by Julian May
Beynor resumed his labors in spring and was satisfied when Gorvik worked diligently and without asking inconvenient questions. Near the end of Blossom Moon the hedge-wizard found the innocuous-looking little stone wand called Destroyer, which Beynor believed was the key to supreme power. And then, on the day before yesterday, Gorvik also located the moonstone disk that was formerly affixed to the cover of the missing magic book. It was the last part of the trove Beynor needed to carry out his plan.
But should Gorvik Kitstow still be part of that plan?
Beynor now had serious doubts. If it were possible for an untalented, biddable lout such as young Jegg to use sigil magic, then far better to play it safe and bond the moonstones to him.
But the calamitous test had settled the matter decisively. The cat’s-paw must of necessity be a person of talent. But if not Gorvik, then who?
Out of nowhere, as he sipped his cup of spirits, stared at the leaping flames, and pondered the dilemma, a marvelous new idea came to the sorcerer. Why not make a more daring choice of creature – a man needing more subtle forms of control, who might nevertheless help Beynor achieve his goal far more quickly…?
Gorvik had been speaking for some minutes while Beynor was lost in thought. Now the man’s words became ominously clear.
‘All yer high and mighty plans, master, that ye tantalized me with while we hunted – I admit I was a wee bit skeptical anything’d come of ‘em. Ye hafta admit the idee of almighty Beaconfolk sorcery channeled through moonstones was unlikely. But seein’ what I seen today changed my mind. Ye tried to bond a sigil to young Jegg, who lacked talent as much as he lacked brains. The Lights rejected ‘im. It’s clear ye need a man with talent. So let’s get on with it. Bond the things to me. I’m not afeered.’
‘What makes you think that I might do such a thing?’
Gorvik Kitstow gave a knowing chuckle. ‘Well, ‘tis obvious that ye don’t want to try conjurin’ a sigil yerself. Else ye’d never have risked turnin’ over a powerful magical tool to a dolt like Jegg. Ye’d have made the thing yer own right off the mark if ye could. But maybe ye can’t! Maybe the Lights won’t let ye. Am I right?’ He winked.
‘Yes,’ Beynor said calmly. ‘You’ve hit on it exactly. I know how the Great Stones work, the way to conjure them. But I’m banned from using them myself. I require a faithful assistant – one possessing innate magical talent, not a normal-minded wight like Jegg – who will stand at my side as I drive the Salka into the sea, destroy the Sovereignty, and bring the human population of Blenholme to its knees…Do you believe you’re the man for it?’
Gorvik tossed down the last of his drink and rose to his feet. His head nearly grazed the roof of that part of the cave and his great knobby hands flexed. The gold tooth flashed in the firelight as his smile widened.
‘Well, I been thinkin’ on that. I did overhear ye tell Jegg the spell that conjures the moonstones. So I reckon it wouldn’t be that hard to use ‘em, once I called ‘em to life meself.’
‘You think that, do you?’ Beynor sat very still. For a time, there was silence except for the drip of rainwater and the snap of burning wood.
‘So I do,’ said Gorvik. There was no longer any trace of servility in his voice, only evil self-assurance. ‘Don’t be lookin’ to yer sword, nor reachin’ for yer dagger neither. Ye know how quick I be. And strong.’
‘Yes,’ said Beynor.
Gorvik began to edge closer.
‘Just keep yer hands resting on yer knees, unnerstand? Don’t move.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Ye were once a king, so y’say, and a great sorcerer. But now ye’re neither and the magical moonstones are no good to ye. So think how matters lie and decide if we two might make a diff’rent sort o’ bargain – with me the master and ye the man! Hand over the sigils now and keep yer life. What d’ye say?’
Beynor shrugged. ‘All right.’ He removed the small pouch holding the stones from his belt and held it up for the shabby wizard to see.
Then he tossed it into the fire.
Gorvik gave a bellow of rage. But before his hands could close on Beynor’s throat, the Mossland Sword of State hanging on the cave wall flew from its scabbard and transfixed his neck from side to side just below the jawbone. A great jet of blood spurted from the magicker’s open mouth, just missing Beynor. Gorvik toppled into the fire like a felled oak and smothered the flames.
Beynor rose to his feet and stepped back. He waited until the writhing body was still, drew out the sword, and wiped it on the dead man’s tunic. Then he hauled the corpse aside and retrieved the wallet, which was only slightly scorched. He dipped it into a rain puddle, poured the sigils out onto the stone seat very carefully, and inspected them.
They were unharmed. The disk, Weathermaker, Ice-Master, and the all-important Destroyer were not even warm to the touch.
‘To think I was foolish enough to consider bonding these to a lowborn blockhead,’ he murmured, ‘when the proper candidate has been awaiting me all these years!’
Beynor had made a near-fatal mistake with Gorvik, letting him overhear the spell of conjuration. That blunder would never happen again. The new cat’s-paw he had in mind was infinitely more intelligent (and dangerous) than the hedge-wizard, but he was also a man ruled by unbridled ambition.
Confiding in him would be a great gamble on Beynor’s part. The safer course by far would be to look for a more pliable magical assistant. Any large city in Didion would have numbers of impoverished wizards inhabiting its underworld that he could pick and choose among. He had already been forced to postpone his great scheme for sixteen years. Why act hastily now?
There was an answer to that: after a long period of relative inaction broken only by a few ineffectual coastal raids against humanity, the Salka had invaded northern Didion in force. The Sovereignty was gravely imperiled.
Beynor had scried the monsters’ Barren Lands operation earlier in the year from a high point in the Sinistral Mountains. He knew that the Salka had managed to bring a small amount of mineral from the devastated arctic Moon Crag to Royal Fenguard. Their shamans would be doing their utmost to fashion more Great Stones from the meager sample, especially Destroyers. If they succeeded, they would possess powerful weapons to use against humanity. There was a time when Beynor had encouraged Salka aggression. Might it still serve his own purposes – but in a very different way?
He hadn’t attempted to windwatch the monsters’ military activities closely since beginning this summer’s work. The moorland where he searched for the lost trove lay immediately below the southern slope of the great rocky massif that divided Blenholme, a formidable barrier even to his remarkable scrying talent. While on occasional supply trips to Elktor, he had heard news about the stalled Salka incursion far to the north. Thus far, the great army mobilized by the Sovereignty had made no serious attempt to engage the inhuman enemy host.
It was a situation ripe with opportunities.
Beynor decided that his first move should be to cross over the mountains into Didion and see whether hostilities had fizzled out altogether, or whether the amphibians were only biding their time before resuming their southward advance.
One by one, he lifted and caressed the small moonstone carvings resting on the rock: a miniature icicle, a translucent ring, and a fragile wand incised with the phases of the moon. So much power! If only he could tap into it safely.
Outside, daylight was fading. The cave was a two-hour ride from Elktor, which lay to the west. But he’d left nothing of value in his rooms there. If he followed the track directly eastward instead, he could reach the great frontier city of Beorbrook by midnight even in the rain. After spending the night at an inn, he could head out for Great Pass and Didion in the morning. Conrig Ironcrown, King Somarus, High Sealord Sernin Donorvale, and all of their battle-leaders and high-ranking advisers were gathered in a Council of War at Boarsden Castle. They’d twiddled their thumbs up there for weeks, apparently unsure of how to proceed against the Salk
a invaders.
I could survey the situation, Beynor told himself. Make my final decision about approaching the candidate after studying the possibilities. The journey to Boarsden would take only three or four days.
He replaced the inactive sigils in the blackened leather pouch and stowed it securely inside his shirt. Then he buckled on Moss’s Sword of State and hurried to the cave mouth to bespeak the horses. Both of them, along with Jegg’s pony, had fled in terror when the Great Lights’ green thunderbolt struck the boy dead. But the animals would return readily enough at the irresistible summons of his magic.
THREE
In the dragon’s devouring abyss, darker than night and shot through with giddy red sparks, Induna of Barking Sands waited passively for death. Meanwhile, she dreamed of the time she had finally found Deveron.
The tropical night had been well advanced when the three-masted clipper ship tied up in Mikk-Rozodh and she was allowed to disembark. It was not the most propitious hour for a respectable woman to be wandering the docks in an unfamiliar port city. The Andradhian captain of the speedy merchantman, a grandfatherly sort who had treated her with unfailing courtesy during the long voyage, offered to have his third mate escort her to decent lodgings; but she declined with thanks, asking only to be directed to the nearest place where a small boat might be hired. Even though she was bone-weary and hungry, she knew she could never rest until she passed on the message she had come so far to deliver.
‘You’ll find punts at yon waterstairs,’ the captain said, ‘beyond the last slip, along the canal where the four torches flare. But are you sure you want to travel the backwaters of Mikk-Town so late at night?’
No female shaman had anything to fear from ordinary men. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you again for your great kindness.’
Induna descended the gangplank, cloaked and carrying her embossed leather fardel on a strap secured over her shoulder. The canal was only about a hundred ells away. Nautical loiterers on the quay snickered and elbowed each other as she passed. One called out insolently, pretending to admire her red-gold hair, which was uncommon in the south, and asking what a Tarnian wench was doing so far from home.
It was a good question, she thought, but one too late to worry about now.
The Source had told her the name he was using and said that anyone in the Andradhian city of Mikk-Rozodh would know how to find him. She studied the small group of men gossiping at the foot of the waterstairs and selected the oldest, a thickset greybeard neatly attired in green canvas breeches, stout sandals, and a curious mesh shirt that revealed the silver hair on his chest.
‘Goodman, I would like to hire a boat. Do you know the dwelling of Haydon the Sympath?’
He stepped away from the others, smiling good-naturedly, and touched the wide brim of his hat, which was woven of black straw. ‘Aye, mistress. He’s a Tarnian – as you are yourself, I’m thinking. But he’s well thought-of in these parts in spite of it.’
The other boatmen guffawed. Tarn and Andradh were ancient foes, even though their people shared the same Wave-Harrier blood. An Andradhian invasion of Tarn nearly two decades ago, beaten back only with the help of Ironcrown’s navy, had finally forced the proud Sealords to join the Sovereignty.
‘Is Haydon’s home far from here?’ Induna asked.
‘Not even an hour away. But it’s late and he’s a prickly sort, not to be approached after dark except for good reason. Does he know you?’
‘Yes, from many years ago.’
‘Then let’s be off. My name’s Momor and here’s my punt. The trip will cost four silver pennies of Tarn, if you’ve none of our coin.’
The price was exorbitant but she had no choice. He helped her to board and settle herself, then stood on a stern platform and poled the slender craft along the canal and into the heart of the city. The clipper’s crew had informed her that this region of southern Andradh was a low-lying collection of inhabited islands, most of them joined by humpback bridges, heavily populated along the shores and blessed with lush soil that supported rice farms and plantations of tropical fruits. These commodities, much valued in Tarn and elsewhere on High Blenholme, had formed the outward-bound clipper’s cargo. On the voyage home it had been loaded with casks of dried salmon, salt cod, whale oil, opals, and gold. Induna had been the only paying passenger traveling the more than two thousand leagues from Mesta in Tarn’s Shelter Bay to Mikk-Rozodh.
Once Momor’s punt left the harbor area, with its tall-masted ships, sturdy warehouses, and bustling taverns and brothels, the buildings along the canal changed in character. At first the dwellings were grand, constructed of fine timber and imported stone, with balustered steps leading down to well-lighted landing stages. She saw only a handful of people moving about on the shore. A number of other punts and the occasional private barge or paddle-scow moved up and down the waterways, but most of the citizens seemed to have already retired to their homes.
Further along, the canal narrowed and began to wind sharply. Momor turned into a side-channel where the houses became meaner and more closely crowded, although still neat enough. They were made of pole and thatch, set on stilts in the mud, and often connected to one another by board walkways. Tiny watercraft were tied to laddered pilings below them. A multitude of feebly glowing lamps shone from unglazed windows, screened from flying insects by cloth or bead curtains. She saw people moving about within the houses, heard laughter, crying babes, music, and the nightcries of frogs and birds. The odors of exotic cooking and human waste vied with the rich perfume of the flowers that filled ornamental containers on almost every rickety balcony.
Induna unfastened her heavy cloak and folded it on the thwart beside her. Beneath it she wore a simple russet-colored linen gown. Momor said, ‘That’s right, mistress. You won’t need a wool mantle here in Mikk-Town. Our weather’s a far cry from that in Tarn. Nice and warm year-round. Overwarm during the rainy season, if you want the truth. You planning to stay long?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. The message was all that really mattered.
During the voyage, she had tried to visualize her reunion with Deveron countless times, but without success. In truth, she didn’t know his heart, his true self, well enough to speculate. Their time together before he was forced to flee had been too brief. Even after they were engaged to marry he had not opened his mind to her as windtalented lovers were wont to do. He was unfailingly gentle and considerate, but always on guard. They had kissed and caressed and laughed together but had never joined their bodies. It was not the custom in Tarn to swive before wedlock – although one honored more in the breach than the keeping by many young couples. But Deveron had respected it.
‘Does he know you’re coming, lass?’ The boatman’s bantering voice had turned compassionate.
‘No.’
‘Is he a relation?’
‘In a manner of speaking. We – we were once betrothed, but unhappy circumstances caused us to part. It’s been many years.’
‘Oho! So that’s the way of it. And now things’ve changed for the better and you’re come to tell him the good news, eh? Well, Haydon the Sympath has no wife or regular doxy here. He keeps house for himself. So mayhap you’re in luck.’
She said nothing, having no illusions about her upcoming reception. If Deveron had wanted her to join him in his exile, he would have found a way to get word to her long ago, although Tarn was far beyond windspeech range, even for persons as highly talented as the two of them. But he had not sent for her. She knew that he had escaped from Conrig Ironcrown’s agents sixteen years earlier; but whether he lived or not had been a mystery that was solved only when the Source bespoke her and sent her on this improbable journey.
‘Your man’s done well for himself in the years spent away from home,’ Momor was saying. He had stowed his pole in the boat and installed a sculling oar at the stern when the waters of the canal became deeper. ‘Even the rich folk consult Haydon, since they know he keeps his mouth shut. Was he also a sympath in
Tarn?’
‘We call them shaman-healers. Dev-Haydon was one, and so am I.’
Her reply inspired a drawn-out account of bodily miseries suffered by the boatman and his family, along with requests for free medical advice that lasted until the punt finally drew up at an isolated dock. Two small craft were tied there – a wooden dinghy and a peculiar elongated skiff fashioned from sheets of some thin material resembling treebark. The house served by the dock stood alone on an island that was otherwise densely forested with strange tall trees having narrow trunks crowned with mops of feathery leaves. One of the dock-pilings was adorned with a large carving of an owl, hung about with garlands of snail-shells. Another bore a brass ship’s bell on a bracket and a lantern with a guttering flame.
‘The sympath’s sign,’ Momor said, indicating the nightbird’s image. ‘Both an invitation and a warning. Owls are rare in this part of the world, omens of wisdom because they see in the dark…but also of sudden death because they swoop to kill on silent wings. Haydon’s not to be trifled with, either.’
He sculled his punt up to the dock and tied the line to a cleat, then helped Induna to climb out. ‘Will you want me to wait, mistress? I’ll have to charge triple. My own bed’s waiting.’
‘No. You need not stay.’ She gave him his fee. ‘Am I supposed to ring this bell?’
‘I’d recommend it.’ Momor gave a laugh without much humor in it, slipped the line, and glided briskly away. In a few moments he was lost to sight around a bend in the canal.
Induna studied the owl image for a moment. The bird had been Deveron’s heraldic cognizance and this was certainly his house. Unlike most of the flimsy dwellings she had seen, it was well-constructed of squared logs, Tarnian-style, with a covered porch surrounding it. Its roof was slate slabs, steeply pitched to shed rain, and the chimney was of stone. The windows that faced the canal were not large. They had been fitted with storm-shutters and were curtained by what looked like straw matting. Slivers of lamplight penetrated them, casting golden quadrangles on the ground. The front door was made of iron-bound planks. If he wished, Haydon the Sympath could turn his house into a rather tight little fort.