by Ed Greenwood
"There is one who took ship with us in Sirlptar," the swordcaptain murmured, "who's not of Ragalar. A warrior of Aglirta sworn to the King's service, I believe, one Tesmer by name."
Raulin whirled around to peer at the dock. "Tesmer? Where is he?"
"Still on the barge," Blackgult said, pointing. "Wounded, by the looks of him."
The king frowned. "Flaeros, please take the Lady Orele to the rooms prepared for her, with the rest of your household, who are all most royally welcome. We must meet Tesmer without delay."
If Blackgult had not thrust out a firm hand to bar his way, Raulin would have been on the barge in the next instant. Greatsarn gave the king a reproachful look as the Golden Griffon and two of the guards went onto the barge instead, raised the trusted king's warrior from the chair he'd been seated in, and brought him onto the dock.
Tesmer was pale, and bore enough of his clothing torn up and tied in strips around one of his legs to make it thrice the thickness of the other, but he struggled to kneel until Blackgult firmly sat him down on a dock bench and held him there. Raulin sat beside him and said, "None of that nonsense. How fare you? What befell?"
"A sword slash only, Your Majesty," was the grim reply. "Light blood-spill, given where I've been and what I've seen." He glanced up at the ring of faces behind the king, guards and two sorceresses, and hesitated.
"I have no secrets from any here," Raulin said quickly. "Speak freely."
Tesmer sighed, sat back, and said, "Majesty, I'll be blunt. The Blood Plague has spread, an unknown sword has slain the Tersept of Bladelock in his bed, and the Baron of Adeln killed by the Serpents. Small armies commanded by the Baron of Glarond and the Tersept of Ironstone clashed with great loss of life and no clear victor. I've spoken with many of our eyes downvale, and it seems Serpent-priests are everywhere, bullying and making trouble-but none as yet seems eager to whelm a force of swords to directly attack Flowfoam."
"I was wondering when you'd get to the good news," Raulin said in dry tones. "My thanks, Tesmer. We'll take you to the healers and then the kitchens, and we can talk more of this much later: I'll send for you. Don't worry about falling asleep-if my messenger finds you snoring, we'll talk on the morrow."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," the warrior replied quietly, letting his shoulders slump for the first time. "A good bed will be a rare treat."
"As many a goodwife says, when her husband is beyond hearing," the Lady Talasorn murmured, causing Tesmer to look up in astonished amusement, and several guards to chuckle.
The king shook his head, arching his eyebrows. "You make wedded life sound so jolly, Lady Overduke."
"Good," the sorceress replied with a smile. "Even young kings should be fairly warned."
Embra chanced to look at her father. He gave her a savage grin, and she rolled her eyes in eloquent reply.
"Ah, yes," Tesmer muttered, so quietly that only the Lady of Jewels could hear. "I'm home all right. Back among the halfwit jesters, hey, hey."
She found that very funny, but managed not to sputter too loudly in her mirth. Overdukes are, after all, heroes of the realm.
"You'll be able to find your room again?" the steward asked anxiously.
Tesmer smiled his thanks. "I've done guard duty over these chambers before, as it happens," he said quietly, "and the kitchens, too. I'll be all right."
The steward bowed and hurried away, glad not to have given offense and in some haste to pay court to the far prettier Ragalan chambermaids who'd arrived this day. The trusted king's warrior watched him go, and when he was out of sight, turned to the stairs that led to the kitchens.
For someone who'd once guarded both the kitchens and the apartments he'd just come from, Tesmer's next actions were curious indeed. Passing a landing whose door opened into the bustle of the pantries, he continued down the stairs into darker depths. When he reached the deep darkness of the cellars, he did not pause to light a torch from the rack kept ready by the brazier, but strode away into the endless night, soft-footed and almost silent.
A pantry hatch promptly opened in the ceiling above. It let two things down into the darkness: a sack-seeking hook that was destined to find nothing because it was reaching down the wrong hatch, and a brief shaft of light.
That radiance happened to fall straight upon the warrior. He glanced up, but no one was looking down. The wielder of the fetch-hook had turned to listen to someone loudly and profanely informing him of his error.
Which was a good thing, because the familiar features of Tesmer had twisted on one side into quite a different face, with a longer nose, a sharper jaw, and lighter hair. The change was swift, and had already spread to the other side of the warrior's face when the closing hatch took the light with it again-and the changed man strolled deeper into Flowfoam's nigh-deserted cellars.
Perhaps, as King Castlecloaks had once remarked, the palace cellars were never quite deserted enough.
20
Dreams Bright and Dark
T he baron took another cautious step closer to the snoring woman, and the air flickered warningly again. Flickered, and then-another step-flared into a wall of raging flames. Phelinndar stepped back hastily from that crackling heat and studied the blistered edge of the hand he'd thrown up in front of his face.
The pain, as he flexed his fingers, told him the flames had been quite real. He stepped around a dusty, motionless Melted and tried to come at the seated sleeper from another direction. Again the flames came.
He stepped back and cried, "Oh, gods, Ambelter, they're here The King and all the Overdukes, come to slay us with Dwaerindim!"
His shout echoed around the cavern, but the fat, ragged woman the baron knew to be Ingryl Ambelter did not move. The snores became, if anything, a trifle louder.
Well, the wizard had certainly seemed exhausted by his spellweavings. That last spell he'd raised looked somewhat like the shieldings he customarily cast around himself when he wanted to sleep-though he'd never used a shielding that made him look like anyone else before.
Still, 'twas wise: someone spell-spying from afar would see some old woman, not the much-hated Spellmaster of Aglirta. Those flames would dissuade hungry beasts or lurking brigands-and no doubt the shielding would rouse Ingryl to full wakefulness if treacherous barons or anyone else hurled weapons at the slumbrous wizard, or spells, or tried to blast Ambelter with a Dwaer-Stone.
Phelinndar walked as far away from the sleeping mage as he could, the Dwaer cradled comfortably in his hand. Of course the Spellmaster dare not link his shieldings to this Stone; that would leave him defenseless against anyone using a Dwaer, such as-again-treacherous barons named Orlin Andamus Phelinndar.
Which in turn left Phelinndar free to use this Stone in his hand just as he liked. In truth, 'twas no wonder the Spellmaster was finally snoring in the hands of the gods. Most men would have fallen on their faces days earlier-but he'd not sleep forever, so…
Hunched into a corner that he was fairly sure-or at least hoped-held no stored magic items, the baron tried to ignore the stink of his ever more chafing armor, held the Dwaer up in front of his face, and tried to look into it.
The Stone grew warm almost immediately, and glowed, ever so slightly… and then white warmth was all around Phelinndar, and he was falling gently through it, through mists and drifts of cloud, toward some unseen place ahead where the light was brighter…
Brighter and more blue, a light that leaped with arcing, flowing energy, like lightning bolts sprayed from an invisible storm to stab all around him…
If only he knew how to use this lump of rock that wizards so lusted after, to hurl castle-shattering spells as they did!
A sword was a sword-oh, there were skills to learn to use it well, but any fool could pick one up and see which end was sharp and which end one gripped, and could swing and jab and slash empty air or some defenseless tree and in five breaths know how to use it to-clumsily, aye, but surely-slay!
But magic, now… magic was like swinging a snake instead
of a sword, and wondering when it would turn and fang the hand that held it.
Baron Phelinndar was suddenly sweating so hard that drops were falling from the end of his nose. He snarled silently at those whirling lightnings. All he wanted was to speak with an old friend and arrange a place to run to, if he ever broke purpose with the Spellmaster snoring yonder-and somehow managed to live.
Hulgor was the man he needed. Good old Hulgor, who'd demand his price but be true to the bargain, once struck. They'd made many a coin together when Baron Orlin Andamus Phelinndar had been only Orlin Breselt, Tersept of Downdaggers. That first chance meeting in Sirl town had won him his only trustworthy trading partner-sharp when making deals, but true to every last coin and letter once they were sealed. That florid face was probably age-blotched by now, the sword-gray hair going white…
The Dwaer-mists grew suddenly darker, rolling to frame a gap or window of empty white light that grew larger, brighter, and then shot through with colors. Green, mosdy… yes, 'twas showing him someone clad in green: a man in a richly embroidered dark green doublet… a man now turning away, a golden flagon as large as a chamberpot in his hand.
Hulgor! Yes, 'twas Hulgor Delcamper to be sure-and by the looks of him, as large, florid, quick-tempered, brawling, and wine-loving as ever! Hulgor's hair was almost entirely white, and his skin was wrinkled, but there were no blotches or staggerings, nor anything about him that told the world "old" or "infirm" or "unsteady." His fierce brown eyes were still hawk-alert.
Hulgor strode through a doorway and was gone. Phelinndar furiously desired to keep Hulgor in sight, glaring down at the mists and blue lightnings and shifting windows of light. There was a brief whirling of Dwaer-mists, and then he was seeing Hulgor in another room, large and richly paneled and lit with many candles.
Those flames flickered in many-spired silver candelabra fashioned like castles with many turrets-castles that looked to be about three feet high, as they rose up from long, mirror-smooth wooden tables. Hulgor looked restless, and stumped down this dining hall glaring at portraits of women who looked just as irritated to be up on the walls as he did to be looking at them. This must be Varandaur, the great Delcamper family castle that faced the stone city of Ragalar across a bay. Wasn't a Delcamper a friend to the boy king? A bard?
Flaeros, that was his name. He must be nephew to Hulgor. Hmm. Perhaps Varandaur would not prove so safe a bolt-hole after all…
Well, 'twasn't as if this particular baron had a great array of folk he could trust, to call on. Phelinndar sighed. In fact, 'twas Hulgor or no one, if one spread blunt truth bare before the gods.
"Hulgor," he hissed, willing the old noble to hear him. "Hulgor!"
The man in green stiffened and then shot a dark, suspicious glance over his shoulder. Then he turned to follow it, and stalked down the room, peering in all directions.
"Hulgar!" Phelinndar whisper-shouted, trying to will himself into the old man's way. The Delcamper man came to an abrupt stop, as if he'd seen something in front of him, and stared at Phelinndar-or through him.
Hear me, the baron willed, and see me. Let me hear you. Hulgor's lips were moving-angrily, by the looks of them-but Phelinndar could hear nothing. Nothing but softly swirling mists, like distant waves lapping on a beach.
Three look down! Bebolt this grauling Stone, anyway, and all such things! Why should mages swagger around hurling doom with them, and all the rest of Asmarand have to bow and cringe or the? Why couldn't a baron-
"Downdaggers!" Hulgor Delcamper growled in astonishment, stealing a quick glance at his flagon as if drinking the wine might have brought him this vision.
"Yes!" Phelinndar shouted. "It works! It works!"
The old man in green winced. "Magic! I forgot you're a baron now, Downdaggers. I suppose some spell-bauble came with your keep and blazon and all. What's afoot?"
"Plenty, Hulgor, and I need your help. I've got something powerful that the Spellmaster of Silvertree-the worst of the Dark Three, remember?- very much wants. I'm living in his lair right now, wondering how much longer he'll put up with me."
"Run," Hulgor suggested, taking a quick swig of wine.
"Not yet, but soon-and I need somewhere to run to."
Old Delcamper eyes narrowed. "So you want me to imperil the ancestral seat of my family for you, hey, and court Spellmasters as foes? You'd be thinking of coins and gems and the like to make such colossal idiocy worth my while, now, wouldn't you?"
The baron winced. "I'm a poor man, Hulgor…"
"The old gambits are the good ones, hey?" The old noble grinned. "Well, so am I. As my teeth fall from my head and my body hunches and my skin sags, young lasses no longer leap lustfully upon me as they once did, and I've heard of a spell that'll fix all that. I'll need a Sirl thou-sandweight in gold to get it, mind you…"
Phelinndar gave a little crow of laughter. "Hulgor, what're you drinking?"
"Something my sisters brought back from their last shopping voyage, south," the noble growled. "The one we're all still paying for. Better make that two thousandweights…"
"Two Sirl thousands? Hulgor, you must be mad!"
They were both grinning, now, and Hulgor almost rubbed his hands as he sampled his flagon again, sighed in pleasure, and said, "Pity you can't taste this, old friend. But of course in decadent Aglirta every last baron must have cellars of stuff almost as good, just lying there to be sold to passing barge traders for, say, three Sirl thousandweights…"
"Four once more," Craer murmured, looking around the room. "Your turn in the Band of Four, my lady."
"I know." Tshamarra's voice was low. "I'll try not to fail you."
Embra shook her head. "Don't let your sly-tongued lord upset you, Tash; you earned your welcome long ago. My father's better placed guarding the King-and running Aglirta for all of us. We need your spells and your… ah, fire."
Tshamarra smiled. "Thanks. I think."
Craer put an arm around her-and for once, she didn't slap it away. Thus emboldened, he asked, ''Em, why exactly are we here? An empty chamber, quite secluded… is this another of your rend-the-sky-with-spells sessions?"
The Lady of Jewels smiled as she guided Hawkril to stand in a particular spot in the large, bare, and dusty hall. "Ah, so perceptive, Lord Longfingers. 'Tis time to try another Dwaer-tracing. We're back to one Stone, yes, but here, with the doors barred to keep out guards and the like, we can also use any spells Tash and I cast-and the Living Castle enchantments."
"Do yon locks and bars keep out Koglaur and bats?" Craer's voice was skeptical.
"Craer Delnbone, will you stop crying gloom for once? I can't think of any other way to avoid rambling around the Vale just waiting for trouble to find us, so…"
"Well said," Hawkril rumbled. "Raise your magic."
Embra nodded, laid a hand on his forehead, and carefully announced, "Lamarantha!"
Hawkril acquired a frown. "What're you doing, my lady? This feels… strange."
She stared into his eyes. "Did you hear the word I just spoke? Can you recall it? Don't say it aloud! You remember it?"
The mountainous armaragor nodded. "Aye."
"Can you hold it in your mind?"
He nodded again.
"Good. Say that word later, when I wave my hand at you thus, hey?"
"And doing so will-?"
"Unleash the spell I just stored in you. It's what you feel in your head right now."
" 'Tis moving… like a worm come up after rain, questing back and forth," the armaragor complained.
"Good. Mages know that feeling well."
"Hmmph. No wonder your tempers are often short."
Craer chuckled and shot a swift, warning look at Tshamarra. "Don't you be trying that on me, now!"
"No." The Lady Talasorn's smile was sweet. "We've something else in mind for you."
Craer took a swift, suspicious step back, away from them all. "And what would that be, precisely?"
Something curved and bright and familiar suddenly glowe
d in the air right in front of his nose-and then fell. Without thinking he caught it… and found himself staring down at the Dwaer, bright and slightly warm in his hands.
"Look into it, and feel its flows," Embra called from across the chamber.
The procurer gave her a wild look. "You tricked me!"
"And will again. Yet you'll wed yon Stone soon enough, and want to have it always in your hand; the hard task will be yielding it up to me again." The Lady of Jewels reached into her bodice and held up a small pendant. "See you this?"
Craer glanced and then grinned. "Closely seen already, Lady; 'tis a professional weakness we procurers have. A few tiny belzorels, the central stone some mountain rock or other, polished smooth-of no great worth, probably a family jewel."
"Indeed, and yet worn because it bears a minor enchantment against maggots and crawling worms and mites, to keep my hair free of such things-and to be drained in a moment for a spell, should I have need. Now look you into the Dwaer, and try to feel and see this pendant through it. Other magics here in this chamber will have their own glows, but try to find just this one."
Obediently, Craer stared into the Stone. Silence hung around him for some breaths ere he murmured, " Well, now. A procurer could get very used to having such as this. I see it."
"Good. I'm casting a spell that will make this pendant seem as a Dwaer to you, just for a moment. It won't be like a Dwaer, but 'twill have the right radiance to your scrutiny."
"Aha," Craer commented, a moment later. "Distinctive."
"Yes. Remember it; that's what you need to be seeking. Now I'll need to do something more to you. Sit on the floor, cradle the Stone in your lap with one hand, and sit on your other hand, fingers spread on the floor. Don't move it when you start to feel power flowing up into it."
"Magic?"
"Yes, from Flowfoam itself: my Living Castle enchantments."
"Impressive," Tshamarra remarked, as Craer setded himself. "And my part?"