by Julian May
‘How many Salka might be in this new invasion?’
‘No one in the camps seems to know. It was estimated that about fifty thousand of the brutes swarmed up the Beacon Valley. If that number assaults the west coast without adequate warning…’
‘This is terrible! You must bespeak the Source at once, Deveron. Perhaps he can pinpoint where the monsters intend to go, and you can then inform Lord Stergos.’
Deveron’s laugh was bitter. ‘Duna, the Source is a supernatural creature trapped in a fleshly body, but he’s hardly able to read Salka minds.’
‘Oh. I – I’m being foolish.’
‘You’ve just undergone a shocking ordeal. It’s no wonder that your thoughts are muddled. So are my own. But I do know that we must leave this place immediately and find somewhere to rest until morning. Pack up your things. We’ll have to take Rusgann’s body with us in the litter until we find a suitable place to bury her. I won’t leave her in this bloody marsh.’
Induna nodded dully. She began putting the medicines back into her fardel.
‘I kept two nondescript horses that were tied outside and drove away the knight’s courser, Catclaw’s stallion and the mule after removing their harness. Come, now. You take Rusgann’s feet while I lift her arms.’
Working together, they carried the body out to the waiting litter. While Induna tied it securely, Deveron returned to the fowler’s blind and flung more water about, removing the last vestiges of the awful deeds that had been done there and quenching the brazier. As a last gesture, he took the lantern that had been brought by the Lord Constable’s men and threw it far out into the pond like a shooting star. It sank without a trace.
A few other objects, visible to his nightsight, still floated low in the black waters, but Deveron could do nothing about them. He only hoped that no one would come to this remote spot before they vanished, in the natural order of things.
The inn outside the small city of Twicken looked to be a congenial hostelry, crowded but not overfull, so the fugitive wizards Niavar Kettleford and Cleaton Papworth decided they might stop there without being conspicuous. They guided their horses down to a thick grove of birches near the River Malle, and after making certain they were not observed abolished the spell of couverture that had rendered them virtually unnoticeable during the flight from Boarsden Castle.
Both wore the garb of ordinary wayfarers of the middle class. The sorcery they had used to conceal their movements did not truly render them invisible; rather, it hid them efficiently from distant windsearchers and caused persons who were at least five feet away to pay no attention whatsoever to them and their mounts – a useful thing for thieves on the run, so long as they had no need for social interaction. But the enforced isolation had drawbacks if one desired to travel in comfort.
‘I’d feel happier if we could keep the spell active,’ Cleaton grumbled as they returned to the inn. Sounds of music and laughter coming from the place were audible at some distance, and a fine aroma of beef pottage carried on the breeze, ‘By now our young friend must surely have raised a hue and cry over our absconding.’
His smaller companion gave a cynical chuckle. ‘I rather think not. If I were Garon Curtling, I’d snatch up what likely loot I could find amongst our late master’s effects and follow our wise example. He has no future in the court of Didion, any more than we did. And small reason to set the law on us if he does help himself to valuable magical items.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s all right,’ Cleaton conceded. ‘We’re at least seventy leagues away from Boarsden. Not many Didionite wizards can scry that far. Garon certainly can’t.’
‘We’ll be be safe enough unsorcelled for the short time it will take to have supper and hire a room. Don’t fret, Clete. We can re-establish the cover-spell before going to bed.’
The pinch-faced wizard sighed. ‘Zeth knows I’m ready for some hot food and a soft pallet. I didn’t sleep a wink in that damp hedgerow last night. There were creatures.’
‘Castle living has made you soft,’ Niavar sneered.
‘You’re damned right it has, Squinty – hence my willingness to join you in the theft of Kilian’s treasure. I look forward to a luxurious retirement on the Continent.’
In the inn’s courtyard an ostler lad helped them dismount and unbuckle their saddlebags, which they insisted upon keeping with them. They were welcomed by the innkeeper, and after arranging for a small private sleeping-chamber were led to a table in the noisy taproom, where they sat down to eat and drink and take their ease. An hour or so later, after they had polished off big bowls of beef-and-parsnip stew, slabs of fresh bread slathered with nicely spiced lard, and three tankards of brown ale apiece, they were pleasantly replete and ready to retire.
‘I can’t think when I’ve enjoyed a meal so much,’ Cleaton said rather wistfully. His sour features had relaxed and his expression was almost pleasant. ‘All this music and jollity and the pretty women giving you the eye…one could easily get used to it, as Garon did. Perhaps our lives were just a bit over-austere. We were well-rewarded, I know. But I can’t help think of what might have been.’
‘Don’t talk like a maudlin idiot,’ Niavar said. ‘Recall the gold you and I squirreled away over the years in Holt Mallburn. We’ll pick it up on our way to the harbor, then take ship for Stippen. Along with Kilian’s gemstone collection, we’ll have enough to live like kings for the rest of our lives. The diamonds alone…Do you have any notion what faceted stones that size are worth? Thousands of gold marks each!’
Cleaton nodded. Then speculation wrinkled his brow. ‘I’ve been wondering, Squinty. Those five dead minor sigils that we took from Kilian’s workroom at the last minute? Do you really think there’s a chance we might be able to reactivate them?’
‘I don’t know. There could be a way. The master was too afraid of the Beaconfolk to experiment, but of course he had other strong sources of occult power to draw on and didn’t really need them…Well, no sense talking about it now. It’s getting late. Let’s go outside and find the necessarium. Be sure you don’t forget your saddlebags.’
Cleaton grimaced as he rose from the table. ‘Not bloody likely!’
They pushed through the crowd into the darkness. The courtyard was lit only by two lanterns near the entry-gate and by wan illumination coming through the inn’s dirty windows. The stable and other outbuildings were deep in shadow and there was no moon.
‘Where is the futtering thing?’ Cleaton growled.
‘Follow your nose,’ Niavar advised. ‘Probably over there.’
With the yoked saddlebags weighting their shoulders, they trudged toward a likely shack. Someone stepped out of the stable to meet them.
‘Ho, lad,’ Niavar said, thinking it was the young ostler. ‘Well met! My companion and I will be setting out at dawn. I wanted to tell you to have our horses ready. Here’s a halfpenny for your trouble.’
‘A halfpenny won’t do, messire,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I fear your journey ends here.’ The dark figure lifted its hand, from which a dim purplish glow emanated, and pronounced a single incomprehensible word.
Niavar and Cleaton halted in their tracks, paralyzed. Garon Curtling drew back his hood. He tucked the amethystine crystal into his wallet and relieved the stricken pair of their burdens, which he quickly buried in a nearby pile of straw.
‘Now, into the jakes – both of you!’ he said softly. ‘Your feet will carry you there. But if you try to run, I’ll strike you lame. It will be quite painful, and you’ll still be forced to obey me.’
‘How did you scry through Lord Kilian’s cover-spell?’ Cleaton asked as he stumbled along. ‘And how were you able to catch us up when we had such a long head start?’
‘With help. I have a new and very powerful master, who cut through your spell like a hot knife through butter. A fast riverboat on the Malle carried me here ahead of you. My master bespoke me that you’d stop at Twicken tonight after reading your lips. He’s very likely scrying you at this ver
y moment.’
‘A new master?’ Niavar sputtered. ‘In Zeth’s name – who?’ Garon grinned proudly. ‘He is Beynor, Conjure-King of Moss.’
‘Bazekoy’s Ashen Arse! You’d trust that Salka-lover? He’ll discard you without a thought after he’s used you. Throw in with us instead, man! There’s plenty of booty for all.’
‘We even have the five dead sigils with us,’ Cleaton added eagerly. ‘The ones the Salka palmed off on Kilian. Remember? A Concealer, a Stunner, an Interpenetrator, a Longspeaker, and a Wound-Healer. You can have first pick and we’ll dice for the odd pair! Niavar thinks we can find out how to make them work again –’
‘Be silent, you jabbering fools,’ Garon said, taking out the amethyst again and brandishing it. The wizards felt their tongues thicken and cleave to their palates. Speech became impossible. ‘Get in there, both of you. Now!’
They shuffled into the convenience, knowing they were dead men walking, and swallowed the poison he gave them as meekly as lambs.
When it was over, Garon lifted the lid of the four-holer, disposed of the bodies in the pit, and poured a generous amount of lime over them from the barrel that stood in one corner. Then he went to recover the saddlebags. As he dug them out of the hay, he glanced up at the starry sky.
‘Are you scrying me from afar, Your Majesty?’ he spoke on the wind.
Yes. Smartly done, Garon. You have the makings of an excellent professional assassin. Interesting – what Cleaton said about the dead sigils. I already knew about them, but I’d written them off as useless, just as Kilian had. Now I wonder…
Garon slung the bags over his broad shoulders. ‘The two knaves were prepared to give me at least one of those moonstones. Will you be as generous?’
A laugh floated on the wind. Why not? I once gave a sigil to another associate of mine. He made poor use of the gift, unfortunately, but you might have better luck. Hurry back to the castle!
Holding high a silver candelabra with three tapers, Lord Stergos knocked persistently on the door of his royal brother’s private bedroom. It was an hour past midnight.
‘Con, let me in! This is very important.’
The door was finally unlocked and Conrig stood glowering in his nightshirt. His face was blotchy, his eyes were clouded with sleep, and his wheaten hair hung in sweaty strings.
‘I’m sorry to have woken you after your long day –’ Stergos began.
‘I was having…a nightmare. You did me a favor. Bring the light inside. I need wine. My mouth feels like a muckraker’s bootsole.’
‘A nightmare?’ The Doctor Arcanorum was immediately solicitous. ‘Do you suffer from such things very often?’
‘Often enough,’ the High King snarled, pouring from a decanter on a side table and taking a deep draft. He wiped his mouth with his hand and headed back to his bed. ‘Never mind. Why are you here?’
‘Prince Dyfrig and his men have just arrived at the castle. He thought you would like to receive his report on the Morass Worms immediately. It seems he had a face-to-face encounter with one of the things. It spoke to him!’
Conrig sat on the edge of the bed and drank more wine. He did not look particularly pleased or excited at the news. ‘So the creatures do exist, and they are intelligent.’
‘Apparently so. I’ll bring Dyfrig in and he can tell you the details. He waits in the anteroom.’
‘Dyfrig,’ the king repeated. He passed a hand over his face, as though wiping cobwebs from his brain. ‘Never expected him to succeed. I hoped…never mind what I hoped.’
‘And there’s something else, Con. A little earlier, as I was preparing to retire, it suddenly occurred to me that we’ve been terribly remiss – not informing Lord Lieutenant Hale Brackenfield of our discovery that the Salka plan a new offensive against the west coast. I took it upon myself to bespeak the news immediately to Lord Hale’s family alchymist, Vra-Binon, who accompanies his party.’
‘Yes,’ the king muttered absently as he emptied the goblet. ‘That was well done. We’ll need Hale’s services in the new defensive operation. Once he reaches Karum and puts his women and Sir Orrion on a ship bound for Stormhaven, he must return to us for assignment. Did you so inform him?’
‘I couldn’t reach him at allo, Con. I’m sorry.’
‘What? Why the hell not?’ Conrig muttered irritably.
‘Old Binon told me that he fell sick on the day they set out. The Lord Lieutenant left him behind at Rockyford Way Station in the care of the resident alchymist because you’d urged the group to travel speedily. Binon was told to return home to Brackenley Castle by land, in easy stages, when he recovers. I then bespoke the adept Didionite at Elderwold Fortress thinking to catch Lord Hale there, but the windspeaker said the cavalcade arrived rather early today and decided to press on until nightfall. They must now be encamped somewhere on the Shadow Lake track – without a windspeaker. Shall I have a courier ride out from Elderwold with their adept and join Lord Hale? Otherwise, he’ll be unable to communicate with us for several days.’
Conrig hesitated for some moments, seeming uncertain how to answer. Finally he said, ‘Nay. Let be. It would probably be unwise to deprive Elderwold of its windspeaker now, with the army preparing to march through there on the redeployment. When the Lord Lieutenant reaches Tweenwater Fort or Dennech-Cuva, he’ll doubtless avail himself of the local wind facilities and contact us.’
Stergos nodded. ‘It’s fortunate that the noble ladies and Orrion will be out of the region long before any Salka might come ashore there.’
‘The monsters will attack Tarn, not Didion,’ the Sovereign said in a tone that brooked no argument.
‘Well, I won’t argue,’ Stergos said soothingly. ‘Shall I fetch Dyfrig now?’
The Sovereign grimaced, almost as though he were in pain. ‘Damn it, Gossy, I don’t want to see him now. I feel like hell. Let him wait until morning.’
The Royal Alchymist’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry. Can I get you a calming potion –’
‘No! Just…bring that flagon of wine over here.’
Concealing his disapproval, Stergos obeyed. It was no use going against the king when he was in one of these cross-grained moods. The matter of the nightmares would have to be looked into, however.
The alchymist plumped and turned the king’s pillow, which was damp with perspiration. ‘Come and lie down. Of course we can postpone your meeting with Prince Dyfrig until after breakfast tomorrow. It will give you time to decide how the brave lad should be rewarded.’
‘Rewarded?’ Conrig said harshly. The crystal decanter clashed against the rim of the golden goblet, spilling red wine onto the royal coverlet. The king ignored the mess and drank.
‘You must agree he has performed his difficult mission remarkably well,’ Stergos pointed out. ‘He’s sure to be hailed as a hero for confirming the retreat of the Salka, but you’ll want to make some generous gesture to show your personal regard. Perhaps you might consider making him commander of one of our battalions defending Tarn.’
‘Never!’ Conrig shouted. ‘I’ll do no such thing! And futter you for presuming to shove the young knave at me! D’you think I don’t know what’s on your mind?’
Stergos went white and stood a step backward. ‘I was only –’
Dropping the half-filled goblet, the king surged up and took hold of his brother’s robe with both large hands and hauled him close. His dark eyes held the wild glint of an emotion that Stergos realized, to his consternation, was more fear than rage. When he spoke, Conrig’s voice was thick and forced. ‘Don’t you realize that Dyfrig is my great enemy? And you want me to love him! Don’t deny it. You’ve been taking his part for years, telling me what a stalwart fellow he was growing up to be. You frigging fool, he’s the man in my nightmares! The faceless one!’
‘Dyfrig is a fine, loyal –’ the alchymist tried to say.
‘He’s the one who can destroy me!’ Conrig hissed. ‘Gossy – he has no talent. At first, I didn’t recognize him in the dreams, b
ut now it’s perfectly clear.’ The king spoke in a more normal tone, but his eyes darted about in agitation. ‘He’s the only Wincantor who can legitimately wear the Iron Crown. Her son – damn her to the Hell of Ice! We can’t let him know I’m onto him. We must deal with him secretly. Just you and I! Do you understand?’
‘Of course I do, Con,’ Stergos said softly. ‘Trust me. I’ll help you take care of everything.’
And then the Royal Alchymist did a thing he had never done since he was a novice, five years older than the heedless little brother who gleefully threatened to open the stall of a dangerous stallion to prove that he was ‘brave’.
Stergos used his powerful talent to strike Conrig senseless.
Standing over the crumpled figure of the Sovereign, his face taut with shock, the Doctor Arcanorum tried to marshal his wits and analyze the bizarre words Conrig had spoken. He had to be suffering some sort of brainstorm – perhaps the unhealthy aftermath of a stressful day with the troops and wrangling with the Didionite generals, exacerbated by the nightmare.
Or might the king’s malady be something quite different? ‘I think it’s time I bespoke Thalassa Dru,’ Stergos said to himself.
He pulled pillows and covers from the bed and made his brother as comfortable as he could on the floor. Normally, the spell would wear off in an hour or so. But it seemed likely that the king would sleep through the night. When his servants found him in the morning, they’d cope discreetly, as always.
So you believe High King Conrig’s dreams might have been invaded by my nephew Beynor?
‘The villain is capable of it,’ the Royal Alchymist said on the wind. ‘You know that better than I, Conjure-Princess.’
Yes. The talent is exceedingly rare, but Beynor is adept at it. We don’t know where he hid for the long years of his disappearance, but it might well have been close enough for the insidious suggestion about Dyfrig to be effective. Conrig’s own petty talent would have been too weak to repel the malignant images projected. They would have had a profound effect upon his inner mind, influencing his attitude toward Dyfrig – which was already none too cordial, given his hatred of Maudrayne.