“Then let’s go against Moss right away!” said the First Judge, hoisting high his golden cup for emphasis. “Why muck about with this assassination of the Didionite king? What benefit is that to us?”
“It gains you my gratitude,” Beynor said in a loud, cold voice. “And it’s a sure method of fatally weakening Conrig’s Sovereignty. If you kill Honigalus, I promise to help activate the Potency immediately afterwards and help you attack Moss. If you refuse me, I won’t share my knowledge with you.”
“I say we should simply put this presumptuous tadpole to the torture,” growled the Supreme Warrior. “He’ll tell us everything we need to know about the Potency inside of an hour. Once our search parties are equipped with lib-crated minor sigils that the Lights can’t meddle with, we’ll locate the Barren Lands Moon Crag in short order. We won’t need this snotty groundling’s help to reconquer Blenholme if we have plenty of new Great Stones. No human force could stand against us!”
“Bazekoy’s did,” the Conservator said bleakly. “Remember that.”
“Because the Lights betrayed us,” the Warrior thundered. “They allowed him to win—perhaps for their own perverse amusement. This time, the situation will be different.”
“Doing things my way would be so much more efficient, Eminences,” urged Beynor. “I can speed your conquest because I’m human. I know human strategy. I know human weaknesses and strengths. And more than anything in this world, I want to destroy Conrig Wincantor and my sister Ullanoth.”
A prolonged silence fell over the chamber.
“How strange,” mused the First Judge, as he licked the last mucilaginous drops from his cup, “that Conjure-Queen Ullanoth should have discovered a hidden cache of sigils so fortuitously—although we know that many such must have been secreted away during our long retreat from Bazekoy’s host. I wonder if other lost Great Stones might be located using her Subtle Loophole, that most puissant tool for windsearching? If we owned a liberated Loophole, then it would be unnecessary for us to launch a long and arduous expedition to the Barren Lands Moon Crag.”
Beynor felt his gorge rise anew at this terrible possibility, which had never occurred to him. What a catastrophe if the monsters located and took control of Darasilo’s Trove before he could steal it away from Kilian…
But the Conservator’s next words wiped away Beynor’s dismay and kindled fresh hope. “It seems to me that the young sorcerer’s proposal to help us seize the Conjure-Queen’s sigils has considerable merit. We should not reject it lightly.”
“I agree,” said the Master Shaman. “Furthermore, torturing the human as Ugusawnn urges can produce unsatisfactory results. Humans have such frail bodies compared to our own.”
“If I die under the Supreme Warrior’s ministrations before telling you the secret of the Potency,” Beynor said reasonably, “you will have thrown away any chance of abolishing the pain-yoke of the Lights, or regaining your ancestral island home.”
“He’s right,” the Conservator said. “And this assassination that he demands as a goodwill gesture doesn’t seem particularly difficult.”
“It would be quite a simple matter,” Beynor said, “requiring only a small force of Salka warriors. Perhaps only a score. I would have to lead them myself, since I’m familiar with the River Malle and the type of vessel carrying King Honigalus and his family. I also know the best escape route. As soon as the fighters and I return to Dawntide Citadel, I'll show you how to activate the Potency. You must choose who among you will bond to the Great Stone—”
“It must be Ugusawnn,” the Conservator said. “He is the most suitable person. Aside from his undeniable fighting prowess, his own sigil enables him to communicate with us across long distances, so we always know how his ventures are faring.”
The Supreme Warrior’s enormous glowing eyes widened in gratified surprise. “Do the other Eminences concur?”
The Judge and the Master Shaman nodded.
And Beynor thought: Perfect! My principal opponent is disarmed!
“Ugusawnn will also lead the assassination party into Didion,” the Conservator said, “with the human sorcerer serving as his guide. This will not only enhance the possibility of success, but also make certain that the action proceeds without… unexpected developments.”
The Conservator meant Beynor’s escape. But he already had worked out a simple plan to get away from the monsters. “I would be honored to have such august company on the expedition,” the young sorcerer said humbly.
The Supreme Warrior glowered at him, “Precisely where are these royal murders to take place?”
“At a point on the River Malle near Boarsden Castle, where the barge is most vulnerable to attack from the water,” Beynor said. “The spot is some six hundred leagues from the Dawntide Isles. Honigalus and his family will be there six days from now.”
“So soon?” the Judge said.
“Our strongest swimmers could get there easily if we left at once ” Ugusawnn said. He shot Beynor a look of distaste. “But I don’t know how we’ll manage to transport the groundling sorcerer without drowning him. I’m not even convinced that it’s a good idea for him to go along on this mission. What if he’s killed? We’d never empower the Potency then.”
“It would be up to you,” the Conservator said wearily, “to keep him secure.”
“Do you still intend to oppose this scheme, Ugusawnn,” Kalawnn asked, “even when we would make you Master of the Potency?”
“I don’t oppose it. But I do mistrust this tricky groundling with all my heart and soul!”
Beynor said, “I know an easy way to transport me to Didion. When the Master Shaman so graciously offered me sanctuary, I came here from Royal Fenguard in my own barque, Ambergris, which was a gift to me from the Didionites after I did them a great favor. The ship is in a sad state of neglect now, careened in one of the coves below the citadel. But her boats should still be sound, and they are of a common type that would be inconspicuous on the River Malle. I can cross the sea in one of them, dismasted and towed along at speed by your force. When we reach Mallmouth Harbor, I’ll step the boat’s mast, hoist her sail, and go innocently up the river—pulled more slowly and inconspicuously as needed by my Salka guardians.”
“Is this practicable, Ugusawnn?” the Conservator inquired.
“It would probably work.” The Supreme Warrior spoke without enthusiasm. “But I’d rather leave the groundling here. Let him instruct me in the details.”
“I won’t agree—” Beynor began to say.
“Silence!” The Conservator of Wisdom gave the command in a voice that was suddenly resounding and steady. “Beynor of Moss, step back from the dais and wait by the doors while we Four confer.”
Beynor obeyed. Numbed by the ordeal, he now felt no anxiety nor sense of anticipation as the great trolls murmured interminably among themselves. At long last the Conservator called out, “Beynor, come and stand again before us, and receive our decision.”
Kilian. Vra-Kilian Blackhorse. Do you hear?
“Yes, Beynor.”
We’ve won. A small Salka force will leave for Didion within a few hours, taking me with them. They’ll be led by their Supreme Warrior, a surly savage named Ugusawnn. After slaughtering the royal family, we’re supposed to return to Dawntide Citadel, where I show the Four Eminences how to activate the Potency.
They’ve decided to bond it to the Supreme Warrior. He intends to lead an attack on Royal Fenguard immediately, snap up Vila’s sigils, and conquer the world for the Salka.
“Heh-heh-heh! Brilliantly done, my boy. What a pack of simpletons!”
I’m supposed to believe that Ugusawnn will take me along on the invasion of Moss. But I’m fairly certain he intends to kill me as soon as he’s sure that I’ve properly activated the Potency.
“It would be extremely vexing if the monsters did polish you off.”
Ugusawnn is no fool and has serious doubts about me. Still, it should be easy enough to give him the slip once he
and the others have taken care of Honigalus. They have no suspicion that I’m able to impel a small boat with my talent—as if that weren’t one of the first tricks a Mossland magicker learns! Once I’m safely away in Didion, I’ll windspeak the Eminences the revised version of the bargain. And we pray that they swallow their outrage and agree to it.
“Why shouldn’t they? The alternative is custody of a useless dead sigil. How could the Salka possibly suspect that the Potency bonds to no one? That it can be snatched away from this Supreme Warrior and used by anyone at all without causing harm to the taker?”
Such a thing would never occur to them. I wonder why the Potency’s creator made it thus? Not too sensible, was it?… Not that I’m complaining!
“Consider this: If the Potency doesn’t bond to its activator, then it doesn’t die when the owner does. Unlike all other sigils, the Potency might very well be immortal.”
Interesting—and unsettling, too. God of the Depths! How I wish there were some way of reading that last archive tablet! We need to know why the Potency was made, and why its reputation has always been so dire.
“After we wipe out the Salka with Darasilo’s Trove, you can return to their citadel and find out.”
Perhaps… Kilian, this conversation must end now. The Supreme Warrior is expecting me to join him. We’re inspecting the small boat that will carry me to Didion.
“Good luck, then, Beynor. May you have a safe voyage.”
I‘ll see you in your dreams.
Chapter Four
Snudge and his companions broke the first short day of their northward journey shortly before the eleventh hour after noon. The cavalcade had arrived at a little village called Swallowmere, some sixty leagues north of the capital, where there was a tavern of unpretentious but promising aspect. The horses were tired by then, but the young travelers weren’t—not on Solstice Eve, when every man of spirit save those constrained by holy orders was expected to celebrate High Summer.
The Green Swallow Inn proved to be well stocked with extra food and drink for the occasion. Crowded with friendly locals, it featured a three-man band of peasant musicians and plenty of lasses to dance and flirt with. Snudge, his armigers Valdos and Wiltorig, and Sir Gavlok and his squire Hanan joined wholeheartedly in the roistering.
Meanwhile Vra-Mattis, the apprentice windvoice assigned to Sir Deveron by the king, eschewed worldly pleasures as befit a novice in the Mystical Order of Saint Zeth. The night was very warm, so Mat put off his robe and settled down in the inn’s forecourt in his undertunic. He ate a good supper of mutton-dumpling stew and strawberry tarts, rested his saddle-sore muscles, and finally fell into a doze on a heap of clean straw, bothered not a whit by the convivial racket coming from inside the tavern.
Sometime later, in the wee hours, the novice was jolted awake by an urgent windspoken message from the Royal Alchymist Lord Stergos, intended for Sir Deveron. Its portent was so grave that Mattis hastened to seek out his master without even donning his robe. The interior of the inn was now jam-packed with fun seekers, many of them so taken by strong drink that they could barely stand. Skirling pipes, a squawking fiddle, a thumping tabor, laughter and song fairly shook the rafters.
Mattis found his master grinning owlishly as he stomped and shuffled in a drunken round dance with three cavorting farm girls. From the sidelines, Sir Gavlok hoisted a cannikin of rustic rotgut and cheered, ignoring the frantic novice who bellowed into his unresponsive ear.
The dance finally ended to raucous applause and Mattis rushed to take Snudge by the arm and pull him in the direction of the inn’s front door. Gavlok trailed along after, protesting his friend’s evacuation.
“Sir!” the novice cried. “Sir Deveron, can you understand me?”
“Unhand me, knave,” Snudge mumbled. “Wanna dance!” He tripped over his own feet and fell to his knees in the dirt courtyard. “Feel sleepy. Time f’bed.”
“Sir, please listen!” Vra-Mattis attempted without success to haul his master upright. “I’ve received an important wind-message from the Royal Alchymist. His Grace the High King commands you to return to the capital immediately.”
“Booger the king. Booger Stergos. Go ‘way.” Snudge rolled onto his face.
The dismayed windvoice appealed to the other young knight, who now seemed to be almost sober. “What am I to do? We dare not wait until he’s slept off his carouse. Lord Stergos insisted that we leave here at once.”
Gavlok nudged his collapsed friend with his foot. “Commander! Arise! Duty calls!” The only response was a muffled curse. Inside the inn, the music had started up again more loudly and off-key than ever. A fat man staggered out the door and spewed in the shadows.
“Poor Deveron,” Gavlok mourned. “His very first holiday. Alas—he was having such a fine time, too! But I fear, Brother Mat, that drastic measures are now called for. Assist me, if you please.” Together, the two men began to drag the inert Snudge across the courtyard towards the stables. A courting couple fled at their approach.
Sir Gavlok Whitfell was aware that Deveron Austrey frequently undertook secret missions for King Conrig, but knew nothing of his friend’s arcane talent. Formerly armiger to Lord Stergos, Gavlok had been knighted a year earlier than Snudge and was now assigned to the Royal Alchymist’s Guard. Although he was nobly born, the fourth son of a distinguished Westley family, he was too introspective and sensitive to be an enthusiastic warrior. Lord Stergos valued the gangling, fair-haired young man for his intelligence, his unswerving integrity, and his self-deprecating sense of humor—as did Snudge.
“We do this for Sir Deveron’s own good,” Gavlok declared to the wind-voice, as the two of them reached a horse-trough with their burden. They tipped Snudge into the water with a great splash, then hauled him out and sat him down in the straw, coughing and spluttering.
“Whoreson!” Snudge croaked, lashing out with feeble fury at the friend who was divesting him of his sodden garments. “I’ll b-broil your b-bollocks for this!”
“No doubt,” Gavlok replied. “But first you must listen to Vra-Mattis, who has a message for you from the king.”
“What?”
Mattis told him. Snudge groaned piteously. “Shite! My head spins like a whirry—whirligig. A ‘mergency, you say? What sort?”
But the novice had not been entrusted with further information, and Snudge knew with woozy certainty that there was no possibility that he himself might bespeak the Royal Alchymist and learn more. His own windtalent had been totally extinguished by ardent spirits, as had most of his other mental faculties. In fact, he was nearly paralytic.
“Gawy,” he whispered, sinking to the ground again and holding his swollen head in his hands. “Gawy, old friend. I muss—must lay a great ‘sponsibility on you. Can’t hang two thoughts together myself. D’you think you can get the lot of us on the road? Fresh horses, o’course. Clean clothes, too. Our three squires are swizzled as swineherds, lyin’ in a filthy heap somewhere inside.”
“I’m none too sharp myself,” Gavlok admitted, “and I’ll need your fat purse to make the arrangements. But count on me.”
“Good man.” Without another word Snudge curled into a ball and began to snore. Overhead, the sky was already pink at three in the morning of Solstice Day, and Cathran songbirds were singing their dawn chorus, oblivious to the merry-making inside the inn.
He woke with his head clanging like an anvil, riding through a town where well-dressed inhabitants stared at him as he passed. Now and then, someone would snicker. He discovered that he was lashed to the saddle so he would not fall, and he was mounted not on his fine black charger but on a scruffy roan nag with a hogged mane. The beast plodded along on a lead strap behind another rider who wore a dusty crimson robe. To the rear was a drooping figure on a third horse, with a lead attached to Snudge’s cantle ring.
“Mat?” Snudge’s mouth felt like the inside of an old boot and his eyes seemed clogged with sand.
The robed figure looked over its shoulder at him
. “Ah. Finally awake? Very good.” He called out to someone riding ahead. “Sir Gavlok, my master has come ”round.“
Gavlok made some unintelligible reply. Snudge muttered to the novice, “Wha—what’s the hour? And where are we?”
“This is Axebridge, a village along the River Blen some fifteen leagues above the capital. I have relatives here. It’s about the ninth hour of morning. We’ll stop soon for brief refreshment.”
“Never have I had a worse hangover,” Snudge whimpered. “I’m nearly blind with headache and perishing of thirst.”
“I’ll make a remedy for you soon,” Mat said cheerfully. “Alchymical studies have a practical side, thanks be to Saint Zeth. A concoction of strong ale, raw egg, garum, and ground pepper will quickly banish your blue devils, sir.”
The party turned off the high street into a lane and proceeded to a prosperous-looking cottage where a large chestnut tree gave welcome shade from the hot sun. There Gavlok assisted Snudge to dismount while Vra-Mattis helped the three moaning armigers.
“This is Mat’s cousin’s house,” Gavlok said. “I’ll pay the goodwife well to prepare food for us, which we can eat when we’re back in the saddle. But first, we’ll fetch you and the lads that healing draft.”
Leaving the stricken men sitting on the grass and drinking from skin water bottles, the tall skinny knight and the bandy-legged little novice went to the cottage door and spoke at length to someone inside.