Together, they laughed.
“And just how many warriors can you provide me with?” Byrnak said.
“Assuming that the supply of hosts does not falter, both caverns could produce between two and three thousand a day,” Grazaan said.
“Excellent,” Byrnak said. “Now I must take my leave of you - there is much I have to discuss with our brother Kodel.”
“Have a care with that one,” Grazaan muttered. “There are nothing but self-serving plans behind those eyes.”
Byrnak grinned savagely. “I’d be almost disappointed if there weren’t. Till later.”
“Till then.”
There were passages leading up to the lowest underlevels of Rauthaz Citadel, but for Byrnak it was the minimum of effort to summon a side portal of the Wellgate. A slender dark opening widened before him in the air, and with an image of his destination in mind he stepped through.
The Hall of Forging had once been a vast temple dedicated to the Fathertree and the Rootpower. Now, soot and grime blackened the patterned windows, the fluted columns and carven stonework, and sixteen huge forges occupied the entire ground floor, eight on each side. Massive flues jutted from the rears of the great furnaces and passed through the temple walls, carrying most of the spark-laden fumes outside. But a permanent smoky veil still hung in the air while gangs of sweating smiths and stokers worked with manic fervour down in the fiery golden light.
“Ah, brother Byrnak. How very timely - I was about to send forth for you…”
Byrnak’s use of the Wellgate had brought him to a long, low chamber, one end of which was an open balcony that looked out over the Hall of Forging. The other end was divided into large rooms devoted to templating, assaying and proving, with a wide corridor passing by them on its way to Kodel private chambers. Kodel himself stood by one of several cluttered drafting tables. His hair was shorter now, though still top-knotted, giving him a feral look, and the coat he wore was a long affair of rough brown leather marred by many scorch marks.
“So,” Byrnak said. “Why did you wish to see me? To tell me that the production of armour and weaponry proceeds apace?”
Kodel gave a sly smile. “That was to be a salient issue, but then something else caught my attention. Come with me, brother, if you will.”
Irritated, Byrnak nevertheless followed him along the broad corridor to a junction where Kodel opened the left hand door and stepped through. A short dim passage led out onto the flat stone roof of an adjoining temple building. It had been swept of the early morning fall of snow but a thin white layer had come down since and an icy breeze was cutting in from the east. A few spidery metal frames stood on either side of the roof, each with an intricate, wire-bound array of lenses aimed at the late morning sky, and all bearing fringes of icicles. But it was the hexagonal wooden canopy near the centre that Kodel was heading towards. Beneath it a figure lay unmoving on a trestle table, and as they drew near Byrnak could see crude bandages around terrible injuries before being able to make out the man’s features.
“Azurech,” he murmured.
At the sound of his name, the former warlord’s head tipped over onto one side to look, and a dull fear settled over his features.
“Master, forgive me - I’ve failed you…”
Under the six-sided canopy it was warmer, quieter. Some glamour put in place by Kodel kept out coldness and the unceasing din of the forges. Byrnak made no reply but instead looked to Kodel for an explanation.
Kodel shrugged. “He was rescued from a battlefield in Khatris two days ago by a pair of nighthunters who carried him to our stronghold in the Gorodar Mountains west of here. They then refused to take him any further, so the commander bound his wounds and sent him on in a wagon. When he arrived a short while ago I had one of our nighthunters bring him up here.”
“Failed….failed you, master…” Azurech mumbled.
“How did this happen, Azurech?” Byrnak said. “Who were you fighting?”
“Mazaret, that...grey-haired old dullard…”
“Again, eh?”
“Send me back, master, I beg you! Make me strong and fast and I’ll bring back his head…”
Byrnak leaned closer. “I shall send you forth once more, Azurech, but my plans for Ikarno Mazaret do not involve his death at your hands.”
“Ah, the white woman.”
Byrnak called up the power of the Wellsource and shaped its bright emerald fire into skeins of fine tendrils and serrated whips which he folded around the wounded man.
“Prepare yourself,” he said. “There will be pain.”
Azurech uttered a single, throat-tearing scream before lapsing into unconsciousness. As his will directed the Sourcefire, Byrnak glance at Kodel who was watching in fascination.
“What news from your spy in Besh-Darok?”
Without so much as a blink, Kodel said, “Which one?”
Byrnak smiled. “Somehow, you inveigled your servant back into the boy Tauric’s favour and now he’s secreted somewhere in the palace...”
“The boy thinks that the Armourer has become a Skyhorse priest,” Kodel said testily. “And he is so desperate for power of his own that he and his closest followers have taken to Skyhorse worship.”
“The empty in pursuit of the futile,” Byrnak mused aloud, regarding Kodel. “So we can have their boy emperor slain whenever we wish - good.”
“What I had in mind was getting him out of the city and into our hands at a time that suits us,” Kodel said. “He would follow the Armourer almost anywhere.”
“Yes...I can see the advantages of having the boy in our power…”Byrnak paused and gazed down at the form on the table. Nodding, he let the meshes of power dissipate and woke his servant. “It is done. Sit up.”
Gingerly, Azurech levered himself into a sitting position and as he examined and prodded his renewed arms and legs, Byrnak admired his own handiwork. For Azurech now had Byrnak’s face.
Nearby, Kodel chuckled and produced a small mirror from a wisp of Wellsource power, and held it up for Azurech’s inspection. The man looked and gasped.
“You still have your height and build, so only the ignorant would mistake you for me,” Byrnak said. “But this will suffice for the tasks I shall set you, and for the first you will travel down the Great Aisle to Gorla.”
Azurech knelt before him and gazed up, eyes shining.
“To hear is to obey, oh great lord.”
Chapter Seven
Neither blade nor song nor graven duty,
Could break the chains of her dread beauty.
—Avalti, Song of the Queen’s Regard
The College of Hendred’s Hall lay north of the Chapel Fort barracks, on the hillside near a lakelet, overlooking a district full of narrow streets and old, dilapidated buildings. The college, one of several in the old town, was the second-oldest in Besh-Darok and had a Chamber of Parlance the equal of any in the western domains. These were the few details Alael had learned from Bardow earlier that morning but as the horse-drawn carriage passed through the ornate gates she was surprised at how forbidding it seemed. While not much wider than a large city villa, its grey walls were high and featureless and its four corner towers were square-built with small, peaked roofs. In contrast, the grounds were the epitome of nature’s grace, their clusters of perennial bushes gathered about the college, softening its severity, enhancing its dignity.
Snowmelt from the last fall lay thickly on the lawns and leaves, now hard and glittering from the deep frost that had settled overnight. But the sloping, cobbled drive was clear as Alael’s carriage rattled up to the pillared entrance. Wrapped in a dark violet cloak she descended from the carriage, thanked her driver and hurried up to the already-open main doors.
“Welcome to Hendred’s Hall, milady,” said the elderly steward waiting there, black cap in hand.
“My thanks for your hospitality, ser,” Alael said as the great doors swung shut and the warmth of the interior enfolded her. The college lobby was a small but
luxuriously marbled hall hung with pictures and tapestries, its floor tiled in red, blue and black patterns with mosaics of the Fathertree and the Earthmother at the centre. A great fire roared in the hearth and each wall had an archway leading off.
“We received the message from the palace, milady, telling us to expect you.”
“Ah, yes…I have my confirmation here.” She took a rolled parchment from an inner pocket and passed it to him. He examined it for a moment or two, then nodded.
“From the hand of the Archmage himself, and bearing his seal. Lady Alael, we are honoured by your visit. Kindly follow me.”
The steward led her through the left-hand archway and along a narrow corridor lined with painted panels and floored with wooden tiles which clicked underfoot, past several lecture rooms and a scullery, then up a stone spiral staircase. After climbing some way, the steward halted to open a side door into a small L-shaped room where he bade her wait and left by another door. A moment later he reappeared and beckoned her over.
“Ser Melgro Onsivar, Master of Parlance, will see you now,” he said, pushing the door wide open.
Alael entered a high chamber seemingly dominated by bookshelves, both freestanding and wall mounted. Following an aisle between the shelves she came to the other half of the room, which was large and long and well-furnished for an scholar’s needs. An oval table sat to one side, cluttered with tables and maps, while a large, elaborately-carved desk occupied much of the remaining space. A few chairs were scattered around this part of the room, beyond which was a raised section bounded by a wooden balustrade with a few steps leading up to it.
“Over here, ah….young lady, yes…”
Ser Melgro Onsivar, Master of Parlance, was a gaunt man of advanced years, with a head of fine white hair grown sparse enough for the curve of his skull to be perfectly visible. Dressed in a pale grey gown edged with yellow and blue, he sat in a tall chair with a wide, paper-busy desk before him and a west-facing glass window behind him. Scarcely glancing up from a small white book, he gestured at a wooden stool onto which Alael climbed while trying very hard not to think of him as a large grey bird sitting on his perch…
Onsivar closed his book and laid it carefully on the desk. “So… young Bardow sent you, did he? Said you had some passage or other that requires translating.”
“Yes, Master Onsivar,” Alael said, taking out the book Keren had given to her, opening it at the relevant page. “A friend of mine asked me if I could have this examined by a scholar such as yourself. Other than that, I know nothing more about it.”
So saying, she passed the book to him. Onsivar took it readily but he was studying her as he did so.
“Southern Cabringa,” he murmured. “Probably Adnagaur, yet there are sidetones of Mantinor to your articulation – am I correct?”
Impressed, Alael nodded. “I was raised in Adnagaur, although my mother was from Tymora on the Mantinoren coast.”
The Master of Parlance gave a satisfied sniff and turned his attention to Alael’s book. “Now, let me see what we have here. Hmm – it appears to be in ancient Othazi but the dialect is uncertain, possibly northern, possibly also misconstrued. Yet the hand…” He stroked his chin, then looked up at Alael. “Am I right to assume that this is an original?”
“I do not know,” Alael said.
Onsivar frowned, made a drawn-out hum and glanced down at the open book with unconcealed irritation. As the silence lengthened, Alael felt her patience fraying till she could no longer keep silent.
“So, Master Onsivar, is the piece translatable?”
“Yes, my lady, though I’d much prefer to consult the original…” He tapped the open pages. “This is a copy, I am afraid.”
“Will that affect your abilities, ser?”
Bristling eyebrows raised above piercing eyes. “Not in the least, although I shall need to keep this here – if you have no objections, my lady.”
“I’ve already had a copy of the sagasong made,” she said. “So you may indeed retain the book for the time being. How long will your efforts take?”
“Four, perhaps five days,” Onsivar said. “The Othazi lexicae we have here refer only to the tongue’s main orthodoxy, thus I shall have to send borrowing requests to two private libraries in Besh-Darok in the hope that either possesses the dialect gradus I need. If I have to write to libraries outwith the city, it may take a ten-day or more.” He closed the book of songs, and picked up his small white book again. “Be assured, my lady, that I shall keep you informed of my progress in this matter.” Then he reopened his book.
Aware that she had been dismissed, Alael held onto her temper and slid off the hard stool.
“Then good day, Master Onsivar. I look forward to your first report…”
Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of a body of riders cantering down the road from the Chapel Fort barracks. The College of Hendred’s Hall sat near the crest of the ridge that joined the fort hill and a steep-sided knoll set aside as a small park. The Master of Parlance’s chamber was high enough to look out across the snowy road which sloped down from the barracks, curving away and around the west flank out of sight.
The band of riders, numbering perhaps 20, were all attired in cold weather cloaks and their mounts were large and healthy-looking. But it was their leader who caught her attention, a tall grey-haired man who rode straight-backed in the saddle. As she peered across at him, a familiar prickling sensation raced through her and cold sharp tastes bloomed in her mouth. The odour of rich leaves, sweet berries, pure mountain water ice, all the tangs and scents of the Earthmother’s realm drenching her senses as the Goddess herself rose up from within and stared out of her own eyes. The intervening distance fell away and the lead rider’s face was abruptly closer and instantly recognisable as Ikarno Mazaret.
A wordless satisfaction passed through her and a moment later that ineffable presence was gone, leaving her weak and dizzy. With a shaky hand she leaned on the wooden balustrade and strove to calm her whirling thoughts.
Four days had now elapsed since the Lord Regent Mazaret's return from Khatris with a caravan of refugees. In the taverns and inns the dramatic tale of a battle against walking corpses and winged monsters had been supplanted by a dark rumour that the queen of some Mogaun hell had marked Mazaret for death. Having heard the truth from Bardow, Alael could only speculate upon his riding forth while hoping that it signalled some unremarkable task…
“Lady Alael? Are you unwell?”
She breathed in deep the dusty, bookish smells of her surroundings and forced a smile. “Nay, Master Onsivar. Merely a brief dizzy spell, nothing more.”
“I see. Well, if you return to the antechamber, my steward will see you out.”
Alael gritted her teeth. “My profound thanks, ser,” she said and hurried out, wondering how quickly her carriage could negotiate a route back to the palace.
* * *
“Now, you should sense the Lesser Power as a kind of pressure in your chest, almost a tightness.”
Tense with anxiety, Nerek had been feeling it for the last five minutes as she sat on the cold stone seat with her gauntleted hands clasped in her lap. She gave a brief nod and Blind Rina smiled. She was a short, dumpy woman whose headscarf, shapeless brown robes and scarred walking stick implied that she might be a market–stall owner. But her opaque eyes suggested otherwise.
“Ah well,” she said, as if perceiving Nerek’s discomfort. “If you’d come to me as a seven year-old, it would be rather less, hmm, testing.”
“I never had the luxury of being seven,” Nerek said curtly. “May we continue?”
“Maintain the rhythm of your breathing for a little longer, a smooth, natural ebb and flow...that’s right..”
The air poured into her then out, as if she was a vessel filling and emptying. A certain calmness began to emerge yet seemed to be apart from her body and waiting to enter. She kept breathing. Blind Rina sat beside her on this polished stone seat worked into the side buttress o
f one of the main supports of the Queen’s Bridge. Directly behind them, a narrow wooden walkway passed along the side of the bridge, providing a safe crossing for those on foot. From where she sat she could look north along the gentle curve of the Olodar river to the Bridge of Hawks and the timber and stone yards that occupied the west bank right up to the Bridge of Spears.
“Think of the Lesser Power as a slow, surging lake,” said Blind Rina. “So unlike the raging torrent of the Wellsource..”
Two days ago Blind Rina had proposed, via one of her messengers, that she teach Nerek the fundamentals of the Lesser Power and when Nerek asked Bardow for his permission he surprised her by consenting almost at once.
“Yes,” he had said. “She would be a good tutor for you.”
“You know of her? But she is not one of your mages, is she?”
The Archmage snorted. “She would be a bad pupil, for me. Her talents are…minor, in some respects, and lie in a strange direction.” He frowned. “You see, Rina has a curious affinity for this city, much as her family has had for several generation. I would rather she was a secret guardian than have her trying to cope with palace politics.”
Grey river-frost coated the stonework of the bridges side buttress. Nerek’s pale breath feathered away in the light breeze and her chest ached with every chill inhalation. Part of her wanted to shiver, except that a faint tingling sensation was spreading across her back and through her vitals…
“Good, now it comes,” Blind Rina said.
Nerek could not see her, but somehow felt her give a single, pleased nod.
“We use loops of symbols, known as cantos, to shape and direct the Lesser Power,” Rina went on. “These symbols are individual to each of us, little scraps that have meaning, memories, images, tokens of one sort or another. At the same time, there are many symbols that mean the same things for nearly everyone, and for the Lesser Power. But rather than explain this more, you and I shall attempt a little demonstration.”
From a deep pocket, the elderly woman produced a small model of an army standard, a thumb-sized square of parchment stitched to a piece of thin dowel which was stuck into a block of damp clay. She placed it on the waist-high wall which enclosed their seat.
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