t my only dangerous secret. I have another, known only to the High King, Lord Stergos, the earl marshal, and a handful of other people. I’m a wild talent, Gavlok. A secret magicker. This is what makes me so valuable to King Conrig as an intelligencer. My faculties are strong, and they’re also largely imperceptible to other adepts such as the Zeth Brethren. This is why they never found me out and forced me to join their Order. I can perform any number of useful tricks, but the most important are supersensitive wind-speech and the ability to scry intently over extreme distances. Also, I myself am immune from being scried by other adepts. Only Ullanoth’s Subtle Loophole sigil can oversee me.”
Overwhelmed, Gavlok rode in silence, staring at the pommel of his saddle.
Snudge continued. “The reason I’m so bloody beat is that I’ve been cudgeling my brains windsearching for Brothers Felmar and Scarth since we left Pikeport. When I’m not scrying about for them, I have a go at Kilian Black-horse and his henchmen, who escaped from Zeth Abbey and are likely on their way to a meeting with the two thieves. So far, I haven’t been able to spot any of them. Finding these men is the most important thing King Conrig has ever asked of me—although he may not realize what a great threat they are to him.”
“But why should this be? Kilian is a vile traitor, and the fire-raisers are guilty of murder and mayhem. But how are they a danger to the High King?”
“When I told you that more moonstone sigils taking magical power from the Beaconfolk exist, I wasn’t referring to the ones owned by Ullanoth or Beynor or the Salka monsters. There’s another collection of sigils—over a hundred of the damned things, all of them inactive. They were hidden in Gala Palace, and the thieves stole them under cover of the fire. I must try to get them back before they’re handed over to Kilian. King Conrig wants the moonstones returned to him, but I intend to do my best to destroy them. No man living should own such terrible weapons—even if they’re inactive.”
“It’s strange that I’ve never heard of the
m before,” Gavlok said. “When I was Lord Stergos’s armiger, I often delved into his books of sorcery. But there was no mention of moonstone sigils and their link to the Beaconfolk.”
“Even most of the Zeth Brethren know nothing of them. The stones were found centuries ago by an early Royal Alchymist of Cathra named Darasilo. He secretly passed them on to his successor, and so they were handed down for centuries until they came to Kilian. None of the alchymists before him tried to bring the sigils to life—maybe because they were too afraid of the Beaconfolk. Kilian had other ideas. The trove also includes some ancient books written in the Salkan language that probably describe how to activate the sigils. No modern-day Cathran is able to read those books—but the Royal Family of Moss can.”
“Beynor,” Gavlok said in a flat voice.
Snudge inclined his head in weary assent. “It’s obvious that he and Kilian made a devil’s pact to share the stones and the knowledge. They bided their time after the alchymist was convicted of treason. Then Kilian sent his agents to steal the trove from its hiding place. What I’m not sure of is whether or not he might have learned the Salkan language while imprisoned in the abbey.
There are thousands of old tomes in that place, some dating nearly to the time of Bazekoy.“
“God’s Toenails! Then Kilian might not need Beynor—”
“I don’t know where that Mossbelly whoreson is or what he’s up to.” Snudge gave a great yawn and rubbed his reddened eyes. “He was supposed to have been cursed by the Great Lights and exiled to the Dawntide Isles, forced to live with the Salka. This is where Ullanoth thinks he still abides… By the way, she apparently knows nothing of Darasilo’s Trove. Conrig kept its existence secret from her. He was afraid she’d come after it herself. Ordinarily, moonstones can’t be scried. But Ulla’s Loophole sigil… can oversee them if given a direct command to do so… We don’t… think that’s happened… yet.”
As he spoke, Snudge’s eyes slowly closed and his head drooped lower and lower onto his breast. He caught himself with a start and an oath. “Gavlok— can you lash me to the saddle again, as you did on Solstice Eve when I was dead drunk? If you lead my horse I can sleep until we reach Elktor. Maybe… be of some damned use when we get close to the mountains and start the real search.”
“Of course. Pull up and I’ll see to it. If the armigers ask, I’ll say you have a slight fever.”
“Good. Tell Vra-Mattis all of this… Don’t tell squires, ‘specially Wil Bays-dale.”
“What about young Wil?”
But Snudge only whispered, “Don’t trust him.”
Gavlok had climbed down from his horse and was removing the long belt that symbolized his knighthood. After detaching his sword, dagger, and purse, he used the stout strap to tie his friend firmly to the saddle. Even before he finished, Deveron Austrey was lost in oblivion.
Using his own limited-range windsight, Garon finally found the shepherd’s path—but only after a tedious search. It was much higher above the river than he remembered, nearly two hundred ells. Getting to it from the lakeside, up a treacherous talus slope in pouring rain, was a daunting ordeal. The horses had to be led, and their hooves dislodged loose stones at almost every step. More than once, an animal faltered and crashed to its knees, barely avoiding a fatal fall back down the trackless incline. Kilian and the Brothers were forced to zigzag back and forth to ease the steep angle of the gradient, more than doubling the distance traveled. And all this before they made a single step in the direction of the cave…
On Garon’s instructions, each of them—even the alchymist—used his recovering talent to calm the increasingly agitated minds of the horses. By the time they attained their goal, an exiguous ledge along a cliff-face, Raldo was sobbing with fatigue and urging his animal to pull him up. Mercifully, the horse obeyed. The two of them were the last to arrive at the path.
The fugitives sat hunched under their capes without moving for some time, regaining their strength, while their mounts licked trickles of rainwater from the streaming rock wall.
Saying nothing to his companions, Kilian experimented with his formidable new spell of couverture. If he could summon the strength to erect it, it would shield them all. But he was not yet fully recovered and had no success. For the time being, he contented himself with an easier kind of magic that altered his overseen appearance, while his aspect remained unchanged in the eyes of his companions.
Finally, he gave the command to mount and move on, watching in silence as the sweating, crimson-faced fat man, too drained to climb into the saddle on his own, was boosted up by the others. They set off in single file, moving at a slow walk. The track was extremely narrow, with a sheer drop to the river on the left. It climbed higher and higher, but the horses seemed willing to negotiate it without complaint. For over three hours, they traveled without incident. Then they became aware of a deep rumbling sound, which grew louder as they continued on, rising eventually to a tumultuous roar.
“Waterfall,” Garon shouted in explanation.
The source of the noise remained unseen until they came around a sharp corner into an area where the path widened, forming a natural terrace at the opening of a deep vertical cleft carved by a tributary stream. The upper section of the waterfall was deep within this cleft, pouring down from a height hidden within low-hanging grey clouds. Billows of vapor surged around the foot of the falls, where a plunge pool had been gouged from a relatively flat rock shelf that was a continuation of the terrace where they had halted. This was littered with jagged chunks of stone fallen from above, some of them as large as cottages. Water flowed from the pool across the shelf in a wide, shallow stream until it reached the edge, where it dropped off in a second cascade to the floor of the gorge.
Beyond the submerged rock shelf, the path resumed.
“Merciful God,” Raldo exclaimed. “How can we possibly get past here?”
Garon gave him a superior smile. “Now you know why I brought rope from the cattle-boat.”
“It looks hopeless to me,” Niavar said. His face had gone white and his vagrant eye had nearly retreated behind his nose. “The passable section near the lip of the lower cascade is only a few feet wide, and it’s at least a dozen ells long.”
“It can be crossed,” Garon insisted. “I’ve herded sheep across here— although I must admit I never tried it when the water volume was so great. There must have been heavy snows last winter.”
“Explain what we must do,” Kilian said.
“We blindfold the horses and go one at a time. I’ll be first, carrying the rope and paying it out behind me. When I get to the other side, I’ll fasten the line to that knobby formation under the overhang. One of you will tie the other end here, to this rock, after pulling it tight. As you ride over the shelf, guide your mount only with your knees. Keep one hand on the reins and the other on the rope. If your beast stumbles and starts to go over the edge, let him fall and hang on to the rope.”
“Bazekoy’s Blazing Bunions!” Cleaton groaned. “I’ll need a blindfold myself to get across.”
The alchymist was calm. “Why don’t I go next? When I reach the other side, I’ll use all my talent to compel your horses to set their feet safely among the stones and running water.”
They tied rags over the eyes of the mounts. Garon handed Kilian the rope coil, took the free end, and rode his rawboned, powerful chestnut across the streaming shelf as though it were Gala High Street. When both ends of the rope were fixed in place, Kilian followed suit on his tall sorrel mare, moving much more slowly. He, too, reached the other side with apparent ease.
“I’ll go next,” Raldo declared, striving to keep a tremor out of his voice. “I can’t bear the suspense of waiting.”
The fat man’s huge bay gelding lost its footing after going only a few ells and gave a heart-stopping lurch; but it recovered its equilibrium and went on successfully to the other side, whereupon Raldo burst into tears of relief.
Cleaton set out with lips clamped tight and
his eyes narrowed to slits. In the middle of the shelf, his rather nervous red roan suddenly stopped dead and refused to move. He thumped its sides with his heels, uttered lurid curses, and exerted all of his talent. The animal resumed its hesitant pace and joined the other three on the opposite side. The men there had dismounted, leaving blindfolds on the horses, and stood in the partial shelter of the overhanging cliff.
“Last but not least! I’ll be right along, boys!” Niavar called, urging his mount into the shank-deep water. The small black cob squealed at the unexpected sharp cold and tossed its head violently. The knot of the blindfold slipped and an instant later the cloth fell away. Stricken with terror at the sight of the dropoff and the pressure of the flowing stream against its short legs, the beast shied. One of its forefeet came down atop a precariously balanced rock and it collapsed, legs flailing. There was a sickening crack as a bone snapped. The cob screamed, rolled to the lip of the shelf, and fell to its death in the misty depths of the gorge.
Kneeling in rushing water up to his crotch, wiry little Niavar clung to the sagging rope with both hands. He was unable to stand, so he used his arms to haul himself the remaining three ells across. The others grabbed hold of him and pulled him safely up.
“Am I going to have to walk to the bloody cave, then?” he grumbled.
“You can ride pillion with me,” Garon said. “My chestnut is strong and neither of us is heavy.”
The Brothers took Niavar close to the cliff and began to strip off his soaked clothes. Kilian opened one of his saddlebags and took out a long shirt, wool stockings, and spare boots; Garon contributed homespun trews that fit well enough when rolled up seven inches and cinched with a piece of rope; Cleaton found a short waxed-leather cape with a hood.