Codders! Snudge thought. Here comes trouble! By rights Belamil Langsands, the stocky level-headed squire who attended Count Sividian, and the oldest of them at nineteen, acted as the leader of the armigers and transmitted royal commands and announcements. But Conrig had been adamant that Snudge was to do the job tonight.
“It’s time the lads acknowledge your particular place in our picked body of warriors,” the prince had said. “And time for you to show that you have the stones to occupy your new position. You are not merely a squire, you are my blooded man. Tell the others about your encounter with Iscannon—but not about his sigil. They must know nothing of your talent, of course, but you may make up some tale about being no stranger to magic if you think it will better dispose them toward eventually accepting you as their leader.”
Taken aback, Snudge found himself gawping with astonishment. “I, Your Grace? But Belamil—”
“He’s a brave young man and trustworthy, but hardly the one to lead a troop guarding Princess Ullanoth during the battle for Holt Mallburn.”
“Your Grace, wouldn’t it be more fitting if you assigned several of your Companions to this service? The lady might take offense at being offered an escort of mere armigers.”
“It matters not how she regards you,” Conrig retorted. “She’s bound to come to us after we enter Mallburn Town, and I have reasons of my own for keeping her apart even from my closest friends. The boys won’t dare question her and they’ll keep her safe from obvious physical dangers. While you, my Snudge, oversee her magicking as best you can—more unobtrusively, I hope, than any Brother of Zeth. Thus far, Ullanoth knows nothing of your talent. I wish this state of affairs to continue.”
“So… you don’t really trust her after all.” The boy barely concealed his relief.
“I trust her to do as she promised,” the prince had said, “aiding us to conquer Didion. What she does subsequently, while I’m too occupied by the fighting or its aftermath to stay close to her, may be a cause for concern. Or not!” He shrugged, but his eyes were shadowed. “Perhaps our stratagem will prove unnecessary—or even impossible to implement. But I want you to be prepared, and the squires as well. I realize I’ve given you no clear instructions in this matter, but there can be none until circumstances dictate.”
Snudge could only say, “I understand, Your Grace. Rely on me.”
==========
He squared his shoulders as he entered the common room of the mayor’s household warriors, which had been cleared of furniture so that the armigers could bed down there.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” redheaded Mero Elwick called out snidely. “We’d despaired of having you join us, thinking His Grace might want you to sleep on the floor outside his door like a faithful hound.”
A few of the boys laughed. Snudge said quietly, “If His Grace had requested that, I would have obeyed. But instead he’s sent me here with an important message for all of you.”
There were surprised comments, and Saundar Kersey, Count Tayman’s armiger, asked, “Does it pertain to our mission?”
“It does indeed,” Snudge said. “Let’s gather round the fire. It’s a damp evening, with the fog coming on so thick.”
“May I pour you a warm libation, messire?” Mero inquired with mock courtesy, reaching for the steaming cider-pot on the hob.
“That would be a kindness,” said Snudge, giving over his new silver cup, one of the gifts of his investiture.
“Oops!” Mero let the goblet slip from his hand and ding on the hearthstone. “Not much harm done, young Deveron.” He chuckled and managed to slop some of the hot drink on Snudge’s wrist as he returned it.
“Thank you,” the boy said, without rancor. Belamil and a few of the others scowled at Mero’s spiteful display, but most of them were only interested in what Snudge would say next. “Prince Conrig has kept our true destination secret in order to foil enemy windwatchers. We are not going to reinforce Beorbrook Hold and guard Great Pass. Instead, we’ll ride tomorrow to Swanwick, and on the third day arrive at Castle Vanguard, where we’ll join an army poised to invade Didion over Breakneck Pass.”
A tumult of shouting. Finally, Belamil cried out, “Let Deveron speak.”
The others fell silent and watched him solemnly. Even Mero’s usual sour expression had vanished.
“A couple of weeks ago, five of us lads accompanied Prince Conrig, Lord Stergos, and Counts Sividian, Feribor, and Tayman to Castle Vanguard. There the prince conferred with Duke Tanaby, Earl Marshal Beorbrook, and fifteen other nobles of the north country at a great council of war. It was decided to invade Didion over Breakneck Pass at the end of the Boreal Moon.”
There were excited exclamations. Snudge plowed on. “The army will number only about five hundred warriors. We’ll move with the greatest speed possible, riding coursers, not heavy destriers. We’ll be armored only in mail but carry ample weapons. Magical allies who have created this thick fog will guide us over the mountain pass and help us to take the enemy outposts by surprise. Our army will press on to Holt Mallburn and there, with the help of more magical assistance, we will set parts of the city afire with tarnblaze as a distraction and enter the palace of Achardus through wide-open portals. This last feat will also be successfully accomplished through magical aid.”
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 lowborn 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?”