Authors: Julian May
* * *
Garon Curtling had bespoken his master several times during the night while hastening back to Boarsden Castle with the stolen treasure of Lord Kilian. Even though he could see in the dark, the rain had slowed his progress and he was in desperate need of rest. He had worn out two horses and pressed a third to the limit by the time he finally reached the Firedrake Bridge and let Beynor know that he was only an hour or so distant.
Windsearching across the River Malle as he urged his faltering mount to a last burst of speed, Garon oversaw that masses of troops in the great encampments were already on the march in the stormy dawn, proceeding west toward the Wold Road in endless torchlit columns, four abreast if mounted and six abreast afoot. Before long, he knew, the Sovereign and his generals, along with the battle-leaders of Tarn and Didion, would also quit the castle.
In their last wind-conversation, Beynor had informed Garon that he intended to accompany the Sovereign, but he said nothing about taking the younger wizard with him. Garon had prudently held his peace about the matter; he still hadn't made up his mind whether or not to accept the Conjure-King's offer of employment.
More important was Beynor's command that Garon meet him privately within Boarsden Castle as soon as he returned. The reason for the meeting had at first made the renegade Brother of Zeth wild with anticipation. Later, the momentary
excitement was obliterated by a saddle-weariness that threatened to rob him of his senses.
Garon arrived at last in the teeming castle ward around the seventh hour of morning, feeling more dead than alive and splashed from head to toe with mud. Flinging the reins of his jaded horse to an ostler, he hoisted the weighty bags of treasure and stumbled into the vestibule of the Wizards' Tower where Beynor was lodged. The long climb up the winding staircase carrying the heavy burden almost finished him. His heart was bursting and he had to pause for breath at every landing. Fortunately, almost everyone he met was going in the opposite direction and paid no attention to him at all.
There was no one on guard in the corridor outside Beynor's room. Before he could lift his hand to knock, the door opened.
'Quickly, inside with you!' Beynor exclaimed. He locked the door behind Garon and re-established the cover-spell. 'Where are Kilian's inactive sigils?'
The younger man gaped at him. Beynor was wearing the riding habit of the Brothers of the Mystical Order of Zeth. An authentic-looking gold gammadion pendant hung from a chain around his neck. 'Speak up, man,' he snapped.
'In there,' Garon gasped. He dropped the saddlebags with a thud and pointed to one of them. 'Those bloody things must weigh over five stone, all told. For God's sake, give me water!' He would have collapsed, but Beynor's magic caught him and lowered him into a chair beside the door.
'Rest there, my friend,' Beynor said. 'I'll fetch something.' He returned in a few moments with a beaker of water and a small dish of confections. 'Suck one of these herbal pastilles. It will restore your strength.'
Garon relaxed as fresh vitality animated his spent body. 'Ah, that's better! Am I in time, master? The ward below is a turmoil of caparisoned horses and splendidly armed men.'
'King Conrig and the great battle-leaders of Cathra, Tarn, and Didion are gathering for a last-minute emotional rally before riding out to join their troops on the road. We have a good hour to spare. I'm very pleased with you, Garon. You've done exceptionally well.'
'Thank you, master.'
Beynor proffered the dish of pastilles again, popping one into his own mouth. 'Eat another of these. They're good for aches and pains as well as banishing fatigue. And divest yourself of those filthy things. I have fresh clothes waiting for you. There are two sorts: civilian garb if you've decided to go your own way, and a habit of the Zeth Brethren to match my own, if you choose to work with me. Take your pick. A tub of warm water stands before the fire behind that folding screen, along with soap, sponges, a towel and a razor.'
The haggard features of the besmirched magicker gained vital color and his sagging body straightened. He trudged away to bathe, peeling off his sodden garments and dropping them on the floor behind him.
Beynor put the saddlebags on a table and began unpacking them. Most of the weight was sacks of gold coinage, which the sorcerer set aside. The true riches were in four opaque steel-mesh bags with magical seals ... and perhaps in a little wooden box tucked into an old oilskin sack. He broke the enchantment on the first mesh bag easily and found it packed full of luminous strings of large pearls. The second bag contained star-ruby cabochons and the third held quantities of square-cut emeralds as green as new grass. The last bag was crammed with faceted diamonds; none of them were smaller than pease, and several dozen were almost the size of hazelnuts. He'd never seen their like anywhere.
Beynor smiled in satisfaction as he pulled the drawchains shut again and ensorcelled their locks with the anti-theft spell. Finally, he lifted the lid of the small box and tipped
out the five minor sigils. One was a thin-walled short cylinder that would fit a man's little finger. The other four were pendants: a square, a pentagon with a hole in its center, a tiny pyramid, and a delicate carving shaped something like a fairy-cap mushroom. All were devoid of the soft radiance of uncanny power.
Beynor examined each one with interest. They would be extremely useful if the Potency's abolition of their magic could be reversed. But prudence was called for.
He opened the purse at his belt and unwrapped the simple moonstone disk. Once it had been fastened to the cover of a book containing information about Great Stones and their activation. The book was gone forever but under certain circumstances the rondelle itself was able to summon the Great Light charged with the care and activation of sigils.
If the Sky being chose to respond.
While Garon finished restoring himself, Beynor lowered the wind-barrier guarding his room and cast about with his keen seekersense, overseeing the meeting of battle-commanders. It was unshielded by couverture and the leaders were taking turns making brave speeches asserting their courage and resolve. Even as the Conjure-King watched, the gathering dissolved and the more exalted participants scattered to various parts of the castle to bid farewell to loved ones and deal with other details of departure. High King Conrig led his brother Stergos into a small solar adjacent to the conference room and closed the door. Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook and Prince Dyfrig walked away conversing so discreetly that Beynor was unable to read anything from their lips.
'I'm ready, master,' Garon said. 'Shall we try to activate the sigils?'
Beynor snapped the windthread of his scrying and opened
his eyes to find his stalwart henchman standing there transformed into a Brother of the Mystical Order.
'I must warn you, Garon. There could be a risk to both our lives in this attempt, but I think the danger is small. If it does work you'll have five precious magical tools of your own - subject to the usual conditions of operation, of course.'
'Tell me what to do. I feel lucky!'
Beynor explained and had Garon rehearse pronunciation of the Salka-language responses to the Light's ritual queries. When the sorcerer was satisfied, he handed over the disk and the dead Concealer pendant. 'Try it, then. If the responding Light seems angry, separate the two stones at once and the contact between the Sky and Ground Realms should be severed, preserving you from any harm.'
The younger man pressed the two pieces of moonstone tightly together and held his breath, waiting for them to begin glowing and suffusing him with pain, the first signs that one of the Beaconfolk had taken notice of him. He waited for the inhuman voice to thunder the portentous questions inside his brain.
Nothing happened.
'Shite!' Garon moaned. He tried the Interpenetrator sigil, then the three others. The results were the same.
Beynor sighed. 'What a pity.' He took back the disk and replaced it in his purse. 'Keep the dead sigils if you wish,' he told the disappointed Garon. 'And don't look so downhearted. You still have your ten per cent of Kilian's treasure.'
Garon gripped the golden gammadion pendant at his neck. 'I suppose this is only a counterfeit without magical powers.'
The Conjure-King's reply was good-natured. 'Of course it is, you sodding blockhead! So is my own. Do you think I'd risk using real ones?'
'I suppose not,' the other said with a sigh. 'But I sorely
miss the gammadion's augmentation of my rather mediocre natural talent.'
'Do you also miss the ability of your former superiors in the Order to track your every move through the damned thing?' Beynor inquired snidely. 'Bah! Be my loyal man and I'll teach you more high sorcery than you ever dreamed of. Well - what do you say? Are you with me?'
'I accept your offer of employment and agree to serve you to the best of my ability.' Garon's eyes flickered. 'Until we decide that the arrangement is no longer mutually advantageous.'
'Done,' Beynor said. 'Now put on your raincloak and pack the gold into those new saddlebags, over there. I'll take charge of the jewels myself. We'll divide everything up later, when the royal entourage halts for the night.'
'Royal entourage?' Garon looked puzzled.
'We'll be riding with members of the Sovereign's personal staff and sharing his accommodation. I'll disguise our faces with a small spell so no one recognizes us or thinks to ask impudent questions. I don't think I can risk a genuine shield of couverture. One of the senior Brothers might detect it.'
'But won't Lord Stergos be suspicious if two extra Brothers join the group?'
The Conjure-King laughed. ‘I don't think we'll have to worry about that.'
* * *
The summons had come to Vra-Bramlow Wincantor as he broke his fast at dawn with the other novices attached to the Cathran Court. It had been a sad meal, for Bram expected that he would not see his Brethren again for a long time; they were to ride out with the army's Corps of Alchymists today, while he would have to stay behind, attending his royal mother as the Sovereign had ordered.
The note from Queen Risalla only bade Bram to come at
once, so he left his food half-eaten and hastened to Boarsden Castle's Octagonal Tower and presented himself at her apartment.
'Please come in, my lord. The Queen's Grace is very anxious to see you.' The lady-in-waiting who had opened the door sank in a respectful curtsey to Risalla's eldest son.
'Thank you, Lady Sivara.'
The antechamber and large sitting room were crowded with coffers, fully packed panniers, and other baggage, for the queen and her retainers would be quitting Boarsden and returning to Cala Palace as soon as the roads cleared. The novice followed Lady Sivara through the small salon and into the dressing room.
The queen sat on a stool, studying her reflection in a hand-mirror. She was a small, plain-faced woman with brilliant blue eyes and an air of quiet determination. Her hair, once a lustrous honey-brown, was now almost entirely grey, even though she was only one-and-forty. The elaborately bejew-eled Didionite coiffure she had worn at last night's banquet to please her brother Somarus had been transformed into the simpler coronet of braids she had adopted as Queen of Cathra.
Risalla rose, embraced Bramlow, and ordered the ladies and tiring-maids to leave the room. She led her son to a settee and drew him down beside her.
'Bram, dear, after giving the matter careful thought, I've changed my mind. Rather than return to the palace with me, I want you to accompany Corodon and his Heart Companions as they attend the King's Grace in the defense of Tarn. Your father has acceded to my request.'
He was unable to hide his surprise. 'But His Grace said that Coro would have to go with the Southern Wing and Earl Marshal Parlian -'
'My royal husband informed me this morning that he's
had a complete change of heart about about Coro's aptitudes. He says he misjudged the boy, found hidden depths to his character he never appreciated before. His Grace wants Corodon at his side. And I want you to stay close to your brother.'
'May I ask why?'
'I love Coro dearly, but I have no illusions about him. He is the Heritor now, for better or worse. But he doesn't understand that he might soon face dangers more insidious than the Salka monsters. To survive, he'll need your help. Magical help.'
'Mother, I'm sorry. I don't understand.'
Her voice was unsteady. 'Since the Salka invasion, your father has changed. There's a new darkness about him, something I can't express to you in words. It frightens me. And your brother . . . Coro is not an insightful person, Bram. He never looks beneath the surface of anyone, considering that they might be other than they profess to be. He has no idea how ruthless some people can be if they feel threatened.'
Bramlow took his mother's hand in both of his. 'Surely Father can't see Corodon as a menace! For all his faults, the lad hasn't a perfidious bone in his body. He idolizes His Grace.'
'That may be part of the problem.' The queen looked away, but not before Bramlow had seen a flicker of fear in her eyes.
'Just what is it you want me to do, Mother?'
'Safeguard your brother as best you can with your magical talent, even if this means scrying for perils in the most unlikely quarters. I believe Corodon is truly free of malice, but he might be tempted to make disastrous decisions, not realizing the evil inherent in them.'
Vra-Bramlow dropped her hand as though it had become red hot. 'Tempted by Father? Is that what you mean?'
But Queen Risalla only stared at the sturdy young novice
with unblinking eyes, then rose from the couch and went to summon her women.
'Come and share a stirrup-cup with me before we go, Gossy,' the Sovereign said. They were alone together in the solar next to the chamber where the rally of battle-leaders had taken place. 'There's something I want to ask you.'
'Con, what is it?' Stergos waited smiling.
The High King filled two silver goblets from a decanter on the sideboard then turned, holding both cups without offering the wine, a frown of deep concern darkening his face.