“Well done,” Maudrayne said. “Oh, well done, my dearest friend!” She came ashore.
“Are you hurt, my lady?”
“Scratches and bumps. The bastard didn’t get my necklace, but he left a smart welt trying to steal it.”
Rusgann used her drenched apron as a wash-clout on both of them, removing the worst of the blood, until Maudrayne said, “Enough. We can finish cleaning ourselves on board the lugger. Poor Dyfrig must be terrified and we must go to him.”
They launched the small craft and climbed into it, after helping themselves to Lukort Waterfall’s filleting knife and belt-wallet. A great mob of ravens and gulls had suddenly appeared and were wheeling in a cloud above the body, ready to begin feeding. The noise they made almost drowned out the sound of a distressed human voice.
“It’s that poor dolt, Vorgo,” the maid said, “wanting us to pick him up. He knows he’ll never make it swimming to the fishing boat. The ice-cold seawater is sapping his strength.”
“Go back to shore!” Maudrayne shouted to the youth. “Go back! If you strip off the soaked clothes draining your body heat, you may live.”
After a momentary hesitation, the floundering swimmer changed direction and headed towards land.
“The air’s warm,” Maudrayne said to Rusgann with a grim smile. “He knows the way to the steading, and he has his own pouch of magic trinkets to give him access to the sea-hag’s house. Mayhap Dobnelu will let him stay when she awakes. With us gone, she’ll need a new slavey.”
Chapter Three
The prisoner in Zeth Abbey filled the hours of Solstice Eve with his usual quiet activities. In the early morning, before the sun made the enclosed garden too hot, he pulled weeds, and carried endless cans of water from the well in his strong arms so that the roses would not flag, and gathered whatever things Brother Herbalist had requested. Then, after eating solitary in his little apartment as became one banished from the routine of the Brethren, he retired to the great library to study. His choice of materials sometimes surprised the librarian, but Father Abbas had decreed that all things were to be at his disposal, as though he were still a Doctor Arcanorum in good standing in the Mystical Order of Saint Zeth.
After supper, as he often did, he held conversation in the bee-yard with his three friends; the clouds of busy, harmless insects ensured that no unwanted person would overhear their scheming. When the night-bell rang, he took to his bed more eagerly than usual and slept, and dreamed… and opened his mind to the invader.
Kilian. Vra-Kilian Blackhorse. Do you hear me?
“Finally, Beynor! I’m relieved to hear from you at last. You really should have contacted me earlier. I was becoming concerned. But never mind. My men in Gala Palace are ready. By the end of Midsummer Day, if all goes as I’ve planned, they will have escaped from the city with the Trove of Darasilo! I hope that matters go similarly well with you.”
There’s a serious problem. I need you to postpone the Cala mission. Just for a short time.
“Impossible. My agents were given their orders months ago. By now all the arrangements are in place. It’s imperative that the attack occurs early tomorrow, while those at the palace are sleeping off the previous day’s festivities.”
Kilian, I need more time to complete my research here at the Dawntide Citadel. A week at the most. I’ve laid my hands on a document in the Salka archives that could be vitally important. But translating it is no easy matter. When I skimmed the thing, I could understood only about one word in five. But I deciphered enough to know its tremendous significance. It dates from before Bazekoy’s Conquest!
“I couldn’t stop the Gala mission from proceeding, even if I should want to. Vra-Garon has been sent off to Elkhaven on business by Abbas Noachil, and is also carrying out an important assignment of mine. He won’t be back here until tomorrow. There’s no one else at Zeth Abbey whom I can trust to wind-speak my agents, and it’s too late to send them a message by conventional means.”
Kilian, I could windspeak your men and tell them to hold off. It wouldn’t be easy from this great distance, but I could do it. They’d listen and obey if you give me their signatures and the command password now, instead of waiting until—
“No! You’ll bespeak and windwatch them only when the trove is safely in my hands. Do you take me for a fool?”
You misunderstand—
“And don’t think you can circumvent my safeguards against your coercive talents by invading my agents’ dreams! You’ll never countermand my orders that way. The Brothers were trained in my own somnial defensive techniques before they ever left the abbey. No one can speak to them in dreams unless they consent. But I daresay you’ve already found that out for yourself, or you wouldn’t be trying to trick me!”
Kilian, please believe that I’d never betray our agreement and try to seize the trove for myself.
“Of course you would, my boy. Neither of us has ever trusted the other. That will never change until we’ve successfully divided Darasilo’s sigils, and overcome the obstacles that now prevent either of us from utilizing their sorcery.”
Just listen to me. Let me explain why I need more time. I don’t want to offer our bargain to the Salka until I learn more about the Unknown Potency’s effect upon the Beaconfolk themselves. The stone does more than liberate sigils from the Lights’ control and abolish bonding. I’m certain of that. This ancient document tablet that I’ve found may reveal why the Potency was created in the first place. There’s something in it about an intention to sever the Lights’ ability to meddle in the affairs of earthbound beings such as ourselves.
“Depriving us of Beaconfolk sorcery altogether? I don’t much like the sound of that!”
I’m more interested in the possibility that the tablet might confirm what we’ve only assumed must be true—that the Unknown’s power may enable me to utilize liberated sigils with impunity!
“And so you shall. I thought you were already convinced of it. If the Lights lose their ability to feed on the pain of sigil-wielders, if they’re compelled to deliver sorcery without demanding a price, there is no way they can harm you. Their curse is effectively annulled.”
I must make certain. What good will my half of Darasilo’s Trove do me if the curse still holds good? I’ll tell you one thing: if I can’t have mine, I won’t help you get yours. And neither will I free you of your iron gammadion!
“Calm yourself.”
Once I leave Dawntide Citadel, I’ll never have access to these Salka archives again.
“Then take the tablet in question along with you when you go. Puzzle out its contents later, on the voyage to Didion.”
I can’t take the bloody thing away. I can hardly lift it. It’s a stone slab the size of a cart wheel, jam-packed with inscriptions, and if the monsters knew I’d stolen it they’d probably slaughter me out of hand… or do worse.
“Copy the wording.”
I haven’t the proper materials to make a rubbing, and there’s too much on the tablet to simply write it down. The only sort of parchment available in this benighted place are the fragile sheets I make myself from baby sealskin. I have only a few of those left.
“Don’t forget that Darasilo’s Trove includes two arcane books written in the Salka tongue, in addition to the large collection of inactive stones. The books’ subject matter deals with sigils, beyond a doubt. I could tell that from the illustrations, even though I’m unable to read the Salka language. One of those books may very well contain the information you seek.”
Why should I take a chance? I’m going to postpone leaving here until I translate the tablet. That’s final. You do as you please and be damned.
“Beynor, you’ve forgotten the other important reason why we dare not delay. The King of Didion and his family will begin their progress upriver from Holt Mallburn on the day after the Solstice, as they do every year. There’s only one suitable spot for our ambush—just below Boarsden Castle at Boar Creek, where there are fierce rapids and an exceptionally
deep eddy. It will take the royal party no more than six days to reach that point in their voyage, making the traditional stops along the way. Six days, Beynor! Barely enough time for you and the Salka assassins to get there and organize yourselves, since they won’t be able to swim at full speed once they’re in the river. If our amphibian friends aren’t in place, ready to attack, we’ll be forced to revise the Didion part of our scheme drastically—or abandon it altogether.”
Getting the Salka to kill King Honigalus and his family is a needless complication, Kilian. I’ve said that from the beginning.
“And I’ve told you why it’s an absolutely essential step in the destruction of the Sovereignty.”
Well—
“Pull yourself together and keep your mind concentrated on the great goal that’s finally within our grasp! I’ve done what I promised to do, putting my agents into Gala Palace without getting caught. Your task dealing with the Salka has been more difficult, I’ll grant you, but you’re the bravest, most audacious young man I’ve ever known. This is why I’ve been willing to place my own life and hopes in your hands. Listen to me, Beynor! We may never love one another as father and son, yet we are bound together by our mutual ambition more closely than by any tie of blood. Only together can we exploit Darasilo’s Trove. Only together can we dupe the Salka into assisting us to bring down Conrig’s Sovereignty. Only together can we rule.”
Damn your eyes!
“Bless yours, my boy—and may you use them to see straight ahead and avoid distractions! I have every confidence in you. Don’t let me down.”
… Very well. I’ll arrange to meet with the Four Eminences immediately.
“Excellent. I know you’ll convince them. Put your mind at ease.”
Huh! That’s hardly possible—given that I must shortly confront a pack of inhuman brutes who may well decide to torture me in creatively gruesome ways, rather than strike a bargain.
“Salka minds work more slowly than ours and are deficient in imagination. It’s more likely that the monsters will pretend to accede to the proposal while planning to break faith with you later. We can deal with that easily enough. Don’t take it amiss, but it’s a good thing that the Salka think you a pathetic failure, cursed by the Lights, with only a few puny magical powers left. The arrogant boobies are bound to underestimate you and let their guard down.”
You state the facts with tactless candor, for one who was once first counselor to a king and now lives in disgrace, under a deferred sentence of death, stripped of all magical talent by the iron hanging around your neck.
“Don’t be so touchy. Neither of us can afford wounded pride. Together we may possibly rule the world. Apart we’re doomed.”
No more word games, Kilian. It’s time for me to go.
“Before you do, we must discuss your sister. My agents in Gala Palace will do their utmost to disguise their real objective. But if Conrig suspects that either of us might have caused the trove to be stolen, he might pressure Conjure-Queen Ullanoth to put us under close observation. Even worse, he could ask her to trace my agents. No ordinary talent is able to scry the moonstones, but her Subtle Loophole sigil can.”
Conrig would never let the Conjure-Queen know about Darasilo’s Trove. He’d be afraid she’d covet it for herself.
“I suppose you’re right. But the king might use some pretext—”
Ulla hasn’t spied on me with Loophole since the incident last year that nearly cost her life. I’ve been assured of this by Master Kalawnn himself. That particular sigil is the most powerful one she possesses, and the price of its conjuring is tremendous. Unless Conrig tells her that we might have stolen a secret hoard of inactive moonstones, she’ll refuse to endanger her health and sanity by using Loophole to watch us or my men.
“She’s bound to find out about the trove sooner or later.”
That’s why I intend to have the Salka attack her. I’ve worked out a plan—
“I agree we should make her demise one of our earliest priorities… but only after the death of Honigalus! You must convince the monsters to kill him and his heirs first, Beynor. The circumstances are ideal and such an opportunity may never come again. The destabilization of the Sovereignty is absolutely crucial to our success. But that won’t happen unless Conrig loses his hold on Didion. Do you understand?”
Yes. Honigalus first, but then Ulla dies.
A sigh.
Return to your peaceful slumber, Kilian—as I do my best to tiptoe scatheless through the nightmare I inhabit here. Should I manage to gull the Salka, I’ll pop back into your dreams to inform you how the matter went. If I fail, remember me as you study Darasih’s worthless collection of baubles—and think of what might have been.
The brightness and warmth of the endless midsummer daylight hardly penetrated the dank chambers of the great Salka citadel that crouched on the highest point of the Dawntide Isles. After four years of exile in the awful place, Beynor always felt pierced to the bone by cold, no matter how many furs he piled on. He was one-and-twenty years old now, and had enjoyed excellent health when he first came; but he knew he could not survive here much longer. The citadel was an abode fit only for nonhuman grotesques. It drained his bodily strength and weakened his innate talent more and more with each passing day. If he must risk everything now in a bid to restore his lost fortunes, then so be it. He carried a whale-oil lantern as he descended a slippery flight of steps to a corridor that extended well below sea level. The widely spaced jars of luminous marine plankton used by these Salka to illuminate the lower precincts of their refuge gave too meager a light to accommodate human vision. Even the smoky flame of the lantern was inadequate, and Beynor cursed as he threaded his way among numerous stinking black puddles, fed seawater (and noxious little swimmers) by perpetual leaks in the tunnel ceiling.
At length he reached the anteroom outside the presence chamber of the great trolls known as the Eminences. Six gigantic Salka guards holding granite battle hammers stood before double doors faced with slabs of carved amber and wrought gold. The hanging bowls of glowworms were larger here, giving plenty of light, so the young sorcerer discarded his sputtering lantern, strode forward with as much fortitude as he could muster, and spoke in the harsh tongue of the monsters.
“I am Beynor ash Linndal, rightful Conjure-King of Moss and honored guest of your people, come for an audience with the Eminent Four.”
Slowly, the amphibians inclined their crested heads and studied him with a gaze like banked smoldering coals. They beheld a man tall and slimly built, having an intense narrow face and long pale hair that had gone stringy in the dampness. His eyes, which seemed at first to be black, were actually darkest green, with a glimmer of exceptional talent in their depths. The regal garments Beynor had worn when fleeing his lost kingdom had long since fallen to rags; and since his nonhuman hosts were unfamiliar with clothing, he had fashioned with his own hands a suit of pieced sea-otter fur, along with a voluminous fox cloak and sturdy boots of seal hide. The sole emblem of monarchy he had brought from Moss, the Royal Sword in its heavily bejeweled scabbard, was girded about his loins.
Saying nothing, the guards stepped aside and swung the chamber doors wide open. Beynor entered and the doors clanged shut again. He stood with his hands steepled in the Salka gesture of submission, biding his time until he should be recognized by the Eminences.
The beings who awaited him in the fantastically ornamented undersea cavern lolled on stubby-legged golden platforms, heaped with seaweed, that served them as couches. They were unattended and conversed among themselves in voices like muted thunder, apparently paying no attention to the human newcomer. A low table containing dishes and flasks of outlandish food and drink stood within tentacle reach. Behind the dais rose a huge mosaic made from multicolored bits of amber and gleaming pearl-shell, depicting a legendary Salka hero. His flexible arms brandished twin obsidian axes, his saucer eyes glared fire-red, and his fanged mouth gaped in a silent roar. The image was framed by amber-bead curtains
and lit with hanging crystal globes containing lively phosphorescent organisms.
Like the champion in the mosaic, each Eminence wore around his thick neck a softly glowing greenish-blue carving suspended from a golden chain: moonstone sigils of the minor kind that drew magical power from the Beacon-folk at the cost of pain to the wearer.
The Eminences were not royalty, but rather ruling elders chosen by their people for strength of character and proficiency in their separate fields of endeavor. Three of them—the First Judge, the Supreme Warrior, and the Conservator of Wisdom—Beynor had never seen before. As a mere human sorcerer, even one of royal blood who had come bearing a marvelous gift to ensure his welcome, he had been beneath their notice during his enforced stay in the Citadel of the Dawntide Isles. The only one of the Four familiar to Beynor was Master Shaman Kalawnn, pre-eminent adept of his race, who had been an intimate friend of the late Conjure-King Linndal. Unaware that Beynor had murdered his father, Master Kalawnn had agreed to give the deposed young ruler sanctuary after the Great Lights cursed him and stripped him of all but one of the sigils he had used to secure the throne of Moss.
That single remaining magical moonstone of his, dull and lifeless as it had been since it was first fashioned over a thousand years earlier, rested now on a spindly gold tripod to the right of the dais. Its presence was presumably a tribute to the human who had finally returned it to its original owners. The sigil’s name was Unknown Potency, and it was the most celebrated thing of its kind ever made, priceless at the same time that it was deemed supremely dangerous.
For long centuries following the damnation of the stone’s Salka creator, the precise manner of the Potency’s activation and operation had been forgotten by other members of the amphibian race. The person who made it— supposedly to be used as the ultimate weapon against the conquering hordes of the Emperor Bazekoy, although the monsters were not certain of this—had in the end failed to empower it.
Never brought to life, dreaded more than cherished, the Unknown Potency had become an enigmatic symbol of extinct Salka glory. Over the centuries, learned thaumaturgists among the monsters believed that the sigil might hold the key to unimaginably great magic surpassing that of the Beaconfolk But none had been brave enough to test it, for fear of the Great Lights’ capricious wrath.