Authors: Julian May
'Precisely, Wise One. I believe we must modify our hail if we hope to get an answer: make it plain from the start that we have something to offer aside from empty protestations of friendship.'
The Supreme Warrior said nothing, while the First Judge
grunted in assent and refreshed himself with a cup of viscous ambergris cordial and a fat, lively crustacean.
The Conservator of Wisdom said, 'What do you suggest, Master Shaman?'
Kalawnn touched his throat with a tentacle digit. The sigil inside his crop sent out a brief pulse of light. 'The offer must be very appealing. Irresistible, in fact. Perhaps his own choice of several dozen useful minor sigils, first touched by the Potency to abolish their pain-link.'
'Ahroo!' the Supreme Warrior bellowed in outrage.
'Several dozen
stones? Once he learns of the limitation, he'll demand scores of the things! Even hundreds! We already have too few lesser sigils to ensure a decisive victory over the humans.'
The Judge said, 'Let's not tell Beynor about the limitation on abolished sigils. Let him discover the catch when it's too late, as the other human sorcerer did.'
‘I don't like that idea at all,' Kalawnn said. 'What if he demands a demonstration before agreeing to work with us? No . . . honesty is the best course. If we can convince him of our good faith.'
'We return to the thorny issue of trust,' the Conservator said. 'Why should he believe that we'll keep our word this time - after Ugusawnn's earlier mistakes? Realistically, I don't see how we can make this plan work.'
'There
is
something else we might offer Beynor,' Kalawnn said. 'Prior to the destruction of our Dawntide Citadel by the tarnblaze bombshells of the human warships, I studied a certain archival tablet - the one that Beynor was so interested in himself. While my scholarship was interrupted by the battle,
I
did manage to glean some interesting bits of data before we were forced to evacuate. To make a long story short, I believe that the Greatest Stone might be capable of annulling Beynor's
curse directly, making it possible for him to use sigils once
again in the normal way. He might already know this!'
'A lengthy logical jump,' the First Judge observed, frowning. 'And one the groundling conjurer might prudently hesitate to make.'
'Not if he already knows the proper conjuration procedure,' said Kalawnn. 'It might well have been written down on a portion of the tablet that I was prevented from reading by the tumult of battle.'
'It's worth a try,' the Judge said. 'We could at least make the offer. What can we lose? Beynor might not even be alive . . .'
'Oh, very well.' The Warrior spoke in a resigned rumble. He took a firm grip on his Longspeaker sigil. 'Let's unite our talents again.'
‘I’ll join with you for one last attempt,' the Conservator said.
After a brief consultation to get the wording right (for there was always a chance that such a broad outcry might be overheard by the wrong persons) the Four closed their enormous glowing eyes and sent forth a generalized shout on the wind.
'TO YOU, GIVER OF OUR MOST VALUED GIFT, WE SEND GREETINGS AND OFFER THIS SINCERE PROPOSAL: ASSIST US IN A CERTAIN MATTER, AND WE WILL GRANT YOU FREE ACCESS TO THE GIFT, WHICH WE BELIEVE IS CAPABLE OF LIFTING YOUR DOLEFUL BURDEN. WE WILL ALSO GIVE YOU OTHER ITEMS OF GREAT VALUE AS A TOKEN OF OUR GRATITUDE AND ESTEEM.'
The Eminences disengaged their minds and waited.
Master Kalawnn found that he was holding his breath. Beynor
was
alive. He was certain of it. Over the years a feather-light, distant presence had invaded his sleep from time to time in the winter months - scrutinizing his dreams, asking him questions, attempting to exert subtle coercion that would carry over into his wakeful life. The Salka shaman
had fended off the dream-intruder; but he knew it must have been Beynor, who had been an expert in that rarest of natural talents.
'So answer us!' Kalawnn broadcast his own silent entreaty to the strange, tormented human being who had almost been his friend. 'We need one another, Beynor, and this time there will be no double-dealing, rudeness or condescension on our part. We will treat with you as an equal and share the power of the Known Potency if you play fair with us. At least let us explain what we want and show you what we have to offer.'
Kalawnn listened, as did the others. And just as the sun descended behind the clouds, a gossamer thread of wind-speech seemed to emanate from the vanishing solar orb itself.
Hello again. If you have anything to say, be quick about it. I'm very busy.
* * *
Before the advent of the Sovereignty pacified the unruly interior of Didion and made safe the Wold Road leading from Cathra to Tarn, Castlemont Fortress was the only reasonably comfortable refuge for travelers between Great Pass and Boarsden. Its guest facilities had once been primitive: a stonewalled enclosure at the foot of the fort's knoll accommodated pack teams and their drivers, while simple bedchambers and a modest dining area located in the keep above served more fastidious guests.
When Somarus Mallburn assumed Didion's throne and accepted vassalage in the Sovereignty, the robber-barons and brigands who had infested the Wold with his tacit approval were largely put out of business. Traffic over the pass multiplied tenfold. As a consequence, the hostelry at Castlemont also expanded, welcoming ever-increasing numbers of travelers. Its shrewd castellan Shogadus, now elevated to the rank of viscount, became famous for his hospitality and grew
exceedingly wealthy. It was his custom to greet personally and oversee the settling in of illustrious guests who were willing to pay a premium price for luxurious accommodations.
Among these, arriving late on a certain afternoon in Harvest Moon, was a solitary wayfarer who claimed to be Master Lund Farfield, a lawyer journeying from Cala City to Didion's capital of Holt Mallburn. He was a tall, slightly stooped man with hooded eyes and gaunt features that were sun-damaged and deeply creased. Silvery hair gave him a misleading appearance of middle age. Beneath the inevitable patina of mud and dust, his riding attire was sumptuous. He was also girded with a sword fit for royalty and rode a blood horse with a silver-studded saddle and bridle. The viscount and his chief steward Crick decided that the alleged lawyer must be a high-ranking Cathran nobleman traveling incognito - perhaps a court official on his way to the great ongoing Council of War at Boarsden Castle.
'I would like the best quarters in your dormitorium,' Master Lund said in a peremptory manner as he was greeted by the noble host. 'Price is no object.'
'Alas, messire!' Viscount Shogadus was regretful. 'Our finest suite has already been reserved for the three royal sons of the Sovereign of Blenholme, who are expected to arrive later this evening, along with their retainers.'
Well, well! thought the guest, doing his best to preserve an expression of well-bred vexation. He said, 'Most disappointing, my lord..'
'However, we have another chamber, even more splendidly appointed than that reserved for the princes, even though it be a trifle smaller.' Shogadus gave an ingratiating smile. 'Since you journey alone. Master Lund, perhaps you'll find it suitable. It is near to the rooms occupied by the Lord Lieutenant of Cathra and his family - high above the bustle
of the inner ward and having a fine view of the countryside and the sunset.'
'Show me,' the visitor commanded. He thought: More and more intriguing! Why are all these distinguished Cathrans breaking their journey here on the same day?
Accompanied by a house varlet who carried his saddlebags, the man who called himself Master Lund followed Lord Castlemont and the steward Crick to a chamber in the west tower of the fortress. It had glazed casement windows, a fireplace, thick Incayo carpets on the floor, a tester bed with down pillows and comforter, and its own private jakes.
'It will do,' Lund decided, then tipped the steward a silver mark and inclined his head politely to Castlemont's owner. He ignored the varlet, who scuttled out after opening the window.
'How long will you stay with us, messire?' Crick inquired. 'One night.'
'There will be an evening meal for special guests in the great hall at the eighth hour,' Shogadus said. 'Or if you wish, a repast can be brought to you here.'
'It will be my pleasure to join you at table, my lord. Thank you for all your courtesy.'
Beynor locked the door when the others were gone, opened one of his bags, and took out a flask and a gilt cup. He had acquired his fine new mount, several changes of clothing, and accoutrements suited to his taste while passing through the great Cathran city of Beorbrook. As a sorcerer, he had no need to worry about money. It had been necessary for him to live modestly during the long years of searching for the lost sigils, so as not to attract unwelcome attention from officials in Elktor, but the time of deprivation was over. Things would be very different from now on.
He sipped mellow old apple brandy and watched the sun descend in the hazy, yellowish sky. The Salka had finally
stopped their incessant wind-yammering at him. Stupid brutes - apparently too chickenhearted to use the Potency to abolish sigil-pain even after Kalawnn had managed to activate the Greatest Stone. Perhaps they feared the Lights would exact some terrible vengeance if they were deprived of their vile treats!
How much had their Master Shaman learned about the enigmatic sigil over the years? Obviously, Kalawnn was still ignorant of some of the stone's secrets (as was Beynor himself). The sorcerer's imperfect oversight of Kalawnn's dreams had confirmed that years ago - along with the inconvenient fact that the Salka's greatest shaman now kept the Potency secure inside his own gizzard. Kalawnn thought that it had bonded to him alone, just as other activated sigils did, and could be touched by no other person.
But Beynor knew that the stone had
not
bonded to the Salka Master Shaman. The Potency was unique in many ways. Once it had been brought to life, it was immortal and it bonded to no one; any person who knew its manner of working might handle and command it. The one who had made it over a thousand years earlier had intended it as a tool for good; but he had never activated the Stone of Stones, since he came to realize
that it could just as readily be used for evil.
As Beynor was well aware, even though he'd long since given up hope of getting his hands on it.
He had been mildly curious when the Eminent Four began calling to him on the wind earlier in the day, but not so curious that he would have risked a reply. Kalawnn, for one, was adept enough to follow a bespoken windtrace back to its source. Beynor was not sure whether any Salka could scry him at long distance and read his lips. He doubted it. Still, it would be unwise to let them know his whereabouts until he found out what they were up to.
He had scried their army in Didion as soon as he crossed Great Pass and the overview of the Green Morass became more or less clear to his superlative windsight. The sight of the monsters' precipitate retreat puzzled him even more than news of their earlier invasion had. Although the Salka were very effective water-fighters (being able to breathe through their skins as well as through lungs, they could remain submerged indefinitely), Beynor had not thought them capable of such a large-scale military action on land. Piddling border raids or coastal smash-and-grabs were more their style. Those had been going on sporadically for years.
But somehow the Salka had chosen an ideal strike route for this attack. It should have carried their force of nearly fifty thousand warriors straight into Didion's heartland. Their abrupt halt and belated withdrawal left Beynor mystified. Would they go back to Moss now, or had they another plan in mind?
It was a matter he'd have to mull over. But first, a survey of the fortress's inhabitants - and then an overview of the three Cathran princes, who had not yet arrived.
From his room, Beynor scried Castlemont for other adept practitioners he might need to beware of. He found two Didionite wizards of modest talent who were probably members of the viscount's staff, and an elderly Brother of Zeth taking his ease in the inner ward's walled herb garden in the company of two Cathran noblewomen. Reading their lips as they conversed, Beynor learned that the ladies were Countess Orvada Brackenfield, wife of Cathra's powerful Lord Lieutenant, and her daughter Nyla. The Brother was their household alchymist Vra-Binon, who had accompanied the family to a secret rendezvous with Orrion Wincantor.
Interesting . . .
None of the magickers inside the fort seemed likely to be able to detect the windtraces of Beynor's scrying, so he began
to search the highroad between Castlemont and the pass for the cavalcade of the Cathran princes. He found them still more than an hour's journey distant. Knowing little of the young royals, he spent some time watching them. His vision was mute (only a Subtle Loophole sigil, such as the one once owned by his sister Ullanoth, evinced an oversight with all sounds attending) and the faces of the royal youths were hidden for much of the time by their wide-brimmed hats, inhibiting lip-reading; nevertheless he was able to identify each prince and gain a slight understanding of their characters.
Prince Heritor Orrion was the most interesting. He had apparently suffered some wound to his right arm, which was heavily wrapped and held in a sling. His manner was one of feverish excitement and he kept urging his companions to hurry, even though their mounts were jaded and drooping after what obviously had been a long day's ride.
I wonder why the Heritor is meeting the Brackenfield family on the sly? Beynor asked himself. The gossip in Elktor was that Orrion was to be betrothed to Princess Hyndry Mallburn, the widow of Duke Garal's son. But the winsome Lady Nyla seemed to be in a state of twittery anticipation.
As Beynor considered the implications of this, the final hail of the Salka Eminences came faintly into his mind. He muttered an obscenity. So the monsters wanted a favor of him, did they? And nothing small, considering what they offered in return! From his own studies of the Salka archives, Beynor was virtually certain that the Potency
would
abolish the Lights' curse on him; but the sigil had seemed hopelessly out of reach.