“Well, take care of yourself,” he said, “especially on that job for the baron. I don’t want to find you in the Red Tower when I return.”
“You won’t. Want help getting all that down?”
“No need.” Shouldering his pack, Seregil clasped hands with him. “Luck in the shadows, Alec.”
And with the flash of a crooked grin, he was gone.
Alec listened to his footsteps fading rapidly away. “And to you.”
Seregil paused in the kitchen on his way out. Pulling up a stool beside Thryis, he slipped her a flat, sealed packet.
“I’m leaving this with you. I’ve got to go off for a few days. If I don’t come back, this should take care of Alec and the rest of you.”
Frowning, Thryis fingered the wax seals. “A will, is it? No wonder young Alec was looking so dark.”
“He doesn’t know, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“You’ve never left a will before.”
“It’s just in case I meet with an accident or something.” Shouldering his pack, he headed for the door.
“Or something!” The old woman’s mouth pursed into a skeptical line. “Mind that a ‘something’ don’t jump up and bite you on the arse when you’re not looking.”
“I’ll do my best to avoid it.”
Outside, the sleet had turned to rain. Pulling the hood of his patched cloak up over his hat, he dashed across the slick cobbles to the stable where Rhiri had his new mare saddled and ready. Tossing the fellow a gold half sester, Seregil swung up into the saddle and set off at a gallop for the Orëska House.
3
HORNS OF STONE
It was midafternoon before Nysander completed his preparations for the translocation.
“Are you ready, Seregil?” he asked at last, looking up from the elaborate pattern chalked on the casting-room floor.
“As ready as I’m likely to be,” Seregil said, sweating in his heavy sheepskins. He carried his pack, snowshoes, and pole to the center of the design and piled them on the floor.
“These should establish your reputation as a wizard.” Nysander held up a half-dozen short willow rods covered with painted symbols. “When broken, each will produce a different gift for your hosts. But you must be certain to keep this long one with the red band separate from the rest. It contains the translocation spell that will carry you back.”
Seregil tucked the red wand carefully away in a belt pouch, then slipped the others inside the white Aurënfaie tunic he wore beneath his heavy coat.
“These are the most crucial items, however,” the wizard continued, stepping to a nearby table. On it sat a wooden box two feet square and fitted with a leather shoulder strap and a strong catch. It was lined with sheets of silver engraved with magical symbols and contained two flasks wrapped in fleece.
Seregil frowned. “What if this crown or whatever it is that I’m after is too big to fit inside?”
“Do the best you can and return to me at once.”
Seregil lifted the flasks. They were heavy, and the wax seals covering the corks were also inscribed with more symbols. “And these?”
“Pour the contents around the crown and inscribe the signs of the Four within the circle. It should weaken any wards protecting it.”
A nasty twinge of uncertainty shot through Seregil’s innards. “Should?”
Nysander wrapped the flasks carefully in the fleece and shut them in the box. “You survived the magic of the disk with no assistance. This should be sufficient.”
“Ah, I see.” Seregil glanced doubtfully at his old friend. “You believe the same inner flaw that kept me from becoming a wizard protects me from magic as well.”
“It seems to be the case. I only wish it did not cause you such distress with translocations. Considering the distance involved in—”
“Let’s just get it over with.” Seregil gathered his gear in his arms as best he could. “The Asheks are far enough west that I should have a few hours of light left, but I’d rather not press my luck.”
“Very well. I have done a sighting and should be able to send you to within a few miles of a village. It will be safest to drop you on the glacier itself, rather than risk hitting the rocky outcroppings along the edge.”
“That’s very comforting. Thanks so much!”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Nysander placed his fingertips together in front of his face and began the incantation. After a moment a particle of darkness winked into being within the cage of his fingers. Spreading his hands slowly, he coaxed it larger until it spun like a dark mirror in front of them.
Seregil stared into it for a moment, already queasy. Tightening his grip on his snowshoes, he took a resolute breath, closed his eyes, and stepped forward.
The whirling blast of vertigo was worse than he’d feared. For most people, a translocation was as simple as stepping from one room to another. To Seregil, however, it was like being sucked down in some vile black whirlpool.
It seemed to go on endlessly this time, buffeting him with darkness. Then, just as suddenly, he tumbled out into frigid brightness and sank up to his hips in drifted snow.
Stuck fast, he bent forward and spewed out his scant breakfast. When the spasms were over, he struggled free and crawled away from the steaming mess. Collapsing on his back, one arm over his eyes, he lay very still as the world spun sickeningly. The wind sighed over him, blowing fine ice crystals across his lips. Rolling onto his belly, he retched again, then cleaned his mouth with a handful of snow.
At least Nysander can aim, he thought, looking around.
The glacier hung in a steep valley. At its head a few miles away a pair of high peaks towered above the rest, marking a narrow pass and giving the valley the name Seregil had remembered. Slanting sunlight reflected back from the white expanse before him, bright enough to make his eyes water. Frozen waves, wind scoured out of the hardpack, thrust glistening up through the fresh powder to cast shadows as blue as the sky overhead.
Seregil’s heavy outer garments kept the worst of the biting cold at bay, but his nose and cheekbones were already numb. His breath condensed with every exhalation, freezing in a glistening rime on the fur edging of his cap. Untangling the snowshoes, he checked them for damage and quickly strapped them to his boots. His thick gloves were cumbersome, but it would be courting frostbite to remove them even briefly.
With firmer footing on the snow now, he set out for a nearby rise to get his bearings. Anyone backtracking his trail would discover that he had more or less fallen from the sky, but that couldn’t be helped; he was, after all, supposed to be a wizard.
From the top of the rise he spotted thin columns of smoke marking a village a few miles away on the western slope. Farther down the valley he could just make out a second village. The first was closer to the “horns of stone,” so he headed west.
He was still nauseated and the thin, frigid air cut at his lungs, making dark spots dance in front of his eyes. Setting himself a steady pace, he marched along until he struck a trail leading toward the village. He was within half a mile of it when a pack of children and dogs appeared, running out to meet him.
Seregil paused, leaning on his snow pole with a grin of relief. Dravnian hospitality was legendary among those few who knew of it. Members of a neighboring village were greeted as family, which they often were. Anyone from beyond the limiting peaks was regarded as a veritable marvel. Goats were probably already being slaughtered in his honor.
“May I visit your village?” he asked in Dravnian as the children crowded excitedly around him.
Laughing, they shouldered his baggage and led him in. Dogs barked, goats and sheep bleated from their stone enclosures. Villagers hailed him like some returning hero.
The little settlement was made up of a collection of squat towers, round two-story affairs of piled stone topped with conical felt roofs. The main doors were set high in the upper level and reached by a ramp when the snow was not piled up to the doorsill. At the center of the village stood a tower broader tha
n the rest. A sizable crowd had already collected outside, hoping for a look at the newcomer.
The Dravnians were a short, broad-set people with black, almond-shaped eyes and coarse, dark hair that they wore slicked back with liberal applications of oil. A few among them, however, had lighter hair or finer features that spoke of mixed blood—probably Aurënfaie, since few others found their way to these remote valleys.
The headman of the village was one of these half castes. As he stepped forward, smiling broadly, Seregil saw that the man’s eyes were the same clear grey as his own.
“Welcome in this place, Fair One,” the fellow greeted him in a patois of broken Aurënfaie and Dravnian. “I am Retak, son of Wigris and Akra, leader of this village.”
“I am Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi,” Seregil answered in Dravnian.
Grinning, Retak lapsed back into his native tongue. “We’ve not seen one of your tribe since my grandfather’s time. You honor our village with your presence. Will you feast with us in the council house?”
“You honor me,” Seregil replied, bowing as gracefully as his thick clothing allowed.
The upper level of the council house, used as a communal storehouse, was floored over except for the large central smoke hole. Rough stone steps led down to the lower chamber, where a huge fire of dried dung chips had already been kindled in a fire pit surrounded by thick carpets and bolsters. Women bustled excitedly around a cooking fire across the room, preparing the ritual meal.
Seated at the central fire with Retak and the other principal men of the village, Seregil closed his eyes for a moment as his belly did a slow, uneasy roll. The smell of slaughtered animals, mingled with the more immediate aromas of unwashed bodies and greased hair, was overpowering after the clear mountain wind.
Every available inch seemed to have been filled by curious villagers. People talked excitedly on all sides, leaning across their neighbors to shout to someone else or calling down from above for details. Children ringed the smoke hole overhead, chattering like swallows. The women labored with noisy cheer, wielding cleavers and clattering skewers and bowls.
Seregil felt all eyes on him as he stripped off his heavy outer garments. Posing as a traveler from his native Aurënen, Seregil had worn traditional garb. His long white tunic and close-fitting trousers were comfortable and unadorned except for thin bands of patterned weaving at the hem and neck. To complete the effect, he pulled a loosely woven head cloth from inside his tunic and wrapped its many folds about his head with practiced skill, leaving long ends hanging down his back. A small, ornate dagger hung at his belt, but he laid it and his sword aside as a gesture of good faith.
An excited hum went around the room as he reclined at last and accepted a bowl of llaki from Seune, the headman’s wife. He sipped the fermented milk as sparingly as good manners allowed. His duty as guest was to repay hospitality with news and he slowly related such events from the south as might be of interest to them. Most of it was thirty years out-of-date, mixed in with snippets he’d picked up since his banishment, but it was all fresh to the Dravnians and very well received.
When he’d finished, the traditional storytelling commenced. Great lovers of tales that they were, the Dravnians had no system of writing. Each family had its own special stock of stories that only members of that clan could relate. Other tales were general property and were demanded of those who told them best. The children frequently chimed in with familiar lines and the women were called upon for the proper songs.
Seregil joined in with tales of his own and was quickly hailed as a biruk, “one who remembers many stories”—highest praise in such company. By the time a gigantic platter of roasted goat was set before them, he’d begun to enjoy himself.
Roasted shanks, haunches, and ribs lay arranged on the communal platter in a great ring surrounding cooked entrails, sweetbreads, and boiled goat’s heads. When the guest and council had eaten their fill, the platter would pass on to the secondary guests, and after them the children and dogs. Seregil was served by Seune and her eldest daughters.
The two girls knelt on his right, holding out slabs of dark bread that their mother loaded with choice bits of meat. Nodding polite acceptance, Seregil picked up a chunk of meat and bit into it, signaling his hosts to begin.
The tough, savory meat settled the last of his queasiness and when the meal was over he made a great show of presenting gifts to Retak and his village.
Motioning for the others to clear a space in front of him, Seregil secretly palmed one of Nysander’s painted wands from his sleeve and snapped it between his fingers while making elaborate motions with his other hand. Several bushels of fruit appeared instantly out of thin air before his delighted audience.
The baskets passed from hand to hand and up to the crowd overhead as the people exclaimed over their good fortune.
Smiling, Seregil drew another wand, which produced a casket of silver coins. The Dravnians had no use for currency, but were pleased by the glint of the metal and the fineness of the designs. Subsequent conjurings brought bolts of bright silk and linen, bronze needles, coils of rope, and bundles of healing herbs.
“You are a Fair One of great magic and generosity, Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi, and a true biruk,” Retak proclaimed, clapping Seregil on the shoulder. “You shall be known as a member of my clan from this day. What can we offer you in return?”
“It is I who am honored by your excellent hospitality. My gifts are given in thanks for that alone,” Seregil replied graciously. “Though there is a matter in which you may be able to assist me.”
Retak motioned for the others to pay attention. “What has brought you so far to our valley?”
“I’ve come seeking a place of magic spoken of in certain legends. Do you know of such a place?”
The reaction was instantaneous. The elders exchanged hesitant looks. A woman dropped a spit with a clatter. Overhead the children left off exclaiming over their new treasures and leaned farther over the hole to listen.
Retak motioned with his staff and an ancient little man wearing a coat decorated with sheep’s teeth shuffled forward. In the firelight he looked like an ancient tortoise, with a tortoise’s leathery, slow-blinking gaze. Kneeling slowly before Seregil, he held up a bone rattle in one tremulous hand and shook it in a wide circle before speaking.
“I am Timan, son of Rogher and Borune,” he said at last. “And I tell you that there is such a place in this valley. It has been the duty of my clan to watch over it since the time of the spirit’s anger. It is a spirit home, deep in the rock beneath the ice. How it came there no man knows. Sometimes the door is there and sometimes it is not there, according to the will of the spirit.”
“And this spirit has grown angry?” asked Seregil.
Timan nodded, shaking the rattle softly in time to his words. It was more of a chant than a story, as if he’d told it many times before, and in exactly the same words.
“The spirit made a chamber for men to dream in. Some had visions. Some did not. Some heard the voice of the spirit. Some did not. All was with the will of the spirit. When the spirit chose to speak, those who heard were called blessed, bringers of great luck to their clan. But many generations ago the spirit grew angry. Men came out maddened. They did deeds of terrible evil. Others never returned and no trace of them could be found. A man of my clan was the first to go mad, and so it has been the burden of my clan to guard the spirit home since that time.”
He stopped, wrinkled mouth moving in silence, as if he’d run out of sound.
“Why do you seek this place?” Retak asked.
Seregil stared into the fire for a moment, quickly weaving this new information into a usable form. “I’d heard legends of this place and was curious to see if they were true. You know that the Aurënfaie are people of great magic. I have shown you my powers already. If you will show me this sacred place, I will speak with your spirit and find out why it’s so angry. Perhaps I can even make peace between you again.”
/> A murmur of approbation went around the cramped room.
Old Timan laid his rattle at Seregil’s feet. “This would be a great feat indeed. Many times I have tried to placate the spirit, but it has been silent to me, or driven me out with terrible noises in my head. Truly, can you do such a thing?”
“I’ll try,” Seregil replied. “Bring me to the spirit chamber at first light tomorrow and I’ll speak to your spirit.”
The murmur changed to a roar of acclaim.
“The guest sleeps in my house this night,” Retak announced proudly, ending the feast. “The mountain nights are harsh for your kind, Meringil, but I have many healthy daughters to keep you warm.”
Overhead the children shouted with delight as the older girls craned for a better look at Seregil.
Seregil blinked, “What?”
“To get a round belly from a guest gives a young woman highest status,” Retak explained happily. “New blood brings new strength to the whole village. My own grandfather was a light-eyed Aurënfaie, as you can see. But not a great magician like you! Tomorrow Ekrid’s clan will offer you hospitality, and then Ilgrid’s and—”
“Ah, of course.” Seregil looked around to find mothers reckoning on their fingers their place in the hierarchy. Clearly, there were a few Dravnian guesting customs he’d forgotten about.
Ah, Nysander, he groaned inwardly, scanning the gaggle of moonfaced maidens, reading clearly enough the greedy gleam behind their modest smiles. This had damn well better be the right valley!
Alec lowered himself from the villa window, then whirled in alarm as a menacing snarl erupted on his right. There’d been no sign of a dog when he’d first climbed into the baron’s courtyard, but there was sure as hell one here now.
What he could see of it in the darkness was big, and the rising timbre of the growl was enough for him to imagine the beast closing in on him, ears laid back, teeth bared.
It was too far to the courtyard wall for a dash. Racking his memory for the thief’s charm Seregil had shown him, he raised his left fist with index and little fingers extended. Snapping his hand to point the little finger down, he whispered hoarsely, “Peace, friend hound.”