The windmill on top of the small tower must have been well-greased, for the only sound it made as it spun in the gale was a lugubrious low-pitched moan, like some enormous animal softly humming. The noise was insufficient to mask the approaching footsteps of someone climbing the turret stairs. Maudrayne seated herself on the circular bench that surrounded the shaft housing of the windmill and waited for her visitor to arrive.
Ansel Pikan’s fiery red hair and beard popped up through the opening in the floor. His face was grave rather than friendly. “May I join you?”
“As you wish.” She gazed out over the grey sea, white-scalloped with lines of advancing surf.
“I’ve been bespoken by one of my principal colleagues in the capital. He had some unsettling news. High Sealord Sernin has called for an emergency meeting of the Company of Equals in Donorvale six days from now. Lady Tallu and I will be leaving immediately to attend.”
A small smile curled the ends of Maudrayne’s lips. She said nothing.
“Oh, Maudie! What have you done?” Ansel’s voice was full of reproach. “How much did you tell your brother Liscanor?”
“Ask him, when you get to Donorvale,” she retorted.
“If it was only the truth about Dyfrig, then there’s a chance Conrig’s Sovereignty may survive. But if you revealed the High King’s secret talent, then all of Blenholme might be in deadly danger. Do you know that the Salka have attacked Didion for the first time in almost a millennium? It happened late yesterday.”
She shrugged in disdain. “What is that to me? Let Honigalus and Conrig send their navies after the brutes. Let the Conjure-Queen thrash them with her Weathermaker. The monsters will flee, as they did when they raided Moss a while ago, and that’ll be an end to it.“
“The Salka swam up the River Malle and slaughtered Honigalus and all of his family. Somarus is now King of Didion, and there are ugly rumors abroad in Cathra that he might have conspired with Beynor of Moss to bring on the attack. If this is true, then the monsters are his allies. He won’t go to war against them.”
Maudrayne was shocked in spite of herself. “Well, then, it falls to Ullanoth and Conrig to—”
“Ullanoth is dead… or as close to it as a human being may be. She fell into a mortal trance as a result of sorcery gone awry. Her magical moonstones can be used by no other person. And the wizards of Royal Fenguard are in a panic, fearing that Beynor will urge the Salka to attack Moss next.”
She flashed him a look of poisoned triumph. “And so Conrig Wincantor is the one great champion left to defend our island against these inhuman brutes? And I am obliged to withdraw my accusations against him and deny my son’s birthright in order to preserve his Sovereignty? Never! He’s an unworthy king—an illegitimate king, by the law of his own land.”
“The Salka will attack Moss in force,” Ansel said. “My Source has solemnly assured me of this. And they won’t stop there. Neither Beynor nor Somarus will be able to control them.”
“And Conrig is the only one who can stop their advance? Nonsense! The Salka have no ships, no weapons except a few puny moonstones. They’re stupid, clumsy on land, and there aren’t enough of them to be a serious threat to humanity.”
“Uncounted thousands of them dwell in the Dawntide Isles. Even more have lived quietly in the fens of Moss up until now. But the fenland Salka are suddenly on the move, approaching areas inhabited by humans. Some of them are slow-witted, but by no means all. The Dawntide Salka are the elite members of their race, the ones who retained their ancient culture and magical science. The Source believes that they were the ones who attacked Didion’s Royal Family. And thanks to Beynor, who is either criminally insane or else acting as a tool of the Beaconfolk, the Salka leaders will soon obtain new moonstone sigils—powerful weapons of sorcery that haven’t been seen since Emperor Bazekoy’s day.”
“You’re lying,” she said in a voice of ice. “You and your Source would say anything to protect Conrig. God only knows why! But you don’t frighten me with your tales of invading monsters, and you won’t shut my mouth. Once the Company of Equals hears all that Liscanor has to say, they’ll compel you to deliver me and Dyfrig and Rusgann over to them so we can bear witness to the truth of my accusations. You won’t dare defy them.”
He stared at her, unspeaking.
And her eyes widened in speculation. “Or would you? There’s one sure way to make certain that I never endanger Conrig. Are you ready to undertake it?”
When he was well away from Boarsden Castle, after taking supper at a little village below Firedrake Water, Beynor bespoke the Conservator of Wisdom in the Dawntide Citadel, requesting a conference with him, the First Judge, the Master Shaman, and the Supreme Warrior. There was a brief delay while the three Eminences summoned Ugusawnn on the wind, since he was at that time leading his warriors down the River Malle at speed, but soon all was in readiness.
We Four are now prepared to hear you, Beynor, the Conservator said. But before you speak, know that all of us are mightily displeased with your behavior. The Supreme Warrior has told us how you fled from him.
“It was Ugusawnn’s fault,” Beynor snapped. “He treated me as a despised servant, not an honored ally, during our journey into Didion. However, in spite of his rude behavior and blatant expressions of mistrust, I still intend to fulfil my promises to the Salka. The King of Didion and all of his family were slain, just as I requested, so I’ll activate the Known Potency for you, and I’ll also give you the sigils of my sister, Conjure-Queen Ullanoth… provided that you first repair the insult to my esteem by vouchsafing another favor.”
You want us to kill the Conjure-Queen, the Master Shaman said. Ugusawnn has already informed us of this demand. But are you not aware that she lies in an enchanted sleep? She is totally helpless. You can easily destroy her yourself.
“No! You Salka must be seen to do it, just as you were seen to be responsible for the deaths of Didion’s royal family. I’m already unjustly accused of killing my father Linndal. This is a vicious lie—but it would be given credence if people learned that I personally slew Ullanoth. As I told you, I wish to make a new life for myself on the Continent. In order to do this with my honor intact, there must be no proof that I colluded in your conquest of Moss, or had anything to do with the death of the Conjure-Queen.”
I see no reason to deny him, said the First Judge.
He’s not to be trusted! the Supreme Warrior roared. Once the queen is dead, there’s nothing to prevent him from rallying the Mosslanders against us and posing as a hero to his former subjects. He could refuse to empower the Potency and deny us Ullanoth’s sigils! They lie in Rothbannon’s tomb, where only a descendant of his can reach them. Let me remind the other Eminences of another fact: once the queen is dead, her moonstones are dead as well. Beynor could easily instruct a loyal confederate how to reactivate the sigils. Even though he is unable to make use of the six stones himself, his crony could use them against us at his bidding.
The difficulty can be circumvented, said Kalawnn, the Master Shaman. Let Beynor come to Dawntide Citadel! After our forces kill the queen, Beynor will activate the Potency, bonding it to me, rather than to the Supreme Warrior. Then Beynor can go in peace, while we open Rothbannon’s tomb by means of the Potency.
Would that work? the First Judge wondered.
In my opinion, Kalawnn replied, the Greatest Stone should be able to transcend all lesser forms of sorcery.
“With respect!” Beynor exclaimed, feeling the situation showed signs of getting out of hand. “This alternative isn’t acceptable to me. I won’t be satisfied unless I see Ullanoth’s body destroyed. Not by means of scrying, for clever magic is able to deceive windsight, but rather see the remains with my own two eyes. Only then will I activate the Potency and bond it to one of you. I also refuse to return to the citadel. Within its walls, I am reduced to my former powerless state, dependent not only upon the goodwill of you three Eminences who now reside there, but also upon that of Ugusawnn, the Suprem
e Warrior, who has forfeited my trust.”
We seem to have come to an impasse, the First Judge said, sighing.
The problem was caused by Ugusawnn, said the Conservator. He is the bravest and strongest of us all, but nevertheless he has antagonized our would-be benefactor and otherwise shown a lack of wisdom. I must suggest that we reconsider bonding the Potency to him. This problem can be readily solved if our esteemed Master Shaman, Kalawnn, agrees to be bonded to the Potency in Ugusawnn’s stead. He can carry the Stone of Stones to Moss, in the company of our army and the Supreme Warrior. Once there, he will stand aside from the fighting, well guarded, so there will be no danger to him or the sigil. Beynor must agree to join him. When the queen is dead, and Beynor confirms this with his own eyes, then let him activate the Potency.
What do you say to that, Supreme Warrior? the First Judge demanded.
I… submit to the will of my Eminent colleagues. Under protest!
The judge said, And you, Beynor of Moss?
“Let my dear old friend Master Kalawnn carry the Potency to the vicinity of the Darkling River. Let him and his protectors stand safely aside with me while the valiant Ugusawnn takes the castle and destroys my sister. Then I solemnly swear by my human God that I will bring the Known Potency to life and open Rothbannon’s tomb.”
Then we are finally agreed? said the Conservator of Wisdom. His ancient mental voice betrayed a profound fatigue.
YES.
All of them voiced affirmation—Beynor declaring it with a fervency greater than that of the Salka, for he had held back from them the vital fact that the Potency bonded to no single person, but might be utilized by anyone once it was conjured alive. And while he was not absolutely certain that the sigil would neutralize the curse of the Beaconfolk, he was willing to wager his life on it. He would find a way to snatch the Potency away from Kalawnn just as soon as it was activated, then escape from the monsters. With both Potency and Ullanoth’s sigils in hand, he would turn his attention to securing the Destroyer sigil; and when he owned that last necessary stone, he’d be ready to found his empire…
There is one final thing, the Master Shaman said. A last precaution against misadventure which I would like you all to witness. Beynor, Ugusawnn—please transfer your talent to oversight mode so you may scry what I am about to do. I intend to guard this treasured sigil in the best way I know.
Puzzled, Beynor complied. He saw Kalawnn slither from his kelp-padded couch in the dank audience chamber of the citadel, take the small carving from its golden tripod, and hold it up delicately between his taloned fingers for all to see.
Then Kalawnn opened his enormous, hideously fanged mouth, put the moonstone on his purple tongue, and swallowed—sending the Known Potency into the secure coffer of his gizzard.
Snudge stood again on the fortress parapet, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Earlier, Lord Stergos had been aghast at the notion of his trying to pressure the Source. But what other course was open to him? Even with a general knowledge of where Princess Maudrayne was confined, he had no way of getting to her. There was only the Gateway. And to use it, he needed to state a specific destination… didn’t he? And only the Source could tell him exactly where to go.
Or would the Great Stone transport him and his men if he simply commanded it to put them down in a safe place half a league away from Maudrayne’s prison?
No. That wouldn’t work. Such an irregular request might even antagonize the Lights and have disastrous results.
“Source! You can read my thoughts?” Snudge was horrified at the notion.
Only when you unconsciously aim them at me, dear soul. Have no fear. The contents of your mind are your sole possession. No one can violate them.
“Do you already know the question I planned to ask you?”
I know the impudent plan you confessed to Stergos. But there’s no need to threaten me or demand tit for tat. I’ll willingly tell you: Maudrayne is in a place called Skullbone Peel, a small keep on the northeastern Tarnian coast. Command the sigil to carry you to a ravine two thousand paces south of it. There you’ll find a sheltered spot beneath an overhanging ledge—not quite a cave, but deep enough to keep you out of the elements while you recover from the pain-price, as well as shield you from casual oversight.
Snudge hesitated. “Was—was I correct in thinking that my suffering will be more severe, the further I travel?”
Unfortunately, yes. And the number of people carried with you also affects your debt. Keep this in mind as you make further excursions.
“Further? I don’t understand. What am I to do after I make my proposal of compromise to the princess? Surely you’re not suggesting that I use Gateway to carry her and the child back to His Grace at Gala Palace!”
You must do as you think best—for her and her child, for Conrig, and for the Final Conflict in which all of you participate.
“What I think best?… Damn you, Source, I’m only a poor devil of a spy! How can I make such fateful decisions by myself? What if I make a stupid mistake and get nabbed by the guards at the Tarnian keep? What if the princess won’t agree to my compromise—or His Grace declines it? What if Ansel Pikan finds out what I’m up to and uses his sorcery to—to stop me?”
Ansel won’t stop you. I’ve already seen to that. As to the other matters, I can’t say. Now go and do what you must do,
“You’re not being fair, Source! You’ve got to give me more explicit instructions. I’ll abandon the whole thing if you don’t! Source? Answer me! Source…”
He howled the Light’s name on the wind, furious and frightened, but there was no response. Finally, he severed the thread of speech, waited until he stopped shivering in the tepid evening air, and asked himself whether he’d really give up the mission now that it seemed so close to being accomplished.
He answered his own question, then sat in numb misery on the parapet floor, wondering whether to bespeak Stergos and ask him for advice.
“Putter that!” he growled, on due consideration. “I’ll do it my way, just as the Source told me to.”
Feeling dead tired, but at the same time strangely exhilarated, he climbed to his feet and descended to the ward to see what progress his men had made on the trip preparations.
They showed Snudge the body of Vra-Mattis Temebrook, which lay as if peacefully sleeping. No one had touched him except Radd Falcontop, who had pronounced him dead. Not a one among the party seemed to have any doubt that the sensitive novice had died of a brainstorm, brought about by his visualization of the unspeakable atrocities committed by the Salka.
“This is still another crime to be laid at the monsters’ door,” Sir Gavlok said, knuckling away unashamed tears. “Poor Mat is their victim as much as the luckless Didionites. I only pray that someday we may be able to avenge him.”
The three squires murmured agreement. Radd and Hulo were silent, their weathered features immobile.
“What will you have us do now, Deveron?” Gavlok asked.
“Without our windvoice, sir, do we dare proceed?” Wil asked ingenuously.
“Oh, yes, we’ll go on as planned. That is—all except you, young Wil.”
Snudge showed the dismayed squire a sad smile. “It falls to you, as my junior armiger, to convey the body of our fallen comrade back to Gala Palace. Go at once and find the headman of the mule-train that’s spending the night here. Arrange to accompany it over Great Pass in safety tomorrow. Proceed directly to Beorbrook Hold with the body, where the resident Brothers of Zeth will perform the necessary mortuary offices for poor Mattis and provide a lead-lined coffin for your journey south. The captain of the Hold garrison will assign you an escort.”
Wil Baysdale hung his head, cursing inwardly. “Yes, messire.” Surely Sir Deveron could not suspect what he’d done! But Wil nevertheless was well aware that he’d do no more spying for Duke Feribor on this mission.
He consoled himself with the thought that there would surely be others.
Rain began during the
small hours, and continued persistently as the king’s men quit Castlemont and started north on the Wold Road at the sixth hour of morning. The pack-train had departed earlier, but not before Snudge had a quiet word with the grizzled leader of the muleteers. After learning the man’s name and his home village, Snudge took his hand and pressed a gold mark into it.
“Swive me!” the fellow muttered, at the sight of the extravagant boon. “Not that I ain’t grateful, my lord, but—”
“I thank you for allowing my squire and his somber burden to go along with you into Cathra,” Snudge said. “However, my young friend is a headstrong boy, and was keenly disappointed not to continue on with us. There’s a chance he may approach you and request that you convey the corpse to Beorbrook, while he himself turns back and foolishly attempts to rejoin our group. I ask that you prevent him from doing so—by force, if nothing else suffices. I won’t suffer disobedience or a frivolous disregard for the dead.”
The muleteer’s shaggy brows knit as he digested the import of Snudge’s words. “How much force?” he asked quietly.
“Don’t damage him any more than necessary. But see that he stays with you for at least half the day. After that, he’ll know it’s too late to follow us.”
Now, as he and Gavlok rode out side by side, bringing up the rear of their small cavalcade, Snudge told his friend what he’d done. The other knight nodded in approval and said, “I lay awake all last night in the little guesthouse cubicle we shared, with my sword unsheathed at my side, just in case Wil Bays-dale decided to pay us a visit.”
“You think he might actually have done us violence?” Snudge said.
“Not only that. I believe he murdered Vra-Mattis.”
“Good God! Have you any evidence to support your accusation?”
“Just before I retired—you were already asleep—I went to Mat’s cubicle to collect his writing materials from his scrip, thinking we might have need of them. I glanced at his face and saw that one of his eyes had come open, as sometimes happens. In the end, I had to put a farthing on the lid to keep it decently shut. But before that… I’ve had little experience with dead bodies, but my grandsire was a great storyteller who oft entertained us children with tales of murder and mayhem. One curious fact he told us is that the whites of a smothered man’s eyes will sometimes show small specks of blood. Mat’s open eye did indeed have such a sign.”