He paused, seeing round eyes and open mouths. “Any man among you who is fearful of the supernatural or less than confident of his ability to stay the course when magic is employed may feel free to leave the company and return to Cala.”
A chorus of “Nay!” began tentatively, but soon shook the rafters.
Then Mero spoke with cool insolence. “Who are you to question our courage, and offer to dismiss us like children if we fall short?”
“I am Prince Conrig’s liege man, sworn to his service. Some of you may know that my rank of armiger is only symbolic, because of my youth and the rules of chivalry. In truth, I became the prince’s man by shedding blood on his behalf—the blood of a Mossland sorcerer spying on the council of war at Castle Vanguard, who may have had designs upon the prince’s very life.”
“You killed a sorcerer?” Saundar, a clever, dark-haired youth two years older than Snudge, was plainly incredulous.
The boy caught the eye of Gavlok Whitfell, Stergos’s squire, who only shook his head. He had not passed on Snudge’s confidence to the others.
Snudge spoke softly so they would be obliged to listen rather than gabble. “I stabbed him to the heart, and I’ll tell you the tale anon. But first I must recount the prince’s orders to you. Your duties during this enterprise will be mostly as usual—attending your masters. But His Grace has advised me that there may come a time when some members of this company of armigers may be called upon to perform an exceptional service for him. If this happens, I will be your leader.”
“You!” Besides the affronted response from Mero, there were surprised protests from the rest.
“There is a reason why Prince Conrig has called on me, young as I am, rather than Belamil to lead. I have a certain acquaintance with magic. I can smell it out, if you like, and I know how to take precautions against its power.”
The room had gone dead quiet except for the crackling of the fire.
Then one of the boys said, “Is that how you managed to kill the sorcerer? Tell us about it.”
“Soon. But first, let those who can’t bring themselves to follow my lead speak up and leave the room.”
“I will follow you,” said Belamil gravely. “The judgment of Prince Conrig making you his man is reason enough for me.”
“And for me,” said Gavlok.
One after another, the other armigers also concurred. All except Mero.
“I’m sworn to my master, Count Feribor,” he said, not bothering to conceal his scorn. “Only if he commands it will I be led by a low-born grub like you. D’you want me to leave?”
“Stay,” Snudge said. The last person he would choose to help guard Princess Ullanoth during a battle would be Feribor Blackhorse’s cross-grained squire, so what did it matter?
“The sorcerer! Tell us!” the others demanded eagerly.
So Snudge began the highly amended tale of what he had done at Castle Vanguard.
Ullanoth windwatched Conrig’s colloquy with the Companions, then Sent herself to him when the men were well gone.
“My prince,” she breathed, and felt a small rush of satisfaction at his start of alarm. Conrig had been given the Lord Mayor’s own fine bedroom, which was now somewhat of a mess with rugs kicked awry, chairs and stools dragged together before the fire and left every which way by the departed Companions, and tables and floor littered with the prince’s possessions, sheets of parchment, and a welter of maps and equipment lists.
He did not speak immediately, but took her into his arms and kissed her. Then he said, “You need a bath. And your clothes are damp.”
She gave a rueful laugh. “I’m traveling on a ship. And I had not been able to wash properly for nearly a week before embarking, since I was feeling unwell. At least my hair is clean and most of the dye washed from my face. You should have seen me in my hag disguise, berating the Didionite royals. I was a sight to brown a strong man’s smallclothes.”
He smiled at her crudity. “There’s a tub of water behind that screen that was hot an hour ago. We could heat up a cauldron on the fire and make a tepid bath for you, at least.”
She considered the matter with a whimsical smile. “If a dirty Sending washes itself, will the original body be made clean? I have no idea! Let’s experiment. But there’s no need to heat water. I can do that easily with my talent.”
She sprawled on the hearth-rug and began stripping off her rough clothing, telling him the tale of Beynor’s sorry coronation festivities. Soon they were both howling with mirth.
“If only I could have seen it,” Conrig said. He gave her a cup of mead and sat on the floor beside her, admiring the rosy reflections of the fire on her slender form. “But with Beynor so humiliated, won’t he be driven to empower another of his Great Stones out of sheer revenge?”
“He cannot,” she said with satisfaction. Then, playing fast and loose with the truth, she told him she had destroyed her brother’s two inactive sigils.
“Great God! So they can be obliterated so easily?”
“The unempowered stones, yes. I don’t know what would happen if a person attempted to destroy a conjured sigil by main force. It’s possible that the stone would defend itself in some deadly fashion. I do know for certain that if a person who is not the owner touches an active sigil without permission, he is severely burnt.”
He gestured to Sender, which hung on its chain around her neck like a faintly glowing teardrop. “Then a sigil cannot be lent to another to use?”
“Never. Beynor had to perform a spell of abolition in order to turn his Concealer over to Iscannon. He had to relinquish ownership of it so that his minion could conjure it himself.”
“I see.” For a time Conrig remained silent, smiling thoughtfully as he ran one hand lightly over her pearly hair. Then he asked, “Are you safe from your brother’s evil magic now?”
“I believe so. For all Beynor’s hatred of me, he is still a very intelligent brat. I think he realizes that his future depends upon regaining the goodwill of Didion— not retaliating against his big sister. And don’t forget… he believes I’m dead, blasted to smuts along with the top of my tower.”
“Does he truly believe that?”
She frowned, then gave a sigh. “His thunderbolt was a great show of power for the royals of Didion, and Beynor will probably cling to the belief that I’m dead for a time, just to comfort his devastated pride and his rage at the loss of the two Great Stones. He won’t doubt that I was responsible. But soon enough he’ll begin to wonder whether I might have escaped on one of the Didionite ships, and then he’ll try to find me.”
“But you can hide from him, can’t you?”
“Alas, the moonstone that would have veiled my presence completely and provided a sure refuge against all danger was lost in my tower’s destruction. However, I still have my Concealer, which renders me invisible. Its powers are limited while I’m Sending. I must choose to conceal either the inanimate husk left behind—and this I have done tonight—or the Sending itself, as I intend to do when I assist your invasion. Beynor owns no sigil capable of pinpointing a sorceress such as I, nor can he identify me by windsearching if I’m very cautious in my own use of the arcane talents. All he can do—all any of the Guild can do—is survey every nook and cranny of the vast Didionite capital city with windsight and hope to encounter me while I’m visible, just as though they were hunting me by ordinary means.”
Remembering how Snudge had followed her windtrace to Fenguard Castle, Conrig said, “But isn’t it possible for a very powerful adept to scry you out if he finds the thread of your arcane speech or sight?”
“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly. “But I’m surprised to find you so well-versed in thaumaturgy, my prince.”
“Stergos has taught me much in the past few weeks. And what if Beynor tracks down your visible Sending?”
“To Send is far more subtle than to bespeak or descry. If Beynor chanced to discover my visible vacated body, he might be able to trace me to my Sent destination. Or if he
watched us here, at this moment, he might perhaps trace the thread back on the wind to the sick bay where my invisible husk lies hidden on the Didionite flagship. But I believe there is small chance of him doing so.” And I must continue to believe it, since there’s nothing I can do to change the situation.
Conrig climbed to his feet. “Time for your bath, my lady. The Lord Mayor left me a cake of lavender-scented soap and at least half a dozen Forailean towels, soft as swansdown.”
“Excellent.” She rose with the sinuous grace of a meadow cat, silhouetted against the fire. Sender, the Great Stone that was actually very small in size, shone at her throat. “You shall be my attendant. And while you serve me, I’ll tell you how I intend to help you conquer Didion… and how Honigalus plans to attack Cala by sea.”
“Zeth! Have you overheard the Didionites discussing it? When will they sail? Can my army reach Holt Mallburn in time to stop them?”
“I haven’t discovered that yet.” She beckoned to him and moved to the tub behind the screen. “But you can be sure that I will find out. I have recently conjured a new sigil named Subtle Loophole that enables me to both oversee and listen closely to anyone, anywhere. This is a wonderful new weapon, a Great Stone purchased at the cost of much pain and suffering.”
His face was troubled. “Will not such a thing put you in greater peril of the Lights?”
“Let me worry about that,” she said, stepping into the now-steaming tub, which was made of burnished copper with a fine embossed-silver rim. “Forget about wars and sorcery for a few minutes, and concentrate on helping me to get clean again. And then let us take comfort in one another. I do love you with all my heart and soul, Conrig, and I long for the day when we can remain together for more than a few short hours.” She tilted her head, staring at him in smiling speculation. “Do yo u realize we have never seen one another truly, or touched—save through magic? But we’ll meet at last in Holt Mallburn, when you’re victorious, and I pray we’ll never be apart again.”
“It will be a wondrous day, in so many ways,” he said, striving to imbue the words with loving enthusiasm. Then he turned away to bring her the scented soap and a sponge, and to hang up her damp garments in front of the fire.
Chapter Twenty
Beynor sulked behind Fortress in his regal apartment until all of the Mossland dignitaries had finally returned to their homes, taking with them the furnishings and appurtenances they had lent for the ill-fated coronation. Grand Master Ridcanndal and Lady Zimroth had urged him to deliver a parting speech, reassuring his vassals that the future boded well; but he was a youth of sixteen for all his kingship and magical talent, and too consumed by fury and the chagrin of his public embarrassment to accept their wise counsel. All he had done for three whole days was hide away and burn and curse his dead sister—she had to be dead!—knowing that the absurd botch of his crowning would never be forgotten by any of those attending.
He had not confessed the loss of Destroyer and the Unknown Potency to the Glaumerie Guild. Now that he was king, the wizards had no way to compel him to display the stones. He was uncertain whether Ullanoth had taken them away or destroyed them, but he did know now that she must own a Sender sigil. Its powerful sorcery was the only thing that could have penetrated Fortress; and he himself, all unknowing, had helped solidify the Sending.
His only consolation was that the Didionite royals had not repudiated their Treaty of Alliance, nor had they blamed him directly for the distressing events. So as his temper cooled, he set about to do as he had promised, shutting down Fortress for hours at a time and meticulously windsearching the kingdom of Cathra for any sign that an invasion force was gathering.
He discovered the peculiar fog.
It was confined to the northeast and north central part of the country and the Dextral Mountains, patchy but dense, and seemed natural enough. Except that it hid the principal northern roads of Cathra from his oversight, and completely blotted out the region between Elk Lake and Swan Lake that formed the crucial approach to Beorbrook Hold and Great Pass—the region that an army bent upon invading Didion would have to traverse.
Emerging at last from seclusion, he called upon Lady Zimroth and other members of the Guild highly talented in windwatching to concentrate their combined attention on the area night and day, hoping that they would descry something of importance when the mists finally broke apart. Instead, the vaporous blanket continued to expand until it began to pour over the mountainous divide into southern Didion itself.
“I’m beginning to think this fog might be magical in origin,” Beynor said to Lady Zimroth. They were with eight other wizard-observers in the Guild’s chapter room, seated at a great round table, and had just completed another frustrating joint survey of the enshrouded lands. It was early afternoon.
The dignified elderly woman inclined her head. She was dressed in robes, veil, and a wimple of grey silk. The skin of her face was grey as well and so full of fine lines and creases that no part of it remained smooth. Only her eyes had color, being the vibrant clear green of new alder leaves in spring.
“Boreal is the moon of mists, Your Majesty,” Zimroth said. “This fog certainly might be a natural manifestation. But the fact that it hides the strategic area and persists for so long is suspicious.” Her calm gaze was full of challenge. “Of course, there is one way to find out for certain if it is caused by sorcery, but one hesitates to suggest it, since you have so recently overexerted yourself using Weathermaker.”
Beynor squared his shoulders and rose from his seat at the table. “I’ll deal with the matter at once. You and the others wait here and keep watch until I return. I don’t know how severely the sigil will incapacitate me when I use it this time. It won’t be an easy job. Send Master Ridcanndal and the Physician Royal to my chambers if I don’t return in two hours. I’ll command Fortress to admit them.”
He left the chapter room and went to his apartment in a foul mood. Even Zimroth, who’d been his dear surrogate mother, still regarded him as a shrinking child, reluctant to experience necessary pain! What would he have to do to convince them he was a man, and strong?
Weathermaker rarely left his finger now. He stepped out onto the balcony and held the moonstone ring high, conjuring a strong north wind to sweep down from the mountain heights onto the plain surrounding Beorbrook Hold. As he completed the incantation, his head seemed pierced by a lance of agony that was first blazing hot and then stunningly cold. He screamed, doubling over, and dropped to his knees. The pain swelled to a white glare, and his voice failed as his breath was choked off. His heart gave a great hurtful leap within his breast, a wave of darkness engulfed him, and he fell senseless.
When he woke the sun was lower. He lay on the moss-grown stone floor of the balcony, chilled to the bone and stiff but otherwise not afflicted. Moaning and cursing, he staggered to his feet. Weathermaker glowed wanly on his finger, quiescent again. Down in the inner ward, Rothbannon’s Marvel revealed that he had been unconscious for just over an hour. He went inside, hauled on a warm robe, and made his way slowly back to the Guild chapter room where the others waited.
“Did the fog dissipate?” he asked. But their glum faces gave him the answer. He heaved a sigh of frustration. All his pain had been for nothing. “Tell me.”
Two of the wizards hastened to help him into a chair, and Zimroth poured him a glass of spirits, which he sipped thankfully.
“Your Majesty, did you command Weathermaker to dissolve the mist?” Zimroth asked.
“Nay.” Beynor wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I conjured a mighty north wind to blow it away.” It had seemed the easier course, but he was not about to admit that.
“I thought as much,” the High Thaumaturge said. “As we watched, a gale began to push the fog down the slope before it. Great Pass was cleared and we saw no troops or other unusual activity. But upon reaching the lowlands, the wind seemed to strike invisible obstacles and form many conflicting streams of air. The fog whirled and thinned in so
me places, but never again did it disappear completely. Instead it seemed to become like a stormy sky brought down to earth, tumbling and chaotic. Your blast of wind then moved through the sea of vapor like a great wave—or perhaps an advancing avalanche. But when if had passed, the fog was still there. It was impossible for us to see what might be happening beneath it.”
“The fog is certainly of uncanny origin,” said a wizard named Makartinal. He was a craggy-faced scholar of impressive talent. “The fact that the widespread blanket was churned and thinned at times, yet was not torn open, leads me to think that it might be generated by more than one adept—perhaps by scores or even hundreds of magical practitioners who made more fog as the wind attempted to dissipate it. I believe the sorcery may be more powerful than the Brothers of Zeth can exert—or even our Guild.“
Beynor frowned. “But who could be doing it? Certainly not the Salka. They would never aid Cathra.”
“There are always the Green Men,” Makartinal said.
Zimroth nodded slowly. “They hate the folk of Didion, true enough. But an arcane phenomenon such as this would require cooperation amongst hundreds of them. And they live in widely scattered small bands in the wolds and the Green Morass, and the groups are said to have no bonds of loyalty one to another.”
Beynor sighed, rising from his seat. “My friends, I thank you for working with me. We can ponder this problem of the fog another day. I must go now and bespeak our Didionite allies, telling them what we know. And then I must rest. I’m all used up.”
Lady Zimroth said, “I’ll prepare a soothing draft for Your Majesty and bring it to your chamber.”
“That would be most kind.”
“But before you go,” she added, her voice tense with foreboding, “you must see this. The foreman of the crew clearing the rubble of the demolished South Tower brought it to me while you were away conjuring the wind. It severely burnt the hands of the slave who found it. I placed it in this box for safety’s sake.”