When by her unnatural touch, Mereth identified the writer of the ancient journal as ELSENAR, I had to grip the arms of my chair to avoid crying out. I was appalled that she should utter, of all names, that baleful name! It was because of the execrated Elsenar that we numbered Alizon’s very years by the form “Since the Betrayal.” The indelible stain upon the Line Sired by Krevonel had been the tradition that we descended ultimately from Alizon’s Lady Kylaina and the treacherous mage Elsenar. It was for that reason that we designated Krevonel as our original Foresire. Reputedly, he had been the elder whelp of Elsenar’s siring, but no Alizonder could possibly want to claim Elsenar as Foresire.
By our reckoning, one thousand fifty-two years ago, Elsenar and the equally foul mage Shorrosh had betrayed our Foresires, who had courageously ventured through an ensorcelled Gate into the then empty land of Alizon. That those two ancient and untrustworthy mages proved to have come from Escore (according to Elsenar’s fiendish journal) only increased my aversion to Gurborian’s present-day determination to seek out more such linkages, courting Escorian ruin for Alizon yet again.
We had always been taught that after the mages had destroyed the Gate, severing all access to our original homeland, they then vanished, abandoning our Foresires with no provisions except for the few hunting animals and food plants they had previously brought through the Gate. Those initial years had been starkly intolerable, but gradually, our Foresires succeeded in devising a new Alizonder society. Except for Chordosh, whose name lingered on as a Moon Name, they set aside their former gods, since their godly powers stemmed from our original blood soil, forever reft from us. To replace the lost gods, they developed over the years a system of veneration of the Foresires, which waxed and waned in prominence and degree of devotion according to the will of each successive Lord Baron. In order to preserve appropriate respect among the packs, the early Lords Baron instituted bodies of official Venerators to carry out the ritual duties required, including the breeding and sacrificing of shriekers.
As I contemplated the ancient origins of our ways, I was jarred to realize that this very day was Veneration Day, Alizon’s singular year-day set apart between the ninth and the tenth days of the Moon of the Knife. On Veneration Day, the series of observances culminated in the largest mass sacrifice of shriekers, signifying our recognition of the Foresires. I had never before been absent from those ceremonies.
Isolated at Lormt, I felt simultaneously burdened and challenged by my sudden opportunity to influence the course of Alizon’s future existence. Elsenar’s journal could not be gainsaid. To my personal distress, the mage’s narrative cited not only his redoubtable jewel, but also his key to the postern beneath Krevonel Castle—that very elder’s key preserved by the females of our Line. That it should have been originally presented to our Forelady Kylaina by Elsenar caused my fingers to tingle at its remembered touch . . . yet without that key, I should not have been able to travel to Lormt. Nor, for that matter, could I deny that without some measure of the mage’s tainted blood, I should not have passed through the postern at all. That was an even more daunting realization—that I must necessarily possess mage blood. I had to brace my body to prevent it from shuddering in the open view of the Lormt folk.
I forced myself to concentrate. In all my study of our Line’s lore, I had never encountered word of any such prize as Elsenar’s jewel. By Alizonder Line-right, however, it clearly should have descended through the Line Sired by Krevonel. War booty claim or no, Lord Baron’s bestowal claim or no, Gurborian could not retain the jewel: it belonged to Krevonel.
My blood ran cold at the thought. I had heard the whispers about the cursed jewel from the Dales. None could state the full cost in lives associated with it before Lord Baron Facellian seized it. As an Alizonder, I knew that I should experience a blazing desire to claim so great a treasure for our Line . . . but the idea of possessing an object so steeped in magic tore at my vitals like the claws of a dire wolf. Still, I could not deny that Alizon’s very future depended upon preventing Gurborian’s potential Escorian allies from ever nearing Elsenar’s jewel.
The Lormt folk persisted in discussing former unleashings of vast spell powers within and nearby the citadel. Such talk was unsettling. Should these Lormt folk succeed in securing the jewel, might they not surrender it to Estcarp’s Witches? I could identify no desirable choice between the two sword edges confronting me. I could not, for Alizon’s sake, abide either alternative; neither Escore nor Estcarp could be allowed to control that awful jewel. I therefore offered to attempt the jewel’s recovery myself, should it prove possible to proceed back through Elsenar’s postern to Alizon City.
Duratan at once challenged my offer, demanding that he and others accompany me, but once again we were interrupted by the Dales female. Duratan’s mate read out Mereth’s reminder that only those of Elsenar’s blood could travel through his postern. To my utter astonishment, she then asserted that she should be selected to accompany me! She did present some cogent arguments—that her Witch-like power of touch implied mage blood, and her pack’s tradition of owning the jewel linked her to Elsenar.
I regret that I failed to contain my instant reaction of scorn for such a ludicrous proposal. The idea that an elderly female would dare to claim a role in high male affairs of state deserved only the laughter of disbelief . . . but I saw at once that the Lormt folk’s view was contrary to mine. They did not laugh. Indeed, Morfew informed me that the Dales females were distinctly unlike ours, being as active in affairs as males, which I found a most disagreeable perception, but did not say so.
Mereth herself wrote an acid defense of her war experience, which I realized had to be taken into account, even despite her advanced age. How was I to know the capacity for agility and endurance possessed by these unnatural females?
Ouen then suggested that I withdraw to my chamber to consider Mereth’s offer, while they remained to deliberate upon my proposal. I welcomed the chance to reflect upon the disconcerting body of information laid before us in so short a time. I bowed to him, and to Mereth, and hastened through the corridors, striving to impose some order upon my agitated thoughts.
It was evident that I had to revise my appraisal of this Dales female, Mereth. Perhaps her appearance could be explained if her blood had come down through Elsenar’s Alizonian alliance. I had wondered earlier if she was part Witch; in one respect, the actuality might prove even worse—she could be part mage! She had not, however, been previously aware of her blood-tie until she read Elsenar’s journal, so she was not a trained mage, mistress of many hideous spells. She could, however, sense information by touch, a frightening talent . . . but one that might serve us well in locating the jewel if it should be hidden away. As I reviewed all that I had learned at Lormt, the beginnings of a plan stirred in my mind. When the Wise Woman came to escort me back to the group, I was ready to amend my original offer.
Once I had taken my place at the table, Ouen immediately announced that the Lormt folk had tentatively accepted Mereth’s offer, depending upon the details of my plan for retrieving Elsenar’s jewel from Gurborian.
I decided to address my proposal directly to Mereth for two reasons. First, out of courtesy to a possible comrade in arms on a potentially fatal mission; and second, out of curiosity to see how she would react.
“I crave your pardon, lady,” I began, “for my earlier outburst. I have been trained in the customs of Alizon, and I do not as yet fully comprehend your ways. I did not intend to offend you. I have carefully pondered what you wrote, and if you dare to be bold and resolute, I think I perceive one way by which you might be accepted in Alizon City.” I paused, but she merely nodded, and gestured for me to proceed. “In my earliest youth,” I resumed, “I was fostered with my sire’s elder littermate—”
Morfew interrupted. “These folk are more familiar with the form ‘uncle,’ ” he explained, “just as they tend to say ‘brothers’ or ‘sisters’ rather than male or female littermates, and ‘family’ in
stead of pack.”
I bowed to him. “I thank you for such useful words to increase my understanding of your speech. My . . . uncle, Baron Volorian, still lairs at his manor far to the north and east of Alizon City. His letters first alerted me to Gratch’s probes among the mountains adjoining Escore. Volorian is the oldest living male in our . . . family, and is eminent for his intense hatred of any traffic with magic. Since my sire was murdered by Gurborian’s hirelings, Volorian has essentially avoided Alizon City, being occupied with his hound breeding, for which he is also duly famed. None in the City now would likely recall him well enough to doubt you, lady, should you appear, posing as Baron Volorian.”
The Lormt party stirred in their chairs, obviously dismayed by my suggestion. Having launched my initial thrust in what I had to view as a duel with words instead of swords, I hastened to press my advantage. “You are much the same size and age as Volorian, lady,” I said to Mereth. “Your hair, of course, would have to be properly shortened and perhaps brightened. Your lack of voice, however, does pose a problem.”
Morfew unexpectedly smiled. “I discern a simple solution for that difficulty,” he observed. “Could we not say that a winter ague has temporarily quenched your uncle’s voice? It is a common enough ailment among us here at Lormt—our Master Pruett is kept busy in his herbarium through all the winter months, brewing soothing syrups to restore lost voices.”
I was favorably impressed by his quick wit. “That would do very well. I could explain my current absence from Alizon City,” I continued, “as a sudden journey in response to a summons from Volorian to confer with him at his manor.”
“But you just said that Volorian has avoided any possible contact with his brother’s murderer all these years,” the Wise Woman objected. “How could you now devise a way that the two of them could meet without blood being shed? I gather,” she added, nodding toward Morfew, “that you Alizonders cherish your feuds.”
“It is precisely because of the depth of animosity between our two Lines that my plan has such promise,” I retorted. “Gurborian avidly desires to attract more prominent barons to his faction. We could intimate that if sufficient reasons . . . and payments . . . were offered, then the Line Sired by Krevonel might be persuaded to join Gurborian’s faction. I could assert that Volorian insisted upon returning secretly with me to Alizon City to conduct such delicate negotiations personally. Gurborian would not dare refuse such an opportunity. I believe that he would even risk coming to Krevonel Castle itself to attempt to win our support by his false enticements. We could then dispose of him and seize the jewel, provided we could somehow spur him to bring the jewel with him, thus sparing us both the hazard and the trouble of seeking it at his castle.”
CHAPTER 16
Mereth–events at Lormt (10th Day, Month of the Ice Dragon/Veneration Day)
When he was brought back to the study room, Kasarian addressed a brazen proposal to me, with an odd mingling of both arrogance and courtesy. He declared that I was of a suitable age and size to disguise myself as his uncle, Baron Volorian, who had fostered him as a child.
I was appalled by Kasarian’s proposition. How could I possibly pose as an Alizonder baron? I had already felt utter revulsion at my own notion which required me to go among our Dales’ worst enemies in even the most inconspicuous, surreptitious fashion, but this hideous plan entailed my assuming a visibly prominent role. I forced myself to attend to the continuing discussion.
“If our initial overture to Gurborian is composed skillfully enough,” Kasarian resumed, “Gurborian would feel obliged to investigate the validity of our receptiveness. Once we tempt him into Krevonel Castle, we can maneuver adroitly for the best opportunity to kill him. Gurborian has always been as wary as a cornered split-tusked boar. He would be unlikely to succumb to any consumable poisons. If I could position myself near enough to him, a dagger thrust should be more certain. . . .” His voice trailed off as he became aware that the others around the table had drawn back in obvious distaste. “I see that Alizon’s common modes of action differ from yours,” Kasarian remarked, evidently more intrigued than offended by our reactions. “Do you not resort to killing under pressing circumstances such as these?” he asked.
“We do not often have occasion to weigh various methods of killing in advance,” said Ouen dryly, “except during councils of war.”
Duratan’s expression remained somber. “In this instance,” he commented, “the Alizonian way may have to be considered. If Gurborian is customarily on guard against sudden attacks, it will be far more difficult for us to take him by surprise.”
I thumped my staff and extended a written question for Nolar to read to Kasarian. “Would Gurborian recognize Volorian’s script?”
Kasarian appeared startled by my query, but after a moment’s thought, he shook his head. “No,” he said, “I can think of no reason why they should have exchanged writings in the past. Volorian dispatches few letters—only to me, and to other noted breeders of hounds.”
Nolar accepted and read my related proposal: “Could we not bait our trap with a message ostensibly written by Volorian? Suppose Volorian demanded to know the truth of Gurborian’s intentions concerning Escore, and offered, under convincingly stringent conditions, to pledge his Line’s backing for Gurborian’s plot?”
“An admirably clever thought, lady,” Kasarian acknowledged. “Knowing that Gratch had encroached upon our lands, Gurborian must assume that Volorian is aware of his suspicious activity near our estates. He should indeed be drawn to respond to such an approach.”
“Regarding the setting of conditions for a meeting of mutually mistrustful barons,” mused Duratan, “Volorian could insist that Gurborian come secretly to Krevonel Castle at a discreet hour—midnight, say—with a minimal number of bodyguards. I trust that Gurborian does employ bodyguards?”
“A dozen or more,” Kasarian confirmed. “Gurborian has accumulated many enemies.”
Nolar’s eyes brightened. “It may be that I perceive a way whereby Gurborian might be persuaded to bring Elsenar’s jewel with him to Krevonel Castle. Since Morfew’s winter ague has silenced Volorian’s voice, the baron would reasonably order Kasarian, his brother’s son, to speak for him. And,” she added triumphantly, “Volorian could make it a condition for the meeting that Gurborian wear his jewel from the Dales. He could claim that Kasarian had taken a fancy to it, and its presence and implied potential availability as a bribe might sway his opinion in Gurborian’s favor.”
Morfew reached for quill and ink. “I can easily indite that message in the proper Alizonian style.” He scribbled busily, then read to us, “ ‘Gurborian: I have heard curious rumors and reports concerning certain of your recent plans. What is the truth of the matter regarding your furtive incursions along the Escorian border? Packs of our puissance should unite into one overwhelming force, not splinter our strength by opposing one another. Is it not time that we set aside our Lines’ past enmities? If you have contrived a scheme with promise, I might, for carefully negotiated considerations, rally Krevonel to your faction. Come to Krevonel Castle at midnight. Bring no large retinue, but I would hear from your agent Gratch, who I know has been sniffing about my territory. Discussions of such moment should be held circumspectly by pack elders. Since a winter ague has quenched my voice, however, Oralian’s whelp will accompany me to speak in my stead. A private word for your ear alone—the whelp has taken a fancy to that bauble of yours from the Dales. Bear that in mind when you arm yourself for the excursion. His opinion could be persuasive, especially among the younger whelps of our Line. I await your reply. Volorian.”
Kasarian showed his fangs in a wolfish grin. “Morfew, commend the shrewdness of your composition. It strikes the perfect tone to prick Gurborian’s ears.” His expression reverted to his more usual semblance of keenly focused regard. “I do foresee one other obstacle,” he said. “Yonder female’s paws cannot be mistaken for those of a proper baron and Master of Hounds.”
Morfew em
itted a snort that I took to be a suppressed laugh. “The seamstresses of Lormt,” he said, “ably directed by our Mistress Bethalie, can craft ornamental gloves suitable for even baronial use. Surely an elderly baron suffering from ague would choose to glove his hands warmly for a clandestine meeting in an old castle at midnight.”
“Your ingenuity is inspiring, Morfew,” Ouen observed appreciatively. “We must also address the matter of diverse speech. Do you think it will be possible to teach Mereth sufficient Alizonian so that she can react acceptably to what might be said during a conference with Gurborian?”
“If the lady will permit,” Kasarian offered, “I can endeavor to instruct her in our basic speech.”
“The two of us can assist her,” Morfew declared. “She must master our script as well, so she can write brief comments on her slate as Volorian would, in order to communicate with his nephew. ‘Nephew,’ ” he added for Kasarian’s enlightenment, “is the Estcarpian term for a brother’s or sister’s son.”
I nodded to each of them, and wrote, “I thank you both. Let us set about these tasks at once. I possess a few words of Alizonian, and I know the script for some trading terms, but I achieved that limited understanding many years ago. My memory will require much refreshing and additional instruction.”
“As for her hair. . . .” Jonja had been looking from me to Kasarian, and then back to me. “Kasarian is right. Mereth’s hair needs to be a paler, yet brighter hue if she is to survive close scrutiny by Alizonders.”
Nolar had been quietly pondering. “I am familiar with many preparations of bark or nut shells to darken hair,” she said, “but I cannot immediately recall any treatment that causes hair to lighten to the silver-white we require. I shall ask Master Pruett—he knows more about herbs than any person in all of Estcarp. If such a substance exists, he will know of it, and likely have three different forms of it tucked away in his herbarium.”